JJBA ONESHOTS

(Fugio) Throes

<Major spoilers for pt.5 character death and character personalities>

Description: Fugio, written off the prompt of 'recovery.'

Fugio week2020 day 3: Betrayal|Recovery|scar

---

   "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."