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“Fugo,” Giorno murmurs, once Fugo has risen from his genuflection and allowed Giorno to return his hand to fold neatly over his lap, “could you bring out your stand, please?”
Fugo goes very still, arms stiff where they fall at his sides. “I can't advise that, sir.”
Giorno sighs. He's really not irritated, just a little exasperated, having repeated this each time he’s been so formally called for the last few weeks of Fugo’s employ. “Please call me GioGio, or by my name if you must retain the formality. And I would like to see your stand.”
“...Giorno,” Fugo manages, eyes darting around the room to hand on the floor by Giorno’s feet. He’d taken a step away. “The room is confined, and with the curtains drawn, the sunlight wouldn't be enough to neutralize it. For your own safety, I can't.”
“Fugo, you know I don’t want to make it an order.”
Fugo’s eyes glance up for a fraction of a second, checking Giorno’s face before meeting his eyes and looking away as if caught. He doesn't know how come Fugo has become so flighty, so reverent. Giorno has done everything he can to make Fugo able to accept that he’s a welcome member of Giorno’s command team, but he still acts like he’s of a rank no higher than entry-level. Like they hadn’t fought together under Bucciallati not so long ago. Fugo heaves a heavy breath, holds it, dread broadcast from every angle of his body language, and his form shimmers like a mirage and his stand appears at his side.
Purple Haze Distortion still looks very similar to a few months ago. From the reports he’d gotten from Fugo, Sheila E., and Murolo, Fugo’s stand has supposedly changed to be more restrained. The only apparent changes are its “outfit” — more composed than the loincloth-type style of before, the faceguard a little shorter, the stitches in its mouth smoother, less painful-looking. Its posture is also different, standing not-quite-straight, but not in the spine-bending hunch of before. Less spiky, more streamlined. It stands just behind Fugo, and Fugo tenses up. Its breath stirs the loose hair on his neck.
Giorno unfolds his hands, gracefully, and watches Fugo glance to him. He rises, Fugo’s eyes widening as he approaches. “B— Giorno, please stay back. It’s still independent of me.”
Giorno looks to him, sees the genuine concern in his eyes, the tension in his body where he's ready to push Giorno out of the way if need be. Giorno just sends him a little smile, watches his mouth twist in confusion, and puts a hand up to Purple Haze’s face.
The reaction is instant. The previously anxious looking stance of the stand is assuaged, and it straightens for a moment before leaning its head into Giorno’s palm. Fugo, now to his side, lets out a shaky breath, his own hand rising to touch his cheek. “Hey, Purple Haze,” Giorno says, quietly. “It seems you’ve changed since I last saw you.”
The stand makes a rumbling noise, jaw almost twitching when before it would have drooled. Fugo opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.
“Is your virus the same as it was before?”
It takes Fugo a minute to realize he’s supposed to answer. “Ah, uh, n-no. Not quite. It's a, uh, a bit different. It seems to attack other instances of the virus as well as its victim.”
“Interesting.” Giorno raises his other hand to cradle the stand’s face in his palms, then smooths his first hand down the side of its neck. Fugo shivers. “I used to be immunized, but I don't think there will be a need to do that again. I know you wont hurt me.”
Purple Haze leans into Giorno’s hand again, and hikes its shoulder up when Giorno reaches it. It rumbles again, deep and from somewhere beyond its throat, and Fugo takes a shaky breath. Giorno finishes tracing its arm, and takes its hand in his own. “G— Giorno,” Fugo starts, own hand twitching.
Giorno, for his part, just lowers himself to one knee, and moves the back of Purple Haze’s hand to his face. The stand hunches slightly to accommodate the reach and he brushes his lips over the capsules there, now one less than before. Fugo makes a broken noise, flushing in the corner of Giorno’s eye, and he stumbles back, holding his own hand out like it's burning.
Giorno’s always been observant. Useful for a time in his youth, then painful, then essential when dealing with the team’s enemies within Passione. Ever since he’s become the don, the skill has helped immeasurably when dealing with his underlings and potential business associates. He’s been training the skill for so long, that it’s practically second nature. When he puts all his focus on observing someone, it’s hard for anything to escape his notice.
