[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?
[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.
[His expression softens. His whole self softens, like so much anxiety has suddenly left him in a gust of wind. He reads the words and rereads them, twisting his fingers in his shirt to keep from reaching out and running his fingers through Fugo's hair.]
[He wants to. He shouldn't. But he wants to. And he should probably keep writing instead of speaking, but he makes the mistake of glancing at Gold Experience as he reaches for the pen. His Stand is staring at Fugo in awe, similar to but not the same as the way he looks at Carlos. The feeling is more . . . I need that than I like that. That's mine, as well as I'm his.]
[It's overwhelming, but it's still not bad. He keeps his eyes on Gold Experience when he speaks.]
I didn't expect anyone to like me. I didn't expect that ever. I didn't think it was something I would need or want.
. . . But I did. I needed it so much, and that's part of why I miss you all so much, because you made me realize I needed that. I don't know if that makes sense, I just. I need--
[He breathes in sharply and glances up again, meeting Fugo's eyes a little nervously.]
I need you. I miss Mista and Trish so much, but I really need you, and it's the same way as before. I didn't realize it until I saw you again.
So if I'm ever going too fast, you can just tell me. I'll try to slow down. I don't want to lose you, please.
[It's only luck, really, that Fugo doesn't follow Giorno's line of sight. Because if he caught Gold Experience looking at him in that way, it would open the gate for another one of those too much feelings in him. He watches Giorno's hand instead, the lovely way it clutches and twists in the fabric of his shirt. Because even though he'd never be able to say it plainly, Giorno does have beautiful hands; even when he's distressed, there's a certain elegance in the movements of his slender fingers. It would have been so awful if he burned himself when he set things on fire, even if he could heal himself right after.
Meeting Giorno's eyes, especially when he's saying things like I need you and I don't want to lose you, when they're both feeling so unexpectedly vulnerable is as difficult as standing up straight in the middle of a windstorm. They're probably holding on too tightly to each other--and maybe that's what makes everything about this so much, but Fugo finds that he doesn't care. Giorno's tight grasp on his hand is a steadying, grounding force. It helps him meet Giorno's eyes and not look away until he has to. There isn't enough room left for what he wants to write; with great care, Fugo turns the page to a fresh one. His pen presses firmly into the page and he doesn't stop to think about what he's writing, because if he does it will come out all wrong.]
I will. I promise. Because I need you too.
Before you found me again, I couldn't move. I couldn't go back. And I couldn't move forward. I was just waiting to disappear. I felt so awful, every day, and I didn't even start to realize how awful it was until I saw Mista again. I didn't know it, but I needed you back then. And I still need you, because you help me remember that it's okay for me to be home again. That there's a place for me and it's where I should be. That it's okay for me to move forward, even if I can't make it far. That there's a future worth building and fighting for.
You've given me so much. I want to do what I can for you. I want to reach as far as I can to meet you.
[It slips out aloud that time, the sucker-punch feeling he has when he reads what Fugo's written. There's such a difference between the way Fugo spoke to him before and the way he speaks now, and it's not because he is now Fugo's superior — or at least not just because of that. There's a level of comfort Fugo has with him not that Giorno didn't understand he needed. But it just goes to show, not everything that's needed is known.]
[What else does he need that he doesn't know about?]
[He looks down at their joined hands and smiles. It's a small smile at first, faint and quavery, but before long it's wide and bright. One of his effusive smiles, as dazzling as the sun through the branches of trees heavy with dew. He looks up, then, and can't quite keep himself from leaning forward to puff up his cheeks and blow Fugo's bangs out of his face, mischievous and sentimental all at once.]
That's exactly what you're doing, isn't it?
[He swings their joined hands between them, very lightly, and then wriggles with inexpressible delight.]
I like your hand in mine, because it means we've both reached as far as we can and met in the middle.
[What is this. Where did that smile come from. What is Giorno doing. Why is he-- why does Giorno Giovanna do anything he does. Fugo's face scrunches up when Giorno huffs and puffs and blows his bangs into even further disarray. If he had a voice, he'd be making a pretty graceless noise; as it is, all that comes out is an indignant huff.]
Honestly!! What is with you and my hair today??? That's the second time you've messed with it.
