[He came to the masquerade for himself. Not for anyone else. Not to adhere to a certain standard, or look a certain way, or maintain his dignity. Not to be on guard, or in fact to give a damn about anything. He's dressed in black and gold because it feels right, night and day twined together and inseparable; and because he feels lithe and dangerous in it, which in turn feels incredibly safe.]
[The soft magic of the music, the faint taste of wine on his lips, the pleasant warmth that comes from physical activity on a cold night — they lead him back to Fugo's side after a while, Fugo at the edges of the crowd, pressed against the wall, despite the fact that they match. Fugo in black and silver, angles and edges as usual, looking faintly uncomfortable, but not as much so as Giorno expected. Maybe it's the music. Maybe Fugo has been watching him, just like Zelda was.]
[He's in arms' reach, and then he's reaching up to brush his fingers through Fugo's bangs, neatening them up. Fixing his tie, even though it doesn't need it. A little too close. Maybe a lot too close. But he's happy, glowing with warmth in a way he so rarely does these days.]
Are you having a good time? [He purses his lips, then offers a slight sideways grin as he amends,] Are you having a decent time?
[He didn't want to come. That is the simple, honest truth. Fugo has little interest in formal parties and even less interest in Bonds. But when Giorno asked him about it-- or, well, started making plans with the underlying assumption that Fugo would be there with him-- he didn't think twice about agreeing to go. This masquerade is the first thing Giorno has shown genuine interest and excitement about since he arrived; that alone makes going worth it, even if the masquerade itself is just a passing distraction from the deeper problems the city faces.
So, here he is. In some black and silver suit that Giorno had him measured and fitted for him; that Giorno tugged and straightened before they left the house together. Giorno has been terribly particular about clothes lately. No matter how much care Fugo takes with his clothes, Giorno always find some excuse to pull and tug at them. At this point, he's given up trying to understand it.]
I'm-- [Fugo tenses, just a bit, when Giorno's hands first find his hairline. He bites the inside of his cheek and cranes closer. Better to just let Giorno get through whatever fidgeting gesture he needs to, so the conversation can move on.] I'm having a time.
[Not committing one way or the other, good or bad-- it's a typical Fugo move. But it's very true. He isn't much of a party person, but he hasn't been having a bad time. The refreshments, when he's nibbled at them, have been good. The wine isn't bad. But, most importantly--]
You have, though. [He's seen it, just in the way Giorno has carried himself throughout the evening. He can see it now, in the conspiratorial grin that Giorno has shared with him. And that's enough for him.] Meet anyone interesting?
[He snorts. Yes, that's a very Fugo answer indeed. But it's good, he thinks; he'd be able to tell if Fugo were truly miserable, because at least from him, Fugo wouldn't be able to hide it. He would be able to feel Fugo's rabbit heart beating under the fabric of his suitfront as he smooths it down. As it is, he can't.]
[He dusts off Fugo's shoulders, not yet willing to let go.]
Anyone interesting . . . ?
[Tipping his head to one side, he shrugs the opposite shoulder in a somewhat lopsided way.]
If you're asking whether I feel matchmade, no. That's not what I came here for. But there are some interesting people. [A beat. He huffs out a laugh.] I threw cake at someone, but he deserved it.
[Besides which, even if there hadn't been anyone interesting to meet, there are plenty of familiar faces. Maria and Caren and Kaede and — Zelda, most importantly. Fugo, most importantly.]
[His fingertips find their way to tap the inside of Fugo's wrist.]
[Fugo stands patiently through this last little bit of attention. It's not necessary. There can't be any loose threads. He's not wearing a mask, so there shouldn't be any bits of glitter or sequins that have fallen on him. But it's just-- Giorno. Being particular.]
Want to check my cufflinks? [Fugo holds up one perfectly-cuffed wrist for Giorno to inspect. He means this as a joke, sort of. It doesn't occur to him that Giorno really would take him up on it.] I know that. You don't need another Bond.
[He has Zelda. Which is a relief, Fugo thinks; Giorno doesn't have to worry about losing control for lack of magic. As for himself... well, it's not necessary. Not yet and hopefully not ever. He can feel his own magic simmering just underneath his skin; he made sure to practice for several hours before they left, but he can already tell he'll have to practice again whenever they get home or else he'll never get to sleep.]
I'm not here for that either. [And Giorno knows it, too.] Just you. I briefly spoke with Zelda in the courtyard.
[There's a gleam in Giorno's eye just before he descends on the offered cuff like a vulture on roadkill. It's perfectly fine, of course. Obviously. He checked it himself before they left, and Fugo's persnickety about his clothes in his own way. Still, it soothes something restless in him to fuss — and it gives him the opportunity to dance his chilly fingers over Fugo's brittle wrist bones. Pretty.]
