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Giorno’s aware that all the assimilation in the world won’t change the world always seeing him as different. He can swap his name out for any Italian noun out there but the natural narrow of his eyes and the (previous) straightness of his (previously) black hair betray him anyways.
The best birthday gifts arrived to him at 15: from Trish, bleach and hair curlers. More belatedly, from Pannacotta Fugo was his courtship. The notion of correlation versus causation couldn’t help but come to mind at that one, but the closing of two years of pining (so many overdue library books, and so, so many flowers) washed the introduction of that thought as quickly as it came.
It’s fine anyways, Giorno prefers they got together after his blonde debut. Platinum blonde and golden blonde, overcast crescent moon bangs and stylized victory rolls, sharp edges and flowing curls (those are damn hard to maintain, mind you); they make such a pretty couple this way. It’s no skin off his nose.
Shy note exchanges in class, glances at each other for partner or group work across the room, and lunch surrounded by foliage off campus, all branches on their growing tree of love, and Giorno is elated to tend to it.
Now, grown into his being 16 and blonde, he allows himself the pleasure of some snacks from home as a midday treat. It’s a steady rotation, based on whatever he can afford that day. He’ll swipe gum from the supermarket, a sleight of the hand shoving it into his sleeve, but could never entertain the same thought for the local Asian grocery store that supplies his snack fix.
He finds out that the staff are Japanese speaking. He can make out bits of pieces of their gossip, puzzle pieces he can see clearly but fall short on placement sometimes. The cashier ladies flash bright smiles and he always flashes one back. He’s a regular without a name, which is a shame as it’s due to the itching uneasiness that comes with lack of practicing his mother tongue. Nonetheless, the exchange of pearly whites works, and it’s a trade that can make a bad day okay (and heaven knows he has plenty of bad days).
Today it’s pocky, a mischievous impulse coming over him leading him to buy the strawberry flavored ones. He pays for them in change and his usual smile, a slight skip in his step as he reveals the box to Fugo, who awaited him seated at their lunch spot in the park, half a sandwich in his hand.
Fugo wears a soft smile, waving once Giorno’s in clear sight. His eyebrow quirks up at the box in his hands. He quickly sifts through his schema of Giorno’s selection of Japanese snacks, but fails to identify a pink box nor a definitive identification. “What do you have there?”
Giorno smirks, pecking Fugo’s cheek before showing the box, lowered fingers revealed the brand name. Fugo almost facepalms, pocky is not unfamiliar to him, but Giorno’s purchase of a non chocolate flavor is.
He takes his place next to Fugo. ”Strawberry pocky. I wanted to try something new today.” Rolling his fingers on the box, he bats his eyelashes. “Finish eating and you can try it with me.”
A curious flush spreads across Fugo’s cheeks and before he can take an eager bite of his sandwich, he notices Giorno holding his gaze still. “Are you, uh, not going to eat something yourself besides, well, pocky?”
Giorno’s mind sees flashes of this morning: his stepfather passed out on the couch, hand over a half full bottle of beer and a crate housing 5 empty ones on the kitchen counter.
“Mm, no, I’m not that hungry.”
After a moment, Fugo nods, eyebrows slightly furrowing, but he takes his bite now. Giorno’s content with this, entertaining himself with the plants nearby and Fugo’s focused gaze. Which- now that he notices it, does Fugo have something on his mind? There’s intrigue, he wonders if his plan will reveal what’s behind his eyes.
As Fugo finishes up, Giorno opens up the packet of pocky, holding one up.
“Have you.. heard of the pocky game? The rules?”
Another sift through his schema. Fugo has seen this countless times on social media. Goal: eat as much without breaking, lest you lose. “Enough.” The red on his face similarly betrays him.
Giorno chuckles, before placing a stick in between his mouth and leaning closer to Fugo, an invitation.
The red eyed teen can’t help but flush further, a slight tremble of his hand, before turning to properly accept the other end.
Giorno keeps his gaze focused on Fugo as the distance between them grows closer and closer, cautious nibbles leading them to meet in the middle and unite their mouths.
Giorno’s elated the stick didn’t break and he reaps the fruit of his endeavor, Fugo has thought about this game plenty but didn’t expect the kiss to feel a bit overstimulating with food in his mouth. Maybe it takes some getting used to.
