[He is momentarily stymied. How is he to fuss when there is nothing to fuss about, nothing to fix? It's that same old frustration. But at the very least it's Fugo, who appears to be willing to put up with a lot from him. For . . . reasons that he isn't thinking about right now.]
Then me bothering you is actually very helpful. I'm keeping you alert and awake and on a good sleep cycle.
[Giorno smiles brightly, right as Gold Experience slides the stack of books carefully onto the desk at Fugo's other side. The top volume is thick, with tiny text and gold trim, and is about kelpies.]
[Fugo's pretty sure he's good on his own at coming up with new and creative ways to not sleep when he's tired-- but he knows that in the face of something he can't fix, Giorno does better when he distracts himself with something that he can. So Fugo nods and solemnly makes a circle with his forefinger and thumb to signify that yes, okay, Giorno is being very helpful by coming and keeping him company during the day and he very much appreciates it.]
[Oh, books! Finally. Fugo's a much more contained person, but it's hard to miss the way he perks up at the thump when Gold Experience situates the stack of books at his other elbow. He reaches to close the math textbook he was studying from, pushing it aside in favor of tugging down that tome about kelpies off the top of the stack and laying it open in what little space is left on the face of his text. He idly flicks through the first few pages, not yet reading in depth-- just appreciating that someone took the time to write a very serious-minded book about the behavior of sticky river horses.
As tempting as it is to ignore lunch and just hunker down to read this instead, he knows better than to ignore Giorno. He closes the book and reaches again for the cards, trying to find one that would quickly communicate how helpful these books will be. None of them are perfect, but he finds one that he settles on as good enough for the moment: he pulls out and presents the BEST card to Giorno and Gold Experience.]
[Truthfully, he would have been all right with a little ignoring. He's pleased enough at the fact that Fugo's smiled, that Fugo's so chatty even without actually speaking; the silly little gesture charms him into a grin, and he tucks his heels up on the handle of the lowest desk drawer.]
[So, yes, he would have been fine to entertain himself for at least a minute or two. But after a few moments of perusing the first volume, Fugo turns to him with the card, and . . .]
[Oh.]
[No, it's . . . both of them. Him and Gold Experience. The card is for both of them. There's a tremor of uncertainty that shivers in the air between them, just for a second or two, and for that moment Giorno actually looks startled.]
[Then he smiles, slow and crooked and genuine, and plucks the card from Fugo's fingers, presents it to Gold Experience, who takes it with unblinking uncertainty.]
Look at this. Fugo likes you, just like you like him.
[Just like you like him. Common sense dictates that since Giorno likes him, it follows that so would Gold Experience. Still. Fugo's tickled to hear verbal confirmation that this theory is true. It occurs to him that for all they went through together back in April, everything that Gold Experience has done to help him heal, they have honestly never been properly introduced. So he smiles at Gold Experience, a little shy, and briefly lifts one hand in a belated wave. Hello, Gold Experience. It's nice to see you again.
[Sometimes . . . god. Sometimes Gold Experience makes his life exactly like an echo chamber. It's overwhelming, the way the waves of his Stand's feelings hit against the insides of his mind, rising up from nothing to suddenly appear, violent and bottomless and desperate. He's happy enough himself to see Fugo's smile, the simple sweet shyness of his gesture, but—]
[They rock Gold Experience's world. Giorno manages to contain his reaction to a quiet intake of breath, but it's difficult. His Stand is delighted in the way Gold Experience feels anything: every emotion, even the positive ones, sharp-edged as broken glass. It's not bad, though. Just jarring. A little cloying, maybe. But not bad, no.]
[And of course Gold Experience isn't nearly as subtle as Giorno'd like him to be. No, he startles visibly, back straightening as his gaze tracks the movements of Fugo's hand in the air. A breath, and he reaches forward, hand outstretched in a mirror of Fugo's wave, nearly close enough to touch before pulling back at the last minute. He turns to Giorno then, excited as a child, babbling under his breath, mudamudamuda.]
[Giorno winces, flapping his hand vaguely.]
All right, all right, already. I told you, he likes you.
[It's not clear who he's talking to, really. He does take the card back from Gold Experience, though, curls it slightly in both of his hands and ducks his head.]
He . . . likes that you're paying attention to him.
[That's significantly more transparent, at least.]
[Fugo's shoulders bunch up, though not painfully, in surprise over Gold Experience's animated response. He's never seen the Stand react like that before; Gold Experience is often quiet, almost stoic. But he's lively now, chattering muda muda muda--(Is it a nonsense sound, or a word? If it's the latter, what does it mean?)--and waving. When Gold Experience pulls away, Fugo's hand drops lightly to the desk. He drums his fingers a few times, before closing the book on kelpies. It's carefully returned to its place at the top of the stack to make room for his notebook and pen.]
Can he read? If he can't, that's fine. The message would be for both of you.
[That's strange, though, isn't it? The Pistols can, but they're special, more so than Gold Experience ever has been. It's not normal for a Stand to be able to read, or to be so . . . whatever Gold Experience is.]
[Giorno chews the inside of his cheek uncertainly, then tucks a stray wisp of hair behind his ear. His toes point just a little further towards the floor.]
I didn't know. Until recently. I didn't . . . teach him how, or anything like that. I suppose he just watched and learned. To write, too.
