copium den

You put your fork down. You look at the woman. She's mid-sentence when you say, pleasantly but with zero softness underneath it

"He's with me."

She stops. Blinks.

"Sorry?"

"He's with me," you say again, same tone, like you're just providing information, like it's very simple, because it is very simple. You pick your fork back up and look at Bruno. "Do you want to order dessert or should we just get the check?"

Bruno is looking at you with an expression that is doing several things at once. Somewhere in it is something that looks like it wants to smile.

The woman looks between you both and her expression goes through a small journey.

"I didn't realize—" she starts.

"It's fine," you say, and you mean it, you're not angry at her specifically, you're just clear. "Have a good night."

And you look back at Bruno like she's already gone, because as far as you're concerned she is.

She leaves.

Bruno is quiet for a moment.

"That was very direct," he says.

"Was it too much?"

"No," he says. Then, with a quieter voice "No, it wasn't too much."

You look at him across the table. "Good. Dessert?"

"Dessert," he agrees, and when he smiles this time he lets you see the whole thing.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧୨

LEONE ABBACCHIO.

You come back from the bathroom and see it immediately. Woman next to Abbacchio at the bar, too close, talking too much, and Abbacchio with that specific stillness he gets when he's deciding between being rude and being patient and patience is losing

You walk straight up to him and you put your hand on his jaw and you turn his face toward you and you kiss him, not a peck, an actual kiss.

Abbacchio makes a surprised sound that dies immediately because his hand comes up to your waist and he kisses you back because of course he does.

You pull back and look at him for a second and then look at the woman with the most unbothered expression you've ever worn.

"Hey," you say to her. "He's taken."

She stares.

"Like very taken," you add, because you're already here, you might as well be thorough.

Abbacchio beside you makes a sound that is not quite a laugh but is related to one.

The woman picks up her drink and relocates without another word.

You turn back to Abbacchio and he's looking at you with an expression you've never seen on him before something cracked open and bright that he usually keeps behind six layers of armor and his hand is still on your waist.

"Very taken?" he repeats.

"Extremely," you say.

He looks at you for another moment and then pulls you onto the barstool next to him by the waist and signals the bartender for another round and says nothing else about it.

But his hand doesn't move from your waist for the rest of the night. Not once.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧

PANNACOTTA FUGO.

You arrive at the library table to find someone has taken your seat. Not just any seat your specific seat, the one next to Fugo, the one that is yours in the way things become yours through repetition and habit and the fact that Fugo always saves it without being asked.

A girl is in it. She's leaning toward him over their books and Fugo is explaining something with his hands the way he does when he's really into it, and he hasn't noticed yet that her interest is not entirely academic.

You notice.

You walk up to the table and look at your seat and look at her and say, very nicely

"That's my seat."

She looks up. "Oh.., I didn't see anyone—"

"I was in the bathroom," you say. Still nice. Still clear. "That's my seat and that's my boyfriend."

The second part lands separately from the first. Intentionally.

Fugo's head comes up sharply and he looks at you with wide eyes and you look back at him with an expression that says we can discuss the boyfriend thing later, right now I need you to not say anything weird.

He closes his mouth.

The girl gathers her things with a slightly pink face and moves to another table and you sit down in your rightful seat and open your notes like nothing happened.

Fugo stares at you.

"Boyfriend," he says.

"Too far?" you ask, looking at your notes.

"No," he says immediately. Then, like he's recalibrating "No, I just you said it very easily."

"Because I meant it," you say simply.

Fugo is quiet for a long moment. You can feel him looking at you. Then he looks back at his books and adjusts his glasses and says, extremely casually for someone whose ears have gone completely red

"Okay."

"Okay," you agree.

He scoots his chair approximately two inches closer to yours and neither of you comments on it

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧୨

NARANCIA GHIRGA.

Narancia has been talking to this guy for ten minutes and has absolutely no idea the guy is flirting with him. You do. You've known for eight of those ten minutes and you've been waiting to see if Narancia picks up on it.

He doesn't pick up on it.

He's telling the guy about a fruit stall with complete sincerity and the guy is nodding along and looking at Narancia the way you look at Narancia which is something only you are supposed to do.

You appear at Narancia's side and you don't do subtle.

You put your arm around his waist and look at the guy and say clearly, conversationally, with a smile that doesn't reach your eyes at all:

"Hey, are you flirting with my boyfriend?"

Narancia's head whips toward you. "What??"

"Are you?" you ask the guy, Direct.

The guy opens his mouth and closes it.

"Because he didn't notice," you continue, looking at Narancia with something fond and pointed, "obviously, because he never notices, but I noticed, so."

