A Pearl

I fell in love with a war

Giorno isn't sure when it started happening, but the growing divide between the boy who didn't have a childhood and the ruthless don he was supposed to be was starting to wear on him and Fugo tremendously.

Fugo, Giorno was sure, knew that he didn't have a happy upbringing. He didn't talk about it much, but a person doesn't become the Don of an extremely powerful mafia at the age of fifteen if they had a nice homelife. It's been three years later since he took over, though, and two years since they started dating. He's strong now, extraordinarily so, and he doesn't need to think about that.

He still does.

It always feels like Giorno starts the fights, when they happen, but he can never remember or figure out how. He can't concentrate on that, either, when the vision of Fugo's anger boiling over, spilling over his body with shutters that lead to clenched fists and gritted teeth is right in front of him. The idea that he is the cause of his poor, dear Pannacotta regressing back into the fits of anger that he tries desperately to abandon through ruthless, dedicated amounts of training and therapy to control, causes bile to rise up in his throat.

Most of the time it's quiet, though.

The gentle mornings of comfort in each others presence, Giorno insisting they sleep in and cuddle, them both trying to make breakfast only to inevitably fail and settle on too-runny eggs and burned toast, were replaced with a cold bed and the remains of the dark coffee fugo didn't bother to finish or clean up. A comfort, maybe, or a message of warning.

"Don't try to talk to me."

Every time this happens, they make up, though. It's a pattern that's becoming increasingly obvious and dreadfully familiar. Every time Pannacotta lashes out at him, Giorno feels himself retreat. It's one thing to have a stranger dislike you, but when he looks into his partner's eyes and sees the hints of genuine betrayal and fear he isn't sure how to handle it. Their communication has gotten a lot worse, clearly, and it leads to miscommunications that leave them anxious for days and tip-toeing around each other.

Of course Giorno hasn't told him about how the dissociative episodes are getting worse. He doesn't even stop to think that they might be an issue. Don Giovanna, for such a capable man, is very, very dumb. What else would he do, though? If he told, his lover might think he was trying to guilt him. He doesn't want to think about the implications behind that, so he shoves it deep, deep down inside of him.

Giorno can tell he's done it again.

He's lucky, or maybe unlucky, that Fugo is off today. He overslept, and his partner is still here. Pannacotta is cooking, and he looks positively lovely in Italy's growing daylight that shines through the mansion's windows. Still, the beams of light fall on a face that is clearly trying to stifle anger. Giorno doesn't want to fight. He quietly sits down at their small kitchen table, watching fugo all the while. It's moments like these that he's grateful they have a completely private area, just for the two of them.

Giorno holds his breath, and waits.

The crisp morning air quickly turns sour as both of them stay quiet. Giorno's slightly widened eyes observe his lover as he moves throughout the kitchen; his movements are progressively more jerky, aggressive, and he sees his eyebrow twitch. Giorno sits on his hands. He feels young.

He waits.

Fugo's delaying finishing cooking the meal, he can tell. It's obvious. He isn't sure if it's obvious on purpose, though, demanding him to leave, and he doesn't want to risk stirring him up anymore than he is already.

He feels the other man sit on the chair next to him. It takes him a second to process that he's scared, he's scared of his dear panni, and it makes his stomach sink. Giorno shifts around, and he lets his walls go up without trying to stop them. It's tiring, to be this guarded, especially around his lover, but it's automatic, and with the situation at hand he can't bring himself to care. When Giorno breaks the silence, he can hear Fugo's fork scrape against his plate. He swallows.

"Good morning, Pannacotta.. You look tired, are you feeling okay?" They're recycled words, he knows, and it's more muscle memory than anything else, but the effort it took for him to force his tongue to move and his mouth to open was too much for anything else to be spoken.

A beat, maybe two beats. The other man speaks.

"Are we just going to pretend like you haven't been ignoring me for the past two days?" Fugo spits the words out. He's angry. Something inside of Giorno shrivels.

"Ignoring you? I haven't been..." he lets the sentence trail off. If he continues, he's scared it will set off Fugo, and that's the last thing he wants.

"So-" Fugo cuts himself off. The examples he was going to list he's already stated many times before, and Giorno knows. Judging by how he's biting his tongue, Giorno knows that he realized it too.
"You always do this. You always say this." Fugo says. Giorno watches him closely before saying anything. Careful and calculated. Wide eyes.

"What did I do, Pannacotta?" Giorno's voice stays even. He's sure that the tone stays non-accusatory, but he wonders if the Pannacotta was too personal or aggravating for this.

"Why-" Fury dances across Fugo's expression. His face contorts. "Are we just going to pretend like you haven't been acting cold towards me this whole time?" He repeats, a variation of what he's asked before.

It's a vague statement. It's a very vague statement, a stupid question, perhaps. From the embarrassed look that flashes across his lover's face for an instant, he can tell that the wording conveyed a childishness that he didn't want to be seen. Giorno stares at him with an unknowingly blank expression. He blinks. His eyes sting.

"I don't understand." Giorno closes his hands before opening them again. He removes them from underneath his closed thighs and grabs onto the ends of the stool beside his legs. Rage shows on Fugo's face, and Giorno recoils. "I-" he isn't sure... "I'll leave, okay..? Talk to me when you're ready."

Mature. Immature.

The anger mostly evaporates from Fugo's visage, replaced by a bitter gratefulness, and Giorno escapes.