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.
[ look at Fugo with more restraint than Bucciarati. The response makes him glance briefly down at the mug in his hands, perhaps distantly chagrined, although it doesn't really show on his face (like most of his non-business feelings.) They've known each other long enough that Fugo might be able to tell anyway, much like how Bruno can tell Fugo's already uneasy at being put in this situation. Maybe it's bit unfair of Bruno to corner him at night, when he has nowhere else to excuse himself to and no one else to hide with. Unfortunately for Fugo, that was part of his reasoning to begin with. They need to talk sometime. Privately. ]
Water, then.
[ He nods, shifting on his feet and turning halfway in the doorframe while he waits for Fugo to come along. Judging by the bags under his eyes, he probably should be having water, too. Laying in bed unable to fall asleep annoys him, however; he'd rather just stay awake and occupy himself with something, even if he needs the caffeine to do it with any real focus. He's always been like that. ]
By the way, how are your eyes?
[ he gestures to the secondary ones Fugo's now sporting. They'd been there when they met earlier, of course, but based on his observations, Bruno figures he's still in the middle of changing. It's a polite nothing to pad out the conversation. It's also based in real concern. Fugo's probably trying to soldier through it alone - much like whatever thoughts he has about the gang and Bucciarati that he's desperately danced around confronting since the latter showed up. And, as ever, Bruno intends on simply confronting his problems directly. ]
Water, then.
[ He nods, shifting on his feet and turning halfway in the doorframe while he waits for Fugo to come along. Judging by the bags under his eyes, he probably should be having water, too. Laying in bed unable to fall asleep annoys him, however; he'd rather just stay awake and occupy himself with something, even if he needs the caffeine to do it with any real focus. He's always been like that. ]
By the way, how are your eyes?
[ he gestures to the secondary ones Fugo's now sporting. They'd been there when they met earlier, of course, but based on his observations, Bruno figures he's still in the middle of changing. It's a polite nothing to pad out the conversation. It's also based in real concern. Fugo's probably trying to soldier through it alone - much like whatever thoughts he has about the gang and Bucciarati that he's desperately danced around confronting since the latter showed up. And, as ever, Bruno intends on simply confronting his problems directly. ]
[Immediately, Fugo has the knee-jerk urge to take it back. He hates to disappoint and, however subtle the signs, he can see it brushed over Bucciarati's face. But it's too late. The words are out of his mouth and the conversation moves forward, figuratively and literally. Fugo nervously caps his pen and sticks in the pocket of his pajamas before following Bruno out. It's cold in the lower levels of the house, especially now that autumn is on its way out and winter is on its way, so (luckily for everyone else) he's made no modifications to these pants.]
I'm still getting used to them. They can be disorienting at times, as my vision is very different now, but my ability to focus has improved significantly.
[Despite the distance Fugo has kept between himself and Bucciarati, he answers simply and honestly. He holds back a few of the bothersome details. That, at first, they used to give him migraines; that part of what makes them so disorienting is that the widest edges of his vision, provided by the eyes on his temples, is blurry and unfocused in comparison to the vision provided by his primary eyes. Such a pain.]
When they bother me, [which, given how hooded jackets have become a staple in Fugo's wardrobe on sunnier days, they regularly do,] I just put on a hood or a shawl. Or sunglasses. [Gloomily:] I need to commission a custom pair, but I haven't been able to source a vendor yet.
I'm still getting used to them. They can be disorienting at times, as my vision is very different now, but my ability to focus has improved significantly.
[Despite the distance Fugo has kept between himself and Bucciarati, he answers simply and honestly. He holds back a few of the bothersome details. That, at first, they used to give him migraines; that part of what makes them so disorienting is that the widest edges of his vision, provided by the eyes on his temples, is blurry and unfocused in comparison to the vision provided by his primary eyes. Such a pain.]
When they bother me, [which, given how hooded jackets have become a staple in Fugo's wardrobe on sunnier days, they regularly do,] I just put on a hood or a shawl. Or sunglasses. [Gloomily:] I need to commission a custom pair, but I haven't been able to source a vendor yet.
[ A nod. He quite literally can't imagine what it might be like - hopes he won't have to start, either. At least Fugo doesn't seem to be in pain, or at least none that he's unable to hide. Bruno won't pry the gory details out of him. This is a personal sort of change, a violating one, and the fact that everyone is forced to undergo it in public is cruel enough. ]
It's a shame. There was a fashion designer in Milan who had some connections to Polpo and the gang. If we still had our network, you'd have your glasses in a few days. [ he is most certainly not above pulling some strings to get his men what they need. ] Then again, I suppose it wouldn't be a problem in the first place if we did.
[ no one would be turning into spiders. It's silly to even mention it. But those memories of the past they all shared are about all he can reflect fondly on here. The present is nothing but exhaustion and confusion, and he has few good things to say about it - with the glaring exception of being allowed to see his companions one last time. (Again: his third and final chance, God willing.)
The new pot of coffee is there, as promised, and the daunting prospect of finishing it by himself is something he'll worry about later. When they enter the kitchen, he instead sets his mug on the counter before pulling out a glass for Fugo, moving to fill it up. Bruno's back is to him, now, giving Fugo the small mercy of not having to keep up eye contact as he starts. ]
I don't remember the last time I saw you this nervous about speaking with me.
It's a shame. There was a fashion designer in Milan who had some connections to Polpo and the gang. If we still had our network, you'd have your glasses in a few days. [ he is most certainly not above pulling some strings to get his men what they need. ] Then again, I suppose it wouldn't be a problem in the first place if we did.
[ no one would be turning into spiders. It's silly to even mention it. But those memories of the past they all shared are about all he can reflect fondly on here. The present is nothing but exhaustion and confusion, and he has few good things to say about it - with the glaring exception of being allowed to see his companions one last time. (Again: his third and final chance, God willing.)
The new pot of coffee is there, as promised, and the daunting prospect of finishing it by himself is something he'll worry about later. When they enter the kitchen, he instead sets his mug on the counter before pulling out a glass for Fugo, moving to fill it up. Bruno's back is to him, now, giving Fugo the small mercy of not having to keep up eye contact as he starts. ]
I don't remember the last time I saw you this nervous about speaking with me.
Edited 2021-11-14 06:39 (UTC)
["Our" network. It's strange how such a simple turn of phrase leaves him feeling so wrong-footed. It's not necessarily wrong. He might have turned his back on Bucciarati and Passione in Venice by running away to hide in Milan-- but Giorno brought him back. Giorno wanted him to be a part of his new Passione. It's that hope for the future that has allowed him to make connections here in Ryslig with Giorno and Trish, who are nearly half a year away from his return.]
Businesses seem to come and go very quickly. It makes research a little difficult.
[You know. What with the monthly mass murder and all. Giorno has made good connections with other Monsters, but it's a far cry from the vast root-system, which starts on the streets and reaches all the way to the top, that supports Passione. It's not just a matter of starting from scratch: it's that they have to build something new from scratch.
Fugo follows Bucciarati to the kitchen, quiet, tense, and gloomy. He isn't looking forward to this conversation, although he's well aware of how necessary it will be moving forward. It's important that they're on the same page. He means to get his own glass of water, but Bucciarati is quicker. So he winds up taking a seat on the counter, notebook perfectly centered and perfectly straight in front of him. His posture is stiff, but not totally unfamiliar; it's the way he used to hold himself when they first met. Perfect, poised, still.]
We're going to talk about Venice. [Bucciarati isn't the only one who can just ... bluntly get into it. He reaches up and sharply brushes his hair out of his eyes. Other than this movement, he doesn't fidget. This is also out of place. It's been a long time since Fugo bothered to hide his nervous fidgeting from Bucciarati.] Or was there something else that you wanted to discuss?