It’s short and sweet anyways, and when they part both boys giggle, at how silly it all is if nothing else. Though the creases of thought still are present on Fugo’s forehead, and now Giorno is concerned as well.
“Is something on your mind?” Giorno tilts his head, wiping off crumbs from Fugo’s cheek.
Fugo’s words get caught in his throat, but he takes a moment to find them again. “Ah, yes, actually.”
“My uh.. My parents want to meet you, finally. Properly, over dinner once summer starts.” Fugo continues, now being as focused on Giorno’s gaze than said boy was on him previously.
Giorno nods slowly, eyes flicking away briefly, “How do you feel about that?”
“I mean, I’m glad they’ve stopped thinking you’re just a study distraction. At least it seems like it. I think they realize we’re serious.” The nerves Fugo feels bleed more into his hand movements, exaggerating each phrase to maybe convince the rest of the body.
Giorno nods again. “I think it’s a good sign too. I’ll.. be on my best behavior.”
He’s met with a snort. “As if you’d ever let a hair out of place.”
“My odds will just be better then.”
Fugo smiles then clears his throat. “I’ll let them know so we can set a date and time then. If all goes well.. maybe I’ll get to meet yours too.”
“One set of parents at a time.”
Out of view, Giorno’s hand twitches.
—
When he’s home later that day, it’s a small challenge to resolve himself to review his notes. Cell reproduction is an absolute bore, and while straight forward, it still feels like a mess of “…phase” in his mind right now.
He really shouldn’t be giving the eventual dinner with Fugo’s parents more thought. After all, it’s in the future and there’s finals that more urgently need his attention.
He sighs, flipping through his notebook and carefully color coded diagrams.
Yes, yes, cell division starts with chromosomes, spindles, fragments of the nuclear envelope, progresses into the metaphase plate, daughter chromosomes and-
Cleavage furrow …
..Ends with the formation of the full nuclear envelope.
..This isn’t a new term at all, but he most certainly can’t take it seriously right now. He’s burnt his brain with all this anxiety it seems.
He’ll go over it all again after dinner.
Giorno goes downstairs to see what he has to work with, almost startled by his mom in the kitchen. There’s an opened bag of spaghetti and a can of tomato paste at her side.
Haruka Shiobana Giovanna glances over at him, before being more entertained by stirring the pasta.
“There’s enough pasta for you if you’re hungry. Your stepfather is working late today.” It takes Haruno Giorno a second to reply, because the sentence was in Japanese.
“Grazie,” he starts before shaking his head. “Thank you, mother.” He finishes in his native language. He’s already resigned himself to the fact he will never be good enough for his mother, so if he messes up his Japanese, he’d rather with his mother than the kind ladies at the Asian store.
His mother only gives a small “hm” of acknowledgement.
“…While you’re here, I wanted to ask if I could go to a friend’s for dinner after my finals are over?”
”Feeding you on someone else’s dime? It’s fine by me. Just don’t go making trouble till then,” she scoffs.
“You can be unnerving sometimes.” Giorno can agree, he thinks.
—
“What would you like to eat for dinner?”
Finals have come and gone, so their discussion on the dinner has resumed at a cafe that serves what Giorno swears is the best frappe he’s had in his life.
His drinking of it slows at the question. This should normally be not that hard of a question, but this is a dinner with Fugo’s parents, he would not mean to seem.. overly particular. Difficult.
He wants to take the possibility of chicken off the menu, chicken tastes like stale air and lonely nights and a time lost over a decade ago. Fowl most foul, he could say. But something so specific, that might get him questions, no? He’d prefer questions about Japan be kept to a minimum. Is that another boundary he should consider laying out there?
He leans up from his drink. “Anything is fine.”
Fugo glares at him indignantly. “You’d rather starve than eat chicken parmesan.”
“Would the all mighty Fugo household dare prepare chicken parmesan in their kitchen?”
A pout. “Probably not, but you know what I mean. If there’s something you know you won’t like, I can tell the staff.”
Oh, a filter? Giorno could almost sigh with relief. He doesn’t though, he just amends himself. “Well, if it’s no problem.. I do find fowl most foul,” Fugo snorts. “But truly anything besides that, I don’t have problems with.”
