digiorno | ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅲ

No shoulds. You can be wherever you want.

[He's worried. But also not worried, in a way. Fugo asked for what he needed; he asked to see him. That's a good half-step, a big one. That's the biggest obstacle. They can get through anything, with that done.]

[He rubs circles against the small of Fugo's back, leans his head against the one resting on his shoulder.]

If you want to be right here, that's okay.

[In Sicily, I fell. He put his foot down badly on the bone-white, rain-slick stairs of the Teata Greco. He had slipped and that was all Kocaqi had needed to make him fall and fall and fall, ankles twisting and knees bruised from hitting the crumbling stone. He had held onto his Stand because there was nothing else to hold onto, dizzy and sick, with knuckles white with rage thinking about the hopeless expression Bruno made when he realized that drugs were making it onto the streets from Passione.

Just throw me, he'd told Purple Haze, who'd lifted him by the armpits and hurled him into the sky, so they could fall some more and kill the fucking bastard who'd been one of the people responsible for putting Buccellati's heart in a vise. He'd been too angry to be afraid of the freefall, filled with an implacable desire to see Kocaqi dead, dead, dead. Which should have been the end of his falling, after Sheila caught him, but he'd fallen in the dream Angelica gave him. Fell through glass, fell through the sky, fell into the sea. He's been dreaming so much about falling, about everything that happened in Sicily, lately.

You're locked in.]

[He's not falling right now, though. Just remembering what it was like to fall. He's standing with his two firmly on the floor with Giorno, who's holding him steady even though his shoulders have been shaking underneath his palm. (When did that start?) He can focus on Giorno's steady breathing. He's safe. This is Ruby City, in all of its awfulness and impossibility. Buccellati is alive. Giorno is with him. It's alright for him to be here.]

I think, [he mumbles into Giorno's shoulder, as his thoughts start to clear and the present starts to settle into something that seems more here than somewhere else,] it's a little better now.

[Better enough to sit, at least. Better enough that he can focus on more than just Giorno's presence and what he's saying.]

All right.

[He can't let go, he realizes slowly; no matter what happens, the only way he's letting go is if Fugo lets go first. Because it's not just him Fugo needs, it's the solidity and reality of him, the structure and stability. If he pulls away, the ground will fall away under Fugo's feet.]

[It won't happen. Giorno squeezes Fugo a little, not quite a hug, and pulls away but not away. His hand at the small of Fugo's back drifts up, rubs his shoulder, and turns him toward the bed.]

I'm here, va bene? Come on.

[Fugo nods, allows himself to be turned towards the bed and lead across the room. He puts one foot in front of the other--(left, right, left, right, left)--until he makes it there, the fingers of one hand tangled in the folds of Giorno's nightgown in an unconscious desire to keep himself grounded. He pulls away only briefly, just long enough to climb up and fold himself up against the headboard; he feels awkward and pokey all over, and this is the easiest way to eliminate some of his angles. Once Giorno's up with him, he drifts back to his shoulder.]

Thank you. [For being awake, for telling him to come over, for recognizing his clawing need to be close without asking why. He's not sure how to put it into words, other than he feels awful and clung to the idea that Giorno's presence would soothe the worst of his rawness.]

[He doesn't let Fugo stay not touching him for long. Once his fierce protectiveness flickers on, it's incredibly difficult to shut it off. Sometimes it manifests as fussiness, but right now he really just wants to be a physical barrier between Fugo and the world, which isn't quite the same thing.]

[As soon as he's close enough, he reaches out and meets Fugo halfway: pulls him close, wraps an arm around his shoulders. With his other hand he pulls the blankets up around them, then takes one of Fugo's hands in his, squeezing lightly.]

Ie-ie. [He smiles crookedly, a little raw himself.] I'm glad you're here with me.

[Glad because Fugo's upset, but also because it's always nice to have Fugo close. No matter what, it makes him feel better. Safer, more secure. Less alone.]