[He sets the pen down on top of his note, firmly enough there's a little thump, before trying to fix the resulting mess with his fingers. He's able to more-or-less reconstruct his bangs into the proper shape over his brow, but it's harder to get the rest of it combed back with just his fingers. The result is haphazard and there are already flyaway pieces starting to slip away. With this important matter taken care of, he can turn his attention back to--
Oh, no. Giorno's not just smiling, bright and brilliant, but he's bouncing. Why is he so... himself, sometimes.]
Yes. You could say it like that. Both things like that.
The only danger in taking your hand is convincing you to let go.
[Fugo's so mad. It's funny. And Giorno knows, sort of, that this is just another way of him being a little much, but he doesn't mind. Because for one thing, he doesn't think he can just switch it off. For another thing, they should at least switch tone sometimes, he's pretty sure. And for a third thing . . .]
[Fugo said it wasn't bad. Which means at worst, he's all right with it, and at best, he likes it. Which makes Giorno happy. Which makes him smile. So all he's really doing is letting himself express exactly what he feels, and hasn't it been long enough that he's lived without that?]
[He laughs at Fugo's indignation, squeezes his hand playfully.]
Well, I'm never going to, so there!
[So there. And as to Fugo's other question, which he really shouldn't have asked . . . Giorno's smile goes devilish.]
Your hair's cute, that's why. It's cute and I like to mess with it. Plus, if I mess with it I get to do this—
[He reaches out his free hand and rakes his fingers through Fugo's bangs, a little more careful and precise than Fugo was himself. Sorting out a few minor tangles, he finger-combs it correct again, so that it conforms to Fugo's face properly, like it usually does. It's not perfect, but it's better, and anyway he got to touch Fugo's hair again, so who really wins? It's him.]
[Fugo shoots him a look, fond and exasperated, that he hopes will communicate his opinion (which can be summed up mostly as oh, whatever) that Giorno will have to let go of his hand eventually. But for all of his nonverbal sass, he returns Giorno's squeeze.]
[What. What. Temporarily flummoxed by Giorno's choice of words--(why the hell would he pick cute not just once but twice, that's absurd)--Fugo's not fast enough in reacting to catch Giorno's other hand before the finger-combing starts. His hand drops back onto the desk; he makes a valiant effort not to fidget, but in the end opts to drum his fingers on pages of his notebook instead of squirming in place. This is entirely unfair. He can't just tell Giorno that it's fine for now and he can't look down to write a note until Giorno's finished.
Except when he's finally free to write something he's ... not sure ... what to object to? He holds the pen over the paper, mostly annoyed but also a little red in the face, before finally settling on a somewhat lackluster:]
Just ask first, [He catches himself and abruptly pulls the pen back. And then, very deliberately, turns his comma into a period. Because it's probably not good form to call your boss a weirdo, especially on paper where it can be preserved forever.]
[This is not at all having the desired effect. The more flustered Fugo gets, the more fond Giorno feels, until eventually he's forced to kick his feet a little to wear off his excess excited energy. He's so cute, and the fact that he reacts so strongly to being called cute is even cuter. What the hell is Giorno supposed to do with this other than love it?]
[All the same, he can respect Fugo's wishes. That's only fair, he knows; Fugo respects all of his. Even though he catches Fugo nearly continuing that sentence, and wonders so, so much what he was going to say, he manages to bite his question back and replace it with another, much more important one. For now.]
[From the way Fugo's shoulders draw together and the flustered look on his face, that was not the response he was expecting from Giorno. Oh, no. Giorno's ... calling him on it. Giorno is doing exactly what he asked, except immediately and with the prior knowledge that Fugo doesn't have anywhere he needs to be. His afternoon is completely free for whatever nonsense Giorno would like to get up to, as long as it doesn't involve going outside. Fugo's eyes dart restlessly around the room again, from Giorno to Gold Experience to--
Oh, thank God. There's a distraction that not even Giorno will be able to turn down. His shoulders lose most of their tension as he pens a very important reminder.]
[Oh. Huh. That's . . . actually entirely true. Giorno blinks down at the paper with totally genuine surprise. He'd forgotten in the face of teasing Fugo, which is the most fun he's had in a while. But now he remembers how hungry he is. He really can't argue with Fugo's logic, either.]
[So: compromise. He nods, but then he leans forward and kisses Fugo's forehead. A little lunch, but a little teasing for the road. Lunch road. Yes.]
You know, I really forgot. Thank you for reminding me, Fugo.