Fugo raises his hands before sipping his Americano. “Alright, if you say so.”
Giorno smiles as he sips on his straw.
“I just want you to know that.. I’ll do my best to make sure my parents don’t give you any trouble.” Fugo starts, a bit pensive. “They can say whatever they want about me, to me, but if they even begin to start being weird I swear I’ll-” He hitches his breath, realizing the tight grip he has on his coffee cup and the loose one Giorno has over his clenched hand.
”Don’t worry about it, Panna, surely there’s only so much snark they can give to a guest in their home. I’m sure I’d be able to handle anything, if anything at all.”
“I guess- yeah, I just.. they’re a bit.. eh, you know? Coming out and dating a guy was one thing..” You could say that again. His mother almost cried out of desperation that it would just be a phase some years ago. His father pointedly left rooms they were the sole occupants of. Now some years later, there’s a solemn acceptance. It simply Is. Fugo thought it strange at first, that this was accepted and still not 8’s instead of 9’s and 10’s. He’s grateful for mercy in one aspect, however. He wouldn’t wish for worse. “I just don’t know if there’s some.. other ignorant shit.”
Giorno pauses, mentally signing off his paranoia as worthwhile it seems. “Don’t stress about things that haven’t happened yet.” He rolls his thumb over his boyfriend’s knuckles.
The frappe tastes a bit bitter in his mouth now. He has the tongue of a hypocrite.
—
The night of the dinner Giorno finally feels his anxiety is appropriate. He’s wearing his Sunday best, that is, a blue button up and black slacks, a bit too long for him but they will do him well to cover the sight of his Converse just a bit. He fastens his belt just a little tighter, so the weathered edge is hidden behind the belt loop.
He’s invested a lot of hours into his hair, roots touched up and braid neat, tight, fastened with a ribbon decorated with ladybugs.
Minimal makeup is applied. Light eyeliner and contour, just enough for imperfection to be a trick of the light.
Fugo had insisted on picking Giorno up, and while touched, Giorno knew directly in front of his house wasn’t an option, so he resolved to be picked up from two blocks down.
The chauffeur is already parked on the corner when Giorno walks up, an olive skinned man with a polite smile who opens the door to reveal the silver haired boy seated in the back. He’s dressed similarly, just swap blue for red and black for khaki. Giorno’s got half a mind to believe he’ll fit right in.
”You look handsome.”
“And you look pretty.”
They giggle, Fugo taking Giorno’s hand as he helps the blonde enter the backseat, holding his hand tight as Giorno buckles his seatbelt.
The teens hold each other tightly.
“Are you nervous?” Fugo asks.
Horrifically. “I’m alright. I am secure in us and I hope that your parents will see that I don't bite. Unless you’d like.”
Fugo gulps, subconsciously pulling his collar with his free hand. “Don’t tease me before this, Gio.”
Giorno has a shit eating grin on his face. “I just want you to relax as much as you can. We are going to be fine, I’m sure. Can’t have their first impression of me being someone with merit to worry about.”
“That.. makes sense, I guess.” Fugo runs his hand down his face. “Here goes.”
When they finally arrive at the Fugo estate, a password has to be punched in to get past the gates. The road to the pristine canopy of a main entrance has to circle around gardens, and Giorno’s not sure if it’s the dark that inclines him to believe so, but the flower bushes look more akin to topiary rather than kept free to grow. He can’t remember them well enough in daylight to think otherwise.
The chauffeur opens the door once more, and Giorno has to step out first to let Fugo follow suit.
“Grazie mille.” Giorno says with a smile.
“Prego.” Though the “p” sounds more like a “b.”
The teens still have their hands interlocked, their silhouettes getting consumed by the bright elaborate lights inside.
—
Fugo’s taking the lead now, to the main dining room. In the handful of times Giorno’s been here, he’s made a beeline to Fugo’s room, never anywhere else in the mansion particularly. On the way down the hall, some housekeeping staff are tidying up still, and when their gazes meet his, Giorno finds he’s staring at his own eyes an uncomfortable amount of times.
