Entry tags:
hemlock
former primary username; retired post sprouting seeds, late 2/22 early 3/22
context: hemlock is a very poisonous plant
Eb7#9
current primary username
context: Eb7#9 is the jimi hendrix chord
former primary username; retired post sprouting seeds, late 2/22 early 3/22
context: hemlock is a very poisonous plant
Eb7#9
current primary username
context: Eb7#9 is the jimi hendrix chord
Edited 2022-02-26 01:07 (UTC)
[ the past month has been a nauseating combination of hectic and intolerably slow. When he's awake - which is a state he finds himself in both more and less than he'd like, inexplicably - his mind is racing, working itself into the dirt like an old mule pulling a too-heavy cart as he tries to resolve his current situation, his current position, his options, his responsibilities. Logic and control are Bucciarati's two greatest assets, and he has neither here. Nothing works the way he thinks it should; the pieces are invisible, moving around on an unfamiliar board that he's scrambling to understand. As a result, he finds himself with little to do. The days drip by like molasses. He tries to compile the information he has gathered, his spirit continues to rebel, but there is no enemy for his body to fight nor a real goal for him to work towards and it leaves him pacing grooves into the floor.
It's worse than it had been before Giorno appeared back in Italy. At least there, he could still say he was taking care of the local community and his men, even if his goals and Passione's didn't align. Here, he's languishing - a fish out of water.
Not that he's letting it show. He will cope the way he always has: privately. And so, he's done his best to throw himself into whatever work he can find while he works things out. Now it's been a month. He's not better. He's frustrated, tired, and he dreads the inevitable curse that's about to be placed on him like it has the others. But he's adjusting to reality. Ultimately, this is a second chance - no, a third chance for him. It may be fucked up, but it's probably all he's going to get.
He can't waste it. And it's been a month. Bruno's intention had been to let Fugo approach him first - it had been his decision to leave, after all, and it should be his choice to address that decision, if he wants. Frankly, Bruno still isn't sure he's going to address it, even now. He only knows that there's still tension between them, and he'd like to dispel it. ]
I see you're still burning the candle at both ends.
[ Fugo's cleaning again, like he has been. A lot. Bruno knows this habit. He's interrupting, now, holding a mug of coffee in one hand, and there's a dry undertone to his voice indicating that he's well aware that he also has a bad habit of working too hard. ]
I just made a fresh pot of coffee. Why don't you take a break?
It's worse than it had been before Giorno appeared back in Italy. At least there, he could still say he was taking care of the local community and his men, even if his goals and Passione's didn't align. Here, he's languishing - a fish out of water.
Not that he's letting it show. He will cope the way he always has: privately. And so, he's done his best to throw himself into whatever work he can find while he works things out. Now it's been a month. He's not better. He's frustrated, tired, and he dreads the inevitable curse that's about to be placed on him like it has the others. But he's adjusting to reality. Ultimately, this is a second chance - no, a third chance for him. It may be fucked up, but it's probably all he's going to get.
He can't waste it. And it's been a month. Bruno's intention had been to let Fugo approach him first - it had been his decision to leave, after all, and it should be his choice to address that decision, if he wants. Frankly, Bruno still isn't sure he's going to address it, even now. He only knows that there's still tension between them, and he'd like to dispel it. ]
I see you're still burning the candle at both ends.
[ Fugo's cleaning again, like he has been. A lot. Bruno knows this habit. He's interrupting, now, holding a mug of coffee in one hand, and there's a dry undertone to his voice indicating that he's well aware that he also has a bad habit of working too hard. ]
I just made a fresh pot of coffee. Why don't you take a break?
[Bucciarati isn't doing well.]
[This is not a surprise. At least not to Fugo. Bucciarati has never been someone who has coped well with idleness; it's a personality trait they share, the backbone of their ability to accomplish whatever task Polpo set in front of them. Not that there is a them anymore. Not after Venice. Fugo has not approached Bucciarati about it because, both despite and because of their history, he simply has no right to.
Still. He has eyes. Even at the careful distance Fugo keeps from him, never actively hiding from or avoiding him in the house but never getting close either, it's obvious. At least it is to him. His appearance is never anything less than perfect-- but at night, when he should be sleeping, Bucciarati paces the halls of the house in the hill like a trapped animal. Fugo knows this because he, too, has been filling the night hours with any number of pointless jobs rather than sleeping.
Tonight's task started off simply enough: he wanted to dust the bookshelves in the lower sitting area. Except then, when confronted with the reality of how disorganized the house's collection of books was, he couldn't just leave it at that. Fugo doesn't want to pull everything down without discussing the matter with one of the actual owners of the house, but still. Something has to be done about it. So he's beginning with an inventory of the books, so he can come up with a system he can present to the others.
Thanks to his secondary eyes, which first sense the movement of someone else in the room and eventually recognize the blurry figure as Bucciarati, Fugo isn't surprised by Bucciarati's approach. Even so, his ears burn with embarrassment to be caught preoccupied, unable to walk away, by something so foolish.]
... I've been trying to cut back on my caffeine at night. [There is no placard in the kitchen openly forbidding Fugo from afternoon and evening espressos. Still. As tempting as the coffee smells, he knows better. It's bad enough that he's still working this late and the coffee will only make it worse. Fugo awkwardly closes the notebook he was using to create his inventory and caps his pen, idly tapping it against the cover.] But I can have a glass of water with you.
[This is not a surprise. At least not to Fugo. Bucciarati has never been someone who has coped well with idleness; it's a personality trait they share, the backbone of their ability to accomplish whatever task Polpo set in front of them. Not that there is a them anymore. Not after Venice. Fugo has not approached Bucciarati about it because, both despite and because of their history, he simply has no right to.
Still. He has eyes. Even at the careful distance Fugo keeps from him, never actively hiding from or avoiding him in the house but never getting close either, it's obvious. At least it is to him. His appearance is never anything less than perfect-- but at night, when he should be sleeping, Bucciarati paces the halls of the house in the hill like a trapped animal. Fugo knows this because he, too, has been filling the night hours with any number of pointless jobs rather than sleeping.
Tonight's task started off simply enough: he wanted to dust the bookshelves in the lower sitting area. Except then, when confronted with the reality of how disorganized the house's collection of books was, he couldn't just leave it at that. Fugo doesn't want to pull everything down without discussing the matter with one of the actual owners of the house, but still. Something has to be done about it. So he's beginning with an inventory of the books, so he can come up with a system he can present to the others.
Thanks to his secondary eyes, which first sense the movement of someone else in the room and eventually recognize the blurry figure as Bucciarati, Fugo isn't surprised by Bucciarati's approach. Even so, his ears burn with embarrassment to be caught preoccupied, unable to walk away, by something so foolish.]
... I've been trying to cut back on my caffeine at night. [There is no placard in the kitchen openly forbidding Fugo from afternoon and evening espressos. Still. As tempting as the coffee smells, he knows better. It's bad enough that he's still working this late and the coffee will only make it worse. Fugo awkwardly closes the notebook he was using to create his inventory and caps his pen, idly tapping it against the cover.] But I can have a glass of water with you.
Not at all. This is the first time.
Okay.
