digiorno | ic inbox ( ǣfenglōm )

. . . It's all right.

[Thoughtful. Fugo is nervous — very nervous. It's strange but interesting, the way he recognizes the signs in the way Fugo moves and speaks but can now add something else to it: the frenetic buzzing of anxiety bouncing through the Bond.]

[Under other circumstances, he would make a joke. About helping Fugo take his shoes off, or something. He might even do it. But for now, he resists. His own skin itches sympathetically; he reaches out to pass the flat of his hand across Fugo's shoulderblade, a light touch meant to be soothing. At the same time, he passes calm through the Bond.]

There's not any rush. Neither of us is going anywhere. Right?

[It's . . . acknowledgment. And gratitude. And returning the favor, all at once. Nothing bad is happening; both of them are safe, and Fugo isn't going to mess anything up.]

[Bent over his knees to unlace his shoes, Fugo can't see the way Giorno's expression unfolds. This would make him nervous. (It does make him nervous, even though it's Giorno; even though this is someone who he could-should-does trust, not being able to see his face makes him nervous.) But he can feel it. A pale brush of concern. And then-- calmness. Not that Giorno himself is calm, but he wants Fugo to feel better. His hand is cool on his shoulder, but his touch feels warm.]

[Fugo's back is tight underneath Giorno's hand. At first, it tenses further; Fugo feels embarrassed, a little ashamed, to be caught in what he considers to be a fit of needless nerves.]

I know that. I believe you. [Mechanically, his hands go through the simple task of unlacing his shoes. First the right, then the left. He slides them under the bed, out of the way.] This is just-- [He purses his lips, frustrated, then tries to adjust his posture; he takes a deep breath, breathing in deep and then releasing it all in a gusty sigh. The end result is... slightly less tension. Fugo turns to look at Giorno, giving him a sort of helpless look.] Just who I am. It's always like this.

[Fugo relaxes, but not because he's relaxed. He relaxes because he's forcing himself to, because in some way he feels reprimanded, or at least in the wrong. And the way he feels this in no way places blame on Giorno, but . . .]

[It's always like this, Fugo says, looking at him with helpless eyes, and what he means is, I'm always like this. There is so much blame in the space between them, and it only goes one way.]

[Achingly, endlessly tender, he scoots a little closer so that their hips press together like they did on the walk over, so his toes dangle over the edge of the bed. Out of the tangle of blankets, even. He slowly, carefully runs his fingers through Fugo's hair from the front to the back, pushing his bangs away out of his face and subtly undoing tangles along the way.]

I'm not upset. [He tips his head to one side, birdlike: See? Because Fugo can feel it. He isn't. He's just fond and maybe a little worried.] I like you. I like who you are.

[He was going to say something else. He loses it, though. Fugo's hair is very soft, and . . . it feels, too, as though he's said everything that matters.]

[Before anything else, Giorno moves closer.]

[Before he does anything else, before he even works out what he thinks or wants to do, Giorno moves closer. And because of the Bond, he'll feel for the first time the way Fugo's heart clenches as Giorno's fingers gently pull through his hair. Before he says a word, Giorno will be able to feel the painful ache of relief in Fugo's chest. Because instead of pulling away, even though his thoughts are so ugly, Giorno moved closer.

It means a lot to him. So much that, for a while, he can't speak. He sits in silence, shoulders trembling, before moving to kean into Giorno's touch. It feels right. He doesn't have to say anything right now. This is what's important, isn't it? Just this. Being close.]

[This is . . . so new.]

[Not surprising. Not really, not really, not when he knows he means a lot to Fugo, maybe too much — but even if his mind isn't surprised, his heart is shocked. An echo of his own heart clenching ripples back over the Bond, then an echo of that painful relief. With every response Fugo gives that is subtly or overtly surprised at his closeness, Giorno moves closer.]

[And then, Fugo leans against him. Leans his head into his touch, overwhelmed and uncertain but trying. There's an emotion he can't parse that pushes through the Bond to him, something — in the midst of all of the confusion, some certainty. Some willingness to stay, to do this thing in the face of all this unknown.]