Centerpieces of their own dinner table are Mascarpone and Crostata Fugo, the Mr. and Mrs. of the Fugo household. The two sit in their lavish dining room. It’s huge, maybe bigger than Giorno’s bedroom, yet their presence threatens to make him small. Crostata rests her head on interlinked fingers, while Mascarpone seems to be trying to see right through Giorno, figure him out. The death stare must be genetic, he concludes. Not to worry, he won’t lose this battle before it starts. All glamour, all demure.
Crostata stands up from her seat, Mascarpone stays put.
“Benvenuto, Giorno, we’re so glad to have you here tonight.” She chimes. Giorno can see his boyfriend’s smile on her. She only steps a bit closer, prompting him to approach her himself.
“The pleasure is all mine, Signora Fugo.” Two air kisses on each cheek. Classy. Turning to the Sir, Mascarpone huffs and takes Giorno’s hand for a handshake with a grip that would make the metal cutlery sweat.
Fugo looks at the interaction wary. Fond that Giorno is as proper as ever, yet wary of his parents. He knows his father must be ice to the touch and there is no warmth behind his mother’s words. But he knows that he’s not alone in the evaluation, taking his seat at the table as Giorno loops back around to join him. There’s a reason he’s in love with this boy, after all.
The feeling’s mutual, they can’t get enough of each other. As soon as both are seated, fingers seek the other and their hands are together again, under the table.
“Tonight will feature a main course and a dessert made by our private chefs. Plenty of time to get to know you better.”
Giorno nods. “Agreed, what would you like to know first?”
“What’s your best school subject?” Mascarpone starts.
“Biology. Both my favorite and where I score the highest marks.”
“So you’re scientifically inclined?”
“I’d say so, I’d like to get into veterinary medicine after graduation.”
“He’s really into nature and animals,” Fugo adds. “He volunteers at an animal shelter every spring.” He smiles fondly at Giorno. The curly haired blonde flushes a little bit.
“A boy involved in his community, that looks great on CV’s. If you got good grades on your finals, you’re setting a good foundation for yourself. Have you already been looking at universities to apply to?”
“I had my eye on Università di Bologna’s Veterinary Medicine programme.”
Mascarpone raises an eyebrow. “It’s a highly selective school. You’re confident you will get in?”
“I’m confident I have a shot.”
“We’ve also been looking at Bologna for Pannacotta, but for the law school. I don’t suppose you’re aware of that?”
“I am, it was a funny coincidence. It’d be lovely to study on the same campus.”
“His father and I met at Cambridge. Faculty of Law. Close quarters does wonders in fostering connection.”
“Proximity principle.” Fugo notes out loud, a remnant of exams escaping him.
An ensemble of staff come in, a gradient in appearances. They hold several plates of frutti di mare, the signature wafting scent of home cooked food but with the presentation belonging to a Michelin star restaurant.
The sauce is rich and the herbs are evident, Giorno accepts his plate gratefully.
The interrogation conversation continues with Crostata. “Do you and your parents travel much?”
“No, not really. They..” couldn’t give two shits about me on a good day? “Are busy-bodies.”
“We have a lovely vineyard in Amalfi. You’ll have to see it for yourself someday.” Giorno thinks of the conditions of the grapes. Fugo thinks of the show of the villa the vineyard accompanies.
“God willing.”
“Pannacotta’s brothers are currently studying abroad, I’m sure you know. Panettone is in Geneva, and Pandoro is in Berlin, he flies back this weekend actually. We’ll likely get travel recommendations from them both come mid July when Panettone joins us.”
“Oh, were there no earlier flights for him?”
“Ah, school just ends later for him. It’s no matter.” Mascarpone’s face seems to grow tense at his wife’s explanation.
Fugo whispers to Giorno, “Panettone has a resit.”
Giorno musters the power to stifle his laugh.
“It’s much colder in those cities. They might get shocked when they get off the plane.” He jests.
“Better that than to hear one more second of complaining from the Swiss Alps.” Fugo tears his bite off his fork.
Giorno can’t scold his giggle this time, holding his hand over his mouth for some semblance of manners.
“There’s no harm in enriching oneself with nature.”
Both teens wish to laugh at that.
Two house staff come by to take away their dishes and replace cutlery, while others bring in the dessert: chocolate lava cake. (Giorno smiles, he’s sure Fugo had a hand to play in it.)
Giorno plays up his amusement, watching the chocolate ooze from a cut through the middle. Fugo smiles, not needing the theatrics but knowing the sincerity behind the sentiment.