[Tonight is one of the nights where it feels unreal how much-- all of this is a lot, for Fugo. On nights like this, he feels as toxic as hemlock: that it would be so much better if he held himself away from others, because he's clinging with his toes to the knife's edge overlooking one of the cracks in his heart. He's looking over a sharp precipice into some angry, fearful emotion that he swallowed down; except instead of staying locked up at the bottom of his stomach, the toxic acid is bubbling up again. It's awful. He feels awful. He must be awful, since this is coming from him; toxic, sharp, and dangerous.

But he's allowed to be here with Giorno. It's okay for him to be here. Giorno wants him, even and maybe especially when he's like this, to be here. Giorno is glad that Fugo contacted him, even though it's so late and he must be tired, to have Fugo with him, even though he's this awful. So it's a lot. All of these are facts that are difficult to believe in theory, but impossible to deny in their reality.]

[Fugo slowly nestles into the space between Giorno's arm and shouler, stiffly allowing himself to be held. The blankets are a comforting weight on his bent legs; even better is the feeling of Giorno's hand around his. It feels solid, reliable, secure. Fugo blinks down at it and, belatedly, slips his fingers into Giorno's. Better. That's better.]

I'm-- glad to be here. [Underneath the awfulness, he knows that's true. He's glad to be with Giorno who is solid, secure, and never letting him go. He sighs, relieved and exhausted, eyes briefly fluttering closed.] It's not so bright in here.

[And that's a good thing, definitely. The bright lights of his room make it much safer, but the softer light of Giorno's room is easier on his eyes. It's not as heavy.]

[Good. Good, he's relaxing a little. Giorno squeezes his shoulder, then his hand in turn, thumb brushing against Fugo's where their fingers intertwine. The hand on his shoulder slides down a little, rubs circles against the small of his back; he's careful to keep his breathing steady and even.]

You can close your eyes if you want. I won't let anything happen, hm?

[He doesn't say I won't let anything hurt you, because he knows it goes both ways. Fugo is as afraid of hurting others as he is of being hurt himself. Maybe more so. Giorno isn't afraid of him, but he's afraid of himself.]

[He presses his nose to the top of Fugo's head, breathes in the smell of his hair, leaves a kiss on the crown of his head. He's glad he's better at this now. He's learned a lot. Fugo should have someone who's good at this.]

Do you want to talk? It doesn't have to be about what's bothering you.

[Because of Angelica, dreams of Sicily are so much more unsettling than his other nightmares. It's hard to put away insidious what-if doubts about dreams brought on the wings of Night Bird Flying: the one he had been trapped in had been so real. He'd wanted it to be real. In the fuzziness between his dreams and the waking world, he has to walk himself through a series of reminders that he's here and not there. Those fights are over. Kocaqi, Angelica, and Volpe are dead, because he killed them. He wonders if he should feel bad about that. Angelica had only been thirteen and very, very ill.]

[Sitting with Giorno like this feels a bit like cheating. He's impossible, but the most real thing in his life right now. He can trust Giorno to watch out for him and watch out for him.]

I think... I might. [Fugo settles further into Giorno's shoulder, turning his face so his ear is pressed against Giorno's collar. He murmurs:] Thanks, genetics.

[His words come off a little flat, but they're still a thumbprint of his usual shitty sense of humor. For a time, he just sits. He listens to Giorno's heartbeat, the steady in and out of his breathing. Focuses on the feeling of-- just being cared for. Slowly, slowly, the knots in his back start to untangle.]

... yeah. [He knows that much, at least. He wants to hear Giorno's voice. But-- no. Not the dream, not yet.] Kakyoin's painting. How is it coming along?

[There's just the slightest puff of laughter that hangs between them. It isn't really that funny of a joke, but Giorno is relieved to hear it. It means Fugo is back in his body a little more than he was a moment ago, and out of his head.]

[It's nice having him so close, anyway. He can feel the softness of breath against his neck; it's relaxing, and it makes him a little drowsy, content to stay here with Fugo in his arms for the whole night if he has to.]

Ah . . . [Here he laughs again, self-deprecating.] It's beautiful, of course. It's Kakyoin's work, so . . . but I feel silly about it. When he showed me the sketches it made me cry a little.

