[Fugo fidgets restlessly in his seat while Giorno reads, looking anywhere but at the person who he wrote the message for. Why is all of this so difficult? Why can't he just have a conversation like a normal person without getting so worked up? He doesn't miss how disconnected he felt when he played in the bar, listlessness and fear filling his head up like so much buzzing static that there wasn't room for anything else. He'd felt so little and it had been so awful. And now that he's been pulled away from that, by staring down the barrel of Mista's gun and listening to the worst scream of pain he'd ever heard being pulled from Sheila's throat and Giorno holding out his hand and taking half of a step to meet him, it's like all of his emotions are oversized and running wild. Little gestures seem tremendous; simple sentiments completely overwhelming. Keeping his emotions in check is so important to keeping himself and the people he's living with safe and he just can't.]
[The vehemence in Giorno's voice catches him off-guard. He's afraid, a little, of what he might see in Giorno's face--but all he can see is someone who's having just as hard of a time with what they're talking about as he is. His hands clench around Giorno's and the pen; it's only when Giorno fumbles for the pen again that he tries to make himself relax again. This is ridiculous, he thinks ruefully to himself, because it is. There's hardly any room left on this desk for Giorno to maneuver and honestly it's a testament to Giorno's balance that he hasn't fallen or knocked any of the books over.
They've filled this page up so quickly. There's his half of the conversation, parts of it scratched up and scribbled out; he can see his descent from calm into emotional mess in the way his handwriting goes from neat and measured to frantic and messy. Giorno's cramped handwriting cuts haphazardly in what's space available; Fugo has to lean in to read it, lightly drawing a line underneath the letters with his finger. But it's better, somehow, to read it instead of hearing it. He worries at the inside of his lower lip after he he's finished, before reaching and taking the pen from Giorno.]
I didn't dislike you back then. I just didn't know you. And I wasn't sure if I could trust you. Buccellati said we could, but Everything happened so quickly. There was never any time.
[He blinks, furiously. Because he hates that. He hates thinking about April and how they had so little time together as seven; hates how he was the only one who hesitated, hates how he was the one who was left behind, hates how he could only find his voice to doubt instead of believe.]
Everything is confusing. Sometimes, I feel like I have to run to keep up with you. But that's fine. I don't want to stand still anymore.
I'm ... very happy that you like me. So much, it's sort of overwhelming. I'm glad that we can be friends. This place is so awful and I hate it but it's so much less awful than it could be because you're here.
Because I know that I can trust you, no matter what.
no subject
[The vehemence in Giorno's voice catches him off-guard. He's afraid, a little, of what he might see in Giorno's face--but all he can see is someone who's having just as hard of a time with what they're talking about as he is. His hands clench around Giorno's and the pen; it's only when Giorno fumbles for the pen again that he tries to make himself relax again. This is ridiculous, he thinks ruefully to himself, because it is. There's hardly any room left on this desk for Giorno to maneuver and honestly it's a testament to Giorno's balance that he hasn't fallen or knocked any of the books over.
They've filled this page up so quickly. There's his half of the conversation, parts of it scratched up and scribbled out; he can see his descent from calm into emotional mess in the way his handwriting goes from neat and measured to frantic and messy. Giorno's cramped handwriting cuts haphazardly in what's space available; Fugo has to lean in to read it, lightly drawing a line underneath the letters with his finger. But it's better, somehow, to read it instead of hearing it. He worries at the inside of his lower lip after he he's finished, before reaching and taking the pen from Giorno.]
I didn't dislike you back then.
I just didn't know you. And I wasn't sure if I could trust you.
Buccellati said we could, but
Everything happened so quickly. There was never any time.
[He blinks, furiously. Because he hates that. He hates thinking about April and how they had so little time together as seven; hates how he was the only one who hesitated, hates how he was the one who was left behind, hates how he could only find his voice to doubt instead of believe.]
Everything is confusing. Sometimes, I feel like I have to run to keep up with you.
But that's fine. I don't want to stand still anymore.
I'm ... very happy that you like me. So much, it's sort of overwhelming.
I'm glad that we can be friends. This place is so awful and I hate it but it's so much less awful than it could be because you're here.
Because I know that I can trust you, no matter what.