Hm, [he murmurs, pursing his lips, and holds his hand out for the other cuff, assuming it will be offered to him in turn. Doesn't let go of the first yet, though, thumb pressing against the buttonhole.] I don't need one . . . I wouldn't mind one, if the opportunity presented itself. There are benefits. But it would have to be . . . right. Someone I could really trust. Not someone I met once at a party.
[After all, it's a lot of work to be attached to him empathically. Even he knows this. He's . . . intense.]
Mm? How is she? Jingly? [Yeah, he's seen her costume. It's so great. He loves it. he also loves being the most interesting person around, in Fugo's opinion, but the preening with nonverbally confirm this.]
[Fugo recognizes, just a few seconds too late, the gleam in Giorno's eye before he reaches out to take his wrist. Giorno's grip is deceptively light; an understatement, almost, in comparison to how tightly he's held on before. It would be easy to pull away, if he wanted to. (Does he want to?) Nonetheless, Giorno is altogether too pleased with himself. The set of his mouth hasn't changed much, but there's a smile in the narrowed corners of hie eyes. Inexplicably, Fugo can feel the first brush of a flush on his cheeks when Giorno holds his hand out for his other wrist. Without, of course, letting go of the one Fugo has already given him.
Typical. Weird, but also-- typical, somehow. Fugo decides not to think about it and, with a somewhat exasperated sigh, holds up his other wrist for Giorno to inspect. It's just easier, this way. At least that's what he's decided his thoughts on the subject are.]
I see. [He... doesn't see, actually. A Bond, in his mind, is a tool useful only for managing the flow of magic. He can understand Giorno's preference for wanting to Bond with someone he already knows and trusts, but he... really can't wrap his head around why he'd want more than one person peering into his thoughts and emotions.] That's reasonable.
[There is a brightly-lit neon implication in Giorno's words. Someone I could really trust. Somewhat of a genius in most things, Fugo doesn't pick up on it.]
Very jingly. She seemed a little tired when we spoke, but not unhappy. Do you think she's got spells on that cape to keep the dirt off?
[It might be easy for Fugo to assume that he will not receive any presents from Ozymandias. After all, they are not particularly close to one another, the majority of their connection coming from a shared acquaintance with Giorno rather than an established relationship between the two of them. But despite Fugo's demeanor, Ozymandias feels it would be remiss not to bestow a gift upon the boy. After all, despite lacking a more independent connection to one another, it does not mean that one cannot develop.]
[So, Fugo receives a present.]
[Wrapped neatly in blue and gold paper and ribbons is a small box, which holds aleather case. A pad of paper has been placed inside, but the straps for pens or whatever other thin utensils Fugo might want to insert has been left empty. It's a bit more of a pragmatic gift more than anything else, the case itself bearing no decorations or embellishments, but it seems certainly suitable for Fugo who seems both serious and straightforward.]
[Fugo blames the wrapping paper. It's blue and gold. Blue and gold! It's not his fault! Giorno has a whole wing of his stupidly huge house done in blue and gold! If anyone in this stupid other world was going to get him something for Absolutely Not Christmas, it was going to be Giorno! Why the hell did Ozymandias get him something? Why did he have to start using it in public? Why did other people get him gifts and why did he have to thank them? Since he's bothering with thank yous and there's no way to deny he received it, common sense says he really should thank Ozymandias now that the misunderstanding has been cleared up.
He really doesn't want to. And the more days that pass, the less he wants to. But the longer he doesn't write a thank you, the more he can't stop thinking about it. And thus... begins the drafts. The many, many drafts.]
[Several weeks after Modranicht, Ozymandias will receive an odd greeting card, wishing him a "Jolly (Belated) Modranicht". On the back, in a sharp but almost mechanically flawless handwriting, is the following message:]
Ozymandias,
I cannot thank you enough for your gift of a writing case. It has already proven useful for my studies and research. It was a very considerate gift of you. I appreciate your thoughts during this busy time.
Sincerely,
P. Fugo
[It is accompanied by a small dish of struffoli, charmed to keep warm until Ozymandias sits down to eat them, as well as three small origami cats made with dark blue and gold paper. Despite never being personally introduced, it's obvious that Fugo is working off of descriptions of a particular spell Ozymandias is known for.]
[If not for his name on the package, Fugo would have assumed the card and cookies were for someone else. He's not exactly the most friendly or approachable person; even with Marie's intentions plainly written on the note, he doesn't really see why she'd want to.
Regardless, after about two weeks of puzzling about the gift and how to respond, Marie will receive a somewhat baffling greeting card that reads "A Happy Modranicht," a serving of struffoli spelled to keep warm until she sits down to eat them, and a neatly folded paper flower. On the back of the card is this brief message:]
Thank you for the gift. If you're taking classes in the Coven, I'm sure we'll run into each other there. Otherwise, I'll see you around town. Best wishes for whatever holiday you celebrate and in the new year.