[This is not the correct response but, you know, that sure is what's happening now. He doesn't ask why. The why can come later. Right now, in this moment, how and when are much more important.]
How far along are you in the process? Is it an issue of money, or have you found away around that? What are the overall conditions?
Okay.
[This is not the correct response but, you know, that sure is what's happening now. He doesn't ask why. The why can come later. Right now, in this moment, how and when are much more important.]
How far along are you in the process? Is it an issue of money, or have you found away around that? What are the overall conditions?
Edited 2021-11-11 05:10 (UTC)
i'm going to stop doing the < username > thing because i am lazy
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digiorno
- 2021-11-12 03:39 (UTC) - Expand[ On a crisp afternoon, Riley stands at the door to Hill House, utterly paralyzed with fear.
She's been standing here for several minutes. Behind that door is a conversation that has to happen, but it's one she never wanted to have, in her entire life.
But... Her life isn't her life anymore. She gave that up. That's what Riley keeps telling herself. This isn't for her. It's for people who matter more. For the ones she's hurt.
And yet... She just stands there, hand balled to a fist and hovering in front of the door.
A year ago, she came here to deliver a present that cemented their friendship. Now, having thoroughly ruined it, she can't bring herself to desecrate its corpse. ]
She's been standing here for several minutes. Behind that door is a conversation that has to happen, but it's one she never wanted to have, in her entire life.
But... Her life isn't her life anymore. She gave that up. That's what Riley keeps telling herself. This isn't for her. It's for people who matter more. For the ones she's hurt.
And yet... She just stands there, hand balled to a fist and hovering in front of the door.
A year ago, she came here to deliver a present that cemented their friendship. Now, having thoroughly ruined it, she can't bring herself to desecrate its corpse. ]
[Fugo does not intend to sneak up on Riley. Personally, he hates it when people creep out of his blind spots-- not that there are a lot of them, these days. He just happened to be outside when she arrived, checking to make sure that the horse has enough food and water before it gets dark.
But he felt her approach. Or, to be more accurate, her landing; she flew in, of course, and landed at the front door. He had thought it might be Yuzu but, when he peered out of the stable, it was Riley's fiery plumage he spotted in front of the entrance to the sprawling underground house. It's obvious to him who she is here to see. Except, instead of knocking, she lingers. She hesitates.
Unwilling to go back and abandon what she came here to do, but unable to move forward at the same time. It's an uncomfortably familiar feeling. In the end, after five minutes pass with no progress, he takes pity on her.]
Hello, Riley. [Well, sort of. Fugo approaches from what probably feels like a blind spot; although he makes an effort to call out to her before he gets too close, chances are it probably looks like he appears out of nowhere.] It's been a while.
But he felt her approach. Or, to be more accurate, her landing; she flew in, of course, and landed at the front door. He had thought it might be Yuzu but, when he peered out of the stable, it was Riley's fiery plumage he spotted in front of the entrance to the sprawling underground house. It's obvious to him who she is here to see. Except, instead of knocking, she lingers. She hesitates.
Unwilling to go back and abandon what she came here to do, but unable to move forward at the same time. It's an uncomfortably familiar feeling. In the end, after five minutes pass with no progress, he takes pity on her.]
Hello, Riley. [Well, sort of. Fugo approaches from what probably feels like a blind spot; although he makes an effort to call out to her before he gets too close, chances are it probably looks like he appears out of nowhere.] It's been a while.
cw: juvenile criminal justice discussion, dissociation
isawallflower
- 2021-12-06 05:53 (UTC) - Expand[ Steve was sorely tempted to put some dry, store-bought rigatoni in a gift bag and pass that along to Fugo, albeit with some directions to where in the house his real gift was hidden. Because that could be funny. But, he also doesn't want to piss him off by reminding him of a time he was pissed off.
He's just going to not. Do that. For now.
Under the Nattensfest tree on Nattensfest day, Fugo will find some dress shirt boxes containing a couple pieces of hideous clothing, courtesy of the Mall of Bavania. Things for Fugo to turn into craft projects, or wear. Or turn into craft projects and wear, because Steve has been forming the hypothesis that he likes?? this sort of thing???
The piece de resistance is his very own brand-new Runar the Ring Toss Reindeer. ]
He's just going to not. Do that. For now.
Under the Nattensfest tree on Nattensfest day, Fugo will find some dress shirt boxes containing a couple pieces of hideous clothing, courtesy of the Mall of Bavania. Things for Fugo to turn into craft projects, or wear. Or turn into craft projects and wear, because Steve has been forming the hypothesis that he likes?? this sort of thing???
The piece de resistance is his very own brand-new Runar the Ring Toss Reindeer. ]
[ merry christmas, Fugoo!! He'll find a neatly-wrapped box waiting at his place at the table, addressed to him in Bruno's blocky handwriting. Inside is a glasses case, containing some sunglasses that are bordering on comically large in order to cover all four of Fugo's primary eyes. It's almost a guarantee that Bruno bought these for him with complete earnestness, not as a joke - other than being big, they are actually pretty chic, as much as he could afford on his thin wallet. He did his best.
There's also a small parcel of three or four cookies tied with a ribbon alongside it. In typical Bruno fashion, there's no letter or note - just the gift itself. His actions speak for him! ]
There's also a small parcel of three or four cookies tied with a ribbon alongside it. In typical Bruno fashion, there's no letter or note - just the gift itself. His actions speak for him! ]
[It's insanely hard to be sneaky in a house of many people, but Trish manages to slip a whole batch of gifts under the tree just prior to the eve of Nattensfest. They are wrapped in frankly awful looking wrapping paper, and vary in size depending on contents, but they all contain a box tied shut with red string that also fixes a card in place. The card itself has two sides, one adorned with a design of various cats, and the other side normally blank but now adorned with neat, tightly written cursive from La Befana, which to the Italians of the peninsula is a familiar holiday figure.
Each card has a unique message. For Fugo, it reads:
To my favorite nonna.
Buon Natale e felice anno nuovo.
Dopo la pioggia, arriva il sole. (After rain comes sunshine).
Inside, Fugo will find a tartan scarf and an interesting choice in kitchenware. There is a bag of coffee and a spoon included. Maybe not the most practical gifts, sure, but hopefully he finds them amusing.]
Each card has a unique message. For Fugo, it reads:
To my favorite nonna.
Buon Natale e felice anno nuovo.
Dopo la pioggia, arriva il sole. (After rain comes sunshine).
Inside, Fugo will find a tartan scarf and an interesting choice in kitchenware. There is a bag of coffee and a spoon included. Maybe not the most practical gifts, sure, but hopefully he finds them amusing.]
Edited (forgot new years augh!!! also found a better translation) 2021-12-30 01:12 (UTC)
[ Everyone at Hill House receives a copious amount of Riley’s holiday tradition, fresh-baked gingersnaps. Fugo himself receives his own personal bag of them.