"I-he was just talking about the fruit—" the guy starts.

"He talks about fruit with everyone," you say. "He's friendly. That's not an invitation." You look at him steadily. "This is me telling you directly since apparently someone needed to."

The guy leaves.

Narancia stares at you. "Was he actually—"

"Yes Narancia."

"For real??"

"For real."

He looks at where the guy went and then back at you processing this and then his whole face scrunches up.

"Why would he—"

"Narancia." You take his hand. "Oranges. How many are we getting."

He looks at your hand in his and the confusion on his face does something softer.

"Eight," he says, slightly quieter than before.

"Eight," you agree, and pull him toward the stall, and he lets you, and after a second he swings your joined hands once like a little kid and you pretend not to notice how much you love him

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧୨

GUIDO MISTA.

The girl has been at it for a while and is being very deliberate, touching his arm, laughing at everything, maneuvering the conversation so it keeps going and Mista is being friendly back and sometimes doesn't clock the difference until it's been going on too long.

Sex Pistols clock it though. They've been agitated for ten minutes and No. 5 keeps looking over at you with an expression that says any time now.

You finish your drink.

You walk over and you don't build up to it. You step right into the space next to Mista and you look at the girl and say, pleasantly and without any preamble whatsoever

"He's mine."

The girl blinks. Mista blinks.

"Sorry?" she says.

"He's mine," you say again, with the comfortable ease of someone stating a fact they've known for a long time. You look at Mista briefly. He's looking at you with his mouth slightly open and something stunned and delighted behind his eyes. You look back at her. "I'm not trying to be mean about it, I just figured someone should say it clearly since we've all been standing around it for a while."

She stares for a moment.

"I — okay," she says, and picks up her drink and leaves because what else do you say to that.

Mista turns to you fully and he has the expression of someone trying to decide if they're dreaming.

"He's mine," he repeats, in your voice, like he's replaying it.

"Problem?"

"No," he says, and the grin that breaks across his face is huge and real and slightly ridiculous. "No that was.. "yeah. Yeah, okay." He laughs. "He's mine, they just walks over and say—" he's laughing properly now, delighted, and he pulls you in by the back of your neck and kisses your temple loud and smacking the way Mista does everything. "You're insane."

"You're welcome," you say.

Sex Pistols are absolutely celebrating. All six of them. Mista tells them to stop and they don't and for once he doesn't really try that hard to make them

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧୨

GIORNO GIOVANNA.

The fundraising event is exactly the kind of environment Giorno moves through like he was born for it and he was, in a way, or at least he made himself someone who belongs in rooms like this through sheer force of will. Marble floors, chandelier light, people in expensive clothing having conversations that are really negotiations. Giorno in a white suit that fits like it was sewn onto him specifically, champagne in hand, talking to a woman who found him approximately eight minutes ago and has been very deliberately not leaving since.

She's beautiful and she knows it and she's using it with the calculated ease of someone who has done this before. Standing close. Laughing at the exact right moments. Touching his arm once, light and practiced. Asking him questions about himself in a way that sounds like genuine interest and probably isn't.

Giorno is being perfectly polite and perfectly unreadable, which means he's giving her nothing but she hasn't figured that out yet.

You've been watching from across the room for about four minutes.

Not with jealousy exactly , you know Giorno, you know what his genuine warmth looks like versus his social performance, and what she's getting is firmly the latter. But there is something in you that decides quite calmly that you've watched long enough, not because you're threatened but because Giorno in a room full of people performing is Giorno at his most isolated and you'd simply rather he wasn't.

You cross the room with your own champagne and when you reach him you don't look at her first. You look at him. Just him. And you smile the particular smile that you have for him specifically, the one that isn't for rooms or occasions, and you say his name like it's just a conversation you're continuing.

The shift in him is immediate and real something in his eyes that wasn't there a moment ago, the performance dropping half an inch to show something genuine underneath and he turns toward you with the ease of someone turning toward something familiar and wanted.

"There you are," you say, warm and unbothered, and then you look at the woman like you've just noticed her, which you haven't, and you smile with every bit of the social grace Giorno has taught you by proximity. "I'm sorry, I hope I'm not interrupting."

Your tone says you hope nothing of the sort.

She introduces herself with a smile that is now slightly less certain.

"I know," you say, which you don't, but it implies you've heard of her, which implies Giorno mentioned her, which implies you two have had conversations that she is not part of and never will be. You take Giorno's free hand while she's processing this, easy and natural, and feel his fingers close around yours without hesitation.

"You don't mind if I steal him back?" you say. Not a question. The grammar of a question, but it was of a statement.

She minds. She doesn't say so.

