Archive of Our Own ^beta

"It's late," Fugo says, one evening, when the stars shine through the glass of Giorno's windows, and his office is lit only by the small lamp on his desk. The toasted light casts his hair less gold and more brass.

Giorno doesn't lift his head from the paperwork. This is not a comfortable subject. Fugo has always worried too much, sometimes it's endearing, other times it's bothersome. "I know."

He can hear Fugo shift, shoes clicking against the marble of Giorno's floor. The other doesn't say anything, doesn't loom over Giorno's shoulder, just watches, and waits. Giorno finds solace in silence, sometimes, when it's not born of scrutiny. He looks up; Fugo is in comfortable distance, the desk separating them. There's moonlight caught in his hair, silver on his skin, lamplight in his eyes. It takes all of Giorno's will not to linger.

Fugo studies the paperwork, "That's next week's work."

Giorno's skin prickles, perhaps he should lie? That would be useless; Fugo is the one who had brought him these papers. Even if Fugo hadn't, Giorno is sure he would notice. "It is."

In the lingering silence Giorno stills his pen. His skin is wax, fingers numb and raw, and it's a null possibility that Fugo hasn't noticed. Giorno waits for a gently-worded lecture—not chastising, never with Fugo, but brimming with undertones of worried scrutiny that is always nauseating.

Fugo shifts, new light illuminating the inky purple, like overripe plum, blossoming beneath his eyes. "I can do it," a pause, "you can sleep."

The words are far from relieving. Fugo is sweet; devotes himself to studying Giorno's manner, and tailors himself to the optimal fit. Fugo's words are always soft and careful; Giorno is adamantine china in his hands. Giorno loves him for it—but there are times when it becomes cloying; coupled with a sense that Giorno's care is compensated with Fugo's detriment and it's sugar to saccharin.

(There are times when Fugo has coaxed Giorno into having a free day, 'It's alright, there's nothing that requires you specifically. I'll hand it to someone else.' And when Giorno wakes up in the morning, Fugo is tangled into a nest of empty coffee cups and the aforementioned work.)

"I'm sure you could."

A beat. "Will you let me?"

"No."

Fugo clicks his pen against the desk. "Why? It's better I do them than you," Giorno's lips tighten, Fugo, attentive as ever, falters "...I'm faster at paperwork, you know that. They can be done by morning."

"Fugo," he says, placing down his pen, "I wasn't planning to finish these tonight."

Moonlight catches in Fugo's hair, there's silver on his skin; stark contrast to the ink of his eye bags. "Still," he presses, "it'd be best if they could be finished tonight."

"And where would that bring you?" Giorno leans forward, eyes bearing into Fugo's, "The dredges of dawn? You're smart, not superhuman."

Fugo grits his teeth—quiet, but grating. "It's natural, you're needed in the day, Giorno. You should at least be getting six hours a night. It'll take too much of a toll on your health otherwise."

Giorno can't decide if he's thankful that Fugo said your health not you. "And it takes no toll on you? Fugo, your work tonight is complete."

The moonlight catches in Fugo's hair, circles hang heavy and rotting from his eyes. "I won't be able to sleep," Fugo shifts, drumming his pen on the desk, "the work helps."

Giorno ponders for a moment and thinks; I do not want to be hypocritical. But this isn't about him. Giorno shakes his head, "It's not help to collapse at your desk."

"It's easier," Fugo says—almost a snap.

The following seconds stretch and splinter. Giorno knows, of course he does. It's easier for him, too. There leaves no room for thought, no dragging seconds to dwell in. Exhaustion burns away reality into deep, heavy, dreamless sleep. It's easy.

"I know," says Giorno, and even that feels like too much. "Fugo," he continues, not sure if he wants Fugo to have the time to dissect his words, "you know what is easy isn't good." Fugo blinks, Giorno halts; it's a poor choice of words. Giorno's daytime eloquence is failing him. "That wasn't," he falters, "don't read into it. That was face value. It just means, try and sleep, I'll make you tea. Chamomile, lavender, or—"

"Stop!" Fugo snaps—fully this time; hit broiling point. Tension runs through Fugo's frame, it twitches fingers, hardens edges, breaks the pen in his grip. Bloody ink drips down steadily, stark on the moonlit marble.

Carefully—not warily, never warily when it's Fugo—Giorno asks; "Stop what?" He pauses, continues, tone level, "I don't understand what you mean."

"You don't?" Fugo stares at him for a long moment, overripe plum blooming beneath his eyes. In the lamplight, Giorno's hair is less gold and more brass. The pen splinters and cracks further, plastic shards shear through Fugo's palm. "You don't notice? When you collapse at your own desk? Skip meals? Take more work than your position demands? Your bags are as dark as mine."

...Ah. Fugo is really too perceptive. Of course Fugo knows. Fugo always knows. It is exposing in a way he isn't sure he likes. Fugo is attentive. Giorno loves him for it—but right now it's grating, aggravating, it feels like someone peeling off the paint Giorno so painstakingly applies. He smiles; more of a grimace. "I didn't know you noticed the bags."

The splintered, bloodied remains of Fugo's pen clatter to the ground, adding to the pool of bloodied ink and cracked plastic. "This is what I mean," Fugo seethes, eyes orange and yellow and glowing in the lamplight. He slams a fist onto the desk, rattling the pens in Giorno's cup. "Don't take care of me before yourself!"

