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The atmosphere around the two boys is earth-shatteringly silent. They've both been pacing around Giorno's office, trying desperately to get rid of the memory that shot through their minds a few hours ago. They know exactly what is going through the other's mind, yet they refuse to address it. They don't want to make the memories return even worse than before, Fugo especially.
Fugo feels his stomach turn whenever he remembers what he did to Giorno and his friends. He left them to die, while backing out of a mission he knew, deep down, was the moral thing to do. It keeps him awake night after night.
A traitor, a rat, a coward; all words he's used to describe himself. He feels unbridled amounts of shame, and he can never really shake the feeling. He especially feels this pang of humiliation in his stomach whenever he looks at Giorno.
He loves the younger boy, but he can barely look him in the eyes. They’re a portal to one's soul, and Fugo can tell there's so much sorrow behind his. He can't stand to see it. He wishes he could bear his trauma and make his life even a little easier, but he knows he can't. Fugo has his own battles to fight; he can't win a two-against-one.
He watches Giorno sit at his desk, hardly moving his body as he does so. He's stiff, almost doll-like. The old chair creaks under his weight as he shifts towards the front. He cups his hands and throws his face into them.
Fugo's consciousness gnaws away at him; he knows he should be comforting the poor boy now, but he can't bring himself to. He fears that if he shows any emotion, he won't be able to control it. What emotion is forming a lump in the back of his throat? He doesn't know. Rage? Grief? Despondency? He doesn't dare to gamble.
He excuses himself from the room and the situation. The lump in his throat begins to loosen, but the feelings remain. The deaths of their friends -- people they considered family -- have affected both him and Giorno in ways they can't understand. And, if they can't understand it, they refuse to address it.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
Giorno grabs his coat and wraps it tightly around his body. The night is especially cold; even his office felt like a frozen tundra while he was in there.
He feels a shiver shoot down his spine, and not because of the weather. He notices Fugo dashing around beside him, getting his few belongings before heading home for the day. Giorno wants to bring up today's events -- and the feelings around them -- but he can't bring himself to. Invisible hands are clasped over his mouth, preventing him from speaking up.
Fugo notices his boss and flashes him an obviously fake smile. He'll put on these fake emotions if it means he can make Giorno a little happier. It won't do much, but even an inch will feel like a mile in this situation.
Giorno sighs, pulling himself together, before asking Fugo, "Would you like to come home with me tonight?"
Fugo stops gathering his belongings to take a minute to think about the offer. He'd love to join Giorno, but he can only put up a front for so long. He'd hate himself if he broke down crying in front of his boss. Not only is he already viewed as a coward, but he'd also be viewed as a melancholiac.
Against his better judgment, Fugo responds with, "I'd love to." As soon as he utters that sentence, he curses himself internally.
He knows he should be there to comfort and care for the man he's so lucky to call his boyfriend, but what if he doesn't do it right? Giorno is already in a horrible mood, and Fugo doesn't want to make it any worse. Even worse, Giorno won't tell him if he did do something wrong, leaving him unable to fix the issue. The stress is already getting to him, and he's barely taken a step outside the door.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
The car comes to a gentle halt, and the passenger door opens with a soft click. Fugo plants his foot on the outside pavement, trying to be as quiet as possible. Giorno drove the pair home; Fugo didn't actively protest it, but he's always had doubts about him driving. He may be a mafia Don, but he still doesn't have his license.
"I could've driven here, y'know," Fugo stated. The sentence dissipates throughout the nighttime air, but Fugo receives no response. The long, uncomfortable silence delivers a hard punch to his gut. Did he already do something wrong?
The two shuffle their way to the front door of Giorno's small house. Keys jingle in Giorno's hand, he turns the lock, and the door creaks open. As soon as they step inside, they're hit with warmer, less stagnant air. It's refreshing for the slightly older boy, but it doesn't ease his nerves at all. He's still too scared to speak, terrified to even move a muscle in the wrong direction.
With hesitation, Fugo slides his coat and shoes off his body. Every minuscule sound he makes reverberates throughout his skull, becoming ten times louder in the process. He hears the faint ba-booms of his heart as well. It's agonizing, but not a word comes out of his mouth. The very premise of speech seems to have been yanked out of the young man's grasp.
He watches Giorno walk over to his living room and sit down on his couch, trying his best to pick out any non-verbal cues that could tell him how he's feeling. But, as stoic as ever, Giorno doesn't let off a single clue, leaving Fugo utterly hopeless.
He invites himself over to where his boyfriend is sitting, trying his best to stay calm. The closer he gets to Giorno, the worse his feelings become. His heartbeat gets louder, each step he takes sounds like a rocket is launching, and his breathing only hastens. Still, he pushes it all aside. He wouldn't dare put Giorno through any more stress than he's already going through.
He relaxes into the seat, the comfort of the couch easing his nerves a bit. Yet, he's still restless. Everything feels off within Giorno's house. Every single atom within this room is staring Fugo down, making sure he can't have even a millisecond of peace.
