Shit.
I'm impressed and terrified at the same time.
Gio feels. Like, properly feels.
Real things. Deep things.
Messy things he clearly doesn't show anyone. For the first time, I'm seeing a side of him that isn't performative or pre-loaded for shock value.
This isn't a show. This is him. Proof that he's just a person who got cracked in the wrong places and learned to scream instead of cry.
And I feel kind of awful, honestly, because I realize I've done it too. I treat him like he's "broken." Like he can't possibly get hurt because he's always the one doing the damage.
I know he's had it rough after everything with his dad. I know more than he thinks I know.
I know what happens to someone when the person who is supposed to love them unconditionally dies and leaves behind more chaos than comfort.
Do I ask? Is this the moment?
I don't know if it's the right time. I don't know if there is a right time with him. He's like a door that never fully opens, and right now it's cracked just enough for me to see inside.
He trusts me with that. And we're alone.
No audience to perform for.
I don't know if I'll ever get another chance to learn him like this.
Without yelling, without sarcasm, without us barking at each other like a dog and a cat locked in the same room.
I'm scared to ask. Scared he'll shut down. Scared I'll touch a wound that still bleeds. But I'm also scared of not asking.
Because for the first time, I actually want to know who Gio is when he's not being "Gio Fontana, problem child of the universe."
"...Gio?"
He turns his head slowly. I meet his eyes.
"What happened to your dad?"
He doesn't answer right away. His jaw tightens first. Then his shoulders. He looks away, nodding to himself like he's expecting it. Like maybe he's surprised it took me this long.
"He killed himself."
Oh.
My chest pulls tight.
Gio stares at the ground now, both hands on the edge of the rooftop, gripping it.
"Many years ago," he says. "Took a walk. Never came back. They found him... at the base of a building... four towns over."
He laughs. "No note. Not even a goddamn text. Just gone."
My fingers tighten around the bottle in my hand.
How many times did he say this out loud to sound that calm?
How many times did he cry before he got to this version, where the words come out so clean?