[How nice of him! Marie is a Fae so she does not take any classes in the Coven but she will definitely chat with him the next time they meet somewhere in the city! The paper lily is definitely going to be treasured]
[Fugo will receive from Zelda a very warm and fluffy knitted scarf and hat set Both pieces are lightly enchanted to repel snow and rain from the wearer, though he still probably shouldn't go out walking in a blizzard or anything. There are upper limits on these things!]
[Zelda's gift, although unexpected, is an absolute Godsend. If she spots him out in the city or in the Coven after sending it to him, she'll be able to notice that Fugo has Immediately replaced the scarf and hat he was using with the ones she gave them. But it takes a while for a proper thank you to reach her; preoccupied and antsy, it takes him time to think of a way to properly express his gratitude.
With... a very strange Modranicht Card. The card comes with a a serving of struffoli spelled to keep warm until she sits down to eat them, as well as a carefully wrapped crystal sphere-- ideal for scrying and divination spells. This message is a bit too long for a card, so it's written as a letter instead.]
Zelda,
Thank you for your gift this past holiday. Given that the weather shows no signs of significantly improving, I'm sure I'll get a lot of use out of them before we finally make it to spring.
Sorry this is arriving so late; I've had a lot on my mind lately. When we first met, you expressed an interest in scrying. If you are still interested in making a study of it, I hope this will be useful to you. And the dessert is called struffoli; they're a traditional dessert for this time of year in my hometown. They're better warm, but they're not too bad cold either if you'd rather eat them that way.
Sincerely,
P. Fugo
PS: Don't mind the card, I just thought it was funny.
[Once Fugo finally falls asleep the night before (or morning of, depending on your definition and perspective) Modranicht, Giorno places his presents outside of Fugo's door. They're wrapped in plain dark green paper, although each bears a gold rose-shaped stamp. Naturally.]
[Inside the packages, Fugo will find: a recording of an underground opera entitled The Witch's Daughter. The sound quality is not terrific, but with the state of theater in Aefenglom being what it is, it could be significantly worse. The story is of a young girl who does not want to be a witch, despite her magical talent, and dreams of flying like a dragon or swimming as a mer. It ends ambiguously, but with a note of hope.]
[Secondly, there is a coat, long and purple and a few shades more garish than is typical in the gloomy streets of this city.]
[And finally, placed carefully on top of this stack, is a small photo frame. There is a folded piece of parchment paper stuck to the wrapping.]
Fugo,
I hope you don't mind the coat. It's a bit of a boring gift, but it's so hard to find color here and I know you like things bright. Conversely, I apologize for the ornateness of the frame, since I think you'd like something simpler. Unfortunately, this seems to be as simple as these get here.
All of which is to say: I hope you enjoy these. Someday we'll celebrate Christmas together in Napoli as we're meant to, but until then, Happy Modranicht. Thank you for being here with me.
[There is a man in the basement. Or at least, he was in the basement. He’s lurching up the stairs now, shoving someone else ahead of him: a pale young man, sickly and weaving. It’s possible the captive is under the influence of some kind of magic, but it’s equally possible that he’s not. Six days of torture do a number on anyone.]
[Looking at this captive, one might be justified in thinking there’s an even chance that he’d simply fall back down the stairs before he and his captor got halfway up. All things being equal, that could easily have happened. But before they move more than a few steps, the narrow door at the top of the stairs opens, revealing a rectangle of blinding light, a black silhouette, and the barrel of a gun.]
Left wall, Fugo.
[Voice soft, serene in his certainty that Fugo will move on instinct, Giorno lowers the gun and shoots squarely through the kidnapper’s right kneecap. The man screams and topples down the few steps behind him, hitting the landing with a thump. An instant later and the blur that is Giorno coalesces into solid form, heel planted squarely on the man’s injured knee and grinding down as he goes through the laborious process of reloading. Once done, he shoots the kidnapper in his other kneecap, kneels on his chest, spins the pistol, and clocks him squarely in the temple.]
[A few seconds pass as he stays still, monitoring the prone man to ensure he’s unconscious. Then he tucks his gun back under his cloak and straightens up, vaulting the few steps until he’s at Fugo’s side, one hand on his elbow to steady him.]
Here. I’ve got you, I’m here.
[The warmth of Fugo’s own magic is stored in this touch, in the black gloves pressed against his skin. The rest of Giorno is cold, but nonetheless very real and unquestionably Don Giovanna.]
[Something is happening. Something has changed, in the wide world beyond the dark, cold prison he's been dragged down into. The part of Fugo that is still thinking-- small, mostly disconnected from the agony of his own body, beaten down but not entirely defeated-- recognizes that it is an opportunity. His body moves along without him, step by miserable step. When he stumbles, it's not an act. He really is that weak, his balance really is that bad.