Under the tree, there’s two wrapped square objects, which he’ll find to be books! One of which is titled Ten Tiny Monsters, very obviously a Ryslig version of And Then There Were None. He’s also gifted with a less classy, newer set of novels, with a main character of one Catja Mathiason, based off the popular Bavanian radio show. They’re smaller, all paperback and pretty simple in writing. But, she’ll explain in case he’s already read a version of it… Well, these can be pretty fun. ]
Under the tree, there’s two wrapped square objects, which he’ll find to be books! One of which is titled Ten Tiny Monsters, very obviously a Ryslig version of And Then There Were None. He’s also gifted with a less classy, newer set of novels, with a main character of one Catja Mathiason, based off the popular Bavanian radio show. They’re smaller, all paperback and pretty simple in writing. But, she’ll explain in case he’s already read a version of it… Well, these can be pretty fun. ]
[from giorno, fugo receives a small bottle of high-quality lavender lotion, with handwritten instructions on how much to apply before bed and on what parts of the hands (knuckles and between them, joints, cuticles). the instructions contain a mildly threatening tone vis a vis what will happen if fugo does not do the designated self-care. fugo also receives plain pizzelle with strong anise notes and a bag of clementines; a small lilac travel bag containing a claw file whose handle is a smoky gray color. the largest package contains a decent-sized box of ratty second-hand mystery novels, all by one of three authors. a bookmark tucked into the box mentions that giorno went to several bookshops and found these three authors universally recommended, so he bought out a calculated 50% of their stock (he would have bought out all of it, but then fugo wouldn't have anything else to explore). this sweater with no explanation. a simple hammered steel ring with half a step engraved on the outside, accompanied by a note:]
Fugo,
I haven't experienced it yet, but I know it to be true. Your vow is as real to me as it is to you. Don't forget that.
Giogio
Fugo,
I haven't experienced it yet, but I know it to be true. Your vow is as real to me as it is to you. Don't forget that.
Giogio
[Good morning, Fugo.
It is a lovely day and you are a spider boy probably minding his own business.
But now you are receiving a pensive message. Maybe not so unusual, because people will be rising shortly if they're not up already, but there's always someone starting her day way sooner than she needs to be.
It takes Trish a minute to remember she's had him blocked this whole time (christ), so she quickly undoes that. God, how long has it been?
Whatever, that's not important!]
Fugo.
Are you awake?
It is a lovely day and you are a spider boy probably minding his own business.
But now you are receiving a pensive message. Maybe not so unusual, because people will be rising shortly if they're not up already, but there's always someone starting her day way sooner than she needs to be.
It takes Trish a minute to remember she's had him blocked this whole time (christ), so she quickly undoes that. God, how long has it been?
Whatever, that's not important!]
Fugo.
Are you awake?
[Fugo is awake. He probably shouldn't be, given how late he stays up to spend time with Trish and Bucciarati, but, you know. Old habits die hard and all that. He is a little puzzled to get a message at this hour, which is too late for most nocturnal Monsters and too early for most diurnal Monsters. He's even more surprised when it turns out to be from Trish.
Wow! She finally unblocked him. It's been months-- later, he'll have to go back and check exactly how long it took for her to relent. He resists the urge to point this out for the time being, because she likely wouldn't have contacted him at this hour if it wasn't something important.]
Yes, I'm awake. Is something the matter?
Wow! She finally unblocked him. It's been months-- later, he'll have to go back and check exactly how long it took for her to relent. He resists the urge to point this out for the time being, because she likely wouldn't have contacted him at this hour if it wasn't something important.]
Yes, I'm awake. Is something the matter?
me googling tail combs............... there's a word for those??? TIL...
unholey
- 2022-02-05 20:16 (UTC) - Expandtrish started out feeling bad but now she can worry about him instead. success???
figlia_morbida
- 2022-03-16 01:51 (UTC) - Expand[Though he doesn't know Fugo well, Jonathan at least knows he's well acquainted with his son- and for that matter, he's joined him in a car drive to a cancelled battle, and then discussed...horrible marches through human progress. His poor toaster...
Thus, Jonathan sends a drawn holiday card, depicting a drawn holiday food display; along with a small tin of biscuits, and some teas. He writes in the card that he's attempted to not assume too much about taste. He has also made sure not to include anything resembling pineapple.]
Thus, Jonathan sends a drawn holiday card, depicting a drawn holiday food display; along with a small tin of biscuits, and some teas. He writes in the card that he's attempted to not assume too much about taste. He has also made sure not to include anything resembling pineapple.]
[ Abbacchio wouldn't necessarily describe his relationship to Fugo as one of closeness, but he has been oddly… distant. Not unusual for Fugo by any means, it reminds him of how he'd behaved towards him when they'd first been adjusting to being around each other. At times it was awkward and stilted, and full of Abbacchio losing his patience far too often. It doesn't feel quite so bad as that now, for starters Abbacchio's patience when it comes to Fugo has increased significantly – but that's not the issue.
On the surface it doesn't really seem like much has changed between them, he knows that something has shifted though, and not for the better. At first he thought it was about Venice, then as he gave it some more consideration, he wondered if maybe it was just the fact he was here. That his presence had forced Fugo to come to grips with him being here after he'd had to get used to the fact that back home, he was gone. That it was a process he was now repeating for the second time, because he'd just gone through it months prior with Bucciarati, too. Understandable if that is the cause, he wouldn't expect it not to be difficult. It's hard for him, too.
Which is to say this is why finds himself outside Fugo's room in the early evening, debating on whether to continue down the hall to his own room or not. He doesn't even know if there is an issue, maybe he's just imagining the whole thing. But if he's not?
With a heavy exhale, he knocks on the door twice. ]
It's me. You in there?
[ This is stupid. He doesn't even know if Fugo is around, not like he has the benefit some of the others do when it comes to hearing or smelling that someone is home. ]
On the surface it doesn't really seem like much has changed between them, he knows that something has shifted though, and not for the better. At first he thought it was about Venice, then as he gave it some more consideration, he wondered if maybe it was just the fact he was here. That his presence had forced Fugo to come to grips with him being here after he'd had to get used to the fact that back home, he was gone. That it was a process he was now repeating for the second time, because he'd just gone through it months prior with Bucciarati, too. Understandable if that is the cause, he wouldn't expect it not to be difficult. It's hard for him, too.
Which is to say this is why finds himself outside Fugo's room in the early evening, debating on whether to continue down the hall to his own room or not. He doesn't even know if there is an issue, maybe he's just imagining the whole thing. But if he's not?
With a heavy exhale, he knocks on the door twice. ]
It's me. You in there?
[ This is stupid. He doesn't even know if Fugo is around, not like he has the benefit some of the others do when it comes to hearing or smelling that someone is home. ]
[Fugo's plan, since Abbacchio's arrival, is brutally effective in its simplicity: I am going to stay out of his way. It isn't hard. It doesn't need to be complicated. After all, Fugo himself is busy; after all, Abbacchio has always kept to himself. It's only fair that Fugo gives Abbacchio his space, the best he can, after, well--
Everything.]
[Fugo's door, left standing ajar, opens a little underneath Abbacchio's knuckles. This is a good sign that Fugo is around. This is an old habit, one Abbacchio should be very familiar with: because of his Purple Haze, Fugo doesn't like closed rooms. Apparently, even without the threat of his own Stand looming over him, it's not a habit he can easily shake. If Abbacchio listens carefully, he will hear the quiet pad of Fugo's feet as he crosses the room to answer the door.]