Businesses seem to come and go very quickly. It makes research a little difficult.
[You know. What with the monthly mass murder and all. Giorno has made good connections with other Monsters, but it's a far cry from the vast root-system, which starts on the streets and reaches all the way to the top, that supports Passione. It's not just a matter of starting from scratch: it's that they have to build something new from scratch.
Fugo follows Bucciarati to the kitchen, quiet, tense, and gloomy. He isn't looking forward to this conversation, although he's well aware of how necessary it will be moving forward. It's important that they're on the same page. He means to get his own glass of water, but Bucciarati is quicker. So he winds up taking a seat on the counter, notebook perfectly centered and perfectly straight in front of him. His posture is stiff, but not totally unfamiliar; it's the way he used to hold himself when they first met. Perfect, poised, still.]
We're going to talk about Venice. [Bucciarati isn't the only one who can just ... bluntly get into it. He reaches up and sharply brushes his hair out of his eyes. Other than this movement, he doesn't fidget. This is also out of place. It's been a long time since Fugo bothered to hide his nervous fidgeting from Bucciarati.] Or was there something else that you wanted to discuss?
[ it is very much reminiscent of when they first met. Back then, Bruno had only barely been given a leadership position and permission to recruit others at the tender age of sixteen, and Fugo had been even younger than that, a jaded, calculating middle schooler very much determined not to give anyone an inch over him ever again. He remembers it still. Fate, he'd called it - that the two of them met. He has to say that he's only more convinced of that now. What other explanation could there be for their meeting again here after being driven apart by conflict and even death? ]
No. As usual, you're correct.
[ Fugo's tension doesn't seem to bother him now, either; he comes back around and sets Fugo's glass down, taking a seat himself diagonal from him rather than directly across. A shorter distance, less formal, despite the formality of Bruno's bearing and the weight of the topic at hand. He folds his hands on the tablecloth and meets Fugo's gaze without fear. Bruno is exhausted, mentally, physically, but the fire is still there in his eyes, despite everything. ]
Let me speak honestly. You were correct back then, as well. I knew that - everyone knew that. I allowed my heart to make a decision for me, and that decision ended the way you said it would.
[ He was killed. He sacrificed three lives for one. It was an illogical move from the basest numerical perspective. Remembering Narancia and Abbacchio makes his hands clench each other more tightly where they rest, knuckles paling, but he continues. ]
Your intellect is your strength. That's what drew me to you in the first place. You're smarter than I am, Fugo. Without you, I wouldn't have made it as far as I did. If I had listened to you in Venice, I would have gone even farther... As a capo, I would have succeeded with your guidance, and I would share that success with all of you. From the start, I truly believed that. I still believe it now. [ a beat. ] Even so, I have no regrets.
[ he levels his gaze at Fugo. There's an ache in his bones that won't leave - the ache of a corpse made to walk the Earth again not once, but twice. There's a sickness in his heart that will never leave, that makes his stomach roil when he closes his eyes at night and remembers the sick boy on a hospital bed and the heartbroken drunk in the rain who followed him to their deaths. But there's a resolve, too, burning gold in his soul, and it's there in his eyes now, exactly as it was at the docks of the church. Trish is sleeping somewhere upstairs, safe. Giorno, clutching an arrowhead in his hands. And, yes, before him now, Fugo, alive, defying a world that seems to conspire to beat him down - because he, too, was someone Bruno was fighting for, long after they parted ways, and looking at him now, he's as certain as he was that day that even if Fugo was correct, his choice was still right. ]
Do you?
No. As usual, you're correct.
[ Fugo's tension doesn't seem to bother him now, either; he comes back around and sets Fugo's glass down, taking a seat himself diagonal from him rather than directly across. A shorter distance, less formal, despite the formality of Bruno's bearing and the weight of the topic at hand. He folds his hands on the tablecloth and meets Fugo's gaze without fear. Bruno is exhausted, mentally, physically, but the fire is still there in his eyes, despite everything. ]
Let me speak honestly. You were correct back then, as well. I knew that - everyone knew that. I allowed my heart to make a decision for me, and that decision ended the way you said it would.
[ He was killed. He sacrificed three lives for one. It was an illogical move from the basest numerical perspective. Remembering Narancia and Abbacchio makes his hands clench each other more tightly where they rest, knuckles paling, but he continues. ]
Your intellect is your strength. That's what drew me to you in the first place. You're smarter than I am, Fugo. Without you, I wouldn't have made it as far as I did. If I had listened to you in Venice, I would have gone even farther... As a capo, I would have succeeded with your guidance, and I would share that success with all of you. From the start, I truly believed that. I still believe it now. [ a beat. ] Even so, I have no regrets.
[ he levels his gaze at Fugo. There's an ache in his bones that won't leave - the ache of a corpse made to walk the Earth again not once, but twice. There's a sickness in his heart that will never leave, that makes his stomach roil when he closes his eyes at night and remembers the sick boy on a hospital bed and the heartbroken drunk in the rain who followed him to their deaths. But there's a resolve, too, burning gold in his soul, and it's there in his eyes now, exactly as it was at the docks of the church. Trish is sleeping somewhere upstairs, safe. Giorno, clutching an arrowhead in his hands. And, yes, before him now, Fugo, alive, defying a world that seems to conspire to beat him down - because he, too, was someone Bruno was fighting for, long after they parted ways, and looking at him now, he's as certain as he was that day that even if Fugo was correct, his choice was still right. ]
Do you?
[Bucciarati speaks. Fugo listens without interruption, hands folded and posture perfect, expression as still and unmovable as stone. He doesn't look away. He doesn't reach for the glass of water. The whole weight of his attention is focused entirely on the conversation, each word sliding between his ribs like a collection of well-sharpened knives.
There's no comfort in any of it. Not even in the accomplishments he used to take pride in. It's all ash in his hands, too far gone to save, fragile and crumbling. It wasn't enough. He wasn't enough. None of it means a thing because, when it really mattered, he couldn't set his logic aside and take a single step forward. Even now, he can feel the prickle of a sunburn on the back of his neck; he can smell the salt of the canal. In a way, Pannacotta Fugo never left the stairs at the foot of the San Giorgio Maggiore. He's still there, staring at the horizon, at the point where the water met the sky and the boat carrying his world disappeared.]
I know.
[This is the bitter truth he carries with him; the one that's never far away from his heart, his thoughts. Every time Trish comes to listen to him play, he can't help but remember what he said. We don't even know what kind of music she likes! As if that was a reason to join the rest of the world, which had politely turned around to give Diavolo the privacy he needed to murder his daughter.]
But if you had listened to me in Venice, you would have died.
[Maybe not all at once. But it would have driven a shard of ice into the yawning hole in Bucciarati's heart, the wound that got bigger and bigger every time he found a child with track marks in their arm in his territory. Little by little, piece by piece, Bucciarati would have died-- leaving a doppelgänger who would wear his face and talk with his voice behind to keep them company.]
What I said might have been correct, but it was wrong. I wasn't there with you when you needed me.
[Never mind that Bucciarati all gave them a choice. Out of all of them, Fugo is the only one who got it wrong. He might have been correct, but he hates the logic that lead him to that point. There was no other choice he could have made in that moment-- but he regrets it. So much. More than anything. And he can never, ever take it back.]
There's no comfort in any of it. Not even in the accomplishments he used to take pride in. It's all ash in his hands, too far gone to save, fragile and crumbling. It wasn't enough. He wasn't enough. None of it means a thing because, when it really mattered, he couldn't set his logic aside and take a single step forward. Even now, he can feel the prickle of a sunburn on the back of his neck; he can smell the salt of the canal. In a way, Pannacotta Fugo never left the stairs at the foot of the San Giorgio Maggiore. He's still there, staring at the horizon, at the point where the water met the sky and the boat carrying his world disappeared.]