There’s less pressure to talk right away with dessert, it serves as the chance for another staff member - a woman perhaps the parents’ age who dons monolids and straight black hair in a low ponytail - to refill everyone’s water.
Only, there is an accident. When she comes to serve the teens, she stumbles over herself and spills the water pitcher on Giorno’s side, soaking the tablecloth and his clothes. Fugo jumps in surprise, Giorno just shudders with a hitch of his breath.
Crostata dramatically gasps in horror. “You’ll have to forgive her, this is unacceptable for our household–”
“It’s just water, it’s fine-” He turns to the now frantic woman, trembling with the pitcher still in her hands.
There’s clear remorse in her eyes, in her tone of voice, but it’s also clear she can’t find the right Italian words as a “gomenasai” tries to escape her lips, likely out of instinct. It dies on the last syllable.
The recognition feels like a stab in the heart, muddying Fugo’s words of concern. Giorno tries to hold a smile, pained with his display of callousness.
“This is so unbecoming, at least it wasn’t the Senator–”
In the face of that, well.. here goes nothing.
“Daijoubu deshou.” Assurance it’s okay. She grows relieved.
He smiles, genuine this time. “Let me help.” He says as he gathers the sullied napkins and putting cutlery to the side to airdry.
Fugo feels pride, never unamazed by Giorno’s heart. Crostata and Mascarpone.. They had half a mind to believe Giorno started speaking in tongues.
He tugs at his clothes for them to unstick from his body just a bit.
The woman smiles at him, less pensive. “Arigatogosaimasu.” Thank you.
“..Do itashimashite.” You’re welcome.
He feels embarrassed, aware at how unpracticed he sounds. But the woman’s gratitude doesn’t falter, nodding her head as she exits the dining room. He wipes his face with the side of his hand, slightly miffed to see his eyeliner smudging off with it.
Crostata holds up her finger, pointing at him then the exit the staff member took. “You are..?”
Here we go. “I am of Japanese descent, yes.”
Mascarpone drops his shoulders. ”I knew you seemed one of them but I couldn’t pin which type.” Oh boy.
“I must say, your Italian is so nice and clear.” Crostata chimes.
His eyebrow twitches only slightly, unsuspecting to all but Pannacotta who feels his heart drop out of his chest.
“Thank you. I’d hope so, given I’ve lived here for almost my whole life.”
“Almost, so you were born in Japan, not just descended?”
”Yes sir.”
“But your name is Giorno?”
“Father–” Giorno squeezes Fugo’s hand.
“..It wasn’t at birth.”
“So you are lying about your name?” Mascarpone’s accusation makes Fugo focus on his jawbone. Fugo imagines yanking Giorno away, one hand’s knuckles split, the other’s white from his grip.
“I’m not lying when I say my name is ‘Giorno.’” The boy’s growing tired of this. He has similar fantasies.
Intercepting a budding argument, Crostata asks, ”What brought you to Italy then?”
“Well, my mother got married to an Italian man and so we moved here for him.”
“Uh huh,” Crostata nods, “So she's on residency at least, no?”
“We’ve been naturalized for the past nearly 10 years.”
”Good for you both then. Too many don’t come here the right way. Wouldn’t be able to study without a CIE.” Mascarpone notes.
Fugo glances at Giorno, his expression is still steeled.
“But of course, we don’t hold anything against those who don’t,” Crostata nervously chuckles, schooling herself back into a composed posture. “I’m sure you can tell based on our lovely staff.”
That prompts Fugo to choke on his bite, before raising his voice behind gritted teeth, “Mother, quit it.”
“What, Pannacotta, it’s a compliment! His people are great as the help. Like that, what’s her name, Ms. Canto? She’s like you too, I believe. Remarkable work.”
“...Marie Kondo is Japanese, yes.”
“Bologna’s terribly competitive. It’s good to know your options.”
“I’m sorry–?” Giorno’s just about worn thin, blinking incredulously.
“Don’t get your hopes up. Look into ways to work your way to Medicine, even.”
“You don’t know a thing about how smart Giorno is–”
“I’m pragmatic, figlio. I was an admissions officer before taking over the firm. The odds are slim.”
“But they aren’t none.” There’s a fire in Giorno’s eyes, and it’s fighting not to be put out.