I honestly don't know why he does any of the things he does.
[Fugo watches Giorno's expression, tracking the little ways it changes--and, more significantly, the way he holds his face and the rest of himself still. It's not unfamiliar body language. In fact, it's reminiscent to the way Giorno carried himself when Buccellati first introduced him to the rest of the team. Small. Quiet. Unobtrusive.
(It's not like the Giorno he wanted to know better in Napoli, or the Giorno he's beginning to understand a little better in Ruby City. They're in turns bright and animated, sharp and dangerous. Giorno loves open and honestly and Giovanna protects what is his without flinching. Neither of them ever seem small.)
He thinks of the way Giorno pulled in a breath as Gold Experience became more animated. How he winced, the way he ducks his head. The almost dismissive way he gestured and spoke towards his Stand; how uncertainly he speaks now of Gold Experience's, quite honestly, amazing ability to read and understand independently of Giorno. Half a dozen little signs of too-familiar pain and sadness, all focused on Gold Experience.
Because it's Fugo, he has to take a moment to worry would this be all right, before he reaches up to catch Giorno's hand with his own as it drops back into his lap. But as he writes, his fingers loosely curl around Giorno's. This note takes a little more time. He writes slowly, choosing each word with care. When it's finished, he sets his pen aside and gestures for Gold Experience to come closer and so he can read what was written.]
I know you don't remember, because it hasn't happened for you yet. But when we first saw each other again after a long time apart, you knew that I was hurt. And before anything was said, before I even knew you were there, you healed me. It meant a great deal to me then and still does today. I'll never forget that morning.
[Fugo's hand is in his. That . . . that in itself isn't strange. It feels strange, startles him, not because of the action itself or because it's Fugo, but because when he's focused on Gold Experience like this he is now he feels like a different person. Younger and more afraid and worse. Worse all over.]
[Fugo's fingers curled around his remind him that he is himself, here and now. Fugo's fingers are warm, they feel warmer than his own even though that's got to be impossible. Maybe it's just that the presence and touch of them is so grounding, like half an instant of traveling home. For that moment he knows who he is without question, the Don Giovanna, Mista's and Trish's and Fugo's and everyone's, someone who belongs to himself but to the world, as well.]
[That knowledge doesn't preclude pain, though. It makes him feel less vulnerable, but he still feels everything else, too, the strange cocktail of affection and confusion and homesickness and protectiveness that Fugo stirs up in him, the aching possessiveness that makes him want to tighten his grip and never let go. Gold Experience leans over the desk and reads, and the shock waves are there, too.]
[It meant a great deal to me then and still does today.]
[I'll never forget that morning.]
[I love you so much, we love you so much.]
[Take half a step towards me. Just half a step. That's all.]
[That first day, there was a moment when Giorno relaxed, from his head to his toes. It happens again now at the tail end of a shudder; he has to close his eyes to keep the sudden inexplicable tears in (the tears he could explain if he wanted to, but he doesn't, so he won't). Mascara faintly dots under his lower lid when he opens them again, the only clue besides the shakiness of his smile, but he laces his fingers through Fugo's to keep him from leaving. Not that he thinks he will. Not really. But he always worries, somewhere in the back of his mind, what if?]
[He glances at his Stand, who glances back at him, checking for . . . something. Approval, maybe. Whatever it is, he sees it, or feels it, and so he very, very carefully tears the piece of paper off and folds it into a small square. He considers the square for a moment, turns it around to consider all of its edges, and folds it in half again so that it's a triangle: three sides, not four.]
[Are you lonely, Gold Experience?]
[Giorno laughs under his breath, bows his head, and presses his forehead to the back of Fugo's hand.]
He's going to keep that forever, you know.
[I love you so much, we love you so much.]
I'm going to keep you forever, too, though. So that's all right.
[Fugo watches the two of them, Giorno and his Gold Experience, with a quiet, solemn fondness. Before Giorno laces their fingers together his thumb slowly brushes, back and forth, over the top of Giorno's knuckles. He doesn't shift away when Gold Experience leans over the note; when Giorno laces their fingers together, his lock together around Giorno's.
It's a little strange, he thinks, how familiar this gesture has become; how naturally their fingers seem to criss-cross and fold together. His concern from before seems almost silly now in the face of how easily their palms fit up against each other. He's quickly distracted by Gold Experience, who tears out the note with the kind of reverence and care that it's like he's preserving a piece of artwork. And he laughs too, his shoulders briefly shaking with a voiceless chuckle, when he sees Gold Experience eliminate that pesky fourth edge--because that's a Mista habit, something he's seen dozens of times over in in letters and toast and sandwiches.
Before he has a chance to recover he's surprised again, this time when Giorno brings his forehead down onto their hands and-- God, Giogio, he thinks, you're so much sometimes. The back of his neck heats up and he briefly raises his other hand, pen still loosely held between his fingers, to cover his face. Even though Giorno's head is bowed, he is not allowed to see how red his face is all of a sudden, because he's just going to say something else embarrassing and it's just never going to stop. When he recovers, he smiles bashfully up again at Gold Experience and gingerly reaches out to pat the top of Giorno's weird, overdramatic head.]