On the way to the other side of the room Giorno looks at you with something that is not quite amusement but lives near it.

"You didn't have to do that," he says.

"I know," you say, which you're making your word of the evening apparently.

His thumb traces across your knuckles once.

"Thank you," he says quietly, and you know he doesn't mean for the territorial display. You know he means for coming to find him. For the smile that was just for him in the middle of a room full of performances.

You were sitting on the edge of your bedroll, back against a tree trunk, hands in your lap. The fire had burned low hours ago. You'd thought he was asleep.

You'd thought wrong.

Your thumb had been working at the skin beside your nail picking, peeling, a small sharp sting that bloomed warm and focused. One minute you were thinking about what you'd said earlier, how you'd snapped at Gyro over something stupid, how his face had fallen just a little. Your fault. All of it. And the next minute your thumb was bleeding and you barely remembered doing it.

"I do that too."

Johnny's voice was low, almost a mumble. You startled hard enough that your back lifted off the tree trunk.

He wasn't looking directly at you. His gaze was fixed on his own hands, resting on his thighs. In the dim light, you could see the ragged edges of his own nails, the small healed-over scabs around his cuticles.

"Not the same thing," he added, quieter. "But. Kind of."

You wanted to say something deny it, shove your hands under the blanket, laugh it off. But your throat was tight and your eyes were burning and you were so, so tired of lying.

Johnny shifted on his bedroll. He didn't move toward you. He just turned his head a fraction, enough that you could see the line of his jaw.

"You don't gotta hide it," he said. "Not from me."

A sob cracked out of you before you could stop it. You pressed your palm over your mouth, the fresh scrape on your knuckle stinging against your lip. The tears came stupid and hot, and you hated them, hated yourself for crying over something so small when you were the one who'd made everything worse

"Hey."

Johnny's voice again. Steady. Almost bored-sounding, but there was something underneath it. Something careful.

"You wanna tell me what happened? Or you want me to just sit here?"

You shook your head. Then nodded. Then shook your head again. You didn't know what you wanted.

"Okay," Johnny said. "Then I'll just sit here."

And he did.

He didn't reach for you. Didn't ask you to stop crying or to show him your hands or to promise you wouldn't do it again. He just sat there in the dark, his own damaged hands resting in his lap, and let you fall apart without once looking away.

After a long time minutes or an hour, you couldn't tell your breathing started to slow. Your hands had curled into loose fists against your knees. The sting in your thumb had faded to a dull throb.

"I'm sorry," you whispered.

Johnny tilted his head. "For what?"

"All of it. Everything. I keep-" Your voice broke. "I ruin things. I ruin everything."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he pulled off one of his gloves you heard the soft tug of fabric and held up his bare hand. In the darkness, you could see the scarred knuckles, the uneven skin around his nails.

"You think I don't know what it's like to blame yourself for something that wasn't your fault?" he said. "I spent years doing that. Still do, some days."

"That's different-"

"Is it?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Johnny let his hand drop back to his lap. "I'm not gonna tell you to stop. That's not how it works. But I am gonna tell you that you don't have to do it alone. And I'm gonna keep telling you that until you believe it."

He looked at you his pale eyes catching the last ember-glow from the fire.

"Now come here. You're gonna freeze sitting up like that."

You hesitated. Then, slowly, you crawled over to his bedroll. He didn't wrap his arms around you—that wasn't Johnny's way. But he did let you lean against his shoulder, and after a second, his bare hand came to rest on top of yours, covering the small wound on your thumb.

"Try to sleep," he said. "I'll wake you before sunrise."

You closed your eyes. The guilt was still there, heavy and clawing. But underneath it, just barely, was the steady warmth of Johnny's hand over yours.

Tomorrow would be hard. Tomorrow you might do it again. But right now, just for this moment, you weren't alone.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧୨

Gyro Zeppeli

He always noticed, That was the problem. Or maybe it wasn't a problem at all.maybe it was the only reason you were still sitting here instead of bolting into the dark like every nerve in your body was screaming at you to do.

He'd caught you by the wrist about twenty minutes ago. His thumb resting over your pulse point, where your heart was trying to hammer its way out of your chest.

"Let me see," he'd said.

You'd shaken your head. Tried to pull away. But Gyro had this way of being immovable without being cruel like a tree you could lean on whether you wanted to or not.

Now you were sitting on a fallen log at the edge of camp, and Gyro was kneeling in front of you with your hands in his. The lantern light caught the mess you'd made of your forearm. Not cuts, exactly. Scratches. Long, angry red lines where you'd dug your nails in over and over during the breakdown an hour ago. You'd been crying so hard you barely remembered doing it. Just the feeling of needing to feel something else. Something sharper. Something that made sense.