[His logic is perfect. Undefeatable in the face of Giorno's fussing about making sure he's eating and sleeping enough. There's no way Giorno will be able to continue to embarrass him. Or so Fugo thinks, until Giorno leans in and kisses his forehead. Then he doesn't think much of anything, first too surprised and then too flustered to think beyond why is Giogio like this and this is so unfair. Where does all this spontaneous affection come from. Why does he never see it coming. All of his information about Giorno's behavior is so completely and totally out of date.]
[Fugo nods, completely red in the face from the tips of his ears and down the back of his neck, and just sort of gives up on continuing their conversation in the notebook. He abandons his pen, rises to his feet, and tugs Giorno's arm in the direction of the table where their completely cold lunch. Giorno needs to quit teasing him and come over and eat.]
[Okay. Yes, okay, he's going to be good. He's going to be good, he's going to quit being rude and he's going to let Fugo tug him across the floor and he's going to eat lunch without making Fugo blush any more than he already is--]
[Except they get halfway to the table, and . . . Giorno giggles. He clamps his hand over his mouth in alarm, shocked at his own rudeness, honestly, but he can't take it back. Fugo's just being really unfairly adorable in his fussiness.]
[At the sound of Giorno not just laughing but giggling-- giggling!-- at him, Fugo's set in a stubborn line and he turns to glance over Giorno a sharp, squinty, and incredibly unimpressed look. He's doing his best to look annoyed (which Fugo would very much argue that he is) but the look is somewhat spoiled by the fact that his ears and cheeks are still very red. He tugs at Giorno's hand, enough of this nonsense, be serious, and walks the two of them over to lunch.]
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no subject
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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
[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.
no subject
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.
no subject
[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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
[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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
[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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[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.
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[His expression softens. His whole self softens, like so much anxiety has suddenly left him in a gust of wind. He reads the words and rereads them, twisting his fingers in his shirt to keep from reaching out and running his fingers through Fugo's hair.]
[He wants to. He shouldn't. But he wants to. And he should probably keep writing instead of speaking, but he makes the mistake of glancing at Gold Experience as he reaches for the pen. His Stand is staring at Fugo in awe, similar to but not the same as the way he looks at Carlos. The feeling is more . . . I need that than I like that. That's mine, as well as I'm his.]
[It's overwhelming, but it's still not bad. He keeps his eyes on Gold Experience when he speaks.]
I didn't expect anyone to like me. I didn't expect that ever. I didn't think it was something I would need or want.
. . . But I did. I needed it so much, and that's part of why I miss you all so much, because you made me realize I needed that. I don't know if that makes sense, I just. I need--
[He breathes in sharply and glances up again, meeting Fugo's eyes a little nervously.]
I need you. I miss Mista and Trish so much, but I really need you, and it's the same way as before. I didn't realize it until I saw you again.
So if I'm ever going too fast, you can just tell me. I'll try to slow down. I don't want to lose you, please.
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Meeting Giorno's eyes, especially when he's saying things like I need you and I don't want to lose you, when they're both feeling so unexpectedly vulnerable is as difficult as standing up straight in the middle of a windstorm. They're probably holding on too tightly to each other--and maybe that's what makes everything about this so much, but Fugo finds that he doesn't care. Giorno's tight grasp on his hand is a steadying, grounding force. It helps him meet Giorno's eyes and not look away until he has to. There isn't enough room left for what he wants to write; with great care, Fugo turns the page to a fresh one. His pen presses firmly into the page and he doesn't stop to think about what he's writing, because if he does it will come out all wrong.]
I will. I promise.
Because I need you too.
Before you found me again, I couldn't move.
I couldn't go back. And I couldn't move forward. I was just waiting to disappear.
I felt so awful, every day, and I didn't even start to realize how awful it was until I saw Mista again.
I didn't know it, but I needed you back then. And I still need you, because you help me remember that it's okay for me to be home again. That there's a place for me and it's where I should be.
That it's okay for me to move forward, even if I can't make it far.
That there's a future worth building and fighting for.
You've given me so much. I want to do what I can for you. I want to reach as far as I can to meet you.
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[It slips out aloud that time, the sucker-punch feeling he has when he reads what Fugo's written. There's such a difference between the way Fugo spoke to him before and the way he speaks now, and it's not because he is now Fugo's superior — or at least not just because of that. There's a level of comfort Fugo has with him not that Giorno didn't understand he needed. But it just goes to show, not everything that's needed is known.]
[What else does he need that he doesn't know about?]
