digiorno | ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅲ

[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.

[Oh . . . Fugo is crying. At least this time Giorno understands why. It's not because he did anything bad. It's because, when you're not used to it, being loved hurts, just like using a rarely-used muscle without stretching.]

[It makes sense. It's sad, but it makes sense. Giorno pets Fugo's hair, leans down and kisses the top of his head.]

You do the same for me. I need it, you know? We both do. Thank you for being my Fugo.

[He's quiet for a few breaths, inhaling slow and exhaling slower. Then he speaks again, with a crooked little smile in his voice.]

It's okay for you to cry. It isn't bad. It's safe here to do that--to be sad or scared or confused or angry or hurt. It's safe with me, always.

It feels silly. [A note of frustration creeps into his voice.] To cry because of something as good and kind as what you said. I'm happy, I think. I don't want to cry because of good things.

[It doesn't feel quite right. But none of his emotions seem to be working properly tonight. They're stretched thin and vague, twisted into odd shapes that are difficult for him to recognize and differentiate between.]

I cry because of good things all the time.

[It comes out a little distant. He's thinking about it: the why's and how's of when emotions get all sideways. When he's inside of the feeling, it's so hard to figure out, and when he's outside of it, it seems like an impossible number of feelings for one person to have.]

[After a pause, he resumes carding his fingers through Fugo's hair.]

When I'm tired, or . . . if I was just feeling something very different. I get all muddled.

It does feel silly, though. When I feel it. When I cry this way. But I don't think you're silly for feeling it. I don't think you're silly at all.

[Fugo falls quiet. He's still, save for his breathing-- and the occasional traitorous tremble of his shoulders. He doesn't like to cry. He hates it, really. It's childish. Crying can't change anything. And it's never satisfying, because he's not very good at it. He lets go of his tears silently and begrudgingly, only because he's too exhausted to push them back.

Giorno said it was safe. Giorno said it was okay. Giorno shared with him that he's not alone in this mixed-up feeling, of happiness woven together with sadness and fear. He feels awful and silly for crying, but at least Giorno doesn't seem to think less of him for it.]

You said. In the morning, I-- [Fugo takes a breath, deep and shuddering.] When I wake up. I can't-- always tell. What's a dream and what's not. They locked me in. So I have to check, to wait and see, to make sure you're real.

[And when it's true. When he really does wake up next to Giorno, sleepy and soft and perfectly imperfect in a way that can't be counterfeited, it's such a relief. He can't help but smile.]

[He . . . doesn't understand right away. Or rather: he understands the words, but the entire meaning of them doesn't make it through all the way. I can't always tell what's a dream and what's not. What is that? How could you not--]

[And then: of course it could happen. For Fugo, it could happen. The line between waking and sleeping has always been so thin for him, and after Angelica . . . of course.]

[Giorno feels really stupid for not seeing it. Because Fugo was hiding it, yes, but isn't it his job to see this sort of thing?]

[Reflexively, he tugs Fugo closer against his side. He's not looking at Fugo, and Fugo isn't looking at him, but if anyone walked in the door right now they'd be startled, frightened at the fierce and dangerous look on his face. This is mine, is what that look says; you won't hurt him anymore. It's not directed at anyone, but then again, maybe it's directed at everyone.]

. . . I'm sorry. I didn't understand. I think that I do, now.

[He makes himself relax, turn a little so that they're closer to facing each other, although still not quite. Kisses Fugo on the top of his head and runs his fingers through his hair. You're mine, and no one will hurt you anymore.]

Thank you for telling me. I want to know. I want to help. I'm real, and me wanting to help, that's real too.

[Blindly, Fugo reaches with his empty hand around Giorno's side to hold onto the back of his nightgown with trembling fingers; a shaky half-embrace, so he can hold tightly onto the most real and solid figure he can think to reach for.]

I know you are. [It's why he found himself reaching for his watch after he clawed himself out of the nightmare, pressed in by the bright light of his bedroom and uncertain of the world around him. He can feel Giorno's fingers card through his hair, the touch of a kiss on the top of his head: soft and particular touches that were impossible in the dream, where every phantom touch felt like nothing.] I just-- [He shivers.] I hate it. I hate that I can't trust what I see.

[Poor Fugo. If there's one thing he's always been able to count on himself, it's the evidence of his eyes. It seems . . . unfair, on a moral level, that Fugo doesn't have that luxury.]

[Then again, the world isn't fair. He knows that better than anyone. He rests his chin on top of Fugo's head and hums for a moment.]

How do you know that I'm real? When you wake up. Maybe--if there's a way I can help. If there's a way I can help you trust and believe that all of this is real, I want to. I will in a heartbeat.

[Fugo falls quiet. Not because he doesn't want to answer, but because it's so difficult to turn all the little signs he looks for into simple words. When he does speak up, his voice is soft and dreamy.]

In that dream, [the sweet, poisonous dream Angelica gave him; that he swallowed whole without question because he didn't want to look at reality anymore,] nothing ever went wrong. Everything was too perfect. No-- hard edges. [It's so hard to describe. It was bright, but didn't hurt to look at. Impossible things happened-- but because they were things he wanted, he closed his eyes to the funny way time passed, or how the world was empty except for them.] And everyone was there, even Trish. But not you.