[Without hesitation, he loops his arms under Fugo's and around his middle, pulling him close in an awkward but deeply fond embrace. The moment his hands meet behind Fugo's back, he sighs, an audible sound at the same time as the sensation of contentment washes through him. Finally, is what he thinks and what he feels; finally, because right here is where he wanted to be this whole time.]

[He rests his face against Fugo's shoulder. It's burning. He isn't sure why. He's happy, though, so it must be good.]

[In this moment, the Bond between them is a mirror. Their chests ache with the same pain, born from two different pits of loneliness: they are both startled by how the other does not pull away.]

[Between one moment and the next, amidst the warmth of Giorno's gladness and relief, Giorno wraps his arms around Fugo's torso and pulls him close. It's less of an embrace and more of an awkward tangle of limbs, because Fugo isn't sure where to put his own arms at first; it doesn't occur to him to hug back for an awkward few seconds. It's not until Giorno rests his forehead on his shoulder does he realize that, oh, it's alright to hug back.

That Giorno would probably like it, if he hugged him back.]

[So he does. He repositions his arms around Giorno twice, trying and failing to find a more natural way to reciprocate, but in the end he applies gentle pressure around his back.]

Like this? [Probably a stupid question. The prevailing emotion he's getting through the Bond is just-- contentment. Giorno is glad to be close, even if it's awkward.]

[Giorno does like it when he gets a hug back. So much so that he really doesn't need to say anything, probably; the ripple of joy through the Bond is simple and clear, the emotional equivalent of sunlight shining off a dozen bright surfaces at once. He didn't mind the shuffling, the awkwardness, but once Fugo is actually embracing him everything seems right. Easier to understand, too. Nothing is nearly as complicated as either of them made it out to be.]

Mm, [he affirms, a soft hum of delight against Fugo's shoulder as he recognizes the security of their reflected Bond — that he doesn't have to worry he's doing something wrong, because Fugo would let him know, or he would let Fugo know. They don't have anything to fear from each other now — that's what he thinks, in this moment.]

[That and, a breath later: it could be more comfortable, couldn't it? With a contemplative noise, he leans back and looks at Fugo. They're very close. He can see each of Fugo's pale eyelashes and the slight flush across the bridge of his nose.]

[Not close enough. He smiles, faint and guileless, and tips himself backwards into the pile of blankets, pulling Fugo with him without a hint of regret.]

[Fugo doesn't know what Giorno is thinking. The Bond doesn't work like that. What he does have insight into is what he's feeling: happy and confident, certain in his belief that everything is as it should be. Maybe if he could read Giorno's thoughts, he would have put a stop to what happens next.

Or maybe not. Giorno is very impulsive. And it happens pretty quickly.]

[Giorno pulls up and stares at him; his smile is subtle, easier to read in the crinkled corners of his eyes than his mouth. Even without the Bond, Fugo can see just how glad Giorno is. He thinks to himself-- What is he looking at?-- and then, before he has a chance to voice the question, Giorno tugs them both down.

A decision that he, obviously, did not think through very well. Fugo tenses and startles as he loses his balance and topples forward towards Giorno. It's not very far; he has no room to catch himself. Their foreheads smack together with a distinct clonk, prompting a sharp stream of curses out of Fugo's mouth that he would under ordinary circumstances he never would direct towards Giorno. It's all very smooth. They're doing great.]

[This was a mistake.]

[Or maybe it wasn't. Even as his eyes widen in realization at the inevitable; even as their foreheads clonk together, sparking a sharp pain in his forehead—] Ow! [—there's no real negative emotion there. Hardly any shock, either, beyond a short moment of startle.]

[What happens next is that Fugo swears. A lot. Truly majestically. He's only ever heard such language from Fugo once or twice, back when they barely knew each other. His eyes widen in awe for a moment. He is . . . impressed.]

[But after a few more seconds of this apparently inexhaustible series of curses, he has to press his lips together to keep from laughing. And a few seconds more leaves him unable to contain it. There's a rush of air through his pursed lips that quickly dissolves into full-body hysterical giggling. He shakes under Fugo with laughter that he doesn't even bother trying to hide, one hand clutched in the back of Fugo's shirt to keep him from getting away. Just in case.]

[This is fun, he's pretty sure.]

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