[It's fine. All of that's fine. Gold Experience can keep what he wrote. Giorno can keep him. Because he isn't going anywhere. Wherever Giorno is--that's where he wants to be.]
[Giorno misses his moment, the instant when he could catch Fugo in something terribly embarrassing and tease him about it. That's probably for the best, though, because while it's certainly possible that he'd tease relentlessly . . . with today being what it is, with how much he's learned in such a short span of time, and how confused he is and how much he's feeling, it's just as likely that he'd freeze, words caught in his throat and eyes locked on Fugo's red face.]
[Not that it matters. He takes the moment for all it's willing to give, stretches it out like someone unspeakable might, wraps it around his shoulders like the finest fur coat, and takes just seconds to rest. Fugo's hand smells like ink and graphite and faintly of blood from where he's chewed his nails too close to the quick. That smell belongs to Giorno now, like everything else about Fugo.]
[He wonders if Fugo is as worried about this as he is. It doesn't seem that way. Fugo is worried about everything else, but not this. Their fingers locked together doesn't faze him; he reaches out and touches the top of Giorno's head with some hesitation, but not much. That's startling, not just that it happens at all but that he likes it. He'd have expected it to feel patronizing if the idea was floated verbally, but it just feels familiar in a nice way, a soft and silly touch that he can't help but lean into.]
[Which is also embarrassing. So when he looks up he's a little red himself, but smiling, as he reaches out and ruffles Fugo's hair.]
I don't remember you being all right with this, you know. This much touching. Not from me.
[That isn't actually what he set out to say, but now that he's started — well, whatever. His grin is crooked now as he laces their fingers together again.]
It's good, though. If I've got your hand in mine, then I always know where you are in case you get in trouble. And I always have someone to talk to. Or—
[He wrinkles his nose.]
Gesture to. I hope your throat gets better soon, I miss your voice already.
[Hey, now. Isn't this a little unfair? With nothing really holding it back in place, once ruffled, the longer pieces of Fugo's hair that he combs back fall right back over his face. And he can't really do the same to Giorno, since dismantling Giorno's hairdo is pretty obviously a two-hand endeavor--and Giorno has pretty obviously taken possession of one of his hands. He may never get it back form this weirdo who puts a lot of effort into curling, pinning, and tying his hair into rolls every morning. There's not much he can do but continue to pat Giorno's head--(once, twice, and a third time for good measure)--before smoothing down what's not been pulled into the rolls or his braid. His smile gives way to a stubborn little frown; but when he turns to write again, his expression smooths out.]
It's very annoying. Having the space to think about what I want to "say" is nice, in its own way, but the rest of this is very inconvenient.
As for your other points:
1) If that's the case, wouldn't you just be getting in trouble with me?
2) That was because we had just met. It would have been weird to treat you like Mista or Narancia right away. And I suppose I got the impression that you weren't comfortable with that sort of roughhousing.
[He briefly pauses, lifting up the pen to think; hadn't it taken him some time to get used to Narancia as well? Looking back on it, he can recall feeling confused and aggravated by how such a small person was able to take up so much space.]
As for now, or just in general it's--strange for me, sort of. It's always felt better to keep my distance, because of Purple Haze. But you're always reaching out to me. So, when I can, I want to try to reach for you. I keep thinking that it's going to be strange. And it is, a little, but only because I'm not used to it. So maybe it's strange that it isn't strange. I don't know. It's hard to put into words. None of these seem right.
[He waits patiently for Fugo to finish writing. It's not like there's nothing to do in the meantime, anyway. He catches himself watching the movements of Fugo's hands, which are long and strangely delicate for belonging to someone who's killed so many people. His fingers hold the pen a little too tightly, spidering out from it in their grip in a strange and gangly way. Not bad, though, just . . . very Fugo.]
[When Fugo seems to be done writing, Giorno glances from the paper up his face and offers a quick smile.]
Isn't getting in trouble together better than getting in trouble alone?
[Which . . . he didn't actually have to answer that, he knows, but he can't be too serious and not at all teasing or something, probably. He doesn't know what, but something. He plucks the pen from Fugo's fingers then, underlines hard to put into words, and hands the pen back.]
You don't have to. Or at least they don't have to be perfect words. I understand the words you've said, even if they don't feel right, you know?
[He bites his lip a little, trying to decide if he really wants to do what he feels like he wants to do, and then — yes, all right. He might as well.]
I wasn't. Comfortable, back then. Which . . . I appreciated that you and Bruno didn't . . . you weren't like the others, you weren't all over me. I'm more comfortable now, because when things have scared me here, I—
[Mmph. He squeezes Fugo's hand a little helplessly.]
I don't really understand how it happened. I just like reaching out better now. Even if it's strange in that nebulous undefinable way. I just hope that if it bothers you, that you tell me, because I want you to be happy and part of that is being comfortable.
[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.]
[Truth be told, he's not entirely sure what that means. He's been told he's a lot of different things, too many to count: useless and strong and brave and beautiful and dangerous and evil and good at heart. Mista tells him that he's lucky. But he doesn't know what a little much means. A little much isn't the same as a little too much, which he supposes is what Fugo means when he says he doesn't make him feel uncomfortable. But a little much what, then? More than other people? More than he should be, or should have?]