Yes, I'm here. [Fugo opens the door ... but only part of the way. He holds it between them, eyebrows drawn together. The legs on his back, too, are folded and drawn up close to his shoulders. He's nervous, although he's trying to hide it.] Do you need something?
Everything.]
[Fugo's door, left standing ajar, opens a little underneath Abbacchio's knuckles. This is a good sign that Fugo is around. This is an old habit, one Abbacchio should be very familiar with: because of his Purple Haze, Fugo doesn't like closed rooms. Apparently, even without the threat of his own Stand looming over him, it's not a habit he can easily shake. If Abbacchio listens carefully, he will hear the quiet pad of Fugo's feet as he crosses the room to answer the door.]
Yes, I'm here. [Fugo opens the door ... but only part of the way. He holds it between them, eyebrows drawn together. The legs on his back, too, are folded and drawn up close to his shoulders. He's nervous, although he's trying to hide it.] Do you need something?
[ Abbacchio delivers a gift that is haphazardly wrapped (in the gaudiest paper he could find) to Fugo directly, insisting he waits to open it. Inside are three pairs of socks in varying levels of tacky, each with different strawberry patterns, as well as a planner for the upcoming year. Inside the planner is a gift card with a small note. ]
So, I guess you need more socks now?
So, I guess you need more socks now?
[In addition to the cookies and key charm, Reira's gotten something else for Fugo!
Reira only knows so much about Fugo, and that hasn't changed despite trying to watch for anything helpful for christmas gifting. Ultimately her best option aside from the keycharm ends up based in...well, clothes. It was sort of tricky, but she's drawn different ways she's gotten around having four wings off her back, from before she got magic to pull them in; a note on the sheets of paper says that even if four arms are still different from four wings, it's sort of the same, so maybe it'll help when he needs new shirts and things?
...There is also a nice bento box. It seems she had this made- there's a little spider carved in the lid.]
Reira only knows so much about Fugo, and that hasn't changed despite trying to watch for anything helpful for christmas gifting. Ultimately her best option aside from the keycharm ends up based in...well, clothes. It was sort of tricky, but she's drawn different ways she's gotten around having four wings off her back, from before she got magic to pull them in; a note on the sheets of paper says that even if four arms are still different from four wings, it's sort of the same, so maybe it'll help when he needs new shirts and things?
...There is also a nice bento box. It seems she had this made- there's a little spider carved in the lid.]
[ Their merry band seems to have gotten a lot smaller. It's almost like the old days again in Hill House - just Bruno, Abbacchio and Fugo, making it day by day as best as they can. Back then, like now, the three of them were trying to navigate a world that seemed made to chew up the weak and spit them out. The difference is that they'd been climbing upwards then, clawing towards a goal - wealth, glory, purpose, anything they could get. Now, weighed down by all the things that have happened before, and taking on the weight of what's happened now, just keeping their heads above water requires all the strength they have.
It feels that way to Bruno, at least, and he can't imagine the other two are much different. Giorno is dead. Trish is asleep and won't wake up. Both, supposedly, under his watch. He's always treated every one of his group as an adult. In these moments, though, he feels keenly aware of how young they are. Human nature, maybe, to mourn them more deeply; he can't help but ruminate on them, on the fact that he's failed to protect every child he recruited to his cause, Mista included.
All except one. ]
Fugo.
[ a knock at his door. unlike before, Bruno now makes himself extremely scarce during the evenings; it's the sleepy afternoon when he tracks down Fugo this time, a task made easier by his almost irritatingly sensitive nose. He knows he's there. Still, he worries that maybe Fugo won't come, this time; that he'll open the door and find him motionless on the ground, too, succumbed to some threat Bruno couldn't have even imagined. ]
Are you awake?
It feels that way to Bruno, at least, and he can't imagine the other two are much different. Giorno is dead. Trish is asleep and won't wake up. Both, supposedly, under his watch. He's always treated every one of his group as an adult. In these moments, though, he feels keenly aware of how young they are. Human nature, maybe, to mourn them more deeply; he can't help but ruminate on them, on the fact that he's failed to protect every child he recruited to his cause, Mista included.
All except one. ]
Fugo.
[ a knock at his door. unlike before, Bruno now makes himself extremely scarce during the evenings; it's the sleepy afternoon when he tracks down Fugo this time, a task made easier by his almost irritatingly sensitive nose. He knows he's there. Still, he worries that maybe Fugo won't come, this time; that he'll open the door and find him motionless on the ground, too, succumbed to some threat Bruno couldn't have even imagined. ]
Are you awake?
[When Bruno approaches Fugo's room, other than his scent, there are two good indicators that he's in there: the lights are on and the door itself stands ajar. This is normal for Fugo who, as a Stand user with poor control of a very dangerous Stand, adopted habits to minimize potential risk. Those habits aren't necessary anymore, but he hasn't let go of them.
Through the open door, Bruno will hear the sound of someone-- Fugo-- sigh, then the rustle of shifting blankets. And then his voice, a little bleary with the sleep he didn't quite manage to settle into before Bruno knocked on the door.]
Just a moment. [Fugo pads over to the door and opens it. He looks tired. But, well, Fugo always looks tired. His sleeping schedule is a bit of a mess. He has responsibilities during daylight hours, but many of the Monsters living in Hill House are nocturnal. The end result is, at least right now, naps during odd hours when he get manage it.] Did something happen? Do you need me?
Through the open door, Bruno will hear the sound of someone-- Fugo-- sigh, then the rustle of shifting blankets. And then his voice, a little bleary with the sleep he didn't quite manage to settle into before Bruno knocked on the door.]
Just a moment. [Fugo pads over to the door and opens it. He looks tired. But, well, Fugo always looks tired. His sleeping schedule is a bit of a mess. He has responsibilities during daylight hours, but many of the Monsters living in Hill House are nocturnal. The end result is, at least right now, naps during odd hours when he get manage it.] Did something happen? Do you need me?
[ It's only been a scant few hours since he found Giorno, but it feels like it's been days, ones that have dragged on longer than they have any right to. Abbacchio was barely aware of Bucciarati and Fugo's return; he had been sitting hunched over a cold and untouched cup of tea for who knows how long, staring off into space, until he'd eventually retreated into his own room and taken a scalding shower.
He returns back to the common area, mind a little clearer, and with the goal of checking in on everyone to see if there's something – anything – he can do; sitting around will only make him feel useless. He should be helping where he can, easing the weight that he knows Fugo and Bucciarati will inevitably place on their own shoulders. It's through chance, he thinks, that he catches Fugo, bag in hand and looking as though he's planning to go somewhere for a while. ]
Fugo?
[ When Abbacchio calls out to him, there's a lilt of concern in his voice; about where Fugo is going, what it is he's planning, and while Abbacchio knows he wouldn't be able to stop him even if he tried, he can at least make sure someone knows where it is he's headed and ensure that he isn't impulsively rushing off into anything dangerous. It's probably ill-advised to be concerned about such things given the nature of their history. Things are different now, though, aren't they? ]
He returns back to the common area, mind a little clearer, and with the goal of checking in on everyone to see if there's something – anything – he can do; sitting around will only make him feel useless. He should be helping where he can, easing the weight that he knows Fugo and Bucciarati will inevitably place on their own shoulders. It's through chance, he thinks, that he catches Fugo, bag in hand and looking as though he's planning to go somewhere for a while. ]
Fugo?