I know.
[This is the bitter truth he carries with him; the one that's never far away from his heart, his thoughts. Every time Trish comes to listen to him play, he can't help but remember what he said. We don't even know what kind of music she likes! As if that was a reason to join the rest of the world, which had politely turned around to give Diavolo the privacy he needed to murder his daughter.]
But if you had listened to me in Venice, you would have died.
[Maybe not all at once. But it would have driven a shard of ice into the yawning hole in Bucciarati's heart, the wound that got bigger and bigger every time he found a child with track marks in their arm in his territory. Little by little, piece by piece, Bucciarati would have died-- leaving a doppelgänger who would wear his face and talk with his voice behind to keep them company.]
What I said might have been correct, but it was wrong. I wasn't there with you when you needed me.
[Never mind that Bucciarati all gave them a choice. Out of all of them, Fugo is the only one who got it wrong. He might have been correct, but he hates the logic that lead him to that point. There was no other choice he could have made in that moment-- but he regrets it. So much. More than anything. And he can never, ever take it back.]
[ The irony is thick. Fugo doesn't know, clearly. Giorno must not have told him - he wonders now if Giorno even told Mista and Trish that he'd been dead the whole time, or if he'd managed to avoid having to explain it when they inevitably stumbled back to find his body in the ancient dirt at the Coliseum. Of course, Bruno himself doesn't make any comment on it; his only tell is a slight flinch in his eyes, fleeting concern that weighs his brow for only the briefest half-second.
That's a separate problem, and one he'll have to deal with at a later date. For now, he has Fugo, stiff and straight-backed like he's frozen solid to his seat, like ice, and just as brittle, too. Bruno is keenly aware he could crush him into pieces in this moment. This, too, is another burden of being the Capo, at least for him - to have so much faith placed in him, so much weight given to his words. So they need to be true and give strength, instead. He didn't invite him here to break him down. ]
You didn't answer my question. Do you regret it, Fugo?
[ he clearly does. It's obvious and screaming from every stony pore in his face. Still, Bruno presses. ]
If you had been with me, you might have died, too. But because of the choice you made, you survived. I achieved everything I set out to do after that day. The mission was a success - and in addition, you survived. That's why I don't regret it. Not my choice, and not yours, either.
[ is it true that he missed Fugo? Of course - of course there were times he wished he was there, or when his power would have helped them. But things happened the way they did. Fate is hard to fight; it can only be shifted a little, and Bruno is thankful that his ridiculous gambit succeeded at all. That only a few of them died, and not all. ]
If you regret it, you can change the path you walk and repent. That's the luxury afforded to those who survive. Just know that your forgiveness won't come from me. [ he pauses. His voice softens, a little, and when he speaks, he sounds less like a capo and more like Bucciarati. ] I blame you for nothing.
[ if he has a regret, it's that he walked a path that Fugo couldn't follow. He never actually got to say goodbye. ]
That's a separate problem, and one he'll have to deal with at a later date. For now, he has Fugo, stiff and straight-backed like he's frozen solid to his seat, like ice, and just as brittle, too. Bruno is keenly aware he could crush him into pieces in this moment. This, too, is another burden of being the Capo, at least for him - to have so much faith placed in him, so much weight given to his words. So they need to be true and give strength, instead. He didn't invite him here to break him down. ]
You didn't answer my question. Do you regret it, Fugo?
[ he clearly does. It's obvious and screaming from every stony pore in his face. Still, Bruno presses. ]
If you had been with me, you might have died, too. But because of the choice you made, you survived. I achieved everything I set out to do after that day. The mission was a success - and in addition, you survived. That's why I don't regret it. Not my choice, and not yours, either.
[ is it true that he missed Fugo? Of course - of course there were times he wished he was there, or when his power would have helped them. But things happened the way they did. Fate is hard to fight; it can only be shifted a little, and Bruno is thankful that his ridiculous gambit succeeded at all. That only a few of them died, and not all. ]
If you regret it, you can change the path you walk and repent. That's the luxury afforded to those who survive. Just know that your forgiveness won't come from me. [ he pauses. His voice softens, a little, and when he speaks, he sounds less like a capo and more like Bucciarati. ] I blame you for nothing.
[ if he has a regret, it's that he walked a path that Fugo couldn't follow. He never actually got to say goodbye. ]
[Three years. That’s how long they worked together, the two of them. For the first six months, it was just the two of them: Bucciarati and his preteen charity case, scrambling to cover a territory that should have been managed by a bigger team with a more seasoned leader. Polpo, that fucker-- even now, Fugo can’t help but think he just liked to watch Bucciarati squirm, just to see what he would do and if he could handle it. Fugo has spent too much time at Bucciarati’s side to miss that brush of emotion as it flickers across his face-- but Bucciarati, in turn, has spent too long mastering the skill of keeping calm under pressure for Fugo to have any real idea what it might have meant. Whatever it is, Bucciarati doesn’t want him to know. Despite everything, it still stings.
For now, though, he has to tuck it away. Even though it should be obvious, even though Bucciarati has to know he regrets it, he won’t let Fugo get away without answering his question. This isn’t surprising. Bucciarati has always hated lies of any sort, including omission; he is, as he has always been, a painfully honest and genuine man.]
Yes. I regret it.
[But regret doesn't change anything. Regret doesn't take back what he said. Repenting won't give him the opportunity to make the choice over again. Being forgiven, or being rejected-- in the end, it's all the same. Because what he wants, the people he wanted to see live another day, will never come back to him. They left him behind without turning back, leaving behind no regrets.
Because Bucciarati is dead. Narancia is dead. Abbacchio is dead. And Mista will never be able to look at him and not see the cold-hearted bastard who abandoned Bucciarati to his fate. They will never sit together to share a meal at their usual table at Libeccio again. That time is over. It's gone.
He can't go back.]
[Fugo sighs. He leans back in his seat and folds his arms in front of his chest. Shouldn't ... it be comforting, to hear that Bucciarati doesn't blame him? Shouldn't he be glad to hear that Bucciarati is relieved to know he survived? It just ... doesn't feel fair. Just like he shouldn't have been the one to survive, after making the wrong choice, Bucciarati shouldn't have to be the one to comfort him about that stupid, awful choice.]
After everything, I wound up in Milan. It took six months for them to catch up with me. [His shoulders twitch with a brief ... it's not a chuckle. There's no mirth in it. What a joke, hiding from Passione. It didn't take six months for Giorno to find him, it just took six months for everything to come together to send him after the narcotics squad.] It's a long story, but... in the end, I swore loyalty to Giorno. To his new Passione.
[He can't take back what he said, or change the choice he made. But, at the same time... he's not alone with this burden either. Giorno promised to meet him halfway. Half of a step.]
For now, though, he has to tuck it away. Even though it should be obvious, even though Bucciarati has to know he regrets it, he won’t let Fugo get away without answering his question. This isn’t surprising. Bucciarati has always hated lies of any sort, including omission; he is, as he has always been, a painfully honest and genuine man.]
Yes. I regret it.
[But regret doesn't change anything. Regret doesn't take back what he said. Repenting won't give him the opportunity to make the choice over again. Being forgiven, or being rejected-- in the end, it's all the same. Because what he wants, the people he wanted to see live another day, will never come back to him. They left him behind without turning back, leaving behind no regrets.
Because Bucciarati is dead. Narancia is dead. Abbacchio is dead. And Mista will never be able to look at him and not see the cold-hearted bastard who abandoned Bucciarati to his fate. They will never sit together to share a meal at their usual table at Libeccio again. That time is over. It's gone.
He can't go back.]