But he hasn't given up. Not at all. This guard, frantic to escape with a hostage and complacent in his belief that Fugo is too afraid and beaten down to disobey or fight back, removed his shackles and didn't even bother to bind his wrists. Idiot. He doesn't need much. After all, you can bludgeon someone with just about anything-- if you put your mind to it. He just needs to find the right moment.]
[That doesn't happen. As his captor pushes him up the stairs, cursing his slowness, the door above them opens. Fugo recoils at the light, too painfully bright for him to even squint at, and hisses with pain. Of course it doesn't properly register to him that this is a rescue; that the person at the top of the stairs is here to help, not hurt him. Even as his vision slowly adjusts, he doesn't look up. But there's something in him that's perfectly attuned to Giorno's voice: before he even entirely recognizes him, his body has already begun to move to obey. Fugo doesn't throw his weight so much as he allows himself to collapse to the left, just barely able to keep himself from tumbling backwards down the stairs.
Something happens. Something-- is happening.]
[When Giorno reaches for Fugo, at first he recoils and pulls in tight to protect his head and vitals. Giorno will be able to feel his fear, numb and resigned, through their Bond-- no, no, no-- as it begins to flicker back to life now that they are close again. It takes his thoughts so long to catch up with what his heart already knows: that Giorno is here, that Giorno is with him. His breathing is shaky and pained, but he doesn't make any noise.]
[There's blood on the stairs, which Giorno kneels in, because it's more practical to reach Fugo that way. On another day, in another situation, he might care about getting his clothes dirty. But right here, right now?]
[He can feel Fugo's fear like it's a hundred miles away, like a scream at the edge of hearing — but the dampening effect is fading. This fear isn't distant and numb because their Bond is stifled; it's distant and numb because Fugo has been stifled. Has been hurt and pushed down and crushed and broken. Fugo's fear is thin and weak because in the last few days, he has learned that having fear will not benefit him. Fear has been pushed away in favor of simply not being present.]
[Nothing else matters, then. He'd walk through a sea of blood to bring Fugo back from a place that made him feel that he had to leave himself behind in this way.]
It's Giogio, Fugo.
[Calm, but slow in his movements, he reaches out and rests his fingertips against Fugo's knuckles. Doesn't get closer, but doesn't retreat. He wants to lean in close, to kiss Fugo once on each eyelid until he sees, but doesn't; doesn't question the impulse, either. Through the Bond, he pushes warmth and love and belonging, all real and true; sorrow and anger are there, too, the banked flame of his desire for vengeance, but what matters most is that Fugo feel the home he has in Giorno's heart.]
Don't be afraid of me. I will never hurt you. The people who hurt you will die screaming, Fugo.
[Someone is with him. They were-- above. Then below. There was a gunshot-- no, two. His ears are still ringing from the sound, two sharp cracks that blasted out everything else, of the gun firing. And now they are here, standing above him, kneeling beside him, reaching out to help him stay balanced with a careful touch. They’re talking to him. Not at him, or about him, to someone else.
Someone is calling his name. Someone else’s anger prickles on the edge of his awareness, red-hot coals hidden under a shroud of ashy sorrow, the first thing he can feel through the phantom limb of a Bond he hadn’t even gotten used to before the dampening spells blocked it off. It’s quickly tempered by other things: warmth, belonging, safety. But it’s the anger that helps him recognize that Giorno, it’s Giogio, Fugo, is who has found him here in the cold and the dark.]
[Will you look at me, dear heart?]
[Of course he would. For Giorno, Fugo would do anything. Even if it’s a trick, even if this is some new cruelty, because it is Giorno who asks, Fugo uncurls just enough to get a glimpse of him. And when that glimpse isn’t enough he lifts his head to stare, eyes wide and glassy. He blinks, slowly, as if he can't-- because he almost doesn't, after everything-- believe that Giorno is really in front of him. Clumsily, Fugo reaches out; his hands grasp for Giorno, hands fumbling on his chest and shoulders in their disbelieving journey to hold his face. He closes his eyes, takes a long breath, and opens them again.
Oh. Yes, this is Giorno, isn't it? Still here, solid and real, chill underneath his fingers. It really is him.]
[Fugo touches him. Not where he intends to at first, but the gesture loosens something in Giorno's chest. When Fugo's hands land on his face, when his eyes close, rest, open again, he will feel a wash through the Bond, soft and warm and sweet: relief. Something cold to drink on a hot day. Falling into bed exhausted. Holding someone you haven't seen in years.]
[One warm-gloved hand comes to rest over Fugo's on his face. The other tenderly brushes sweat-slick hair off of Fugo's forehead.]
See? It's just me. You knew I would come for you, didn't you?