[ When Abbacchio calls out to him, there's a lilt of concern in his voice; about where Fugo is going, what it is he's planning, and while Abbacchio knows he wouldn't be able to stop him even if he tried, he can at least make sure someone knows where it is he's headed and ensure that he isn't impulsively rushing off into anything dangerous. It's probably ill-advised to be concerned about such things given the nature of their history. Things are different now, though, aren't they? ]
[Before he leaves, Fugo makes one last check of his kit. He has had this ready since it became clear that he was stuck here for the long term-- just in case. It contains the following: his laptop, three changes of clothes, a pair of pajamas, travel-sized bottles of bathroom essentials, a hairbrush and a toothbrush, enough cash to support him for a week, and an assortment of knives.
When Abbacchio catches Fugo, he is at the door. He's wearing dark and muted clothes, a far cry from the garish colors he usually favors. His hair, too, has been pinned away from his face and tied back on the nape of his neck. Even his usual dangling earrings are missing, replaced with a pair of nondescript studs. Wherever he's going, he means business.]
I'm going to Persephone's. [Fugo sets his bag down on the floor and reaches for his coat. Even with the split panels in the back, which make it a little easier, getting the garment on is an entire ordeal.] Right now, the only Monster there is Jodariel. It's extremely vulnerable-- and a likely target, if Giorno's double continues to escalate.
[This is not a hunt. But he has drawn a line; a calculated position on the board.]
When Abbacchio catches Fugo, he is at the door. He's wearing dark and muted clothes, a far cry from the garish colors he usually favors. His hair, too, has been pinned away from his face and tied back on the nape of his neck. Even his usual dangling earrings are missing, replaced with a pair of nondescript studs. Wherever he's going, he means business.]
I'm going to Persephone's. [Fugo sets his bag down on the floor and reaches for his coat. Even with the split panels in the back, which make it a little easier, getting the garment on is an entire ordeal.] Right now, the only Monster there is Jodariel. It's extremely vulnerable-- and a likely target, if Giorno's double continues to escalate.
[This is not a hunt. But he has drawn a line; a calculated position on the board.]
[It's not so much that everything is falling apart, as it is that everything was precariously leaning against everything else in a facsimile of stability, and the ground's just shaken slightly. Everything comes tumbling down. And unfair as it might be, what he said to Riley was true: it's his job to keep Fugo safe. Not everyone, not all of them, although that too, but — with Fugo it's different. With Fugo, he has a very specific job to do, and it never, ever ends. And he wouldn't want it to.]
[The rest of them fade away in the face of this duty. Body, mind, and spirit: this is what they agreed. Fugo swore a vow, but so did he. No matter who else is hurting right now, they fade into the background.]
[Fugo is hurting. So it's Fugo he goes to.]
[For once, he doesn't knock. Just pushes the door open (because he knows it will be unlocked and a bit ajar, because it always is, because Fugo never closes his door all the way, because—) and almost runs into him face first. Under his arm a water bottle, tucked away in the pocket of his jacket tissues and a single dry cloth. He stops only for a moment, and then he grabs Fugo by the wrist and pulls.]
Come on. We're going to the garden.
[The rest of them fade away in the face of this duty. Body, mind, and spirit: this is what they agreed. Fugo swore a vow, but so did he. No matter who else is hurting right now, they fade into the background.]
[Fugo is hurting. So it's Fugo he goes to.]
[For once, he doesn't knock. Just pushes the door open (because he knows it will be unlocked and a bit ajar, because it always is, because Fugo never closes his door all the way, because—) and almost runs into him face first. Under his arm a water bottle, tucked away in the pocket of his jacket tissues and a single dry cloth. He stops only for a moment, and then he grabs Fugo by the wrist and pulls.]
Come on. We're going to the garden.
[This can't be happening. This can't be happening. This can't be fucking happening.]
[Fugo can't stop thinking. He just can't; it's not how he works. His thoughts are a web, endlessly sprawling, one thing connected to the next in crisp clean lines; his mind is always working, always chewing on something, calculating the odds and juggling the variables and solving the problem. He is always thinking. He can't stop. This has always been a problem-- it has always been the fucking problem-- but at least it was self-contained.
But now they're spilling out of him. Not just the funny ones, the incidental anecdotes or meandering trains of thought, but the awful ones. Just look at what he's done: because he thought about-- (don't, do not, don't think about him)-- it's gone on to infect the others. Giorno is upset and Trish is upset and Riley wants to know, she's backed off but it must hurt, she didn't know and she put her hand on the proverbial stove, and it's certainly set of Abbacchio and now Bucciarati is worried.
Doesn't he deserve to be known? that one belongs to Trish, but she thought of it because of him. She is in pain because of him. And it's all just-- out there, for everyone to read, to be bemused by. And it's his fault. His fault--]
[Fugo thinks of Reira's advice. He closes his eyes and tries to picture the screen of his laptop. Close. He needs to close the network. He needs to-- log out, or whatever, but how the fuck are you supposed to do that with your mind? Just visualize it? He's moving without thinking about it, because this room is intolerable and there's someone coming down the hall, he's locked in, he can't stop thinking. He needs to leave. He needs to go, he needs to find--]
Giogio? [Giorno is here. Giorno is ... here, oh, and there is hurt behind his eyes. They stare at each other; then Giorno takes a hold of him and pulls him out and away. Fugo stumbles forward, following him on instinct before he processes where they're going.] The-- garden? ... okay. The garden.
Upstairs to the garden.
[Fugo can't stop thinking. He just can't; it's not how he works. His thoughts are a web, endlessly sprawling, one thing connected to the next in crisp clean lines; his mind is always working, always chewing on something, calculating the odds and juggling the variables and solving the problem. He is always thinking. He can't stop. This has always been a problem-- it has always been the fucking problem-- but at least it was self-contained.
But now they're spilling out of him. Not just the funny ones, the incidental anecdotes or meandering trains of thought, but the awful ones. Just look at what he's done: because he thought about-- (don't, do not, don't think about him)-- it's gone on to infect the others. Giorno is upset and Trish is upset and Riley wants to know, she's backed off but it must hurt, she didn't know and she put her hand on the proverbial stove, and it's certainly set of Abbacchio and now Bucciarati is worried.
Doesn't he deserve to be known? that one belongs to Trish, but she thought of it because of him. She is in pain because of him. And it's all just-- out there, for everyone to read, to be bemused by. And it's his fault. His fault--]
[Fugo thinks of Reira's advice. He closes his eyes and tries to picture the screen of his laptop. Close. He needs to close the network. He needs to-- log out, or whatever, but how the fuck are you supposed to do that with your mind? Just visualize it? He's moving without thinking about it, because this room is intolerable and there's someone coming down the hall, he's locked in, he can't stop thinking. He needs to leave. He needs to go, he needs to find--]
Giogio? [Giorno is here. Giorno is ... here, oh, and there is hurt behind his eyes. They stare at each other; then Giorno takes a hold of him and pulls him out and away. Fugo stumbles forward, following him on instinct before he processes where they're going.] The-- garden? ... okay. The garden.