[Fugo sighs. He leans back in his seat and folds his arms in front of his chest. Shouldn't ... it be comforting, to hear that Bucciarati doesn't blame him? Shouldn't he be glad to hear that Bucciarati is relieved to know he survived? It just ... doesn't feel fair. Just like he shouldn't have been the one to survive, after making the wrong choice, Bucciarati shouldn't have to be the one to comfort him about that stupid, awful choice.]
After everything, I wound up in Milan. It took six months for them to catch up with me. [His shoulders twitch with a brief ... it's not a chuckle. There's no mirth in it. What a joke, hiding from Passione. It didn't take six months for Giorno to find him, it just took six months for everything to come together to send him after the narcotics squad.] It's a long story, but... in the end, I swore loyalty to Giorno. To his new Passione.
[He can't take back what he said, or change the choice he made. But, at the same time... he's not alone with this burden either. Giorno promised to meet him halfway. Half of a step.]
[ There's no comfort in his saying it because there's no comfort to be found here. Fugo's regret doesn't bring him comfort, either. Nothing changes. He feels it, too: the grief, the mourning of bygone days so painfully normal that he hadn't even thought anything of them while he was living them. He knows there aren't any words pretty enough to heal that hurt. All he can do is speak plainly, and listen. The first part is finished; he's said his piece. The second continues, and he accepts Fugo's admission simply, with a small nod.
There is some comfort, however, in knowing that Fugo hadn't been apprehended by Diavolo and directed to attack them as traitors. Though he never voiced it, the possibility had always been a niggling concern at the back of Bruno's mind - that Fugo would have to prove he wasn't a traitor, too. There must have been time to run and hide in those few days; the boss had been entirely focused on killing them. Comparatively, a single stray soldato wasn't much to worry about. ]
So he did find you. [ despite everything, Bruno finds it a nice thought. The friend he left behind, going on to help create the better world he envisioned. It's what he hoped for, he thinks. ] That was a smart move. He'll need someone like you.
[ and Fugo will need someone like him -- but he keeps that to himself.
He's already changed his path, hasn't he? They're walking the same road again - or, at least, the one Bruno would have taken. ]
How is it? Giorno's Passione.
There is some comfort, however, in knowing that Fugo hadn't been apprehended by Diavolo and directed to attack them as traitors. Though he never voiced it, the possibility had always been a niggling concern at the back of Bruno's mind - that Fugo would have to prove he wasn't a traitor, too. There must have been time to run and hide in those few days; the boss had been entirely focused on killing them. Comparatively, a single stray soldato wasn't much to worry about. ]
So he did find you. [ despite everything, Bruno finds it a nice thought. The friend he left behind, going on to help create the better world he envisioned. It's what he hoped for, he thinks. ] That was a smart move. He'll need someone like you.
[ and Fugo will need someone like him -- but he keeps that to himself.
He's already changed his path, hasn't he? They're walking the same road again - or, at least, the one Bruno would have taken. ]
How is it? Giorno's Passione.
... Giorno also said something like that.
[As the Boss of Passione, Giorno should have access to plenty of powerful Stand users. Anyone accountant worth their salt would be able to sort out the mess that Diavolo left behind. There is nothing Fugo can do that Giorno could not find in someone else, but still: he chose Fugo. He wanted Fugo back. He needs friends he can trust, not allies he can rely on, to help him with his dream.
He doesn't understand it. Not completely, not truly. But it's something Fugo has had to accept-- that's his half-step towards the future, as strange and bewildering as it is.]
It's very different. In April, he showed himself to Diavolo's remaining capos and declared himself the Boss.
[Not as a successor, or as new leadership after a coup: as the titular Boss. Which is frankly ridiculous, given Giorno's age. But Fugo supposes richer men have accepted more outrageous claims to keep a tight grip on their money and power. Of course scumbags like the capos of Passione were willing to grit their teeth, nod, and bend their heads to kiss Giorno's rings, as long as it meant holding onto their money and power for a little while longer.
And any who disagreed... well. Fugo's certain that Mista or Giorno took care of them before they were ever really a problem.]
It was... honestly incredible. Even from Milan, as disconnected as I could be from those circles, I heard rumors about how a "secret gangster prince" had revealed his name and face in Naples and was in the middle of cleaning house of traitors.
[Giorno's strategy, brilliant and dangerous in equal measure, allowed him to preserve the "truth" that Passione stood against the drugs and those who sold them... while simultaneously moving to eliminate the existing trade and routes that Diavolo had slowly established over the years, in the vacuum created after his men had eliminated any possible rivals. Even now, left in the complicated position of having "betrayed" the "Boss" from the perspective of anyone who doesn't know the truth, Fugo can't help but admire how brazen it is.]
He acts much more openly than Diavolo ever dared to think of. Those who follow him do it out of loyalty, rather than fear.
[As the Boss of Passione, Giorno should have access to plenty of powerful Stand users. Anyone accountant worth their salt would be able to sort out the mess that Diavolo left behind. There is nothing Fugo can do that Giorno could not find in someone else, but still: he chose Fugo. He wanted Fugo back. He needs friends he can trust, not allies he can rely on, to help him with his dream.
He doesn't understand it. Not completely, not truly. But it's something Fugo has had to accept-- that's his half-step towards the future, as strange and bewildering as it is.]
It's very different. In April, he showed himself to Diavolo's remaining capos and declared himself the Boss.
[Not as a successor, or as new leadership after a coup: as the titular Boss. Which is frankly ridiculous, given Giorno's age. But Fugo supposes richer men have accepted more outrageous claims to keep a tight grip on their money and power. Of course scumbags like the capos of Passione were willing to grit their teeth, nod, and bend their heads to kiss Giorno's rings, as long as it meant holding onto their money and power for a little while longer.
And any who disagreed... well. Fugo's certain that Mista or Giorno took care of them before they were ever really a problem.]
It was... honestly incredible. Even from Milan, as disconnected as I could be from those circles, I heard rumors about how a "secret gangster prince" had revealed his name and face in Naples and was in the middle of cleaning house of traitors.
[Giorno's strategy, brilliant and dangerous in equal measure, allowed him to preserve the "truth" that Passione stood against the drugs and those who sold them... while simultaneously moving to eliminate the existing trade and routes that Diavolo had slowly established over the years, in the vacuum created after his men had eliminated any possible rivals. Even now, left in the complicated position of having "betrayed" the "Boss" from the perspective of anyone who doesn't know the truth, Fugo can't help but admire how brazen it is.]
He acts much more openly than Diavolo ever dared to think of. Those who follow him do it out of loyalty, rather than fear.
[ leave it to Fugo to not appreciate his own value. Bruno doesn't know what Fugo's thinking now, but he at least understands what Giorno must have been.
There's a certain eeriness in listening to what transpired after his death. All of it makes him proud - makes him even more certain that he did the right thing, that there's nothing to regret, and all of it is something he'd very much like to see. He wants to be there, too. He knows that he never will be. The place for him in Passione has disappeared as soundly as the hours they all spent in Libeccio. It's bittersweet. Yet at the same time, he's sitting here, sipping at his coffee while listening to Fugo report on the status of the organization, a scene that's played out a thousand times in the past, and despite everything, it feels almost like normalcy. When Fugo says "secret gangster prince," Bruno laughs, a tired little thing, but honest. ]
I wonder what he thinks of that title.
[ maybe he put it out there himself. It's ridiculous, but so is Giorno; it suits him. ]
He sounds like a proper boss. One that Naples deserves. [ He sighs, breath disrupting the steam rising from his mug. ] The day that I met him, I could tell that he could change our lives. The things he said were ridiculous, but coming from him, I found myself believing in them. He has that kind of power.
[ a beat. ]
You'll go far with him.