[He stares at Fugo with wide eyes as his hand rests over their fingers joined together. It's strange, feeling so uncertain and so safe all at once, so content to be still and yet so jittery. It feels like there's a fishhook caught under his rib cage.]
[Hesitantly, he ducks his head and tucks a stray piece of hair behind his ear with his free hand.]
Is that . . . is it good? To be a little much. Do I make you feel good?
[How does he even put that into words. When Giorno's too much, it's never a bad thing or even completely out of left field. He's just... aggressively himself, in ways that Fugo isn't really prepared for and occasionally has a hard time keeping up with. Fugo's fingers fidget on top of Giorno's, before he reaches for the pen and taps the phrase hard to put into words.]
It isn't a bad feeling. But I'm not sure how to describe it. It's just ... you being you. It's sort of like how Trish is sometimes [He pauses, reflects, crosses out sometimes, and begins again on a new line.]
A significant amount of the time.
[It's not a perfect analogy, because there is not enough room in the world for two Trish Unas. But he hopes that Giorno, as someone who is also routinely overwhelmed by Trish, will understand what he's getting at.]
[Oh. He's like Trish? It makes him laugh a little, under his breath and despite himself.]
That's a pretty big compliment.
[Since Trish is so perfect. But it's also such a big compliment that he has to look up from the paper and meet Fugo's eyes for a moment before he can be absolutely sure it's true. When it clearly is, he cocks his head, smiling faintly, quite pleased.]
So it's like feeling so much you feel too big for your skin? That's how it feels to me, when Trish is being Trish a lot.
[Unsurprisingly, Fugo's having a hard time meeting his eyes. He's restless and a little fidgety, idly tapping the pen on the paper between responses.]
Something like that.
[It would be embarrassing to write down and admit to how big the feeling is; how it's too big to hold down, how the warmth sort of creeps out and up the back of his neck. When Giorno's being a little much, two good descriptors are "overwhelming" and "embarrassing". But he doesn't really want to admit to that either. That's dangerous information to put down on paper.]
[Which would probably be pretty rude if his tone wasn't the way it was. Which is more like interesting than funny, especially with how he looks off a little to the side, gazing at nothing, as he thinks.]
[Fugo starts in Giorno's grasp, fingers briefly twitching tighter before relaxing. His surprise is written in broad strokes over his face, in his wide eyes and the way his mouth goes slack as he tries to say what and no sound comes out but the sharp click of his tongue on the roof of his mouth from the final consonant. He doesn't stop to think about his next note, which he writes quickly and (in comparison to his other notes) a little haphazardly.]
When? Why? How?
[He looks down at the message, briefly holds his hand up to his mouth, and then reaches down to scratch black out each word. His next note, although still hurried and reads a little flustered, is neater.]
Sorry you don't have to answer any of that I was just Surprised. I didn't expect you to say that.
[Oh. Oh, god, no, this was a mistake. He shouldn't have said that at all, because Fugo looks so surprised, and he's got his hand over his mouth, and . . . and he didn't think. That's the difference, is that this time Fugo didn't think, and he's actually asking the questions he wants answered.]
[Which means that no matter how bad of an idea this was, Giorno should still answer. Honesty is important. He wishes his face would be a little less honest right now. He can feel his cheeks going hot, which, why, this is stupid, it's not that big of a deal! Probably!]
It's — I'm—
[Ffffuck.]
Um, when you — I don't know. The last time was when you said . . . what you said to Gold Experience. You're very honest, and sometimes it's — I get surprised. And you like me a lot, and I like that you like me a lot. I like when you pay attention to me.
[This part seems to make him zero percent self-conscious, ironically enough. Well. Pushing right along:]
I don't, um, I'm not sure what you mean by "how". I don't even know if that made sense, really.
[This is what it's like when you're too much, Giogio.
Except that's not accurate. Giorno is too much when he reaches out and touches his face, Giorno is too much when he smiles at him, specifically, Giorno is too much when he says things like I missed you so much every day. This is a different feeling of too much-- an enormous feeling, that tightens and then airily expands in his chest that he's somehow managed to share with Giorno, because it's reflected in the way his face gets red and he's having a hard time looking him in the eye. It bounces back and forth between them, somehow, getting bigger with each echo. This is the worst. This is the absolute worst.
Fugo sort of sinks slowly back and down into his chair, shoulders curled and chin dipped down to his collarbone; because he doesn't let go of Giorno's hand, he just sort of inadvertently tugs it along with him. He realizes, all at once, that the steady sense of warmth has crept up from the back of his neck and around his ears and all over his face and he can't cover it and say something at the same time. So he's just sort of stuck at an overwhelmed impasse, hand over his mouth. Just. Give him a moment, he really needs one.]
[Fugo sort of tugs him along when he sinks down, which leaves Giorno perched on the very edge of the desk. He has to reach out and balance the toes of one foot on the rungs of the chair so that he doesn't fall, and it would probably be a good idea to use his unoccupied hand to steady himself, but.]
[But. He can't. Because Fugo is bright red and covering his face, which leaves Giorno very nearly shaking in shock. He didn't even do anything, not that time, he just answered, and now Fugo looks like he's going to explode. It's cute and ridiculous, but he also feels it happening to him, too, like they can't untangle their emotions even a little bit.]