Giorno flinches—more muscle memory than anything else. It's accusatory, and should sound more dangerous than it does. He should return to a comfortable distance, tighten his lips, iron his words. He doesn't. With Fugo it's never threatening, never dangerous, and for as long as Fugo stays himself, it never will be. Giorno leans forward, across the desk, and threads his fingers into Fugo's.

They melt in his grip. An instant and Fugo's broil has calmed to a simmer. He looks lost for a moment, "I'm sorry," he falters, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to snap. Are you alri—"

Giorno presses a kiss to Fugo's jaw, "It's alright," he says. "It wasn't you," a pause, hesitation, "...I don't agree in full, and I won't take back my words—but you have a point."

Fugo doesn't push him away, but he tilts from Giorno's touch. "I'm still sorry," he repeats, like a broken record. It cracks Giorno's heart—sugar to saccharin. "Even though you've helped me so much, are you sure you're okay? I'm sorry," Fugo shutters—Giorno can feel the muscles tremor beneath his skin. "It's always worse when I have nothing to do."

"I understand," Giorno says, hesitates, "I know the feeling."

Fugo looks at him; the moonlight catches in his hair, silver to contrast Giorno's brass. He looks pained, biting his lip, dark circles, a frantic and buzzing kind of worry to his frame. Fugo looks away, "Dammit."

"Don't worry," Giorno responds, unthreading their hands and pushing the papers on his desk aside. He climbs over and, comfortably dangling his legs off, settles onto the edge of his desk. Giorno wraps his arms around the other and pulls him in. Fugo doesn't resist, letting his head rest on Giorno's chest. "Take your time," he murmurs into Fugo's hair. "You don't have to explain."

Giorno isn't good at this, never has been. He learns from Fugo—learns how to use his attentiveness, the right places to touch, how to rub circles on someone's back. He still isn't good at it, and it never comes naturally, but he tries. Fugo doesn't expect it from him, but he tries. It would be too cruel not to return the favor. He knows that to Fugo it's merely natural order, but Giorno will never take it for granted—an eye for an eye, a touch for a touch, devotion for devotion.

(He told Fugo, one day, that Fugo needn't kiss his hand when they're alone. He has already proven his loyalties. Although the Don Passione's orders are always to be obeyed, Fugo needn't give him his heart and soul and very being. They are too valuable and too fragile to blindly pledge. Fugo had kissed his wrist, smiled lightly, and with devotion in his eyes, told him that his devotion was not to the Don Passione, but to Giorno. If my soul is valuable then it belongs in your hands. Sugar to saccharin.)

Eventually, Fugo moves; shifts a little back, glances away. "It's nothing abnormal," he mutters.

"Don't worry," Giorno runs his fingers through Fugo's hair, "I don't mind."

Fugo stares at him, moonlight in his hair, lamplight in his eyes, circles blooming the overripe plum. A broken kind of half-smile, "I can't wipe them from my mind," Fugo says, "they won't leave." His expression is tight, tensed, pained. "Mista still won't talk to me, without pretense, I mean—willingly."

"Mista still cares about you," Giorno frowns.

Fugo grimaces, "I ruined it." He stands, looking shaky. "I still wonder if Purple Haze could've killed Diavolo."

There's pain in the words that carries thick through the air. Giorno is silent—Fugo is justified in his guilt. There are still people that jeer at his name, who question Giorno's decision to accept him back. There's a pause, Giorno picks his words carefully.

"You know," he says, meeting Fugo in the eyes, "The thing about guilt is that popular perception deems it bad, but, really," he thumbs aside a loose strand of Fugo's hair, "it just shows you care."

A choked kind of half-word half-sob comes from Fugo. "GioGio," Fugo garbles, falling into the fabric of Giorno's shirt. Giorno relaxes, somewhat, tucking his chin into the crook of Fugo's shoulder.

"Will you sleep now? At least try?"

Fugo pulls back, though not completely, just enough so that his words aren't muffled. Giorno pulls back, too, their eyes meet. Fugo looks a moment, pauses, "How much of that," he briefly gestures to the carelessly pushed aside paperwork, "are you planning on doing tonight?"

Giorno hesitates, takes a second to reply, "Half."

He waits for Fugo to scrutinize him, it never comes. Instead, Fugo says; "A fourth." Giorno blinks. "I'll take half of your half." There's moonlight catching in his hair, "Half a step," Fugo offers a weak smile, a genuine one, "remember?"

The breath catches in Giorno's lungs, when he speaks, it's airy and quiet, "Of course."

It's a gesture for a gesture; Giorno will never take that for granted. An eye for an eye, a touch for a touch, devotion for devotion—"We can be done in an hour or two," Fugo says.

Giorno nods, "And then?"

"We'll sleep," says Fugo, "I'll mute your alarm and make you blueberry pancakes in the morning. You'll have hibiscus tea and I'll do the dishes and we'll listen to Jeff Beck."

It's captivating; Giorno can picture the scene and smell frying batter. He smiles, threads his hands into Fugo's, "I'll do the morning dishes, and make us pasta in the evening, we'll read Les Miserables by night."

Fugo looks momentarily startled, then his features melt. He nods and lifts their interlinked hands to his lips and presses a kiss to Giorno's fingers. "Whatever you'd like," he whispers, and Giorno can feel breath brushing his fingertips.

Moonlight catches in Fugo's hair; silver to contrast Giorno's gold. Words catch in Giorno's throat. Silently, he lifts their hands and leans down and presses a kiss to Fugo's fingers.