Work Text:
There's no more fog in his brain when he wakes. For all the haze he was made to look through the night before, everything is shockingly clear now. He's blessed with more clarity this morning than he's had in quite a while. Definitely not what he was expecting to feel, but he accepts it graciously.
It's a sort of whiplash after the dreams he'd woken from. In them, there seemed to be nothing unshrouded from the fog. They drifted through his mind slowly, and then quickly, and then slow again. Mostly, they were just conceptual. Emotional and raw. Only a few real objects appeared. Something like the sky or the sea. A bird, maybe.
Fugo's awake now, though. Dreams aren't on his mind anymore. His first real thought is one of conflict. Perhaps he'd said too much last night, and maybe it was for the better. Accepting that is a harder task than his usual wallowing in denial, but it doesn't bring nearly as much shame. It's a weight lifted, and something new and unidentified shoved in its place.
He looks away from the light gleaming in through his window, to the floor. The boards are worn, softened slightly on top like the inside layer of cardboard. More memories return to him. More conflict comes with them, and suddenly, he notices the state of his body.
It's very much different than it usually is when he drinks. He outwardly cringes at the phrasing in his mind. That bottle only got him about six or seven nights, so he really doesn't consider himself someone who drinks. Honestly he never wants to again.
Anyway, he's not in his suit anymore. Just an undershirt and a pair of pajama pants he doesn't recognize. Kind of mortifying. His face doesn't feel gross and his hair isn't tangled either. Strange for such a humid night. There's a vague image of a room in his mind. Warm lighting, white walls, and a mirror. Something's touching his head and it’s soothing, he's sitting on a harsh edge. A hairbrush and the rim of a bathtub. In Giorno’s bathroom. Giorno had brushed the hair on his stupid drunk head and given him his own clothes to sleep in. Christ…..
In a moment of self loathing Fugo almost immediately condemns, he has the thought that a man as good as Giorno has no business in the life of a man as dreadful as himself. As long as Giorno wants him to stay, though, it's a thought with no merit. And as long as Giorno wants him to stay, he'll try to push forward. What else is there to do at this point? If he spends one more day silently repenting just to spend the same night acting shamefully all over again, he might as well just repeat the cycle forever. Giorno emptying that bottle into the grass felt like a blessing now. Not that he was upset about it in the first place.
He looks back to the sun, opens the window, and pushes his overstrained body out of bed. Carefully folds what he slept in and places it on top of his dresser when he changes. Paces for a few minutes, brushes his teeth, puts his hair up and back down three times, and walks over to dissect himself in the mirror. Exhaustion wears at his features, eyebags making his eyes look bigger. There are temporary worry lines etched into his forehead, but it's nothing a little exfoliation can't fix. He appears simultaneously younger and older than he actually is. His bangs obscure his face a little bit, but the white blonde of it doesn't do the best job of making him look any more lively.
He's wearing purple today, a lighter cool toned jacket and pants, adorned with the usual cut outs, and a black tie with an unfortunate lack of strawberries on it. Maybe he should consider it lavender, but it washes him out no matter what he thinks the color is. It makes his skin look too light and it doesn't do anything to distract from his imperfections. He likes the outfit regardless.
There's no work he needs to tend to at the moment, he's sure Sheila would already be down his throat about it if there was. Plenty of time to sit with the thoughts he’d rather distance himself from. Calming his nerves as well as he can, Fugo gives himself one last look in the mirror and leaves his room.
The building is bright this morning. It's still early, around nine, and the sun lights it up from all angles. He absorbs its warmth through the windows as if he were outside in the open. Looking out a window, he observes the bright pink flowers in the planter attached to it. They’re lovely but he’s not sure of what they’re called. Surely he can just ask Giorno.
Once he's made it to the dining room, he pours himself a cup of coffee. He usually drinks it black but he puts sugar in it today, for no reason other than variety. In the short time Fugo's been living here, he's thought many times that the interior of the building is too light. Inviting like a home. Surely he'd be more well adjusted if it were dark and unlived in. The place is well decorated, beautiful really. The curtains are all red and velvety and the walls a warm off white. Furniture is placed so that it’s not at all cramped but not too open either, and there’s certainly no shortage of plant life around. It’s too nice to fully detach himself from.
As he sits down at a stool and takes a sip, he comes to realize he doesn't particularly like sweet coffee. The sugar brings out the acidity. Putting cream in it gives him a stomachache though, so he'll deal. He tries to take another drink, but his grip on the handle weakens. He grasps it harder once he feels it slip, managing not to drop it but burning his hand in the process. The gross liquid splatters onto the counter and Fugo looks down at it with distaste.
Red splotches bloom on the back of his hand as it cools. The sharp stinging pain permeates his skin and hurts more than he thinks a superficial burn should. The pain worsens further for just a moment before it numbs completely, and then his skin returns to normal. Fugo looks up to see Giorno standing in the doorway. GER dissipates from his place behind him and he feels his heart rate pick up.