[So he needs that hand. As his fingers tighten in Fugo's, he lifts his hand and covers his mouth, closing his eyes, until all that can be seen of hike are his very pink cheeks. He very well may die here.]
[This has got to be one of the stupidest situations he has ever gotten himself into. And he's been dragged into a mirror world, caught in an endless loop of tripping over his own feet, and has willingly put one of Purple Haze's capsules in his mouth with the intent of breaking it open with his teeth and spitting the resulting mess in someone else's face. He sort of wants to sink underneath his desk and disappear, except if he does that he'll probably unbalance Giorno and wouldn't that just be the way to go.
He hates the way his feelings get, sometimes. He tries to put them aside and ignore them; except when he turns around, they've gotten enormous and out of control.]
[Okay. Okay, he can-- steady himself. Re-orient his thoughts. He has to come to terms with the bizarre, mind-boggling fact that some of the things he says to Giorno are as overwhelming as the things Giorno says to him. That knowledge makes his stomach flip-flop, because the obvious implication is that Giorno feels strongly about him. Which ... he knew, because Giorno would not have handled anything the way he has if he didn't feel strongly about it. But hearing about it. But seeing it laid plain, is just--]
[Fugo takes a breath. Forces his shoulders down and slowly, reluctantly, takes his hand away from his still-red face to push himself back into a seated position. He quietly writes Giorno another note and-- oh, no. Giorno's cheeks are so pink. Fugo gingerly pokes him with the pen and looks away towards Gold Experience--(who is still mooning over his note, which is overwhelming in its own way)--because he's not even going to chance eye contact when they're both like this.]
It's not weird, is it? That I like you as much as I do. Because we're both so different from how we were in April. From what you last remember.
[Oh, no. Fugo's writing again. Oh, no, Fugo's poking him. Oh, no, he has to look up now, and the thought of it alone has him going redder. This is the hardest thing he's ever had to do in his entire life, ever.]
[He does do it, though. Fugo deserves that much, and some terrible part of him wants to see what's been written, even if it makes him feel a million times more twisted up inside.]
[So he drops his hand, twisting it in the hem of his shirt, and reads what Fugo's written. And he was right: it just makes everything so much more . . . more.]
No.
[It comes out breathless and fervent, and he closes his eyes after, trying to keep his breathing steady. He can't, they can't keep doing this or they'll both explode, so he has to just . . . breathe.]
[Okay.]
[When he opens his eyes, he fumbles for the pen, sliding it from Fugo's grip and writing down his thoughts hesitantly, in a cramped hand. He has to twist to do it, but it seems so much safer than talking.]
It isn't weird. Or if it is, I really don't mind. I like having you here. I like the way you are and how much you like me. I don't want you to stop being like this. Even though it's
[The briefest hesitation.]
It's a little confusing. But it's not the kind of thing I feel the need to understand, because even though it's confusing, it feels very right. I have trouble remembering what it was like before you came here because that doesn't feel right. And anyway I like you a lot too. Very much. So isn't it only fair?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[He is momentarily stymied. How is he to fuss when there is nothing to fuss about, nothing to fix? It's that same old frustration. But at the very least it's Fugo, who appears to be willing to put up with a lot from him. For . . . reasons that he isn't thinking about right now.]
Then me bothering you is actually very helpful. I'm keeping you alert and awake and on a good sleep cycle.
[Giorno smiles brightly, right as Gold Experience slides the stack of books carefully onto the desk at Fugo's other side. The top volume is thick, with tiny text and gold trim, and is about kelpies.]
You are very welcome, Fugo, I don't mind at all.
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[Oh, books! Finally. Fugo's a much more contained person, but it's hard to miss the way he perks up at the thump when Gold Experience situates the stack of books at his other elbow. He reaches to close the math textbook he was studying from, pushing it aside in favor of tugging down that tome about kelpies off the top of the stack and laying it open in what little space is left on the face of his text. He idly flicks through the first few pages, not yet reading in depth-- just appreciating that someone took the time to write a very serious-minded book about the behavior of sticky river horses.
As tempting as it is to ignore lunch and just hunker down to read this instead, he knows better than to ignore Giorno. He closes the book and reaches again for the cards, trying to find one that would quickly communicate how helpful these books will be. None of them are perfect, but he finds one that he settles on as good enough for the moment: he pulls out and presents the BEST card to Giorno and Gold Experience.]
no subject
[So, yes, he would have been fine to entertain himself for at least a minute or two. But after a few moments of perusing the first volume, Fugo turns to him with the card, and . . .]
[Oh.]
[No, it's . . . both of them. Him and Gold Experience. The card is for both of them. There's a tremor of uncertainty that shivers in the air between them, just for a second or two, and for that moment Giorno actually looks startled.]
[Then he smiles, slow and crooked and genuine, and plucks the card from Fugo's fingers, presents it to Gold Experience, who takes it with unblinking uncertainty.]
Look at this. Fugo likes you, just like you like him.
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[They rock Gold Experience's world. Giorno manages to contain his reaction to a quiet intake of breath, but it's difficult. His Stand is delighted in the way Gold Experience feels anything: every emotion, even the positive ones, sharp-edged as broken glass. It's not bad, though. Just jarring. A little cloying, maybe. But not bad, no.]