It doesn’t help him in dropping his shoulders, frustrated. “...My dessert was unfortunately soaked as well. It’s been a pleasure attending, though I’d like to head home now.”
Fugo feels as though the wind has been knocked out of him. “I’ll arrange for that—” the silver haired teen fumbles for his phone.
“It’s for the best.” Mascarpone allows.
Giorno stands up, tucking his chair under the table, quick to make his exit.
Fugo rapidly types, paging the chauffeur, before he wipes his mouth and throws his napkin down. “You’re as awful as ever.” He spits, adding more for his parents to digest as he speedwalks after Giorno.
—
Giorno stands outside, holding a flower in a bush between his fingers. It’s a beautiful thing, a pink lilac. It matches the mesh of his ribbon.
He sighs, letting it waver just a bit. Just enough so he’ll last till he gets home.
A familiar voice calls out from behind. “Giogio, I’m sorry about-”
“Don’t apologize for them. I don’t expect them to know better.” He turns to face Fugo, letting go of the flower.
“Still, I do so-”
“No, no you don’t.”
Fugo looks flabbergasted. “Giorno, the fuck do you mean I don’t?”
“You don’t and can’t know what this is like, the switch-up for being different.”
”So do you think I’m fucking racist?” The word tears Fugo’s vocal chords, chest heaving as his hands fall to his sides. “I’m that low now, huh?” The chauffeur pulls up, on the side of the bush.
Giorno scoffs in his standstill, shaking his head slowly in disbelief. “You wouldn’t get it.”
Hurried steps and yells of frustration harmonize, silenced with a closed car door and encored with a running motor.
—
The TV is on when he gets home, his eagerness to go to his room fading as he goes up the stairs with the lightest pressure possible. Out of sight, out of mind. He’s not confident in his mental fortitude at the moment, not enough to gamble with his stepfather’s mood.
He almost jumps out of skin when he finds his mom folding his laundry in his room. It’s such a rarity, Giorno wonders if he’s dying tonight.
Haruka pauses to turn to him. “It’s polite to say ‘hi’ and ‘thank you’ to your mother, Haruno.”
“..Yes, hi and, thank you, mama.”
“You’re welcome. No wonder you get under your stepfather’s skin, with manners like that.”
He was correct on his headspace assessment, because he furrows his eyebrows and asks, “Why do you let him hurt me?”
“Oh, don’t be like that, it’s normal.” She rolls her eyes at him, continuing to fold the shirt she has in her hands.
“Even in Japan?” Giorno adds.
“Even in Japan.”
“Were you-?”
“You’re awfully dim witted. It’s really simple, Haruno. If you’re disciplined over something, don’t do it again.”
He wets his lips, digesting.
“Do you agree with everything he hits me for?”
“He probably has his reasons. It’s not my place.”
Giorno shakes his head. “My God, you’ve never done one thing for me.”
“Hey, I didn’t have a problem with you switching to pants instead of the skirt!” Haruka raises her hands defensively. “At least you wouldn’t look like a prostitute. That one’s worse, you know, in Japan. I hated the skirts, ugly navy things,” she shudders, dropping them. “I might’ve made you ditch it myself.”
“I didn’t fit in the skirt anymore anyways.”
“Exactly. You need to look pretty, not whorish.”
“Are you happy here?” Haruka stares at him quizzically, prompting a continuation. “Part time housewife, part time hostess, part time party goer. Is this what you thought Italy would be like?”
Haruka pats the pile of folded clothes, humming through her thoughts. “I wanted to be with my husband. My husband lived in Italy. And if you were going to be anywhere, better Italy than Japan. Too many sickos, too much pressure, too much.. Too much.” She waves her hand. He’s almost touched.
“I miss the festivals, the matsuris. Don’t miss getting stalked in the crowds. Here, I can take away what I like from there, and still live in a better environment. You still like Japan, I’ve seen the pocky boxes in your bag.”
“You’ve gone through my bag?” Giorno accuses.
“I’m your mother, it’s mine too.” She scoffs, as if it were as obvious as the sky’s being blue.
“You won’t grant me that bit of privacy?” He lacks bite in those words now.