[A pause; his thumb rubs circles on Fugo's back.]

He asked if I wanted the one of the whole skyline at night or the sea during the day. I picked the night because . . . I wanted to see my whole city. You know?

[Fugo nods into Giorno's shoulder, fingers flexing between Giorno's shoulder. This is a grief that they share in: when Fugo thinks of Napoli, his heart aches with a profound homesickness for... well, all of it.]

I do. When I was in Milan, it was the sea I missed the most. [Absurdly, that had been one of the reasons why he chose the city. Far from the ocean, far from the long reach of Passione. It hadn't been far enough, but he doesn't think of that as a bad thing.] But here, it's the... [He sighs, shifts, and readjusts himself so he's not so tightly folded against Giorno's side.] Well, everything. But there's nothing here that looks or sounds like a city.

[Even like this, he's still indignant about it. Ruby City is such a terrible name for this stupid place.]

That's exactly it.

[And it's a little funny, but also not, because it's terribly sad. Fugo pulls away a little bit, and Giorno tightens his grip infinitesimally before he catches himself. He really does miss everything now, except for Fugo.]

Well. And like I said. He's a genius. I think he's worried about pleasing me, but I also don't think he realizes how much even the offer meant.

I think it's going to be the most beautiful thing this city's ever seen, frankly.

Edited 2016-12-13 09:02 (UTC)

[Giorno's grip tightens so lightly, Fugo does not rationally notice it as he stretches out his legs, stiff from his previous position, underneath the blankets: so his response is all instinct. He sleepily snakes one ankle over Giorno's and settles in close again. As much as this is comfort for him, there's a part of him that knows that Giorno needs it too; needs to be needed, who gains strength when others look to him for support.

His eyes are closed, but he doesn't feel closed in. If he falls, Giorno will catch him. There is nothing that could reach beyond Giorno's arms, inside or outside of them, with ill intent. This is, irrationally speaking, the safest place for him to be in the whole world.]

Mmm. I think so too. [He doesn't clarify what he means at first, because it's... everything. Mostly. Kakyoin's painting is going to be beautiful, even though he's worried about it, because he's brilliant and talented and detail-oriented.] He knows, though. I think he offered to paint Napoli for you because he knows how much you love it.

Yeah . . . I think you're right.

[Kakyoin is . . . special. Important. Hard to describe, hard to boil down into words. A quiet shadow of a boy who has become something grand and composed and magnificent. Giorno is proud of him, although sometimes he doesn't feel he has a right to be. Kakyoin, who will grow up to be everything in the world. Kakyoin, who beat death.]

I think he's one of the best people I've ever met. I think . . . I should tell him more how important he is to me. Even though I already tell him so much. There's really no such thing as enough.

You had a lot to say about him. [That afternoon was months and months ago now, but Fugo's memory is very good. He can remember that ridiculous list of compliments that Giorno slyly applied to the both of them.] Mm. How'd it go again... you started by calling him cute, because of course you did. Or lovely, maybe? You used both of those words.

And then you said he was clever twice, which stood out because you never repeat yourself, very dangerous, thoughtful, and had a fine attention to detail. [That was... oh, right. One more thing.] And that his sense of humor was morbid.

Edited 2016-12-30 21:45 (UTC)

[A slow, sleepy thought occurs to him. When Giorno said all of those things, it was a string of statements of how he and Kakyoin were incredibly alike. They applied to both of them. Fugo opens his eyes and looks suspiciously up at Giorno.]

Giogio. Back then... were you flirting with me?

[Giorno looks down at Fugo with wide, startled eyes. Not startled at the assertion, or that Fugo figured it out. No, he is startled that it took him this long.]

[After a beat, he smiles. It's a smile that's crooked and entirely unashamed.]

Yes, Fugo. [He runs his fingers fondly through Fugo's bangs, pushing them away from his forehead.] I was flirting with you. I spent a large percentage of my time flirting with you, even back then.

[Fugo... does not have anything to say. Or if he does he can't seem to find the words for it. Giorno pushes his mussed bangs away from his forehead, revealing an expression that's surprised and a little lost. Oh, it says. Even back then.