Gyro was very quiet.

That scared you more than if he'd yelled.

"I'm sorry," you said. Your voice came out wrecked. "I know it's...I know this is ridiculous. I just I couldn't-"

"Stop."

His voice was low but not sharp. He lifted his head and looked at you, and his eyes were dark and serious in a way you almost never saw. Gyro was usually the loud one. The joke-teller, the one who sang off-key while he rode, the one who made you roll your eyes so hard you forgot what you'd been worrying about.

This Gyro was different.

"You don't apologize to me for hurting," he said. "Ever. You understand?"

You bit your lip so hard you tasted copper.

His thumb traced the edge of one of the scratches not touching the wound itself, just the air above it. "Does this happen often?"

You wanted to lie. The lie was right there on your tongue, easy and familiar, No. This was a one-time thing. I'm fine.

But Gyro was looking at you like he already knew the answer.

"...Sometimes," you whispered. "More when I'm alone. Or when I think I've done something wrong."

"And tonight?"

Tonight you'd forgotten to pack the medical kit. Not the big one just the small pouch with the disinfectant and bandages. Gyro had taken a bad fall earlier, nothing broken but a nasty gash on his palm, and when he'd asked for the kit and you'd realized it was back at the last town, the look on his face had cracked something open in your chest.

Your fault, Careless and Stupid. You couldn't take care of anything. You couldn't even

"Hey." Gyro's voice pulled you back. "You're doing it again. The thing where you go somewhere far away and your face gets all crumpled."

"I'm not crumpled.."

"Very crumpled." He released one of your hands and reached up to tap your cheek with one finger. "Like a sad, wrinkled apple."

A laugh tried to escape your throat. It came out more like a choked sob.

Gyro's expression softened. He set his hands on your knees gentle, grounding pressure.

"Listen to me," he said. "That kit? It doesn't matter. The cut on my hand is nothing. I've had worse from trying to open a jar of pickles."

"You don't even like pickles."

"I might start liking them just to prove a point." His thumb rubbed small circles against your knee. "What I'm trying to say is you didn't do anything wrong. You forgot something. People forget things. It doesn't mean you're bad. It doesn't mean you deserve to hurt yourself."

Your vision blurred. "You don't understand. It's not just the kit. It's everything. I always-"

"Let me stop you there." Gyro leaned forward so his face was closer to yours. "I'm not going to argue with you about whether you're 'good enough' or whatever story your brain is telling you right now. That's a fight you'd win because you've been practicing it for years, and I just got here."

He paused.

"What I am going to do is sit here with you until your heart stops trying to escape through your ribs. And then I'm going to clean these up." He nodded toward your arm. "And then I'm going to make you eat something, because you haven't eaten all day and I can tell."

"I'm not hungry."

"Doesn't matter." He stood up slowly, his knees popping. "Hunger isn't a suggestion.. That's a phrase I learned from a very smart book that I definitely read all the way through."

Despite everything the shame, the exhaustion, the voice in your head still whispering your fault, your fault, your fault you felt the corner of your mouth twitch.

"There," Gyro said. "Almost a smile. We're making progress."

He disappeared for a minute and came back with water, a clean cloth, and a small jar of salve that smelled like herbs. He knelt in front of you again and took your arm with the same careful attention he might give a wounded horse.

"You can talk," he said as he worked, dabbing gently at the scratches. "Or you can be quiet. Either way, I'm not going anywhere."

You watched his hands Capable hands. The gash on his palm was still raw and unbandaged, and you felt a fresh wave of guilt.

"You should do yours first-"

"Yours first," he interrupted without looking up. "Mine can wait. I have a very high pain tolerance. It's part of my charm."

"You're impossible."

"Impossibly handsome, yes. I've been told."

The salve stung a little, but in a clean way. The kind of sting that meant healing instead of hiding. When he was done, he wrapped a strip of clean cloth around your forearm not tight, just enough to cover the marks.

"There," he said quietly. "Now you're officially under doctor's orders."

"Gyro-"

"No buts. Doctor's orders are final. They're like... royal decrees, but with more medical accuracy."

He sat back on his heels and looked up at you, and for once there was no joke hiding behind his eyes. Just something warm and steady and unbearably patient.

"I'm not going to fix you," he said. " But I am going to remind you, every single time, that you don't have to earn the right to be taken care of. You just get to have it. Okay?"

Your throat was too tight to speak. You nodded.

Gyro smiled and bumped his shoulder against your knee.

"Okay," he said. "Now let's go find something to eat. I think I saw some hardtack in the saddlebags that's only slightly more edible than shoe leather."

He held out his hand. The uninjured one.