There's a certain eeriness in listening to what transpired after his death. All of it makes him proud - makes him even more certain that he did the right thing, that there's nothing to regret, and all of it is something he'd very much like to see. He wants to be there, too. He knows that he never will be. The place for him in Passione has disappeared as soundly as the hours they all spent in Libeccio. It's bittersweet. Yet at the same time, he's sitting here, sipping at his coffee while listening to Fugo report on the status of the organization, a scene that's played out a thousand times in the past, and despite everything, it feels almost like normalcy. When Fugo says "secret gangster prince," Bruno laughs, a tired little thing, but honest. ]
I wonder what he thinks of that title.
[ maybe he put it out there himself. It's ridiculous, but so is Giorno; it suits him. ]
He sounds like a proper boss. One that Naples deserves. [ He sighs, breath disrupting the steam rising from his mug. ] The day that I met him, I could tell that he could change our lives. The things he said were ridiculous, but coming from him, I found myself believing in them. He has that kind of power.
[ a beat. ]
You'll go far with him.
If we're being honest, I would not be surprised if Giorno or Mista were the source of that rumor.
[Something about that particular turn of phrase, secret gangster prince, is larger than life in a way that could have only come from Mista's love of dramas or Giorno's own mouth. No matter how ridiculous it might sound on the surface, you can't help but be curious about it. You can't help but want to know more. And Fugo, alone in Milan, hungry for any news, listened closely to any conversation about what had happened in Naples.]
He does good work. [Not did: does. Giorno's influence here is obviously less than what it was in Naples, but that doesn't mean his dream is dead. It just has taken a different shape.] Work that I don't think he could accomplish on any path but the one he chose.
[As for the rest of it... well, Fugo doesn't know what to say. He has no ambitions of going further. What he has now, a place in Giorno's inner circle and an opportunity to lend his skills towards work that reflects the ideals Bucciarati held close to his heart-- that's enough. That's so much more than he could ever ask for.
He doesn't need anything else.]
If I can help him with it, that's all I need.
[Something about that particular turn of phrase, secret gangster prince, is larger than life in a way that could have only come from Mista's love of dramas or Giorno's own mouth. No matter how ridiculous it might sound on the surface, you can't help but be curious about it. You can't help but want to know more. And Fugo, alone in Milan, hungry for any news, listened closely to any conversation about what had happened in Naples.]
He does good work. [Not did: does. Giorno's influence here is obviously less than what it was in Naples, but that doesn't mean his dream is dead. It just has taken a different shape.] Work that I don't think he could accomplish on any path but the one he chose.
[As for the rest of it... well, Fugo doesn't know what to say. He has no ambitions of going further. What he has now, a place in Giorno's inner circle and an opportunity to lend his skills towards work that reflects the ideals Bucciarati held close to his heart-- that's enough. That's so much more than he could ever ask for.
He doesn't need anything else.]
If I can help him with it, that's all I need.
[ he wouldn't be surprised, either. It's a ridiculous description, but it's true. Just like Bruno said. Giorno is funny that way. His response is a quiet hum, one of acknowledgement and agreement. It's what he would have wanted, if he could have picked what happened next. ]
That's a fine way to live.
[ Fugo deserves more than what Bruno can give him, or even what Giorno can, to be honest, but so do they all - the world let them down, and they're clawing their way back up, grasping happiness from the jaws of despair. It was wrong of him to recruit a thirteen-year-old off the streets for his gang, but it was less wrong than the society that left him there in the first place. Bruno's always believed that. If Fugo can find some kind of peace and satisfaction fighting back this way, if he has a home with Giorno the way Bruno hoped he'd had a home with him, then he can't ask for more. He deserves to be safe and fulfilled - just the way every other kid in their city does.
He's aware that Fugo has steered the conversation away from the original subject to something safer to discuss. Less personal. Unfortunately, Bruno's going to end that segue. This is important to him. ]
... Giorno is your boss now, not me. When we last saw each other, I was closer to your enemy than your companion. I'm aware of that. [ that's why Fugo's having a hard time talking to him, ultimately. All the guilt and all the context put aside, their relationship has changed. Just like Libeccio: they can't turn back the clock and return to the way things used to be. ] However, my faith in you isn't something that can be shaken in a single afternoon. That's why I'm speaking to you now.
[ how to put this? Bruno isn't sure. He's never been good with these kinds of things - he's good at making speeches, wheeling and dealing, giving orders... It's harder to express this kind of genuine emotion. Rarely is there a need for him to reach out on a personal level to anyone, especially Fugo. There was always a sort of unspoken understanding between them. ]
We won't get another chance. [ he doesn't need to say it; they both know why. he pauses. ] I can't change the past or your feelings on it. But I won't let that moment be the note our partnership ends on. Or our friendship.
That's a fine way to live.
[ Fugo deserves more than what Bruno can give him, or even what Giorno can, to be honest, but so do they all - the world let them down, and they're clawing their way back up, grasping happiness from the jaws of despair. It was wrong of him to recruit a thirteen-year-old off the streets for his gang, but it was less wrong than the society that left him there in the first place. Bruno's always believed that. If Fugo can find some kind of peace and satisfaction fighting back this way, if he has a home with Giorno the way Bruno hoped he'd had a home with him, then he can't ask for more. He deserves to be safe and fulfilled - just the way every other kid in their city does.
He's aware that Fugo has steered the conversation away from the original subject to something safer to discuss. Less personal. Unfortunately, Bruno's going to end that segue. This is important to him. ]
... Giorno is your boss now, not me. When we last saw each other, I was closer to your enemy than your companion. I'm aware of that. [ that's why Fugo's having a hard time talking to him, ultimately. All the guilt and all the context put aside, their relationship has changed. Just like Libeccio: they can't turn back the clock and return to the way things used to be. ] However, my faith in you isn't something that can be shaken in a single afternoon. That's why I'm speaking to you now.
[ how to put this? Bruno isn't sure. He's never been good with these kinds of things - he's good at making speeches, wheeling and dealing, giving orders... It's harder to express this kind of genuine emotion. Rarely is there a need for him to reach out on a personal level to anyone, especially Fugo. There was always a sort of unspoken understanding between them. ]
We won't get another chance. [ he doesn't need to say it; they both know why. he pauses. ] I can't change the past or your feelings on it. But I won't let that moment be the note our partnership ends on. Or our friendship.
[Fugo's composure cracks. His eyes widen, just barely, with shock.]
[It's been years since he's put this sort of wall up around Bucciarati. It's a hasty construction, built on top of an unsteady foundation. And once it cracks, it crumbles. As it always is with Fugo, no matter how hard he tries, what he feels is written plain on his face. His mouth works. His fingers tremble, then tighten. He bites the inside of his cheek, then ducks his head down and away.]
That's ... backwards. [Fugo numbly mumbles, his thick with emotion.] If anyone was the enemy, it was me.
[Bucciarati left without looking back. With no regrets. Of course he did. The choice he made was right. Doesn't he get it? Doesn't he see how Fugo betrayed his ideals? Isn't that how it works, in their world?]
I would have let her die. [That's the truth. The awful, horrible truth. He regrets it. He regretted it even before he came to know Trish, but especially now that he does. It's disgusting.] We were all free to choose, but I-- ... the choice I made was wrong. It went against everything you tried to teach me.
[When Fugo looks up, his expression is a tangled tapestry of hurt. He just doesn't understand. How can Bucciarati stand to look at him, now that he knows how weak-hearted and selfish he is? How can he not just be willing to work with him, but ... still want to be his friend?]
How can you still have faith in me after that day?
[After Fugo has already betrayed him?]
[It's been years since he's put this sort of wall up around Bucciarati. It's a hasty construction, built on top of an unsteady foundation. And once it cracks, it crumbles. As it always is with Fugo, no matter how hard he tries, what he feels is written plain on his face. His mouth works. His fingers tremble, then tighten. He bites the inside of his cheek, then ducks his head down and away.]