[And . . . Fugo did. That's the thing. There were flashes of it, just one or two, but he felt it. The faith Fugo had in him and in no one else. Even if that faith flagged occasionally, it was present occasionally, too. For someone who's undergone what Fugo has—]
[No, he can't think about that. Not right now. He can't fall down that hole. Too many people need to die for this, and he can't focus on that right now. He has to focus on Fugo, first, foremost, only.]
Can you speak, Fugo? Any little thing is fine. If you can't, that's all right, too. Just let me know.
[Little by little, he's drawn fully back into the moment. He becomes less a creature of violence, disconnected from his own pain in order to survive; watching at a distance for a moment of opportunity to let his ugliest instincts take over and run wild. But he doesn't have to do that anymore. Giorno is here, calling out to him in every way he can. With his words, calm and reassuring, with the touch to his hairline, light and so careful. And with the Bond, sharing with him just how glad and relieved he is to have found him.
Fugo nods, stiff and jerky, in response to Giorno's question. He-- did know. Or at least he believed it. Or at least he clung to the that Giorno would not let him disappear. That it was his responsibility, to Giorno and the oath he made to him, to survive. Yes. He knew that. And Giorno will feel that through the Bond, too: Fugo's brittle and steely faith that Giorno would find him. Because he has promised himself to Giorno. And Giorno, as possessive as he is, would not suffer the disappearance of one of his own without a bloody struggle.]
[The second question is more difficult. And maybe Giorno will be able to know the answer to it before Fugo tries to answer him. His face, bruised and grimy, first crumples and then clouds over with shame. He swallows, as if that will untangle the knot the spell has tied around his throat, and tries. It takes a great deal of him to manage a single, ragged word.]
C-- can't. [Not without forcing it. Not without pain. It's beyond pathetic.]
[It's some time since he was dragged home by his ear, fingertips stained with berry juice and laughter on his lips. Later in the evening now, and he's growing hungry, bored, and restless. A terrible combination. He thinks about going out, doing something productive with himself.]
[Instead, he reaches for his watch. Because of course he does.]
[A few rooms down the hall, Fugo's watch buzzes. He's bent over his desk over a textbook on the subject of wards and how one can weave them together with other sorts of spellcasting. He looks up from his notes and reaches for the watch, wincing at his stiff shoulders. The message Giorno sent him... doesn't make much sense. He puzzles over it for a few moments, turning it this way and that in his head, before responding.]
What are you talking about? Not to my knowledge, no.
[Now it's his turn to be puzzled. With a faint frown, he cocks his head to listen for some sound, any indication that Fugo is in the house — before remembering that Fugo is painfully quiet. That's right. If anything, he's the noisy one around here.]
i did earlier. so i thought maybe you had as well, or something. where are you then?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
11/8; masquerade
[The soft magic of the music, the faint taste of wine on his lips, the pleasant warmth that comes from physical activity on a cold night — they lead him back to Fugo's side after a while, Fugo at the edges of the crowd, pressed against the wall, despite the fact that they match. Fugo in black and silver, angles and edges as usual, looking faintly uncomfortable, but not as much so as Giorno expected. Maybe it's the music. Maybe Fugo has been watching him, just like Zelda was.]
[He's in arms' reach, and then he's reaching up to brush his fingers through Fugo's bangs, neatening them up. Fixing his tie, even though it doesn't need it. A little too close. Maybe a lot too close. But he's happy, glowing with warmth in a way he so rarely does these days.]
Are you having a good time? [He purses his lips, then offers a slight sideways grin as he amends,] Are you having a decent time?
no subject
So, here he is. In some black and silver suit that Giorno had him measured and fitted for him; that Giorno tugged and straightened before they left the house together. Giorno has been terribly particular about clothes lately. No matter how much care Fugo takes with his clothes, Giorno always find some excuse to pull and tug at them. At this point, he's given up trying to understand it.]
I'm-- [Fugo tenses, just a bit, when Giorno's hands first find his hairline. He bites the inside of his cheek and cranes closer. Better to just let Giorno get through whatever fidgeting gesture he needs to, so the conversation can move on.] I'm having a time.
[Not committing one way or the other, good or bad-- it's a typical Fugo move. But it's very true. He isn't much of a party person, but he hasn't been having a bad time. The refreshments, when he's nibbled at them, have been good. The wine isn't bad. But, most importantly--]
You have, though. [He's seen it, just in the way Giorno has carried himself throughout the evening. He can see it now, in the conspiratorial grin that Giorno has shared with him. And that's enough for him.] Meet anyone interesting?
no subject
[He dusts off Fugo's shoulders, not yet willing to let go.]
Anyone interesting . . . ?
[Tipping his head to one side, he shrugs the opposite shoulder in a somewhat lopsided way.]