Upstairs to the garden.
[There's something wrong with him.]
[He doesn't know what it is. He doesn't know how to stop it. He's trying as hard as he possibly can to keep it in, to tamp it down, but it keeps coming out. His hands won't stop shaking. He's cold all over, almost as cold as when he was a vampire, or at least it feels that way. Time stretches and splits, snarling around him and catching on his blooming buds.]
[As much as he's in the habit of keeping up with the news, he doesn't now. It's irresponsible, and he hates himself for it, but he can't do it. When he tries, he drifts, and it's a struggle to return. The one time he gets brave and tries, he gets one minute in, and then a temporary anchor is telling the camera with false confidence that his colleague has taken a brief leave of absence for personal reasons.]
[He shatters the small television in a cabinet in his room with a single blow before he even realizes he's moved. He doesn't bother cleaning it up, and he doesn't bother fixing his hand. Sap-green blood stays on his knuckles, although he sheds the glass shards on the floor before he passes his bedroom door.]
[The children aren't well. He knows this, and he's careful with them, keeping a respectful distance unless they approach him. Today, Naga is the only one to do so as he carries out his variety of duties at the orphanage. The child doesn't do anything in particular, not really; just says hi and then sits next to him quietly for a while before asking for help up a tree. Giorno looks down at them, surprised, and when they look back he sees something deliberate and purposeful in their eyes, something that makes his heart twist as much as it did talking to Sonic. This isn't right. This is too much responsibility for someone so young to take on. And he'd do exactly the same thing.]
[With a dry mouth, he helps Naga up the tree, making supports out of his vines and his hands. When they reach the branch they're aiming for, they sit, kicking their feet and surveying the area proudly. Giorno asks the tree to offer a branch to them for a high-five, and it does, and Naga laughs. Which helps. But not enough.]
[When he leaves for the evening, his coat wrapped securely around him, he intends to go straight home. He doesn't, though, and he can't even say why. Maybe it's because he doesn't feel like he belongs there right now, although honestly, he feels like he doesn't belong anywhere. His roots carry him treacherously back to the cafe he visited not long before, the place he came with Atem. The place he shouldn't have come. The store is locked, the employees, still shaken, quickly cleaning up and getting ready to go home.]
[He goes around the building, because something tells him he should. By the back door, there's a small, dark alcove that casts long shadows in the early night. And in that shadow, a figure, back pressed to the outer wall, the handle of a knife just barely showing through the gap in a long coat.]
[Vines are around the man's neck before he can even register movement. With a single, constrictive movement, Giorno snaps it. And by the time the two young women in the cafe clock out and leave for home, whispering covertly to each other in the oppressive dark, there are no monsters or humans to be seen.]
∞
[Somewhat later, on the other side of midnight, Fugo receives a message.]
i have a body. i'm afraid i wasn't thinking much for making maximum use of it. could you help me salvage it?
[It's a farce. Fugo will have noticed he's missing by now. He'll have found the television, and the blood. But right now, this is the best he has.]
[Pathetic.]
[He doesn't know what it is. He doesn't know how to stop it. He's trying as hard as he possibly can to keep it in, to tamp it down, but it keeps coming out. His hands won't stop shaking. He's cold all over, almost as cold as when he was a vampire, or at least it feels that way. Time stretches and splits, snarling around him and catching on his blooming buds.]
[As much as he's in the habit of keeping up with the news, he doesn't now. It's irresponsible, and he hates himself for it, but he can't do it. When he tries, he drifts, and it's a struggle to return. The one time he gets brave and tries, he gets one minute in, and then a temporary anchor is telling the camera with false confidence that his colleague has taken a brief leave of absence for personal reasons.]
[He shatters the small television in a cabinet in his room with a single blow before he even realizes he's moved. He doesn't bother cleaning it up, and he doesn't bother fixing his hand. Sap-green blood stays on his knuckles, although he sheds the glass shards on the floor before he passes his bedroom door.]
[The children aren't well. He knows this, and he's careful with them, keeping a respectful distance unless they approach him. Today, Naga is the only one to do so as he carries out his variety of duties at the orphanage. The child doesn't do anything in particular, not really; just says hi and then sits next to him quietly for a while before asking for help up a tree. Giorno looks down at them, surprised, and when they look back he sees something deliberate and purposeful in their eyes, something that makes his heart twist as much as it did talking to Sonic. This isn't right. This is too much responsibility for someone so young to take on. And he'd do exactly the same thing.]
[With a dry mouth, he helps Naga up the tree, making supports out of his vines and his hands. When they reach the branch they're aiming for, they sit, kicking their feet and surveying the area proudly. Giorno asks the tree to offer a branch to them for a high-five, and it does, and Naga laughs. Which helps. But not enough.]
[When he leaves for the evening, his coat wrapped securely around him, he intends to go straight home. He doesn't, though, and he can't even say why. Maybe it's because he doesn't feel like he belongs there right now, although honestly, he feels like he doesn't belong anywhere. His roots carry him treacherously back to the cafe he visited not long before, the place he came with Atem. The place he shouldn't have come. The store is locked, the employees, still shaken, quickly cleaning up and getting ready to go home.]
[He goes around the building, because something tells him he should. By the back door, there's a small, dark alcove that casts long shadows in the early night. And in that shadow, a figure, back pressed to the outer wall, the handle of a knife just barely showing through the gap in a long coat.]
[Vines are around the man's neck before he can even register movement. With a single, constrictive movement, Giorno snaps it. And by the time the two young women in the cafe clock out and leave for home, whispering covertly to each other in the oppressive dark, there are no monsters or humans to be seen.]
[Somewhat later, on the other side of midnight, Fugo receives a message.]
i have a body. i'm afraid i wasn't thinking much for making maximum use of it. could you help me salvage it?
[It's a farce. Fugo will have noticed he's missing by now. He'll have found the television, and the blood. But right now, this is the best he has.]
[Pathetic.]
Edited 2022-03-28 02:57 (UTC)
[Giorno doesn't come back to the house in the hill. The time of his usual return comes and goes and becomes long past: the sun sets, evening becomes night, and darkness settles like a shroud over the shore of Lake Dala.]
[Fugo waits. And he worries. It claws at him; threatens to devour him from the inside out. If not for the broken television in Giorno's room, he would have thought the worst. But nothing else was disturbed; it was just the television, glass face shattered around an impact in the shape of a fist. There was a trail of shards leading to the door, haphazard, abandoned-- picked out of his knuckles hours ago, Fugo dully thought, as he swept it up, given that the blood is dry. He must have healed the cuts before he came upstairs.
He doesn't know exactly, for sure, what upset Giorno. But he thinks he can sense the shape of it. The looming storm on the edge of the horizon; it hangs heavy in the air, the atmospheric inhale before the first low growl of thunder begins. He can feel the heart of it beating, unhappy, unwell, unsettled.]