Fugo had confused him at first, mercurial and quick, but ever since his re-entry into Passione with Giorno at its helm, he's been almost painfully easy to read. Even someone without Giorno’s skills would be able to see the way his anxiety when talking to Giorno manifested in his averted eye contact, his bowed head, his eagerness to follow orders. When he had sworn his loyalty, he had been drowning in guilt, grief, and a tangible need for redemption. His survivor’s guilt was evident, and Giorno had done his best to reassure him that he could move forward, and that Giorno would do his best to support him. He too felt the same grief for the others, for Bucciallati and Narancia and even Abbacchio, and wanted to be a friend to Fugo.
But Fugo instead took his words to mean working his way up Passione, to a dedication so fierce that Giorno himself often felt a little off-guard in its presence, and had taken Giorno’s efforts at friendship to be almost saviour-like, and had treated him with… almost reverence , as if he had single-handedly pulled Fugo from despair. If that’s what had happened, then Giorno was assuredly glad to have helped, but that still didn’t explain all of Fugo’s actions.
Giorno wasn’t used to being the target of affection. He put effort into his appearance, and knew himself to be attractive, but his age and upbringing hadn’t given itself to any previous partners or even mutual crushes. Nevertheless, Giorno would have to be blind not to see that Fugo’s reverence had turned into a sort of adoration. He almost felt awkward around his bows and efforts to please and his constant, constant hand-kissing. Fugo did it at every greeting, and in the last week or so, his lips had rested for just a moment longer than they were expected to. Not that he was expected to do so at all.
In the past little while, Fugo’s face flushed easily when Giorno spoke to him. He would avoid eye contact only to rest his gaze on Giorno’s mouth or chest or hands. Every single action lead Giorno to believe he was interested, but saw Giorno as absolutely out of reach as his boss. It made him as anxious as he was, and while his growth in controlling his stand as admirable, it pained Giorno to see him as uncomfortable as he always seemed to be.
Not being able to discuss this was killing him.
See, here’s the thing. Giorno liked Fugo. He wasn’t quite sure if he liked him back in the same way, but he appreciated his actions, liked the way he still wore those revealing suits, liked the way his hair would cover an eye and the way he’d begun to be more confident in his new position. To be truthful, Giorno liked when Fugo kissed his hand, turning the respectful action into something almost intimate, into a tradition between the two. That being said, it still showed that Fugo didn’t see Giorno as anywhere near his equal, so Giorno had decided to show him otherwise.
The other thing, of course, was that Fugo still evidently didn’t hold himself in high esteem, and that manifested greatest in the way he treated his stand. Which lead Giorno to his current position.
The same with any stand and its user, Fugo could feel the sensations of someone touching Purple Haze. Giorno let his lips brush the stand as he said, “You must realize by now that this action isn’t needed every time you greet me, yes?”
Fugo shakes his head, and Giorno sits back on his heels. He lets his hand linger under Purple Haze’s, and twines his fingers together with its own. Fugo chokes back another noise. “I… It’s respectful, G-- Giorno. Needed or not, I’d like to remind you that I am loyal to you.”
Giorno smiles at him, and uses Purple Haze as a balance as he gets to his feet. The stand rumbles again, and suddenly pushes itself forward to drop its helm against Giorno’s shoulder. Giorno uses his free hand to stroke at its neck, and it curls against him, the rumble now a low constant that he could feel against his chest. “You’re quite affectionate, aren’t you?” He gets another rumble in return. Its stitched mouth is rough against his neck, but it’s not drooling, and Giorno finds it nice. Like being cuddled by a partner, he guesses, or really more like a particularly large cat.
“Giorno ,” Fugo gasps, and Giorno shifts their positions to look directly at him. He’s flushed, just as expected, and Giorno can’t help his faint smile from twitching up into more of a grin.
“You should be more affectionate with your stand, Fugo. It obviously enjoys the attention.” He reaches around to pet his hand down Purple Haze’s back as far as he can reach -- The stand is much larger than him, and he really only reaches its mid-back. And yeah, forget rumbling; the stand purrs, and moves as if to rest most of its weight on Giorno when Fugo chokes out a note of pause. Purple Haze stops, almost immediately, but still leans forward into Giorno, who is forced to move a foot back to brace himself. “I’ll admit I’m surprised that it’s more forward than you, though.”