[He looks down at their joined hands and smiles. It's a small smile at first, faint and quavery, but before long it's wide and bright. One of his effusive smiles, as dazzling as the sun through the branches of trees heavy with dew. He looks up, then, and can't quite keep himself from leaning forward to puff up his cheeks and blow Fugo's bangs out of his face, mischievous and sentimental all at once.]
That's exactly what you're doing, isn't it?
[He swings their joined hands between them, very lightly, and then wriggles with inexpressible delight.]
I like your hand in mine, because it means we've both reached as far as we can and met in the middle.
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Honestly!!
What is with you and my hair today???
That's the second time you've messed with it.
[He sets the pen down on top of his note, firmly enough there's a little thump, before trying to fix the resulting mess with his fingers. He's able to more-or-less reconstruct his bangs into the proper shape over his brow, but it's harder to get the rest of it combed back with just his fingers. The result is haphazard and there are already flyaway pieces starting to slip away. With this important matter taken care of, he can turn his attention back to--
Oh, no. Giorno's not just smiling, bright and brilliant, but he's bouncing. Why is he so... himself, sometimes.]
Yes. You could say it like that.
Both things like that.
The only danger in taking your hand is convincing you to let go.
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[Fugo said it wasn't bad. Which means at worst, he's all right with it, and at best, he likes it. Which makes Giorno happy. Which makes him smile. So all he's really doing is letting himself express exactly what he feels, and hasn't it been long enough that he's lived without that?]
[He laughs at Fugo's indignation, squeezes his hand playfully.]
Well, I'm never going to, so there!
[So there. And as to Fugo's other question, which he really shouldn't have asked . . . Giorno's smile goes devilish.]
Your hair's cute, that's why. It's cute and I like to mess with it. Plus, if I mess with it I get to do this—
[He reaches out his free hand and rakes his fingers through Fugo's bangs, a little more careful and precise than Fugo was himself. Sorting out a few minor tangles, he finger-combs it correct again, so that it conforms to Fugo's face properly, like it usually does. It's not perfect, but it's better, and anyway he got to touch Fugo's hair again, so who really wins? It's him.]
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[What. What. Temporarily flummoxed by Giorno's choice of words--(why the hell would he pick cute not just once but twice, that's absurd)--Fugo's not fast enough in reacting to catch Giorno's other hand before the finger-combing starts. His hand drops back onto the desk; he makes a valiant effort not to fidget, but in the end opts to drum his fingers on pages of his notebook instead of squirming in place. This is entirely unfair. He can't just tell Giorno that it's fine for now and he can't look down to write a note until Giorno's finished.
Except when he's finally free to write something he's ... not sure ... what to object to? He holds the pen over the paper, mostly annoyed but also a little red in the face, before finally settling on a somewhat lackluster:]
Just ask first, [He catches himself and abruptly pulls the pen back. And then, very deliberately, turns his comma into a period. Because it's probably not good form to call your boss a weirdo, especially on paper where it can be preserved forever.]
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[All the same, he can respect Fugo's wishes. That's only fair, he knows; Fugo respects all of his. Even though he catches Fugo nearly continuing that sentence, and wonders so, so much what he was going to say, he manages to bite his question back and replace it with another, much more important one. For now.]
Can I play with your hair? Please?
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Oh, thank God. There's a distraction that not even Giorno will be able to turn down. His shoulders lose most of their tension as he pens a very important reminder.]
Weren't we supposed to eat lunch together?
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[So: compromise. He nods, but then he leans forward and kisses Fugo's forehead. A little lunch, but a little teasing for the road. Lunch road. Yes.]
You know, I really forgot. Thank you for reminding me, Fugo.
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[Fugo nods, completely red in the face from the tips of his ears and down the back of his neck, and just sort of gives up on continuing their conversation in the notebook. He abandons his pen, rises to his feet, and tugs Giorno's arm in the direction of the table where their completely cold lunch. Giorno needs to quit teasing him and come over and eat.]
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[Okay. Yes, okay, he's going to be good. He's going to be good, he's going to quit being rude and he's going to let Fugo tug him across the floor and he's going to eat lunch without making Fugo blush any more than he already is--]
[Except they get halfway to the table, and . . . Giorno giggles. He clamps his hand over his mouth in alarm, shocked at his own rudeness, honestly, but he can't take it back. Fugo's just being really unfairly adorable in his fussiness.]
Sorry! Sorry . . .
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