And then he buries his face back into Giorno's side. If his ears are any indication, he's gone entirely pink.]

[Oh, no. Oh, no, that's despicably cute. Giorno can feel his smile going soft and stupid, full of fond affection for this ridiculous boy.]

Ohh, tesorino . . . you really didn't know, hm?

[He pulls his arm a little tighter around Fugo, tugging him close.]

You're very cute. It's not as though you can blame me. I'm sorry for embarrassing you, though.

[Fugo's next words are muffled, given that he's saying them directly into Giorno's front.] I am not. You're experiencing confirmation bias. [Because Giorno can spot ... aspects? Aspects. Of his behavior, or particular expressions on his face, that could maybe be classified as cute. The point is that Giorno is pinning a general descriptor on him that really does not apply. Probably. He thinks?]

Giogio, I was a mess that day. [Literally and figuratively, given that he'd moved from Bruno to Giorno and arrived on his doorstep half-starved and exhausted with a face that was red and blotchy from crying.]

You were a mess.

[He admits this easily, carding his fingers through Fugo's hair. But he sees no contradiction between that and the next thing he says:]

But you were beautiful, too. You're always beautiful. Everything about you, even the messy parts--I have a list. Mm, and you know, if you think about it--

[Now he laughs a little. Entirely at himself, because he's just realizing this now.]

I bet if you think back on it, you might find I flirt with you just as much when you're a mess as when you're put together. Probably more.

[It's not like Fugo hates how he looks. It's just that he's had a long time to come to terms with them being strange; not bad, but not good either. He used to be so self-conscious of the way he stood out just by standing next to his brothers, where it didn't matter how much they looked alike in the face when he was so pale and washed out in comparison. Or even next to Bruno who, given his fondness for monochrome, probably misses the days where Fugo wore black to his white. If Abbacchio, who drew the sharp, aggravated lines of his eyebrows on with black pencil, had not flatly pointed out one day in a thrift store who gives a shit about how strange they did or didn't look in color-- well, there probably wouldn't be anything in his closest more colorful than one or two lone navy blue sweaters.

And now here's Giorno, who looks at him in all of his strangeness and calls him beautiful. Always beautiful. Everything about him, even the messy parts. Who probably isn't joking about that list.]

Of course I'm going to think about it. [He's so sour about this. Sour and embarrassed, because there's no arguing with opinions. And worst of all, underneath those feelings, there's a part of him who's just enchanted and a little flustered that Giorno-- who he likes so much it hurts to think about, sometimes, and who he never gets tired of looking at-- genuinely believes he's beautiful.] There's a new pattern to your behavior I want to understand.

[He's got one hand rubbing small circles on Fugo's back, one carding softly and slowly through his hair. He feels as though there's so much fondness in him that it has to show, somehow--that it must bleed through the skin of his fingertips like sunshine through thin cloth. He wonders idly if Fugo can feel it.]

You can ask, if you want.

[He can feel Fugo breathing. It's strange; he can't remember ever being as content as he is in this moment.]

You can ask me anything. Anytime. I like all your questions. I like you. And it might be a good distraction.

[From the dreams. He hasn't forgotten.]

[Giorno cares about him. It's so obvious now, every day. Sometimes Fugo still wonders how they could both be so unlucky to find themselves in this awful place, but lucky enough to catch each other by the hand. If he were here alone, he knows things would not be the same. He'd be lost in his own quagmire of sadness again, waiting out one gray day after another until his time was up and he stumbled back home again. Giorno doesn't just brighten his days: he brings bursts of color to them. Fugo isn't Mista. He isn't lucky at all. So maybe it was something else, that brought him here to stand at Giorno's side.]

... ... tell me about your silly list. [His fingers twitch in Giorno's shirtfront.] And then-- I'll try to tell you, a little, about what I was dreaming about.

[He doesn't know if talking about it is going to make it better. But ignoring his nightmares, pretending that they aren't happening-- well, he knows that doesn't make them better. The words won't come easily, if they even come at all. But he'd like to try. Because even if he can't get far, it's safe to try when he's with Giorno.]