That's ... backwards. [Fugo numbly mumbles, his thick with emotion.] If anyone was the enemy, it was me.
[Bucciarati left without looking back. With no regrets. Of course he did. The choice he made was right. Doesn't he get it? Doesn't he see how Fugo betrayed his ideals? Isn't that how it works, in their world?]
I would have let her die. [That's the truth. The awful, horrible truth. He regrets it. He regretted it even before he came to know Trish, but especially now that he does. It's disgusting.] We were all free to choose, but I-- ... the choice I made was wrong. It went against everything you tried to teach me.
[When Fugo looks up, his expression is a tangled tapestry of hurt. He just doesn't understand. How can Bucciarati stand to look at him, now that he knows how weak-hearted and selfish he is? How can he not just be willing to work with him, but ... still want to be his friend?]
How can you still have faith in me after that day?
[After Fugo has already betrayed him?]
[ there's the real Fugo. No more of the careful posturing or protective walls. As raw as he is, as tangible as the conflict inside him feels, that Fugo opens up to him still brings Bruno a small amount of relief. The new divide yawning between them isn't too wide to be crossed. ]
No. You chose to live.
[ the fact of the matter is that both of them have killed to survive countless times. They both know. Why did Bruno draw the line at Trish? It was arbitrary, at some level; the Boss had killed innocents before, without a doubt, and Trish would simply have been the next to fall. There was no personal stake. None of them knew her. It was purely ideals that stayed his hand - personal ideals, lofty ones, grand illusions of a future that he'd shared with only Giorno. Why should Fugo have believed the same?
He does now. It's clear in his torn expression and strained words; he's said as much, that he was wrong, betraying the morals that bound Bucciarati like steel. But he didn't then, in Bruno's mind. Fugo wasn't willingly choosing the wrong path, voluntarily rejecting some 'teachings,' as he says; he had no desire to see Trish put down. Fugo was simply choosing survival, and for Bruno to disparage him for that would make him a hypocrite. Choosing survival was what put them all in this strange little group of misfits in the first place. ]
You lacked conviction. And you lacked confidence - in yourself, and in me. That was my failing. [ he should have helped Fugo more; perhaps he leaned on him too much, took more from him than he gave. Regardless, he continues, his voice quiet but strong, even against the backdrop of his exhaustion: ] But you lived. You survived to have regrets, and you went back to Passione to start making changes. You've grown.
[ he curls his fingers around the handle of his mug. ]
I won't pretend that I never had doubts, but it's clear to me that my faith in you wasn't misplaced. If I still had any, you've dispelled them tonight.
No. You chose to live.
[ the fact of the matter is that both of them have killed to survive countless times. They both know. Why did Bruno draw the line at Trish? It was arbitrary, at some level; the Boss had killed innocents before, without a doubt, and Trish would simply have been the next to fall. There was no personal stake. None of them knew her. It was purely ideals that stayed his hand - personal ideals, lofty ones, grand illusions of a future that he'd shared with only Giorno. Why should Fugo have believed the same?
He does now. It's clear in his torn expression and strained words; he's said as much, that he was wrong, betraying the morals that bound Bucciarati like steel. But he didn't then, in Bruno's mind. Fugo wasn't willingly choosing the wrong path, voluntarily rejecting some 'teachings,' as he says; he had no desire to see Trish put down. Fugo was simply choosing survival, and for Bruno to disparage him for that would make him a hypocrite. Choosing survival was what put them all in this strange little group of misfits in the first place. ]
You lacked conviction. And you lacked confidence - in yourself, and in me. That was my failing. [ he should have helped Fugo more; perhaps he leaned on him too much, took more from him than he gave. Regardless, he continues, his voice quiet but strong, even against the backdrop of his exhaustion: ] But you lived. You survived to have regrets, and you went back to Passione to start making changes. You've grown.
[ he curls his fingers around the handle of his mug. ]
I won't pretend that I never had doubts, but it's clear to me that my faith in you wasn't misplaced. If I still had any, you've dispelled them tonight.
Edited (AUGH2) 2021-12-24 06:26 (UTC)
[Fugo doesn't cry. He gave it up, even when alone, a lifetime ago. Crying is stupid, crying is childish, crying doesn't change anything. He cried for the first time in a decade in front of Giorno, over the photograph of the team he couldn't follow. If not for that, he wouldn't be able to recognize the signs of the tears that threaten to fall now. His face gets red and blotchy; the corners of his eyes prickle.
Fugo swipes, frustrated, at his eyes with the knuckle of his thumb. He isn't going to cry. Not in front of Bucciarati. Not over this.]
[It's difficult to say, how he feels. He's so confused. How ... can his perspective and Bucciarati's about what happened be so different? What makes his life so valuable? Even now, so selfishly, Fugo knows what he wanted in that moment was for them to live. He just can't see it. How he has grown, how Bucciarati can still have so much faith in him. It just doesn't match up with what he has come to accept as the truth.]
I'll... do my best. Not to let you down. [Again hangs in the air, not spoken, but written in dark letters on his heart.] Moving forward.
I'm sorry. [His jaw tightens.] Because it wasn't your failing, Bucciarati. It was mine.
Fugo swipes, frustrated, at his eyes with the knuckle of his thumb. He isn't going to cry. Not in front of Bucciarati. Not over this.]
[It's difficult to say, how he feels. He's so confused. How ... can his perspective and Bucciarati's about what happened be so different? What makes his life so valuable? Even now, so selfishly, Fugo knows what he wanted in that moment was for them to live. He just can't see it. How he has grown, how Bucciarati can still have so much faith in him. It just doesn't match up with what he has come to accept as the truth.]
I'll... do my best. Not to let you down. [Again hangs in the air, not spoken, but written in dark letters on his heart.] Moving forward.
I'm sorry. [His jaw tightens.] Because it wasn't your failing, Bucciarati. It was mine.
[ he's never seen Fugo cry; he supposes he still hasn't, technically, with how Fugo's fighting for his life to keep those tears in. The signs are there, though, and that's enough. Bucciarati's expression softens further, despite the fact that Fugo most certainly doesn't want his sympathy. Sometimes, there's no helping these things. He's never been able to stop himself from caring. ]
I told you - I blame you for nothing.
[ Bruno can't say exactly what Fugo is thinking. For all their similarities, their minds work in very different ways. He doesn't doubt that Fugo hears what he's saying, though, and maybe that's where the problem lies - his desire to listen conflicting with this obvious guilt he's still wrestling with. (That, Bruno understands. Surviving isn't easy; those feelings won't go away in one night.)
For now, being heard - not being pushed further away - is enough. This is not his team, and it's not his future. It's Giorno's, and it's Fugo's, too, and he will have to learn to let them go on without him one day. But that day hasn't come yet, and when it does, he'll be able to bid Fugo farewell properly. As a friend, not a traitor. ]
I don't want your apologies... but I will take your best efforts. [ though one hand is still at his mug, he leans over the table just slightly, extending his other towards Fugo, open and waiting. It would be patronizing to pat him on the head or rub his shoulder - or, rather, Bruno knows Fugo would take it that way. A handshake, though - that should be acceptably mature. ] To moving forward. I'll walk with you while I still can.
I told you - I blame you for nothing.
[ Bruno can't say exactly what Fugo is thinking. For all their similarities, their minds work in very different ways. He doesn't doubt that Fugo hears what he's saying, though, and maybe that's where the problem lies - his desire to listen conflicting with this obvious guilt he's still wrestling with. (That, Bruno understands. Surviving isn't easy; those feelings won't go away in one night.)