[His brothers, his grandmother. His parents and grandfather. His professors and his tutors. Bruno. Abbacchio. Mista and Narancia. Trish, with her glossy smile and let's-be-friends cake. But not Giorno. Giorno was the only one was missing. The logic is a little stupid: if Giorno is here in front of him, in all of his complexity, he must be awake.]

If you're not with me, I look for things that aren't perfect. Flaws.

I wasn't in it . . .

[Giorno thinks, and so his words come slower. He focuses on controlling his breathing, on being soft and safe for Fugo. A calm place for him to come home. That's his job, his role--it's what he wants to be.]

I can be with you. Whenever you want me to be there, I'll be there. Or you can be here with me. But if I can't, or you can't, or you want to be alone--

[He bites his lip; his fingers rub absent circles between Fugo's shoulders.]

What if you kept something broken nearby? A broken cup on the nightstand, or something.

[Fugo sags with relief in Giorno's arms. He knew that, he thinks; that he could always reach out for Giorno, who will always catch his hands and help pull him back above the water. But knowing it and hearing it, as always, are such different things.

Little by little, between the steady measures of Giorno's breathing and his promises, the tension tied up in his shoulders continues to loosen and unravel.]

Oh. [A ... broken cup. Something that isn't right, something he can just roll over and look for to confirm that what he's looking at is the real world.] That's... a good idea.

Mm. I'm glad you think so.

[It could be an empty platitude, but the way he says it, it isn't. He hums with soft relief in the back of his throat before and after he speaks, keeping a steady rhythm with his fingers. His idea is a good idea; it might help Fugo. It might. That makes him happy.]

Do you want to find a cup to break tonight? Or if not tonight, tomorrow after breakfast, maybe.

[Fugo takes his time to think about it. On the one hand, going downstairs and finding a cup to break sounds deeply gratifying in the way that only breaking things can be. But, on the other--]

Tomorrow. [He decides, firmly, fingers twitching in their hold on Giorno's nightgown. He doesn't want to leave where he is, face the challenge of trying to navigate the stairs like this.] I want to stay here with you. I don't want to fall.

[He chews on his lip, trying to find a way to say it that doesn't sound-- stupid. None of them pass muster in his head, so he says it as simply as he can instead.]

That's what I was dreaming about. All the falling I did in Sicilia.

[He makes a soft sound of understanding, then. All that falling. His hand drifts down to rub slow circles at the small of Fugo's back. For Fugo's comfort, but as a declaration to the world, too. You can't have him, you can't hurt him, no more. He tugs him a little closer then, too, by the small of his back, presses his face against his hair.]

[No more.]

I won't let you fall, Fugo.

[It's firm--confident--but soft, even so.]

You're not locked into anything but me, now. So stay here with me. This is where I want you.

[Oh. That's right, isn't it? If he were to draw his life as a circle, it would be around the center point of Giorno Giovanna. A boy who he's promised everything to. Heart, body, soul. Who promised to share his grief with him. Who, when he can't take a single step on his own, steps halfway to him.]

I'm locked in. [Fugo murmurs, repeating after Giorno.] I'm locked in to you.

[He says nothing, for a while that feels short and long at the same time. He rests in the safety of Giorno's arms, eyes closed to the soft light of his bedroom, and listens to the steady sounds of his breathing and heartbeat. He thinks: I'm safe here and is surprised to realize he doesn't just know it, but believes it too.

In time, Fugo shifts in Giorno's arms. He doesn't pull away-- no, this is where Giorno wants him, this is where he wants to be. But he wants to look at Giorno, even though his face must be such a mess right now. He stares, still a little lost and so very tired, but much less afraid and so much more present than he was when he first stumbled into Giorno's arms.]

Thank you. [He leans in close. Not to kiss, but rather to rest his forehead against Giorno's. He doesn't know what words he should use to think of what they are, other than good.] I won't go.

[Never, ever. This is where his place is: wherever Giorno goes, that's where he belongs. As long as he has the will to move forward, he'll always step halfway to reach him.]

[Giorno hums, satisfied. Comforted by this comfort. His expression is soft, content in the knowledge that they are--whatever they are, the two of them, they are that together. Fugo's locked into him, but--]

[It's not like it doesn't go both ways, really.]

[He looks down at Fugo, who is very blotchy and exhausted and drained-looking, and feels all of his own sadness washing away, just for a moment, in the beauty of him.]

[And Giorno does kiss him. Once, light and brief on the lips; once on the tip of his nose; once between his brows; once in the middle of his forehead; once on each cheek, his movements slow and steady, sleepily graceful. Once at each corner of his mouth, and once on his chin, and then he leans in to rest his forehead against Fugo's again.]

You're beautiful. Even when you're not perfect. Having someone who trusts me like you do . . .

[Ah. His smile is very crooked, very young. So warm.]

You're amazing.

[You're always beautiful. Everything about you, even the messy parts.

Here he is again, even more of a mess than usual--and here's Giorno, calling him beautiful anyway and kissing his face all over. Fugo doesn't have the energy or the heart to laugh, but he manages a wan smile. He's full of a tremendous amount of affection for Giorno. So much that it's impossible for him not to wiggle free so he can hold Giorno's face in both of his hands. When they're close like this, he feels like he's falling a little again. But not in a bad way.]

You trust me. Even when I can't, you do. [When he presses their foreheads together, their noses bump. That makes him smile again.] I'll always meet you halfway.

ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅲ

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