All right.

[He quashes his desire to pepper it with affectionate epithets: tesorino, falenino, carino. They're all true and genuine and applicable, but in a way this is serious. It's meant to be a distraction rather than something to fluster Fugo overmuch, and besides that, he doesn't want it to seem like he's teasing on purpose. This is something he means, quite earnestly. It's something he's thought about.]

[A moment to organize his thoughts, and then he begins, still rubbing small circles on Fugo's back.]

When you wake up in the morning, you look disoriented at first. Like you aren't sure what's real--maybe you're not. But when you wake up and I'm there, once you notice me, you're so surprised. You don't smile at first, you just look at me. You stare, and you look so sleepy. But then you start to smile, the kind of smile that tugs at one corner of your mouth before the other, you know? And you reach for me, and your eyes brighten up a little, like it's okay that it's daytime as long as you don't have to face it just yet.

When you're reading, or studying, or thinking, or playing--concentrating on anything, really--you forget to be self-conscious, I think. You just let your face be what it is, and it makes it really hard not to stare at you. Your mouth is really pretty, when you're smiling or when you're not. I like your nose, too, and the way it bumps into mine when we kiss--your eyebrows, you have very very expressive eyebrows, and you use them a lot when you're pouting at me. Your eyelashes are so, so beautiful--I can sort of see through them, but they cast a shadow, too, and when I look at them I can't help looking in your eyes. You have very intense eyes. All of you is very intense, really.

I like your cheekbones. And your jaw. They're sharp and--elegant, is the word, I think. I like all of you, all of you is elegant, you're so leggy and lovely--I love your hair, I want to play with it all the time. I love your shoulders. I love your ears and the way they go pink when you're embarrassed. I love embarrassing you, because you go all red across the bridge of your nose and can't quite look at me.

I love the way you curl close to me like this. And I love--

[He exhales, buries his face in Fugo's hair for a moment.]

I love your hands. I love watching you play in general--I hope that isn't strange to say, but I do. I don't do it much because I know it makes you feel strange, but sometimes I catch a glimpse, and you're--it's like you're part of the piano, a symbiotic organism, moving together. I love the way your hands move over the keys. I love holding your hand. I love your long fingers, I love your bony wrists. I love the way you move. I could watch you forever.

[It's funny. Fugo himself called the list silly and largely expected Giorno to brightly start rattling off a series of nonsensical and embarrassing compliments, but this is... nothing like that at all. Instead, Giorno carefully and thoughtfully winds a blanket of words around him; he's caught surely, but with such gentleness that it's hard to tell the difference between falling and floating. Fugo usually hates to be complimented. It leaves him feeling itchy, because compliments always seem to come with expectations of gratitude at the least and requests of could you, for me at the most.

But this is different. Giorno isn't complimenting him: he's cherishing him, the realization of such leaves Fugo's shoulders trembling and his cheeks damp. I like all of you, Giorno admits, after sharing his list of all the things he likes in particular. Giorno loves his eyelashes and the way he looks at him in the morning, caught in his hazy wondering if he's awake or still caught up in a dream. He can't think of a time when he's felt so wanted, so accepted, so liked entirely by anyone.]

[He doesn't ever want to leave. He wants to stay like this, curled up underneath Giorno, listening to his chest hum with his voice, feel his heart beat, and rise and fall with him in time to his breath. He doesn't have to see Giorno's face to know that he's smiling, soft and fond and sweet.]

... I love holding your hand too, Giorno. [Because he hasn't moved away from Giorno's side, his voice is still muffled. And helplessly watery from the prickles of tears he doesn't want to admit stung his eyes, let alone the way a few slid down his cheeks. What Giorno said was so beautiful and good and kind. He doesn't want to ruin it by acknowledging that it made him cry, if only a little.] Thank you. For this, for tonight, and for-- ... always meeting me halfway.

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I LOST THIS TAG SOMEHOW IM SORRY

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actually make this a 2/2 a dumb thought occured to me

still dying

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