For now, being heard - not being pushed further away - is enough. This is not his team, and it's not his future. It's Giorno's, and it's Fugo's, too, and he will have to learn to let them go on without him one day. But that day hasn't come yet, and when it does, he'll be able to bid Fugo farewell properly. As a friend, not a traitor. ]
I don't want your apologies... but I will take your best efforts. [ though one hand is still at his mug, he leans over the table just slightly, extending his other towards Fugo, open and waiting. It would be patronizing to pat him on the head or rub his shoulder - or, rather, Bruno knows Fugo would take it that way. A handshake, though - that should be acceptably mature. ] To moving forward. I'll walk with you while I still can.
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)
[pudding fugo you are the only bitch on this peninsula he respects anymore]
the overall conditions are about to get very crowded.
as to the rest, i haven't gotten started. money is a concern, as are general resources (food, clothing, etc) and staff shortage. a lot of minutiae stemming from a sudden influx of residents.
the overall conditions are about to get very crowded.
as to the rest, i haven't gotten started. money is a concern, as are general resources (food, clothing, etc) and staff shortage. a lot of minutiae stemming from a sudden influx of residents.
I see.
[A lot of humans are going to die; more than what's necessary to feed a Monster, or even a group of Monsters. Specifically, humans with children. Giorno doesn't have a specific number yet, which means it's an ongoing problem.
Well, that's a mess.]
The best place to start would be providing those general resources and the immediate short-term needs. The money will come later; let's discuss our funding options in person once we've figured these things out.
Send me the address of the orphanage and I will reach out to a local grocer to negotiate a larger scale purchase of food. When we drop the order off, we can assess if there will be enough toiletries and bedding for the anticipated influx of residents.
If we know where these children are coming from (addresses in particular would be helpful) I think it would be comforting to them to bring their clothes from home. I assume they were brought there unexpectedly. Otherwise, we should visit secondhand stores and purchase clothing for a range of ages.
Finally, reach out to Harrington. If he's available and willing, he's good with children and very non-threatening. I think he would act as a liaison between us and the human staff.
[A lot of humans are going to die; more than what's necessary to feed a Monster, or even a group of Monsters. Specifically, humans with children. Giorno doesn't have a specific number yet, which means it's an ongoing problem.
Well, that's a mess.]
The best place to start would be providing those general resources and the immediate short-term needs. The money will come later; let's discuss our funding options in person once we've figured these things out.
Send me the address of the orphanage and I will reach out to a local grocer to negotiate a larger scale purchase of food. When we drop the order off, we can assess if there will be enough toiletries and bedding for the anticipated influx of residents.
If we know where these children are coming from (addresses in particular would be helpful) I think it would be comforting to them to bring their clothes from home. I assume they were brought there unexpectedly. Otherwise, we should visit secondhand stores and purchase clothing for a range of ages.
Finally, reach out to Harrington. If he's available and willing, he's good with children and very non-threatening. I think he would act as a liaison between us and the human staff.
[Oh.]
[For the first time in two days, Giorno breathes out.]
thank you. this is exactly what i was hoping for. thank you.
i've already made contact with staff and done my best to be nonthreatening, but they've received a number of threats already and they're understandably skittish. no one's scared of steve, though.
[He sends the address, and . . . hesitates.]
i need to be transparent about my other two concerns, although you might already be guessing both of them. the first is that these children will all have experienced at least two forms of severe trauma upon being brought to the orphanage, and we have a truly critical shortage of support on that front. i don't know what to do about that. i think there might not be anything that we can do about that.
the other is
that eventually these children, who are a strain on the infrastructure of the orphanage, will be turned out, or that the orphanage itself will collapse. at which point there's the street.
i know that's long-term and we need to start with the things you've listed. that's why i asked for your help. because i can't stop thinking about what will be a year from now. but i wanted to . . . be honest, i suppose. about where my head is.
[For the first time in two days, Giorno breathes out.]
thank you. this is exactly what i was hoping for. thank you.
i've already made contact with staff and done my best to be nonthreatening, but they've received a number of threats already and they're understandably skittish. no one's scared of steve, though.
[He sends the address, and . . . hesitates.]
i need to be transparent about my other two concerns, although you might already be guessing both of them. the first is that these children will all have experienced at least two forms of severe trauma upon being brought to the orphanage, and we have a truly critical shortage of support on that front. i don't know what to do about that. i think there might not be anything that we can do about that.
the other is
that eventually these children, who are a strain on the infrastructure of the orphanage, will be turned out, or that the orphanage itself will collapse. at which point there's the street.
i know that's long-term and we need to start with the things you've listed. that's why i asked for your help. because i can't stop thinking about what will be a year from now. but i wanted to . . . be honest, i suppose. about where my head is.
[Reading this, Fugo's chest feels tight with a pain he doesn't entirely understand. Giorno's right: although he hadn't exactly pinned down these anxieties, he could sense the shape of them in the shadow of Giorno's blunt statement. This decision to take on the orphanage, to bear the burden of these children, and make their wellbeing his direct priority, is the purest distillation of his dream. This is Giorno Giovanna's life's work.]
This is work I have experience with. I am glad, always, to lend these skills to you.
I ... cannot speak on help of that nature. I'm not sure where to begin with how to look for it. The best answer I can provide is that, perhaps, the first step of closing those wounds is to give them a safe, comfortable place to live and grow. That is something I believe you have the ability to see through.
Because that "eventually" won't happen. We will not allow it to happen. [Not "you": we. Giorno and Fugo and anyone else Giorno trusts with these children. Whatever obstacles are in front of them will be dismantled.] If there is a strain on the infrastructure, if it begins to fail, we will either shore it up, rebuild it, or create our own. It will sustain itself.
They will never have to face the streets.
[Fugo rarely speaks in certainties. He's no good at faith. But he believes in Giorno. His dream, whatever shape it might take in this strange and awful world, was and is his future. Whatever pain these children have suffered, the worst of it is now behind them. That is the future they need to build.]
Thank you for being honest with me. Even if you cannot stop thinking about a year from now, we can think on it together.
This is work I have experience with. I am glad, always, to lend these skills to you.
I ... cannot speak on help of that nature. I'm not sure where to begin with how to look for it. The best answer I can provide is that, perhaps, the first step of closing those wounds is to give them a safe, comfortable place to live and grow. That is something I believe you have the ability to see through.
Because that "eventually" won't happen. We will not allow it to happen. [Not "you": we. Giorno and Fugo and anyone else Giorno trusts with these children. Whatever obstacles are in front of them will be dismantled.] If there is a strain on the infrastructure, if it begins to fail, we will either shore it up, rebuild it, or create our own. It will sustain itself.
They will never have to face the streets.
[Fugo rarely speaks in certainties. He's no good at faith. But he believes in Giorno. His dream, whatever shape it might take in this strange and awful world, was and is his future. Whatever pain these children have suffered, the worst of it is now behind them. That is the future they need to build.]
Thank you for being honest with me. Even if you cannot stop thinking about a year from now, we can think on it together.
[Giorno doesn't answer for some time, because he's crying.]
[It's a release he didn't realize he needed until the third time he read through this message, when the tears came and came and refused to stop. It's been nearly a week since he first heard the rumors and knew where they came from, two days since he confronted Riley and learned that the missing piece he hoped was there had not been considered, and ever since he's had his chest clenched up so tightly with wild-eyed, panicked determination that he simply forgot to breathe. Or feel. Or anything.]
[So he puts his head down on his desk and cries, gut-wrenching full-body silent sobs for the children who won't get the chance to exact their own vengeance, to live in their own homes, to make their own peace in their own way. For Riley, whose involvement in this he can nearly understand if not for that crucial error in logic; for the parents, whose deaths would be satisfying to him if not for the collateral consequences; for the freedom he can almost see in the choices Riley's making if only—]
[If only, if only, if only.]
[He cries for Riley and for the children whose parents she's murdering, because in the end, they're one and the same.]