"Good morning, Giogio. And, um, thank you." He greets.
He wants to complain about how it wasn't a bad enough injury to warrant healing, but holds himself back. Giorno doesn't like for him to say things like that. Anytime he lets out any perceived self deprecation in front of him, he's met with a look so disapproving it makes his skin crawl. A look he'd rather never be on the receiving end of again if he can help it. Right now, Fugo would rather bite his tongue clean off than say something Giorno finds upsetting.
"You're quite welcome. And up earlier than I thought you'd be." He responds, a small smile on his face.
"Yeah. I can’t explain why.” He doesn’t know what else to say. The reason he woke up earlier is likely that he didn’t go to bed completely miserable last night for once, but that’s not a good conversation starter.
"I didn’t ask you to,” Giorno tells him bluntly, “Did you sleep well?”
“I did. Thank you for that.” He can’t hold the words back until they’ve already left his mouth.
“It was no problem. You’re exceptionally polite when you’re drunk.” Giorno says, slightly teasing.
So he’s just getting straight to the point then. Fugo might as well do the same.
"Yes, that, I um- I need to apologize to you,” Fugo takes a deep breath, “I’ve been acting… very unprofessional. I’m sorry, and I hope last night was the end of it. I think I remember telling you something like that then as well."
He has to fight himself, but he holds his gaze. It's something he's working on.
"I don't hold that against you. You don’t even let it affect your work. I accept your apology, so don't worry yourself," Giorno twirls a packet of artificial sweetener in his fingers, "and really, Fugo, professionalism is not my biggest qualm here."
"Well... what is your biggest qualm?" He asks.
Giorno clicks his tongue in contemplation.
"Are you serious about this not being a problem for you? I'm sure you know substance abuse is a dangerous path, but I need to know that you're not going down it," In a rare moment of vulnerability, he continues, “I can’t watch you do that to yourself, Fugo.”
The sincerity in both his voice and eyes is striking. There’s no mistaking his distress for anything else, even if it’s masked with straightforwardness. Fugo takes it like a punch to the stomach, but doesn’t let his guilt falter him. He wasn’t expecting to have to feel so much this morning.
"I'm not. I promise you, I'm not. There's truly no benefit to reap." Fugo responds, direct and honest.
The only perceived benefit is the artificial joy it supplies. It only makes him feel worse than before he'd had it after it's worn off.
"That’s good to hear," Giorno states, already recomposed, "you don't have to be so ashamed though. I think you’re focusing too much on the negative, so much so that you don’t see any of the good you’re doing.”
His eyes almost imperceptibly dart to the scarring on Fugo's cheek. Discolored flesh that drops from the side of his mouth down to his jaw. Fugo notices, of course. He's hyper aware of when anyone is looking at it, and Giorno’s no exception. He stares at his hand fidgeting in turn.
It's true that his work is done well. He's mostly working with papers and conversation these days, though, so he doesn't give himself much credit. It doesn't make sense to him that Giorno thinks he's worth the effort. Anyone could do what he does, and they could do it without radiating emotional turmoil everywhere.
“Honestly, Giogio… I think my shame serves a purpose. You shouldn’t have to worry about something like that.” Fugo responds, guilt obvious in his tone.
Even with his best efforts to convince him, Giorno stays unwavering, staring him down. Fugo isn’t surprised with how stubborn he is, but it can be irritating at times. Disheartening at others. He just won’t acknowledge any of the things Fugo dislikes about himself, and he can’t begin to understand why. Giorno’s voice pulls him out of his mini spiral.
"I wouldn't be helping you if I didn't want to, Fugo." He places a hand on Fugo’s shoulder, gazing softly into his eyes. No pity shows in his demeanor, just kindness.
Fugo feels a pang in his chest as he recalls the previous night once more. Deep regret when he thinks back to the first time Giorno had seen him drunk and crying. Both times, he’d treated him with such tenderness. Something he feels both unworthy of and incredibly grateful for. He swallows his doubt and forces his mind away from the past.
The current scene reminds him of their reunion. Sitting across from each other, sun shining through curtains, and Giorno making everything better. Fugo wishes he could speak to himself as he was at that time. It wasn’t long ago, but his state of mind has certainly changed since. There’s still plenty of grief, anxiety, and sorrow, but the helplessness has since faded. Mostly, he just wants to tell himself that the feeling wouldn’t last forever. Life goes on, and it slowly drifts away.
Giorno just keeps looking at him. Soft and patient. Like a lover. As soon as the thought crosses his mind he diverts his attention back to the conversation. He really can't afford to spare energy on thoughts like that. Not now, and hopefully not ever if he can keep himself busy enough.
When Fugo doesn't respond, his eyebrows pinch a bit.
"Hm. Maybe that came out wrong. I simply meant that I care a great deal about your wellbeing." Giorno cringes internally at the admission, but his voice stays collected. He speaks casually, even when saying such things. To some, it comes off as detached, and it did to Fugo at one point as well. He knows better now.