[And of course Gold Experience isn't nearly as subtle as Giorno'd like him to be. No, he startles visibly, back straightening as his gaze tracks the movements of Fugo's hand in the air. A breath, and he reaches forward, hand outstretched in a mirror of Fugo's wave, nearly close enough to touch before pulling back at the last minute. He turns to Giorno then, excited as a child, babbling under his breath, mudamudamuda.]
[Giorno winces, flapping his hand vaguely.]
All right, all right, already. I told you, he likes you.
[It's not clear who he's talking to, really. He does take the card back from Gold Experience, though, curls it slightly in both of his hands and ducks his head.]
He . . . likes that you're paying attention to him.
[That's significantly more transparent, at least.]
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Can he read? If he can't, that's fine.
The message would be for both of you.
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[That's strange, though, isn't it? The Pistols can, but they're special, more so than Gold Experience ever has been. It's not normal for a Stand to be able to read, or to be so . . . whatever Gold Experience is.]
[Giorno chews the inside of his cheek uncertainly, then tucks a stray wisp of hair behind his ear. His toes point just a little further towards the floor.]
I didn't know. Until recently. I didn't . . . teach him how, or anything like that. I suppose he just watched and learned. To write, too.
I honestly don't know why he does any of the things he does.
[Are you lonely, Gold Experience?]
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(It's not like the Giorno he wanted to know better in Napoli, or the Giorno he's beginning to understand a little better in Ruby City. They're in turns bright and animated, sharp and dangerous. Giorno loves open and honestly and Giovanna protects what is his without flinching. Neither of them ever seem small.)
He thinks of the way Giorno pulled in a breath as Gold Experience became more animated. How he winced, the way he ducks his head. The almost dismissive way he gestured and spoke towards his Stand; how uncertainly he speaks now of Gold Experience's, quite honestly, amazing ability to read and understand independently of Giorno. Half a dozen little signs of too-familiar pain and sadness, all focused on Gold Experience.
Because it's Fugo, he has to take a moment to worry would this be all right, before he reaches up to catch Giorno's hand with his own as it drops back into his lap. But as he writes, his fingers loosely curl around Giorno's. This note takes a little more time. He writes slowly, choosing each word with care. When it's finished, he sets his pen aside and gestures for Gold Experience to come closer and so he can read what was written.]
I know you don't remember, because it hasn't happened for you yet.
But when we first saw each other again after a long time apart, you knew that I was hurt.
And before anything was said, before I even knew you were there, you healed me.
It meant a great deal to me then and still does today.
I'll never forget that morning.
Thank you.
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[Fugo's fingers curled around his remind him that he is himself, here and now. Fugo's fingers are warm, they feel warmer than his own even though that's got to be impossible. Maybe it's just that the presence and touch of them is so grounding, like half an instant of traveling home. For that moment he knows who he is without question, the Don Giovanna, Mista's and Trish's and Fugo's and everyone's, someone who belongs to himself but to the world, as well.]
[That knowledge doesn't preclude pain, though. It makes him feel less vulnerable, but he still feels everything else, too, the strange cocktail of affection and confusion and homesickness and protectiveness that Fugo stirs up in him, the aching possessiveness that makes him want to tighten his grip and never let go. Gold Experience leans over the desk and reads, and the shock waves are there, too.]
[It meant a great deal to me then and still does today.]
[I'll never forget that morning.]
[I love you so much, we love you so much.]
[Take half a step towards me. Just half a step. That's all.]
[That first day, there was a moment when Giorno relaxed, from his head to his toes. It happens again now at the tail end of a shudder; he has to close his eyes to keep the sudden inexplicable tears in (the tears he could explain if he wanted to, but he doesn't, so he won't). Mascara faintly dots under his lower lid when he opens them again, the only clue besides the shakiness of his smile, but he laces his fingers through Fugo's to keep him from leaving. Not that he thinks he will. Not really. But he always worries, somewhere in the back of his mind, what if?]
[He glances at his Stand, who glances back at him, checking for . . . something. Approval, maybe. Whatever it is, he sees it, or feels it, and so he very, very carefully tears the piece of paper off and folds it into a small square. He considers the square for a moment, turns it around to consider all of its edges, and folds it in half again so that it's a triangle: three sides, not four.]
[Are you lonely, Gold Experience?]
[Giorno laughs under his breath, bows his head, and presses his forehead to the back of Fugo's hand.]
He's going to keep that forever, you know.
[I love you so much, we love you so much.]
I'm going to keep you forever, too, though. So that's all right.
[Are you lonely, Gold Experience?]
[Not anymore.]
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It's a little strange, he thinks, how familiar this gesture has become; how naturally their fingers seem to criss-cross and fold together. His concern from before seems almost silly now in the face of how easily their palms fit up against each other. He's quickly distracted by Gold Experience, who tears out the note with the kind of reverence and care that it's like he's preserving a piece of artwork. And he laughs too, his shoulders briefly shaking with a voiceless chuckle, when he sees Gold Experience eliminate that pesky fourth edge--because that's a Mista habit, something he's seen dozens of times over in in letters and toast and sandwiches.