“Privacy is a Western concept. So no. Putting away your laundry is a universal one, go sort it out.” She dismisses herself with that, and Giorno’s room swallows him whole.
—
Fugo paces his room like a hunting animal, hands tangling in his hair, smoothing over his face.
Fuck does he mean, “I don’t know better?” He told me he could handle it, he stopped me from handling it, the fuck does he want then!
I’ve never dropped below a 9 in History. Perfect scores! World War II units were child’s play, if he cares about that. He knows this, he knows what I know, what the fuck am I missing?
He comes to sit on the edge of his bed, room suddenly too big and ceiling too high.
Of course I know better. Why in the ever loving fuck would I think he couldn’t get into a university for being Japanese? Think he had to have been fresh off the boat?
What more does he WANT?
The boy falls back flat on his back, hands covering his eyes as he lets out his frustration through his yells.
He deflates. Does he have his logical brain back? He wonders if he can see the line now.
…Let’s see.
He’s mad at Giorno because he couldn’t help him and was accused of being lesser than his parents. He calls bullshit.
Giorno’s mad at him because he can’t understand the feelings. Can he call bullshit on that?
Has he ever tried to understand?
That’s a pill to swallow.
Though it’s never been a point of conversation, his heritage. Maybe pointedly. It’s been fleeting moments, introductory “get to know you’s,” why his hair takes almost three boxes of bleach to get just right each time and even more mousse, the pocky and the seaweed chips, wasabi peas and Ramune.
Maybe the problem was never him. Hell, maybe not even his parents, it was the rhetoric, how that felt. Rage spreads across his skin like bubbling welts, a virus only seeking to destroy. Giorno may not know that feeling, it may not be learnable. So then, this becomes about the feelings that only Giorno holds and knows. Fugo can know every last detail of wartimes and dynasties, but can he learn what it’s like to buy a 1.99 euro box of pocky and feel at home?
He sits up.
He goes to his desk and opens up his laptop.
—
He hasn’t checked his phone all morning. Notifications have been silenced the whole journey to the Asian grocery store. It’s arduous, each step towards the storefront feeling like a trudge through mud. But if he can be honest with himself, there’s nothing he wants more right now than a familiar comfort.
He peers at a pair of girls: strawberry blondes, white blouses, jean shorts. He could swear they came from the same factory. Their porcelain is manufactured, his is built.
One of them has her phone out, swiping through videos he can’t make out from his distance. The other is browsing the inventory, sneering a bit at products she must not be familiar with. He can’t help but think to himself, why are you here?
Why do you get to be here?
He has his hand on wasabi peas, when he hears an “aha!” Seems they’ve found what they’re looking for. Sakura Kitkats, he observes. Konjac jelly follows.
His hand leaves the wasabi peas. As the girls make their purchase and walk out, he swipes konjac jelly with the tips of his fingers, gaze ice cold as he approaches the cash register himself.
The puzzled look on the cashier’s face reminds him he’s short on balance. He flashes his usual smile and takes out his wallet. As soon as the machine makes its ding sound, he’s walking away, lips flat.
It’s odd, he’s gotten so used to having these snacks during school lunch, that he finds himself sitting at the same spot, even though it’s been two weeks out of school. It’s the 7th day of the 7th month. There should be meaning in that, he feels, besides the artistry of it. The taste of something from long ago that he can’t quite pin point. He’s not eager to unpack it, twisting off the jelly pouch’s cap and sucking.
It’s helpful to pass the time. Idle stimuli. He can zone out like this, decompress.
Not for long though, if the boy stepping on leaves and shuffling with a plastic bag beside him has a say in it.
“Hey.” Giorno’s eyes shoot up, green on red.
He lets go of the jelly. “...Hi.”
“I got worried,” Fugo kneels beside him. “You haven’t replied to me since last night.”
“...You’re correct. I’m sorry about that. And for.. What I said too.”
“It’s okay. You were.. Not wrong.”
Giorno tilts his head, confused.
“I’ll say you were completely wrong about the.. Merit part, I do know better than to say anything my parents did. Glad you didn’t mean that. But for the other part..”
He sighs, running his hand through his hair.
“Yeah, I don’t get it. What you felt last night, and I don’t like.. not knowing things.” His hands fall to his lap as he bites his lip.