He hears Giorno sigh while he clicks on the TV. That's something for Fugo to analyze. The sigh must mean he's feeling some emotion right now. Maybe he's sad, exhausted, or even relieved. The range is extensive, but it gives Fugo some information to latch onto and analyze.
The two sit in awkward silence for what feels like an eternity. Although Fugo doesn't care for it, it at least lets his thoughts slow down to a discernible rate. He can finally begin to understand and process today's events and the emotions the two are feeling.
Giorno brushes his hand on top of Fugo's before gently interlocking his fingers with the older boy's. This small action is the straw that broke the camel's back, and Fugo feels tears suddenly slip down his face. He tries to brush them away with his free hand, but they keep falling quicker and quicker. His face goes beat-red in embarrassment.
Giorno pulls him into a tight embrace without saying a word. He keeps their hands linked and wraps his free one around Fugo's waist and back. Fugo then buries his head in Giorno's shoulder; he begins to cry even harder. He feels uncontrollable amounts of shame and humiliation.
He can't believe he's letting himself cry in front of the man he calls his boyfriend. He's supposed to be strong for him. He's supposed to be able to be there for him when he's feeling depressed. Now, he needs to be comforted like a young child by the person he's supposed to comfort. Now, whatever is left of his ego has completely dissipated.
Giorno rubs circles on his back, quietly panicking and trying to figure out what to do. He's never been good with emotions, so he's not exactly sure how to comfort Fugo. And, by the looks of it, his attempts aren’t working. Everything he does only makes the other boy cry even harder. Every graze of his fingers and every muscle twitch only causes more tears to fall from Fugo's pristine eyes, and more pain to emanate from Fugo's pristine soul.
The sobs only grow louder by the second. It's tearing away at Giorno's soul. Deep in his mind, he feels a little responsible for the boy's heartache. He was the one who decided to overthrow Diavolo; he was the one who got his friends killed. If Fugo's grief comes from their deaths, then it's his grief to bear as well.
Giorno feels a few tears prick at his eyes as well. He tries to prevent them from flowing, but it ultimately doesn't work. Several droplets run down his face, but he doesn't wipe them off. His two hands are preoccupied with comforting Fugo, and he cares more about his boyfriend than wiping away a few salty beads.
The invisible hands clamped over Giorno's mouth begin to wither away. He finally feels the ability -- or rather, need -- to speak. He whispers into Fugo's ear, "It's okay, Fugo, it's not your fault."
He lifts his head from Giorno's shoulder to look him in the eye. His eyes are red and puffy, and his face is shining from the trails of water his tears left behind. His hair is messy and knotted. Giorno's heart shatters at the sight. He's never seen someone look so disheveled and upset.
Giorno takes his hand off Fugo's back and places it on his face. He gently wipes his thumb across his face, trying his best to clear the water off his face. He gets some off, but the remnants of tears remain by his eyes. He mutters sweet nothings in an attempt to calm him down just a bit more.
"Fugo, love, you're alright. You're okay, I'm okay, everyone is okay." He receives no verbal response, but his tears become less frequent. It's something positive, so Giorno's happy with it.
Giorno pulls Fugo back into another tight hug. He rests his chin on Giorno's shoulder, and he can hear the older boy quietly sniffle. He only holds him tighter with each passing minute. He never wants to let him go; he wants to hold him in his arms and make sure that he can never get hurt again.
Over the next few minutes, Fugo pulls himself out of the hug. He wipes away anything that's left of his tears with his sleeves. Giorno looks at him with glistening eyes. There's no hate, no maliciousness, no disdain in his eyes; there are no negative emotions whatsoever. There's only love and admiration swirling around in his emerald-green eyes.
It's such a soothing sight for Fugo to see. The boy's presence is enough to quell his torment and fear. Even if he doesn't realize it, he'll always have a shoulder to lean on. Giorno will always be there to protect and comfort him, in sickness and in health.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
"Fugo, stay here tonight," Giorno says when he notices Fugo start to grab his belongings.
In the few hours that have passed, the two boys have had dinner, sat in pleasant silence, and even watched a movie. That issue has been itching and scratching Giorno's consciousness ever since Fugo broke down, but those damned invisible hands have regained their tight control over his mouth. Maybe they'll wither away once and for all when he starts drifting off to sleep.
As is common with the two boys, Giorno receives no verbal response. However, no verbal affirmation doesn't mean there wasn't an agreement. Fugo sets his things back down on the nearest table, not caring that it's messily strewn about, and sits back down next to Giorno.
Giorno wraps his arm around the back of Fugo's back and shoulders. He squeezes the further shoulder, trying to silently reassure his boyfriend. It must work, because Fugo slightly slumps into the sofa. It's nice to see the boy in a calmer mood compared to what he was in a few hours ago.