Before he has a chance to recover he's surprised again, this time when Giorno brings his forehead down onto their hands and-- God, Giogio, he thinks, you're so much sometimes. The back of his neck heats up and he briefly raises his other hand, pen still loosely held between his fingers, to cover his face. Even though Giorno's head is bowed, he is not allowed to see how red his face is all of a sudden, because he's just going to say something else embarrassing and it's just never going to stop. When he recovers, he smiles bashfully up again at Gold Experience and gingerly reaches out to pat the top of Giorno's weird, overdramatic head.]
[It's fine. All of that's fine. Gold Experience can keep what he wrote. Giorno can keep him. Because he isn't going anywhere. Wherever Giorno is--that's where he wants to be.]
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[Not that it matters. He takes the moment for all it's willing to give, stretches it out like someone unspeakable might, wraps it around his shoulders like the finest fur coat, and takes just seconds to rest. Fugo's hand smells like ink and graphite and faintly of blood from where he's chewed his nails too close to the quick. That smell belongs to Giorno now, like everything else about Fugo.]
[He wonders if Fugo is as worried about this as he is. It doesn't seem that way. Fugo is worried about everything else, but not this. Their fingers locked together doesn't faze him; he reaches out and touches the top of Giorno's head with some hesitation, but not much. That's startling, not just that it happens at all but that he likes it. He'd have expected it to feel patronizing if the idea was floated verbally, but it just feels familiar in a nice way, a soft and silly touch that he can't help but lean into.]
[Which is also embarrassing. So when he looks up he's a little red himself, but smiling, as he reaches out and ruffles Fugo's hair.]
I don't remember you being all right with this, you know. This much touching. Not from me.
[That isn't actually what he set out to say, but now that he's started — well, whatever. His grin is crooked now as he laces their fingers together again.]
It's good, though. If I've got your hand in mine, then I always know where you are in case you get in trouble. And I always have someone to talk to. Or—
[He wrinkles his nose.]
Gesture to. I hope your throat gets better soon, I miss your voice already.
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It's very annoying. Having the space to think about what I want to "say" is nice, in its own way, but the rest of this is very inconvenient.
As for your other points:
1) If that's the case, wouldn't you just be getting in trouble with me?
2) That was because we had just met. It would have been weird to treat you like Mista or Narancia right away. And I suppose I got the impression that you weren't comfortable with that sort of roughhousing.
[He briefly pauses, lifting up the pen to think; hadn't it taken him some time to get used to Narancia as well? Looking back on it, he can recall feeling confused and aggravated by how such a small person was able to take up so much space.]
As for now, or just in general it's--strange for me, sort of. It's always felt better to keep my distance, because of Purple Haze.
But you're always reaching out to me. So, when I can, I want to try to reach for you.
I keep thinking that it's going to be strange. And it is, a little, but only because I'm not used to it.
So maybe it's strange that it isn't strange. I don't know.
It's hard to put into words. None of these seem right.
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[When Fugo seems to be done writing, Giorno glances from the paper up his face and offers a quick smile.]
Isn't getting in trouble together better than getting in trouble alone?
[Which . . . he didn't actually have to answer that, he knows, but he can't be too serious and not at all teasing or something, probably. He doesn't know what, but something. He plucks the pen from Fugo's fingers then, underlines hard to put into words, and hands the pen back.]
You don't have to. Or at least they don't have to be perfect words. I understand the words you've said, even if they don't feel right, you know?
[He bites his lip a little, trying to decide if he really wants to do what he feels like he wants to do, and then — yes, all right. He might as well.]
I wasn't. Comfortable, back then. Which . . . I appreciated that you and Bruno didn't . . . you weren't like the others, you weren't all over me. I'm more comfortable now, because when things have scared me here, I—
[Mmph. He squeezes Fugo's hand a little helplessly.]
I don't really understand how it happened. I just like reaching out better now. Even if it's strange in that nebulous undefinable way. I just hope that if it bothers you, that you tell me, because I want you to be happy and part of that is being comfortable.
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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.]
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[Truth be told, he's not entirely sure what that means. He's been told he's a lot of different things, too many to count: useless and strong and brave and beautiful and dangerous and evil and good at heart. Mista tells him that he's lucky. But he doesn't know what a little much means. A little much isn't the same as a little too much, which he supposes is what Fugo means when he says he doesn't make him feel uncomfortable. But a little much what, then? More than other people? More than he should be, or should have?]
[He stares at Fugo with wide eyes as his hand rests over their fingers joined together. It's strange, feeling so uncertain and so safe all at once, so content to be still and yet so jittery. It feels like there's a fishhook caught under his rib cage.]
[Hesitantly, he ducks his head and tucks a stray piece of hair behind his ear with his free hand.]
Is that . . . is it good? To be a little much. Do I make you feel good?
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It isn't a bad feeling.
But I'm not sure how to describe it.
It's just ... you being you.
It's sort of like how Trish is
sometimes[He pauses, reflects, crosses out sometimes, and begins again on a new line.]A significant amount of the time.
[It's not a perfect analogy, because there is not enough room in the world for two Trish Unas. But he hopes that Giorno, as someone who is also routinely overwhelmed by Trish, will understand what he's getting at.]
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That's a pretty big compliment.
[Since Trish is so perfect. But it's also such a big compliment that he has to look up from the paper and meet Fugo's eyes for a moment before he can be absolutely sure it's true. When it clearly is, he cocks his head, smiling faintly, quite pleased.]