If you're asking whether I feel matchmade, no. That's not what I came here for. But there are some interesting people. [A beat. He huffs out a laugh.] I threw cake at someone, but he deserved it.
[Besides which, even if there hadn't been anyone interesting to meet, there are plenty of familiar faces. Maria and Caren and Kaede and — Zelda, most importantly. Fugo, most importantly.]
[His fingertips find their way to tap the inside of Fugo's wrist.]
Have you met anyone interesting? Or just me?
no subject
Want to check my cufflinks? [Fugo holds up one perfectly-cuffed wrist for Giorno to inspect. He means this as a joke, sort of. It doesn't occur to him that Giorno really would take him up on it.] I know that. You don't need another Bond.
[He has Zelda. Which is a relief, Fugo thinks; Giorno doesn't have to worry about losing control for lack of magic. As for himself... well, it's not necessary. Not yet and hopefully not ever. He can feel his own magic simmering just underneath his skin; he made sure to practice for several hours before they left, but he can already tell he'll have to practice again whenever they get home or else he'll never get to sleep.]
I'm not here for that either. [And Giorno knows it, too.] Just you. I briefly spoke with Zelda in the courtyard.
no subject
Hm, [he murmurs, pursing his lips, and holds his hand out for the other cuff, assuming it will be offered to him in turn. Doesn't let go of the first yet, though, thumb pressing against the buttonhole.] I don't need one . . . I wouldn't mind one, if the opportunity presented itself. There are benefits. But it would have to be . . . right. Someone I could really trust. Not someone I met once at a party.
[After all, it's a lot of work to be attached to him empathically. Even he knows this. He's . . . intense.]
Mm? How is she? Jingly? [Yeah, he's seen her costume. It's so great. He loves it. he also loves being the most interesting person around, in Fugo's opinion, but the preening with nonverbally confirm this.]
no subject
Typical. Weird, but also-- typical, somehow. Fugo decides not to think about it and, with a somewhat exasperated sigh, holds up his other wrist for Giorno to inspect. It's just easier, this way. At least that's what he's decided his thoughts on the subject are.]
I see. [He... doesn't see, actually. A Bond, in his mind, is a tool useful only for managing the flow of magic. He can understand Giorno's preference for wanting to Bond with someone he already knows and trusts, but he... really can't wrap his head around why he'd want more than one person peering into his thoughts and emotions.] That's reasonable.
[There is a brightly-lit neon implication in Giorno's words. Someone I could really trust. Somewhat of a genius in most things, Fugo doesn't pick up on it.]
Very jingly. She seemed a little tired when we spoke, but not unhappy. Do you think she's got spells on that cape to keep the dirt off?
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modranicht gift!
[So, Fugo receives a present.]
[Wrapped neatly in blue and gold paper and ribbons is a small box, which holds a leather case. A pad of paper has been placed inside, but the straps for pens or whatever other thin utensils Fugo might want to insert has been left empty. It's a bit more of a pragmatic gift more than anything else, the case itself bearing no decorations or embellishments, but it seems certainly suitable for Fugo who seems both serious and straightforward.]
spongebob voice: Several Weeks Later
[Fugo blames the wrapping paper. It's blue and gold. Blue and gold! It's not his fault! Giorno has a whole wing of his stupidly huge house done in blue and gold! If anyone in this stupid other world was going to get him something for Absolutely Not Christmas, it was going to be Giorno! Why the hell did Ozymandias get him something? Why did he have to start using it in public? Why did other people get him gifts and why did he have to thank them? Since he's bothering with thank yous and there's no way to deny he received it, common sense says he really should thank Ozymandias now that the misunderstanding has been cleared up.
He really doesn't want to. And the more days that pass, the less he wants to. But the longer he doesn't write a thank you, the more he can't stop thinking about it. And thus... begins the drafts. The many, many drafts.]
[Several weeks after Modranicht, Ozymandias will receive an odd greeting card, wishing him a "Jolly (Belated) Modranicht". On the back, in a sharp but almost mechanically flawless handwriting, is the following message:]
Ozymandias,
I cannot thank you enough for your gift of a writing case. It has already proven useful for my studies and research. It was a very considerate gift of you. I appreciate your thoughts during this busy time.
Sincerely,
P. Fugo
[It is accompanied by a small dish of struffoli, charmed to keep warm until Ozymandias sits down to eat them, as well as three small origami cats made with dark blue and gold paper. Despite never being personally introduced, it's obvious that Fugo is working off of descriptions of a particular spell Ozymandias is known for.]
Modranicht gift
“Happy Holidays! We are not friends yet but I hope we can become friends in the coming year.” is what the attached note says]
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Regardless, after about two weeks of puzzling about the gift and how to respond, Marie will receive a somewhat baffling greeting card that reads "A Happy Modranicht," a serving of struffoli spelled to keep warm until she sits down to eat them, and a neatly folded paper flower. On the back of the card is this brief message:]
Thank you for the gift. If you're taking classes in the Coven, I'm sure we'll run into each other there. Otherwise, I'll see you around town. Best wishes for whatever holiday you celebrate and in the new year.
