digiorno | ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅲ

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.

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