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Fugo leans forward against the smooth granite countertops of their small kitchen, peering through the window into the sky that bleeds hues of red, orange, and yellow.
His mind is elsewhere, caught somewhere between interrogations, endless paperwork, and the clogged bathroom sink. He doesn’t hear when Bruno enters through the front door, nor does he hear him set a plastic bag down in the living room.
Fugo sees this as a fault, how easily he gets lost in thoughts, focused on all of his problems at once. Especially when Bruno places his hands over Fugo’s eyes and nearly causes Fugo a heart attack.
There’s something inexplicably terrifying about suddenly losing your sight. Fugo is surrounded by darkness in a matter of milliseconds, and the only thing left is the body he can sense just behind him.
For a second, he’s back at his old professor’s house, shirt unbuttoned and hair ruffled. He’s sore and nauseous, and the man still hasn’t taken his hands off of him.
Fugo can’t believe the terror that still sparks in his heart when he remembers the feelings, the sounds, the smells.
The tastes.
But oh, how wonderful his transcript will look. How brightly his parents will smile at him.
And then Bruno’s voice, warm and playful, registers in his head, and his muscles relax from their rigid positions and his heartbeat gradually begins to slow.
“Guess who?” Bruno says. Fugo nearly scoffs.
“Hm.” He hums instead, pretending to be thoughtful. “Perhaps the only person I live with?” He guesses dryly.
Bruno doesn’t mind his tone, he still chuckles despite how unamused Fugo seems to be.
“That’s right!” His hands fall away from Fugo’s face, and he leans over Fugo’s shoulder to smile at him.
His chest bumps Fugo’s shoulder. Fugo doesn’t recoil no matter what his body tells him.
“Gee, that was a tough one.” He remarks sarcastically.
Bruno pays him no mind, busying himself with rushing out of the room like he’s left the stove on at home. Except the stove is right next to Fugo.
“What’s wrong?” He calls after Bruno, walking to the edge of the kitchen and looking down the hall. “Did you forget something?”
It’s almost comical to see Bruno’s head pop out from behind a wall, neat bob swaying with his movements.
“I brought you something! Wait for me in the kitchen.” Fugo returns to his spot by the window obediently, allowing his mind to wander again.
A present? He tries to remember if there are any holidays coming up, because he knows his birthday has already passed. What would warrant a sudden gift?
Before he can come to a conclusion, he hears Bruno return. When he turns to face him, Bruno has his hands hidden behind his back with a grin on his face. With that look in his eyes, he almost resembles a mischievous child.
It takes a moment for Fugo to remind himself that Bruno is a child. He may not act like one, but he’s still months away from adulthood.
But maybe months don’t matter. Maybe even years don’t. Bruno’s been parading himself as a strong, reliable adult since he was twelve.
Fugo feels bad for him.
“Do you want to guess?” Bruno asks, pulling him out of his thoughts.
“Not really.” He answers truthfully. Bruno isn’t deterred by this answer, smiling despite the unease on Fugo’s face.
He shouldn’t be uneasy, Fugo keeps telling himself. He should be comfortable with Bruno by now. Unfortunately, there will always be a lone voice in the back of his head, screaming and crying about nonexistent danger.
“Okay, I’ll show you.” Bruno yields easily, something that will never fail to surprise Fugo. Bruno compromises with him so much, gives him so much leeway, that Fugo can almost forget the times he never had a choice.
Bruno reveals the surprise, and Fugo is stuck staring at it for longer than he intends.
It’s a book. A thick one at that. It has a dark brown cover with golden letterings and drawings on the front, and a matching gold spine.
Despite the smile that’s frozen on Bruno’s face, Fugo can sense the nerves beginning to churn beneath his skin the longer he looks at the book instead of taking it. Fugo can tell that he’s wondering if he misstepped. Wondering if Fugo’s going to blow up.
The fact that Bruno treads so lightly around him nearly makes him frustrated enough to prove Bruno right and angrily deny the gift, declaring that he’s not the intended audience for such a book.
And then the heat boiling in his head calms to a simmer when he catches sight of Bruno’s hopeful smile again.
Fugo finally takes the book from Bruno’s hands and continues to look at it.
The pretty gold letters spell Fairy Tales.
Bruno launches an explanation, veiling his growing worry.
“You told me you did a lot of studying, and read a lot of… not so child-friendly books, right?”
Fugo nods. “Math and chemistry and biographies… dreadful.”
“So I figured you deserve a chance. You know, to be a kid.” Bruno bites his lip lightly, and Fugo pretends not to notice. “Before it’s too late.”
“Oh.” Fugo says, running his thumb across the cover. “It’s a nice color.” He mumbles dumbly.
Bruno lets out a laugh, a disheartened little sound. “You don’t like it?”
Fugo immediately looks up. “I never said that.” He rushes the words out of his mouth, frowning. “I’ve never read anything like this before. Never even held a book like this. I… I’m happy. Really.” He gently runs his fingers over the cover, and discovers that, yes, having this book in his grasp pleases him greatly.
Something new, he muses. It’s like he’s proving that he’s escaped the confines of his old life, holding a book like this. Considering something so childish as reading the stories in it and truly enjoying them, allowing his imagination to run wild with the words and pictures.
He wants to write his name inside the cover.
He holds it against his chest and meets Bruno’s eyes. “Thank you.”
Bruno grins so brightly it’s blinding. “You’re welcome.” He says earnestly.
“But.” Fugo holds a hand up and Bruno’s crescent smile wanes. “You have to read it with me. You aren’t an adult yet, you know.”
Bruno doesn’t remind him of the difference, that he experienced the joy of his parents reading these stories to him already. He doesn’t remind him that they aren’t the same, that Fugo was the only unlucky child to be blessed with the kind of smarts that apparently didn’t require care, and only led to days on end sitting at a desk surrounded by books that held no fantasy or wonder.
Sometimes Fugo wonders how he and Bruno ended up in the same place.
Instead, he nods, and silently promises to read them to Fugo like his own mother used to. Provide at least the illusion of a proper childhood for Fugo, despite the reality of his life at this point.
He knows that Fugo likes to be independent, but he hopes Fugo will lean on him in moments like these ones.
“Sure.” He agrees. “I’d be honored.”