[Bavan is very different, after Atem's broadcast.]
[Fugo waits for him in the garden. He sits in the sunken living area, facing the front door, long limbs spread out to sense the vibrations of anyone who might come close. He keeps his hands busy with a sewing project, long fingers deftly stitching a piece of clothing that he ripped apart at the seams, adjusted, and is now putting back together into something that does. His laptop sits in front of him, open at his inbox.
Eventually, a message comes through. Fugo abandons his work immediately to reply.]
Of course, Giogio. I'll be there right away. Where are you? I'll meet you there with a car and my tools.
[Fugo waits. And he worries. It claws at him; threatens to devour him from the inside out. If not for the broken television in Giorno's room, he would have thought the worst. But nothing else was disturbed; it was just the television, glass face shattered around an impact in the shape of a fist. There was a trail of shards leading to the door, haphazard, abandoned-- picked out of his knuckles hours ago, Fugo dully thought, as he swept it up, given that the blood is dry. He must have healed the cuts before he came upstairs.
He doesn't know exactly, for sure, what upset Giorno. But he thinks he can sense the shape of it. The looming storm on the edge of the horizon; it hangs heavy in the air, the atmospheric inhale before the first low growl of thunder begins. He can feel the heart of it beating, unhappy, unwell, unsettled.]
[Bavan is very different, after Atem's broadcast.]
[Fugo waits for him in the garden. He sits in the sunken living area, facing the front door, long limbs spread out to sense the vibrations of anyone who might come close. He keeps his hands busy with a sewing project, long fingers deftly stitching a piece of clothing that he ripped apart at the seams, adjusted, and is now putting back together into something that does. His laptop sits in front of him, open at his inbox.
Eventually, a message comes through. Fugo abandons his work immediately to reply.]
Of course, Giogio. I'll be there right away. Where are you? I'll meet you there with a car and my tools.
cw gore, dismemberment, unreality, dissociation, body horror when feeding
digiorno
- 2022-04-18 07:38 (UTC) - ExpandThis isn't really a secret. Well, it's kind of a secret, I would prefer if you didn't spread this around. It's kind of weird.
But I don't understand movies in general. But horror movies are especially confusing to me.
Anyway that seems very reasonable to me. Genuinely, what the fuck was that all about?
But I don't understand movies in general. But horror movies are especially confusing to me.
Anyway that seems very reasonable to me. Genuinely, what the fuck was that all about?
[ Shortly after Giorno's birthday party, Mista had finally had enough of the radio silence from Fugo. What followed was a mess of repeated text messages that didn't really do him any favours but if it might get Fugo to talk to him it was worth it. ]
talk to me
you can't ignore me forever
hey hey hey
i know you're reading these
just answer already
we need to talk
so talk to me already
don't be a shithead fugo
come on just talk to me
[ Over and over. Sorry, not sorry Fugo. ]
talk to me
you can't ignore me forever
hey hey hey
i know you're reading these
just answer already
we need to talk
so talk to me already
don't be a shithead fugo
come on just talk to me
[ Over and over. Sorry, not sorry Fugo. ]
[She could be annoying in person to similar effect, but today, Trish engages in her favorite activity of "messaging someone in the same house as her, because walking the several feet to their room is beneath her".
That, and there's an art to this she can't quite pull off verbally.]
Good morning, Fugo. I'm here once again to appeal to your participation in a musical endeavor.
Of course, I've tried many times before, but I don't think I ever explained why I think you should learn to play guitar. So here:
1.) It strengthens your cognitive abilities. I know you play piano already, but that's almost rote for you by now. What good is that doing for your brain when you hardly have to think about it anymore?
2.) It'll be fun.
3.) I want you to learn so you can play with me, specifically.
Convincing, yes?
That, and there's an art to this she can't quite pull off verbally.]
Good morning, Fugo. I'm here once again to appeal to your participation in a musical endeavor.
Of course, I've tried many times before, but I don't think I ever explained why I think you should learn to play guitar. So here:
1.) It strengthens your cognitive abilities. I know you play piano already, but that's almost rote for you by now. What good is that doing for your brain when you hardly have to think about it anymore?
2.) It'll be fun.
3.) I want you to learn so you can play with me, specifically.
Convincing, yes?
Yeah, sure.
[This reply comes quickly, even for Fugo. Suspiciously quickly, especially given the way he's put her off, avoided the question, and just generally been difficult about it in the past. Almost as if he only read the first line and didn't bother with the rest of the message.]
[This reply comes quickly, even for Fugo. Suspiciously quickly, especially given the way he's put her off, avoided the question, and just generally been difficult about it in the past. Almost as if he only read the first line and didn't bother with the rest of the message.]
[Giorno is a total bastard, because Trish can barely wait before she's descending upon Fugo's inbox once again.
It's in her brain and won't leave!!! Especially when he has to be so ominous about "witnessing" it. Like he saw Fugo perform some unholy ritual.]
Okay, I'm not going to beat around the bush on this one.
Tell me about this infamous dance you know.
[Yeah.]
It's in her brain and won't leave!!! Especially when he has to be so ominous about "witnessing" it. Like he saw Fugo perform some unholy ritual.]
Okay, I'm not going to beat around the bush on this one.
Tell me about this infamous dance you know.
[Yeah.]
< Eb7#9 > both of us out here crying in the club about narancia
unholey
- 2022-07-03 04:24 (UTC) - Expand[Giorno Giovanna has been thinking.]
[A dangerous concept indeed. It's for the best that anyone who sees him musing for too long uninterrupted distract him with something, if possible. But no one managed to catch him this time.]
[That's quickly going to become Fugo's problem.]
[It makes perfect sense to Giorno, but must seem out of the blue entirely to Fugo when Giorno messages him apropos of nothing with the following.]
fugo. i hope you know that if you're ever struggling with any worries about bodily changes of any nature, even a more personal one, that you can come to me. i don't consider any topic off limits and i won't be offended. all i ask is that if you're worried, don't be worried alone.
[very sweet but what the fuck are you talking about]
[A dangerous concept indeed. It's for the best that anyone who sees him musing for too long uninterrupted distract him with something, if possible. But no one managed to catch him this time.]
[That's quickly going to become Fugo's problem.]
[It makes perfect sense to Giorno, but must seem out of the blue entirely to Fugo when Giorno messages him apropos of nothing with the following.]
fugo. i hope you know that if you're ever struggling with any worries about bodily changes of any nature, even a more personal one, that you can come to me. i don't consider any topic off limits and i won't be offended. all i ask is that if you're worried, don't be worried alone.
[very sweet but what the fuck are you talking about]
[This message is … well, weird isn’t the word. All of this is an extremely Giorno sentiment. And given the recent nonsense on the network, Fugo has an idea of the direction it’s coming from even if he can’t pin down the direct source. But it’s still unexpected. Yeah. That’s the word he’s going with.]
1) Thanks, Giogio. That’s good to know.
2) Rather than guess I’m just going to ask directly. What brought this on? I’m a bit lost.
1) Thanks, Giogio. That’s good to know.
2) Rather than guess I’m just going to ask directly. What brought this on? I’m a bit lost.
