[Fugo writes, much like he does everything else, in quick, sharp movements to make neat, precise letters. Even when he's uncertain about what he's trying to say, his half of the conversation appears in tidy lines down the page. A brief, twitchy smile crosses his face at Giorno's answer; the lighthearted quip makes the rest of conversation a little easier.
He's briefly puzzled by Giorno taking his pen and leans in to watch as Giorno underlines hard to put into words. He turns to look back up at Giorno, watching his expression and, as always, listening carefully. The fact Giorno presents--(I wasn't comfortable back then, shared a little reluctantly and punctuated with hesitation)--lines up neatly against his own observations. Something has changed, between then and now; one of the better ways Giorno is different, because of his fratello and his coltellino, is that he prefers to reach out instead of stand apart when things scare him.]
[While he thinks on what Giorno's told him, Fugo idly rolls the pen on the desk beneath the flat of his hand. I want you to be happy. Out of everything Giorno's said, it's that he's the most unsure of--not the words themselves, or even the idea that Giorno wants him to be happy and to feel comfortable. Why would it be alright for him to be happy? Even the scattered moments of happiness he's found--(being able to share coffee with Buccellati in the morning, just like they used to; just... chatting with Kakyoin, like he's a normal person and they're normal friends; and walking home with Giorno, the warm feeling of their hands held together, swinging back and forth between them)--unfair, really.
It's because, he thinks, I don't deserve to be happy.]
[He doesn't write that down. Instead, this is this quick note:]
You're a little much, sometimes. But you don't ever make me feel uncomfortable.
[He sets the pen down on the desk, lying askew across the notebook. And he places his hand over their clasped ones with a wistful-looking smile, reassuring and centering the contact between them.]
no subject
He's briefly puzzled by Giorno taking his pen and leans in to watch as Giorno underlines hard to put into words. He turns to look back up at Giorno, watching his expression and, as always, listening carefully. The fact Giorno presents--(I wasn't comfortable back then, shared a little reluctantly and punctuated with hesitation)--lines up neatly against his own observations. Something has changed, between then and now; one of the better ways Giorno is different, because of his fratello and his coltellino, is that he prefers to reach out instead of stand apart when things scare him.]
[While he thinks on what Giorno's told him, Fugo idly rolls the pen on the desk beneath the flat of his hand. I want you to be happy. Out of everything Giorno's said, it's that he's the most unsure of--not the words themselves, or even the idea that Giorno wants him to be happy and to feel comfortable. Why would it be alright for him to be happy? Even the scattered moments of happiness he's found--(being able to share coffee with Buccellati in the morning, just like they used to; just... chatting with Kakyoin, like he's a normal person and they're normal friends; and walking home with Giorno, the warm feeling of their hands held together, swinging back and forth between them)--unfair, really.
It's because, he thinks, I don't deserve to be happy.]
[He doesn't write that down. Instead, this is this quick note:]
You're a little much, sometimes.
But you don't ever make me feel uncomfortable.
[He sets the pen down on the desk, lying askew across the notebook. And he places his hand over their clasped ones with a wistful-looking smile, reassuring and centering the contact between them.]