“I know what snacks you like from the store. It’s one thing, something about you, then I know about..” he fidgets with his hands. “Executive Order 9066, I know about William Petersen’s ‘Model Minority’ myth, these historical things. I know what slurs to scorn and yell against but I realize we haven’t really.. talked about your heritage. I never asked, and last night I didn’t want to listen, I made it about me. I’m.. sorry, Giogio.”
The boy in reference is almost stunned, nodding. Fugo takes his hand, as he continues.
“I don’t think.. I can ever fully understand. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to try. I want to listen to all you have to say and feel, just so you can get it out, if nothing else. I want to know all that I can, all that matters.”
Giorno drops the pouch, so he can hold Fugo’s hand with both.
“Thank you.” He whispers, rubbing his thumb over his boyfriend’s pale knuckles idly.
“It’s.. hard. I love my culture, but I always felt there was no space for it here. It’s easier to not mention, I can get away with it enough. Especially with my blonde hair now.”
“Do you do it to look.. More ‘Italian?’”
“Maybe at first I did. But I do like it, it’s fun. It’s pretty. It’s like playing with a Barbie doll, except it’s me.”
“Black hair or blonde, it’s always been pretty to me. You’re not some plastic doll, though.”
“I’m aware. I’m a Barbie doll who’s going to go to Bologna with his Ken.”
Fugo chuckles, flush already creeping up on him. “The whole thing about the Barbie franchise is that anyone can do anything. No matter the look.”
“This is factual.”
“You’ve seen the movie right? They lean into it.”
“Sure yes, it definitely took some time but this is also true.”
“Which leads me to ask.. Did you ever celebrate any festivals back in Japan?”
“Mm. Maybe two or three. I was quite young, and.. my mother only had so much time to spare. I would’ve liked a fuller memory of it.” The most he can think of is a festival he attended with his mother and now stepfather, when he was new to their dynamic. It was a crime of opportunity to Haruka, show the cute kid, pander to orientalism, and bag that man.
“Do you know what today is?”
He still can’t answer that, if there’s an answer, so he shakes his head.
“On the 7th day of the 7th.. Well, lunar month, but also the Gregorian month, it’s Tanabata festival.”
Giorno is quick to snap his fingers. “I knew something was special about today. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember.”
Fugo digs through the plastic bag he’d dropped with his free hand, taking out a box of pocky. Chocolate.
Giorno raises his eyebrow, smirking. “What do you have there?”
The red eyed boy has to resolve himself a bit more. Be cool!
“Er.. according to the legend, the weaver and cowherd meet on the Milky Way and are separated by the weaver’s father. Moved by the weaver’s sorrow, he lets a bridge of magpies reunite them on the 7th day-”
“Of the seventh month.” Giorno finishes, said in tandem. His mischievous smirk bleeds into genuine awe, admiration, watching Fugo open the box and take out a stick.
“Now we’re not separated by half a million stars or anything, you just need to take half a step to me, and I’ll take half of one to you. Maybe between the two of us, I have the more controlling father, but if you’ve the weaver’s grief, I’ll share it with you.”
Giorno’s eyes grow glassy, and all else grows forgotten. Fugo angles the covered end of the stick towards him and when Giorno places it in his mouth together they cross the Milky Way.
As they meet, there’s no magpies to bring them together, only half steps that have Vega and Altair reunited.
— + —
At night, Giorno finds his mother in the kitchen again. She’s stirring a mug of tea, the clinking of her spoon harmonizing with the warbling of the kitchen light.
“Okaasan.” He adds another sound to the mix.
“If I get you the ingredients, could you make okonomiyaki?” The clinking pauses.
The warbling of the light is singing alone now.
“If I can remember how.” Haruka finally replies. It’s not satisfactory yet.
“…Matteo’s seeing coworkers Wednesday night.” She clinks the spoon on the top of her mug, putting it in the sink after, and turning to meet Giorno’s gaze. His face grows no new creases, but his surprise is still audible.
There’s a mutual understanding there, probably the first one in many years.
It’s the first thing shared at all between the two of them since leaving Japan. Giorno can hardly believe the words left his mouth, and that he was met with a positive response no less. Understanding as he may be, he will probably never forgive her for his life thus far.
Though sometimes, a boy needs his mother.
Sometimes a boy needs to remember home.
— + —