So it's like feeling so much you feel too big for your skin? That's how it feels to me, when Trish is being Trish a lot.
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Something like that.
[It would be embarrassing to write down and admit to how big the feeling is; how it's too big to hold down, how the warmth sort of creeps out and up the back of his neck. When Giorno's being a little much, two good descriptors are "overwhelming" and "embarrassing". But he doesn't really want to admit to that either. That's dangerous information to put down on paper.]
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[Which would probably be pretty rude if his tone wasn't the way it was. Which is more like interesting than funny, especially with how he looks off a little to the side, gazing at nothing, as he thinks.]
I feel like that about you, sometimes.
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When?
Why?
How?
[He looks down at the message, briefly holds his hand up to his mouth, and then reaches down to scratch black out each word. His next note, although still hurried and reads a little flustered, is neater.]
Sorry you don't have to answer any of that I was just
Surprised. I didn't expect you to say that.
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[Which means that no matter how bad of an idea this was, Giorno should still answer. Honesty is important. He wishes his face would be a little less honest right now. He can feel his cheeks going hot, which, why, this is stupid, it's not that big of a deal! Probably!]
It's — I'm—
[Ffffuck.]
Um, when you — I don't know. The last time was when you said . . . what you said to Gold Experience. You're very honest, and sometimes it's — I get surprised. And you like me a lot, and I like that you like me a lot. I like when you pay attention to me.
[This part seems to make him zero percent self-conscious, ironically enough. Well. Pushing right along:]
I don't, um, I'm not sure what you mean by "how". I don't even know if that made sense, really.
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Except that's not accurate. Giorno is too much when he reaches out and touches his face, Giorno is too much when he smiles at him, specifically, Giorno is too much when he says things like I missed you so much every day. This is a different feeling of too much-- an enormous feeling, that tightens and then airily expands in his chest that he's somehow managed to share with Giorno, because it's reflected in the way his face gets red and he's having a hard time looking him in the eye. It bounces back and forth between them, somehow, getting bigger with each echo. This is the worst. This is the absolute worst.
Fugo sort of sinks slowly back and down into his chair, shoulders curled and chin dipped down to his collarbone; because he doesn't let go of Giorno's hand, he just sort of inadvertently tugs it along with him. He realizes, all at once, that the steady sense of warmth has crept up from the back of his neck and around his ears and all over his face and he can't cover it and say something at the same time. So he's just sort of stuck at an overwhelmed impasse, hand over his mouth. Just. Give him a moment, he really needs one.]
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[But. He can't. Because Fugo is bright red and covering his face, which leaves Giorno very nearly shaking in shock. He didn't even do anything, not that time, he just answered, and now Fugo looks like he's going to explode. It's cute and ridiculous, but he also feels it happening to him, too, like they can't untangle their emotions even a little bit.]
[So he needs that hand. As his fingers tighten in Fugo's, he lifts his hand and covers his mouth, closing his eyes, until all that can be seen of hike are his very pink cheeks. He very well may die here.]
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He hates the way his feelings get, sometimes. He tries to put them aside and ignore them; except when he turns around, they've gotten enormous and out of control.]
[Okay. Okay, he can-- steady himself. Re-orient his thoughts. He has to come to terms with the bizarre, mind-boggling fact that some of the things he says to Giorno are as overwhelming as the things Giorno says to him. That knowledge makes his stomach flip-flop, because the obvious implication is that Giorno feels strongly about him. Which ... he knew, because Giorno would not have handled anything the way he has if he didn't feel strongly about it. But hearing about it. But seeing it laid plain, is just--]
[Fugo takes a breath. Forces his shoulders down and slowly, reluctantly, takes his hand away from his still-red face to push himself back into a seated position. He quietly writes Giorno another note and-- oh, no. Giorno's cheeks are so pink. Fugo gingerly pokes him with the pen and looks away towards Gold Experience--(who is still mooning over his note, which is overwhelming in its own way)--because he's not even going to chance eye contact when they're both like this.]
It's not weird, is it?
That I like you as much as I do.
Because we're both so different from how we were in April.
From what you last remember.
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[He does do it, though. Fugo deserves that much, and some terrible part of him wants to see what's been written, even if it makes him feel a million times more twisted up inside.]
[So he drops his hand, twisting it in the hem of his shirt, and reads what Fugo's written. And he was right: it just makes everything so much more . . . more.]
No.
[It comes out breathless and fervent, and he closes his eyes after, trying to keep his breathing steady. He can't, they can't keep doing this or they'll both explode, so he has to just . . . breathe.]
[Okay.]
[When he opens his eyes, he fumbles for the pen, sliding it from Fugo's grip and writing down his thoughts hesitantly, in a cramped hand. He has to twist to do it, but it seems so much safer than talking.]
It isn't weird. Or if it is, I really don't mind. I like having you here. I like the way you are and how much you like me.
I don't want you to stop being like this. Even though it's
[The briefest hesitation.]
It's a little confusing. But it's not the kind of thing I feel the need to understand, because even though it's confusing, it feels very right. I have trouble remembering what it was like before you came here because that doesn't feel right.
And anyway I like you a lot too. Very much. So isn't it only fair?
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