His eyes begin to feel heavy, and he lets out a yawn. He checks the clock on his wall; it reads 12:30 AM. It's not a particularly late night for him, but the range of emotions he felt today drained him.
He places a chaste kiss on Fugo's cheek before retracting his arm. Fugo flinches at the sudden touch, but he doesn't jerk away from it. It's nice knowing that Fugo trusts him that much.
"I'm going to bed, love. Feel free to join me."
He hesitates for a second before getting off the couch. He's still clearly on edge, but he's calmed down from where he once was. He's had time to process everything that happened. He's had time to figure out his emotions. Giorno has had the same opportunity as well.
The two walk up the stairs and into Giorno's room. Fugo sits down on his bed while Giorno grabs a pair of pajamas. The top and bottom are red with black polka dots all over it. It reminded him of ladybugs, so he just had to buy it. He bought Fugo a pair of similar pajamas, but his have little strawberries dotted around.
Once he's changed, Giorno crawls into bed next to Fugo. He's already laid down, trying to get comfortable. He scoots closer to the barely older boy. Fugo’s body is exceptionally warm; it's weirdly comforting to Giorno. It's the warmth and security he should've felt when he was a child. But, since it's a fairly new experience, he cherishes it even more.
Giorno slings one of his arms and legs around Fugo's body. He snuggles even closer to Giorno. He goes to play with Fugo's hair, tying his hair around his fingers as he does so.
"Fugo, do you, um..." His sentence dies in his mouth. He doesn't want to confront their emotions, but he knows it's for the best. Keeping things bottled up has never worked out well for either of them.
He takes a deep breath, preparing himself for the possible conversation, before saying, "Fugo, do you want to talk about what happened today?
"N-..." The expected 'no' dies on his tongue. If it were a few months ago, Fugo would've said it without hesitation. But, over time, he's gotten better at expressing his emotions. He doesn't do it right all the time, but it's better than nothing at all.
"Seeing what happened today, to Mista, reminded me of the stories you told me. About Abbacchio and how... Diavolo killed him. It was too similar. Mista's fine, I know, but... God, it was like a mirror image. Hell, I wasn't even there when Abbacchio died, but I just know it's similar to what you and everybody else saw." He's rambling at this point, but he can't help it. The comfort of Giorno's body coaxes out an answer from him. It rips every feeling away from Fugo's body and soul, leaving his consciousness spilled everywhere on Giorno's bedsheet.
Giorno takes a while to respond. He thought the same thing when he first spotted Mista. Luckily, he was able to help him in time, but it shook him to his core. He had vivid flashbacks to the horrible scene he saw months ago. To think, even for a second, that he could've lost a fourth friend, truly scared him. Life is so fragile, and there's never enough time to cherish it.
"Fugo... what happened to Abbacchio won't happen again. It was a mistake that shouldn't have happened in the first place, and I'll make sure nothing like that will ever happen again. We know better now. We've grown wiser, and we're better at preventing attacks. And... I'll always be there to heal you all. I won't let anyone else suffer the same fate as Abbacchio."
"What if you're too late? What if someone else dies?"
"Don't get stuck in the sludge of 'what if' questions. You could get stuck on them forever, and you’ll be left with more questions than you started with."
"It was such a... shocking thing to see, Giorno. I can't imagine what it was like to see Abbacchio laying there, limp and lifeless, with nothing that could be done. And to see an almost carbon copy of that... I'm so sorry, Giorno."
"You have nothing to be sorry for . We can't change the past, Fugo; one day you'll realize that. There's no need to wish and plead for a different set of events to play out... As much as I yearn for a different outcome, I can never get it, nor can you."
Fugo doesn't respond to that. As much as he doesn't want to admit it, Giorno's right. His three friends are gone. He's not a necromancer; he can't bring him back, even if he desperately aches to see them again. He'll never be able to try to teach Narancia math again. He'll never hear the stressed murmurs coming from Bucciarati again. He'll never hear the disgruntled sighs from Abbacchio when Mista starts complaining about the number four again. He has to let himself move on.
Giorno uses his thumb to wipe away a single tear rolling down Fugo's cheek. The act comforts him enough to quell any further droplets from forming.
"What if I'm not ready to move on, Giorno?"
"Then you don't have to, not yet. Everything comes with time; you just have to wait until your time comes... I'll be here with you every step of the way. I'll get you through every single tough period, every day when grief anchors not your feet, but your soul. I'll share this anguish with you and hopefully make it a little more bearable along the way. I'll go to the ends of the Earth for you, if you so desire, because I love you."
Fugo places his hand on top of Giorno's and gently squeezes it. He whispers, "I love you too" while his cheeks turn pink.
With that sentence, Fugo feels sleep start to take hold of him. He snuggles into Giorno for one final time before his eyelids close. Everything seems a little calmer, a little more serene, with Giorno by his side.
Giorno toys with Fugo's hair until sleep takes him as well. His dreams are sweet and pleasant, and he feels truly at home with his lover by his side.