P. Fugo
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modranicht gift;
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With... a very strange Modranicht Card. The card comes with a a serving of struffoli spelled to keep warm until she sits down to eat them, as well as a carefully wrapped crystal sphere-- ideal for scrying and divination spells. This message is a bit too long for a card, so it's written as a letter instead.]
Zelda,
Thank you for your gift this past holiday. Given that the weather shows no signs of significantly improving, I'm sure I'll get a lot of use out of them before we finally make it to spring.
Sorry this is arriving so late; I've had a lot on my mind lately. When we first met, you expressed an interest in scrying. If you are still interested in making a study of it, I hope this will be useful to you. And the dessert is called struffoli; they're a traditional dessert for this time of year in my hometown. They're better warm, but they're not too bad cold either if you'd rather eat them that way.
Sincerely,
P. Fugo
PS: Don't mind the card, I just thought it was funny.
modranicht.
[Inside the packages, Fugo will find: a recording of an underground opera entitled The Witch's Daughter. The sound quality is not terrific, but with the state of theater in Aefenglom being what it is, it could be significantly worse. The story is of a young girl who does not want to be a witch, despite her magical talent, and dreams of flying like a dragon or swimming as a mer. It ends ambiguously, but with a note of hope.]
[Secondly, there is a coat, long and purple and a few shades more garish than is typical in the gloomy streets of this city.]
[And finally, placed carefully on top of this stack, is a small photo frame. There is a folded piece of parchment paper stuck to the wrapping.]
Fugo,
I hope you don't mind the coat. It's a bit of a boring gift, but it's so hard to find color here and I know you like things bright. Conversely, I apologize for the ornateness of the frame, since I think you'd like something simpler. Unfortunately, this seems to be as simple as these get here.
All of which is to say: I hope you enjoy these. Someday we'll celebrate Christmas together in Napoli as we're meant to, but until then, Happy Modranicht. Thank you for being here with me.
— Your Giogio
2/1; rescue
[Looking at this captive, one might be justified in thinking there’s an even chance that he’d simply fall back down the stairs before he and his captor got halfway up. All things being equal, that could easily have happened. But before they move more than a few steps, the narrow door at the top of the stairs opens, revealing a rectangle of blinding light, a black silhouette, and the barrel of a gun.]
Left wall, Fugo.
[Voice soft, serene in his certainty that Fugo will move on instinct, Giorno lowers the gun and shoots squarely through the kidnapper’s right kneecap. The man screams and topples down the few steps behind him, hitting the landing with a thump. An instant later and the blur that is Giorno coalesces into solid form, heel planted squarely on the man’s injured knee and grinding down as he goes through the laborious process of reloading. Once done, he shoots the kidnapper in his other kneecap, kneels on his chest, spins the pistol, and clocks him squarely in the temple.]
[A few seconds pass as he stays still, monitoring the prone man to ensure he’s unconscious. Then he tucks his gun back under his cloak and straightens up, vaulting the few steps until he’s at Fugo’s side, one hand on his elbow to steady him.]
Here. I’ve got you, I’m here.
[The warmth of Fugo’s own magic is stored in this touch, in the black gloves pressed against his skin. The rest of Giorno is cold, but nonetheless very real and unquestionably Don Giovanna.]
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But he hasn't given up. Not at all. This guard, frantic to escape with a hostage and complacent in his belief that Fugo is too afraid and beaten down to disobey or fight back, removed his shackles and didn't even bother to bind his wrists. Idiot. He doesn't need much. After all, you can bludgeon someone with just about anything-- if you put your mind to it. He just needs to find the right moment.]
[That doesn't happen. As his captor pushes him up the stairs, cursing his slowness, the door above them opens. Fugo recoils at the light, too painfully bright for him to even squint at, and hisses with pain. Of course it doesn't properly register to him that this is a rescue; that the person at the top of the stairs is here to help, not hurt him. Even as his vision slowly adjusts, he doesn't look up. But there's something in him that's perfectly attuned to Giorno's voice: before he even entirely recognizes him, his body has already begun to move to obey. Fugo doesn't throw his weight so much as he allows himself to collapse to the left, just barely able to keep himself from tumbling backwards down the stairs.
Something happens. Something-- is happening.]
[When Giorno reaches for Fugo, at first he recoils and pulls in tight to protect his head and vitals. Giorno will be able to feel his fear, numb and resigned, through their Bond-- no, no, no-- as it begins to flicker back to life now that they are close again. It takes his thoughts so long to catch up with what his heart already knows: that Giorno is here, that Giorno is with him. His breathing is shaky and pained, but he doesn't make any noise.]