He’s really not, but saying so makes Fugo halt his breath, eyes widening and gesturing his hands in front of him like a deflection. Giorno moves again to see him more clearly, and untangles his hand to loosely curl his arms around Purple Haze’s waist. Fugo chokes out another approximation of Giorno’s name and the stand almost shimmers. “I-- I, uh, didn’t think that it’d-- that it would be like that. I should call it back, it’s bothersome--”
“Don’t,” Giorno interrupts. “Stands are just reflections of their users. I figured it only wanted as much attention as you do. Hey, that’s not an insult.” Fugo’s expression had stilled, eyebrows furrowing. “But if I’d just hugged you, Purple Haze wouldn’t be able to tell, and you’ve still got the feeling, right? It’s good to be kind to yourself, Fugo, and if you won’t, then I will.”
Giorno looks away, then. He pushes gently at Purple Haze, patting its face when it looks at him, puzzled, but it calms and pulls its heft back enough for Giorno to slip out from under it. He feels Fugo stiffen at his back, and turns around to offer a hand.
Purple Haze shifts out of sight, and Fugo looks conflicted, to say the least. His eyebrows still showed discomfort, but his mouth was held set in a sort of defiance, and his eyes held distrust. “Fugo,” he says again, because he knows the best way to reach someone is to remind them that they’re present. “May I hug you?”
Fugo lets out the tiniest nod of his head, and Giorno takes the step closer. He sneaks his hands under his arms, thumbs catching on one of the holes, and holds him close. Fugo is slightly taller than him, so he rests his chin on Fugo’s shoulder, and closes his eyes. Fugo is stiff and unyielding, at first, until Giorno murmurs “Please,” and he just melts . He gingerly puts his arms around Giorno’s back, only lightly holding him in return, but turns his head to press into his hair, and inhales deeply. Giorno would be weirded out that he was smelling his hair, but from Fugo, it was comforting.
They stay that way for a few moments, until a fine tremble starts up in Fugo. His grip gets tighter, and it turns into a full-body shudder, and Giorno just holds tight until it fades a bit. “Hey, GioGio,” Fugo breathes, and Giorno tucks his head to hide his smile in Fugo’s neck. “I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
Fugo pauses, and finally, finally , fully hugs him back. “Fuck. I can’t even know if there’s just one thing. For the kneeling, and the uselessness. For being obvious, I guess.” He chuckles. “For not reaching out to my stand sooner.”
“Or for reaching out to me, hm?”
“...Or that.”
Giorno’s always been short on physical affection, too. The firm embrace and comfort with the proximity isn’t natural to him, as surely as it’s unnatural to Fugo, but he’s very quickly realizing how nice it is. Fugo is warm, and it’s strange to feel the holes in his suit through his sleeve, even stranger where Giorno’s cut-out is pressed against his tie and the surrounding skin, but it’s still nice. He can't help but to hold on a little tighter.
“So, what’s this for? New interrogation technique? ‘Cause it seems to have worked.”
“No,” Giorno responds, pulling his face away, and realizing the air is colder than Fugo’s neck. “I think I needed this as much as you did, truly.” He tucks his face back in, and resolutely does not think about how his curls are likely coming undone. “You’re very warm. More so than Gold Experience.”
“Oh,” Fugo says. “That explains why you want me to hug Purple Haze, then.”
Giorno just breathes in against his neck, and is struck, rather suddenly, with the desire to press his lips to the skin there. “I have a question,” he says, and can hardly believe that he’s speaking. “And I’m not asking as your don, but as your GioGio.”
He can feel Fugo’s pulse jump. “Oh?” he breathes, and Giorno feels rather than sees the blush return at full force.
“Want to kiss me?”
Fugo freezes. The trembling resumes. “...Yes,” he confesses, and Giorno pulls back, arms still linked around his waist, and makes eye contact as steadily as he’s able.
“May I?” he asks, tilting his head up and to the side slightly, looking up at Fugo through his lashes.
Fugo swallows, loud in the otherwise silent room, and meets him halfway.