< Eb7#9 > fortunately (?) he is back to being spooder. so his self-control/patience is back to Max
unholey
- 2022-07-30 23:42 (UTC) - Expand<harmonia> https://c.tenor.com/e8bI2ng0F-EAAAAM/deer-hands.gif
digiorno
- 2022-08-11 05:39 (UTC) - Expand[The narrator's mirror-mask is cracked neatly down the middle. He no longer speaks, standing like a sentinel in the shadows behind the figure seated at the table. The narrator is Giorno, as the figure is Giorno, as the observer is also Giorno, with increasing levels of accuracy. The observer hesitates, stalled, unwilling to get any closer.]
[He just watches. But he's seen it all before, of course. The restaurant was familiar to him in concept and execution before he ever saw it himself. Fugo gave him so many details, after all — down to the most finite points. And now he has seen, can see again, that Fugo's memory was impeccable, that there was no information ommitted even unintentionally.]
[The play he's watching is of his own plan coming to fruition; of bringing Fugo home. Now a memory all his own, and immediately put out in the world for everyone to see. It stings. Painfully. This is his — theirs — not for public consumption. This is the most private and vulnerable moment imaginable. He doesn't want to share it. He doesn't want Fugo to be forced to share it. But fighting won't do any good; he's already tried.]
[As he watches, the play-Fugo coughs blood into his hand. The play-Giorno's fingers twitch slightly, imperceptible to Fugo in his pain and misery, and healing begins, the slow, now-seamless process of rebuilding damage cell by cell.]
[He's speaking.]
[Trish's voice comes on the radio, wrapping around them, actors and all, like gentle lapping saltwater. He can't hear anyone approaching and doesn't bother trying to look out. There's bitterness at the back of his tongue: this is designed for show. There's nothing he can do to stop it. All he can do is witness. So he does.]
[He just watches. But he's seen it all before, of course. The restaurant was familiar to him in concept and execution before he ever saw it himself. Fugo gave him so many details, after all — down to the most finite points. And now he has seen, can see again, that Fugo's memory was impeccable, that there was no information ommitted even unintentionally.]
[The play he's watching is of his own plan coming to fruition; of bringing Fugo home. Now a memory all his own, and immediately put out in the world for everyone to see. It stings. Painfully. This is his — theirs — not for public consumption. This is the most private and vulnerable moment imaginable. He doesn't want to share it. He doesn't want Fugo to be forced to share it. But fighting won't do any good; he's already tried.]
[As he watches, the play-Fugo coughs blood into his hand. The play-Giorno's fingers twitch slightly, imperceptible to Fugo in his pain and misery, and healing begins, the slow, now-seamless process of rebuilding damage cell by cell.]
[He's speaking.]
[His chest is tight. His own chest; he remembers that in this moment, he felt serene. He knew he was doing what was right. Now he stares at the scene like he's witnessing something holy and possibly forbidden, one hand clutching the other wrist against his chest, pressed over his heartbeat.]You know what yakitori is? Japanese food, cooked on skewers, designed to snack on while drinking beer. You impale the meat on sharp little sticks. Not exactly safe for small children, is it? Painful memories, I tell you. They tell me it helped me to grow, but that's hard to see. Can you sympathize at all?
[Trish's voice comes on the radio, wrapping around them, actors and all, like gentle lapping saltwater. He can't hear anyone approaching and doesn't bother trying to look out. There's bitterness at the back of his tongue: this is designed for show. There's nothing he can do to stop it. All he can do is witness. So he does.]
Edited 2022-09-26 03:18 (UTC)
[This theater is hell. Hell is an endless stage of memories on display that he doesn't want to look at, because they're not his to see. Hell is Venice again and again. Hell is burying a knife into the chest of yet another awful fucking doppelganger wearing his face, wrenching it until it gets caught in a bone, and still that fucker won't die. Hell is stale sugar popcorn and flat fountain soda, hunger pinching tight around his stomach; snatches of bad sleep in the rafters, wrapped in a makeshift nest of web and dusty curtains.
But there is one small comfort: at least the others aren't here. At least they are safe. Or at least as safe as one can be in Ryslig during the middle of the month. Trapped as he is, he takes some cold, small comfort in this knowledge. He hates to be alone here, hates to be dragged away from what he should be doing. But Fugo will survive, the same as he always has: he has grit his teeth, dragged himself to his feet, and staggered forward. He’ll drag himself through this, too.]
[So that’s what he does. He drags himself all over the theater; just picks a direction and walks, stubbornly seeking an end to the endless. It doesn’t pan out. But the further he goes, the quieter it is; he finds himself increasingly surrounded by empty theaters and still stages, spaces waiting to be filled. Which is how he hears it. First– the crackle of a radio, just on the edge of his hearing. And then, faintly, the first warbling notes of a song that has been engraved on his heart that stop him dead in his tracks.
Time– slips, sort of, between the moment he hears it and the moment he finds it. He doesn't know how long it takes to find it. He searches, maybe for a few minutes, maybe for an hour, drawn in like a moth to a flame to Donizetti's Te voglio bene assaje.]
[In time, he finds it. There is the table, set for two. He can smell the oil and garlic in the play-Giorno's plate of chicken; the blood of his false self's wounds, the stale cigarette smoke that clings to his stolen clothes. Light filters through the curtains in the backdrop, the illusion of morning.]
Giogio--?
[But he's quickly distracted from the stage. As upsetting as it is to see something so precious to him put on display for others to gawk at, he is much more startled by the figure standing in front of it. Because before he fell into this world, Giorno was asleep. He was asleep and he wouldn't wake up.]
But there is one small comfort: at least the others aren't here. At least they are safe. Or at least as safe as one can be in Ryslig during the middle of the month. Trapped as he is, he takes some cold, small comfort in this knowledge. He hates to be alone here, hates to be dragged away from what he should be doing. But Fugo will survive, the same as he always has: he has grit his teeth, dragged himself to his feet, and staggered forward. He’ll drag himself through this, too.]
[So that’s what he does. He drags himself all over the theater; just picks a direction and walks, stubbornly seeking an end to the endless. It doesn’t pan out. But the further he goes, the quieter it is; he finds himself increasingly surrounded by empty theaters and still stages, spaces waiting to be filled. Which is how he hears it. First– the crackle of a radio, just on the edge of his hearing. And then, faintly, the first warbling notes of a song that has been engraved on his heart that stop him dead in his tracks.
Time– slips, sort of, between the moment he hears it and the moment he finds it. He doesn't know how long it takes to find it. He searches, maybe for a few minutes, maybe for an hour, drawn in like a moth to a flame to Donizetti's Te voglio bene assaje.]
[In time, he finds it. There is the table, set for two. He can smell the oil and garlic in the play-Giorno's plate of chicken; the blood of his false self's wounds, the stale cigarette smoke that clings to his stolen clothes. Light filters through the curtains in the backdrop, the illusion of morning.]
Giogio--?
[But he's quickly distracted from the stage. As upsetting as it is to see something so precious to him put on display for others to gawk at, he is much more startled by the figure standing in front of it. Because before he fell into this world, Giorno was asleep. He was asleep and he wouldn't wake up.]
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