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[He can feel Fugo's fear like it's a hundred miles away, like a scream at the edge of hearing — but the dampening effect is fading. This fear isn't distant and numb because their Bond is stifled; it's distant and numb because Fugo has been stifled. Has been hurt and pushed down and crushed and broken. Fugo's fear is thin and weak because in the last few days, he has learned that having fear will not benefit him. Fear has been pushed away in favor of simply not being present.]
[Nothing else matters, then. He'd walk through a sea of blood to bring Fugo back from a place that made him feel that he had to leave himself behind in this way.]
It's Giogio, Fugo.
[Calm, but slow in his movements, he reaches out and rests his fingertips against Fugo's knuckles. Doesn't get closer, but doesn't retreat. He wants to lean in close, to kiss Fugo once on each eyelid until he sees, but doesn't; doesn't question the impulse, either. Through the Bond, he pushes warmth and love and belonging, all real and true; sorrow and anger are there, too, the banked flame of his desire for vengeance, but what matters most is that Fugo feel the home he has in Giorno's heart.]
Don't be afraid of me. I will never hurt you. The people who hurt you will die screaming, Fugo.
Will you look at me, cuore mio?
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Someone is calling his name. Someone else’s anger prickles on the edge of his awareness, red-hot coals hidden under a shroud of ashy sorrow, the first thing he can feel through the phantom limb of a Bond he hadn’t even gotten used to before the dampening spells blocked it off. It’s quickly tempered by other things: warmth, belonging, safety. But it’s the anger that helps him recognize that Giorno, it’s Giogio, Fugo, is who has found him here in the cold and the dark.]
[Will you look at me, dear heart?]
[Of course he would. For Giorno, Fugo would do anything. Even if it’s a trick, even if this is some new cruelty, because it is Giorno who asks, Fugo uncurls just enough to get a glimpse of him. And when that glimpse isn’t enough he lifts his head to stare, eyes wide and glassy. He blinks, slowly, as if he can't-- because he almost doesn't, after everything-- believe that Giorno is really in front of him. Clumsily, Fugo reaches out; his hands grasp for Giorno, hands fumbling on his chest and shoulders in their disbelieving journey to hold his face. He closes his eyes, takes a long breath, and opens them again.
Oh. Yes, this is Giorno, isn't it? Still here, solid and real, chill underneath his fingers. It really is him.]
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[One warm-gloved hand comes to rest over Fugo's on his face. The other tenderly brushes sweat-slick hair off of Fugo's forehead.]
See? It's just me. You knew I would come for you, didn't you?
[And . . . Fugo did. That's the thing. There were flashes of it, just one or two, but he felt it. The faith Fugo had in him and in no one else. Even if that faith flagged occasionally, it was present occasionally, too. For someone who's undergone what Fugo has—]
[No, he can't think about that. Not right now. He can't fall down that hole. Too many people need to die for this, and he can't focus on that right now. He has to focus on Fugo, first, foremost, only.]
Can you speak, Fugo? Any little thing is fine. If you can't, that's all right, too. Just let me know.
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Fugo nods, stiff and jerky, in response to Giorno's question. He-- did know. Or at least he believed it. Or at least he clung to the that Giorno would not let him disappear. That it was his responsibility, to Giorno and the oath he made to him, to survive. Yes. He knew that. And Giorno will feel that through the Bond, too: Fugo's brittle and steely faith that Giorno would find him. Because he has promised himself to Giorno. And Giorno, as possessive as he is, would not suffer the disappearance of one of his own without a bloody struggle.]
[The second question is more difficult. And maybe Giorno will be able to know the answer to it before Fugo tries to answer him. His face, bruised and grimy, first crumples and then clouds over with shame. He swallows, as if that will untangle the knot the spell has tied around his throat, and tries. It takes a great deal of him to manage a single, ragged word.]
C-- can't. [Not without forcing it. Not without pain. It's beyond pathetic.]
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early june.
[Instead, he reaches for his watch. Because of course he does.]
have you gone on an adventure?
[Apropos of nothing.]
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What are you talking about? Not to my knowledge, no.
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[Now it's his turn to be puzzled. With a faint frown, he cocks his head to listen for some sound, any indication that Fugo is in the house — before remembering that Fugo is painfully quiet. That's right. If anything, he's the noisy one around here.]
i did earlier. so i thought maybe you had as well, or something. where are you then?
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Nothing particularly interesting happened today. I've mostly just been studying. I wanted to do some cleaning, but the time got away from me.
You went out for a part-time job, right? How did it go?
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it was
good?
i think it was good. sort of strange. we got what we needed but the effects were unusual.
[Wow! Cryptic and troubling!]
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1/2
2/2
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