"No, no," Fugo says quickly, "I didn't take it like that. I just- I don't know how to thank you. I really don’t. You just keep- “ He cuts himself off from saying ‘forgiving me’.
His breathing is shaky and his eyes are wide, and every time Giorno opens his mouth to speak lately, he says something Fugo finds more moving than any artwork or film he’s ever seen. Overwhelming to say the least.
"You don't need to," he says as if it's obvious, "not when I know you'd do the same for me."
…..
"Giogio, I would try, but I don't think I could ever do what you've done for me."
"I disagree. I think you're underestimating yourself." The hint of smugness in his voice pokes at Fugo’s brain.
“Well, hopefully it never comes to that.” He says shortly. Not quite rude, but not polite either.
The irritation in his voice is mild, but clear, and Giorno relishes it. Fugo tends to speak to him carefully. Trusting, but measured. Always grateful. He can’t help but smile, and almost laughs when Fugo looks offended by it. Relief floods his senses as he’s glared at.
“Yes, hopefully not.” He responds, still smiling.
They fall into comfortable silence after that, sun warmed and emotionally worn out. Giorno resumes finger spinning his sweetener packet while he stares at Fugo like he’s a box of kittens on the roadside. Fugo leans against the counter and finishes drinking the coffee he doesn’t like. After a while, Giorno speaks again.
"Fugo?"
"Yes?"
"Does your hand still hurt at all?"
Fugo’s unsure why he's asking when he definitely knows it doesn't, but he answers anyway.
"No, it's fine…"
"Can I see it?" His eyes betray scheming. Like he's in on a joke that Fugo isn't.
Fugo raises an eyebrow but presents his hand anyway. It doesn't look or feel any different than usual. He frowns slightly, confused.
Giorno places his own under it, guiding it further towards himself. After rubbing a thumb over the previously injured skin, he dips his head down and hovers over it, looking at Fugo through the hair blocking his vision. The few loose strands cascade impossibly gracefully down his forehead. He waits a careful amount of time for him to pull away, but he never does. Just looks down, wide eyed.
Clearing the last inch between them, Giorno plants a gentle kiss between his thumb and index finger. His lips feel just a bit rough against Fugo’s newly repaired skin, but he couldn't care about that even if he tried with every bit of his willpower. For just a moment, the room is filled with electricity and his flesh on Giorno’s absorbs the bulk of it. There’s no pain in his body or soul, and the only presence he feels at all is the boy in front of him. The feeling fades as quickly as it shows, but doesn’t dissipate completely. It lingers in his chest and on his skin, tingling.
"There. Just in case." He whispers against it.
…..
"Ah. How considerate." Fugo breathes out, desperately trying to convey through his expression that it was much more than considerate and also kind of cruel. Giorno doesn’t seem too phased, and it’s mildly infuriating. Fugo would chop off his own foot to have that much control over his emotions. His anger isn’t directed at Giorno, just their circumstances. It's slightly more admiration than it is jealousy, anyway.
….
“Fugo?” He asks once more, still grasping his hand.
“Giorno?” He whispers back.
“Can I have my pajamas back?” The knowing grin on his face tells him that there is no cruelty present. Fugo stares incredulously for a second, then grins back and dissolves into laughter. He doesn’t stop until he has to free himself from Giorno’s grasp to wipe his eyes. He briefly considers asking him what’s wrong with him, but decides against it. Fugo doesn’t think he could ever imply an insult on Giorno with him smiling like this.
“Of course. They’re on my dresser. I can go get them if you’d like.” He responds eventually, out of breath, but full of a stupid amount of joy.
Giorno nods.
“Come to my room after. I’ll brew you some coffee that doesn’t make you grimace.”
“Ah, I thought I was hiding my distaste.” Fugo says, soft and fond.
“You weren’t,” Giorno responds, upbeat, “let’s go.”
Fugo tries not to think too hard about any of it, but that’s something he’s never been good at. No matter how well he’s able to read him, he can’t get inside Giorno’s head. Some days it drives him crazy and others it’s a comfort. Right now though, he understands well enough. For some inexplicable reason, Giorno is fond of him. He doesn’t pity him, and he’s not using him. There is a space, clear to see, in Giorno’s heart for him. The warmth he feels from this realization puts the weather to shame.
As they stand, he steals one last glance. Giorno’s hair is slightly unkempt today but he pulls it off well. Fugo thinks he could manage to look well put together on his deathbed. Countless thoughts are running through his head. They range nearly the entire scale of human emotion, and it still doesn’t feel like enough. His hand is lightly grasped, and the thoughts all quiet as they make their way out of the dining room.
Mista hurries away from his place in the hallway as they approach. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop really, it was just a wrong place, wrong time situation. There’s a bad feeling in his gut, telling him he’s going to have to bear witness to the longing stares they send each other for even longer now. Leaning against a different wall now, he sighs and mentally wishes them good luck. It’d be easier to shake them by the shoulders and yell ‘get married right now before I lose it!’, but he knows these things have to work themselves out.