[It's about twenty minutes and a glass of very cold water later that he finally gets back to responding.]
i hope you know exactly how much you mean to me. not just for the practicalities, although those are invaluable. but because you believe in me. even here, when i've been here for so long without finding a way out. it nags at me. but even when i forget what i'm capable of, you don't.
that's half a step, isn't it? that's what you do for me every day. remind me to remember.
if they can rely on each other, that will make a difference, too, won't it. all of them together, however many it ends up being.
[It's a release he didn't realize he needed until the third time he read through this message, when the tears came and came and refused to stop. It's been nearly a week since he first heard the rumors and knew where they came from, two days since he confronted Riley and learned that the missing piece he hoped was there had not been considered, and ever since he's had his chest clenched up so tightly with wild-eyed, panicked determination that he simply forgot to breathe. Or feel. Or anything.]
[So he puts his head down on his desk and cries, gut-wrenching full-body silent sobs for the children who won't get the chance to exact their own vengeance, to live in their own homes, to make their own peace in their own way. For Riley, whose involvement in this he can nearly understand if not for that crucial error in logic; for the parents, whose deaths would be satisfying to him if not for the collateral consequences; for the freedom he can almost see in the choices Riley's making if only—]
[If only, if only, if only.]
[He cries for Riley and for the children whose parents she's murdering, because in the end, they're one and the same.]
[It's about twenty minutes and a glass of very cold water later that he finally gets back to responding.]
i hope you know exactly how much you mean to me. not just for the practicalities, although those are invaluable. but because you believe in me. even here, when i've been here for so long without finding a way out. it nags at me. but even when i forget what i'm capable of, you don't.
that's half a step, isn't it? that's what you do for me every day. remind me to remember.
if they can rely on each other, that will make a difference, too, won't it. all of them together, however many it ends up being.
[In those twenty minutes, Fugo gets to work. He's very tired: he knows he can't get all he wants to accomplish done at once. But he begins. He retrieves a phone book and his personal map of Bavan. After marking the location of Persephone's orphanage on the map, he begins to narrow down nearby grocery stores from the retail directory of the yellow page sections. It's in the middle of this work that he receives Giorno's next message, which--
It does and doesn't catch him by surprise. Something that isn't quite pain slides between his ribs as he reads it. The truth is, practicalities are easier to wrap his head around. His whole life has been ruled by his practical usefulness: what he can do, not who he is. Because who he is-- well. That's awful, isn't it? What he could not accept that morning in November, as he sat across the table from Giorno in that empty restaurant, unable to hold back his tears at how unfair it was that he survived and the others did not, is that Giorno first held his hand out to him for who he was.
Half of a step. What Giorno needs, more than anything-- is a friend. To not be alone with the grief that's too heavy for either of them to carry alone.]
I will always believe in you. No matter what sort of path you might walk, I will always follow you. That's what the promise I made to you means to me.
It's difficult, sometimes. Even just to think about. It feels like I have chosen to believe the sky is orange instead of blue. But even when it's difficult, you don't let me forget. That is what the promise you made to me means to me.
I think so, yes. No matter what happens, how difficult it might be to work through it, they won't be alone.
[He hesitates, before he sends this last message. But only for a moment. He doesn't let himself think too much about it.]
If you are at the house and would like the company, my door is open. I'll be awake for a while longer, working on this.
It does and doesn't catch him by surprise. Something that isn't quite pain slides between his ribs as he reads it. The truth is, practicalities are easier to wrap his head around. His whole life has been ruled by his practical usefulness: what he can do, not who he is. Because who he is-- well. That's awful, isn't it? What he could not accept that morning in November, as he sat across the table from Giorno in that empty restaurant, unable to hold back his tears at how unfair it was that he survived and the others did not, is that Giorno first held his hand out to him for who he was.
Half of a step. What Giorno needs, more than anything-- is a friend. To not be alone with the grief that's too heavy for either of them to carry alone.]
I will always believe in you. No matter what sort of path you might walk, I will always follow you. That's what the promise I made to you means to me.
It's difficult, sometimes. Even just to think about. It feels like I have chosen to believe the sky is orange instead of blue. But even when it's difficult, you don't let me forget. That is what the promise you made to me means to me.
I think so, yes. No matter what happens, how difficult it might be to work through it, they won't be alone.
[He hesitates, before he sends this last message. But only for a moment. He doesn't let himself think too much about it.]
If you are at the house and would like the company, my door is open. I'll be awake for a while longer, working on this.
Edited 2021-11-20 19:01 (UTC)
[Sometimes he wondered if his other self asked Fugo back, in part, so that he could have that cornerstone of belief. So that when he flagged, when life snuck hooks into his skin and pulled, someone would be there to gently, unfailingly unhook them. In a way, it makes him miss Mista; in a way it doesn't, because the way the two of them express this same idea couldn't be more different. Mista is familiar, playful, factual. Fugo is venerent, subdued, subjective. Funny that sometimes Fugo's perspective is the most biased, where Mista can see the truth of the world. Funny.]
[He needs them both. It hurts that that's an impossibility. But right now, he needs Fugo.]
we won't let each other forget. yes.
[Even if it's difficult. Even if it's exhausting. Even if they have to be reminded every day—]
[Even then.]
[He chews his lip, hesitant, before finally responding.]
i do. want company, i mean. it's just
[Have you ever known someone you cared for like family, trusted like blood, only to have them betray the most basic core of values that you shared?]
[He catches himself just in time, breath snagging in his throat and making his eyes wet. Slamming his laptop closed, he takes his glass of ice water and stalks stiffly down to Fugo's room, where he raps lightly on the door before letting himself in.]
Sorry. Hello. Are . . . you sure I won't be disturbing you? [A weak smile.] From the things I asked you to do so late.
[He needs them both. It hurts that that's an impossibility. But right now, he needs Fugo.]
we won't let each other forget. yes.
[Even if it's difficult. Even if it's exhausting. Even if they have to be reminded every day—]
[Even then.]
[He chews his lip, hesitant, before finally responding.]
i do. want company, i mean. it's just
[Have you ever known someone you cared for like family, trusted like blood, only to have them betray the most basic core of values that you shared?]
[He catches himself just in time, breath snagging in his throat and making his eyes wet. Slamming his laptop closed, he takes his glass of ice water and stalks stiffly down to Fugo's room, where he raps lightly on the door before letting himself in.]
Sorry. Hello. Are . . . you sure I won't be disturbing you? [A weak smile.] From the things I asked you to do so late.
[Giorno doesn't finish his message. Rather than leaving a reply that will inevitably get missed until morning, Fugo closes his laptop and sets it aside. Then he twists around in place, trying to find the right angle where he can face the door and his new legs don't take up quite so much space and there's enough room for Giorno. He smiles, wan and twitchy, at Giorno's entrance and subsequent less-than-polished greeting.]
Buona sera, Giogio. [He gestures towards the bed, wordlessly offering it as a place to sit. The strange magic that powers Ryslig's translation is convenient, but most of the time, maybe because of how pseudo-American Bavan looks and feels, Fugo finds himself defaulting to English. But when he speaks to Giorno, Trish, or Bucciarati-- it's always Italian.] Not at all. You can help keep me honest and from going overboard.
[And by that he means, if Giorno's here, he's less likely to work until dawn pinning the location of every grocery store in the city. They really only need the close ones. And even then, two to five locations is more than enough.]
Buona sera, Giogio. [He gestures towards the bed, wordlessly offering it as a place to sit. The strange magic that powers Ryslig's translation is convenient, but most of the time, maybe because of how pseudo-American Bavan looks and feels, Fugo finds himself defaulting to English. But when he speaks to Giorno, Trish, or Bucciarati-- it's always Italian.] Not at all. You can help keep me honest and from going overboard.
[And by that he means, if Giorno's here, he's less likely to work until dawn pinning the location of every grocery store in the city. They really only need the close ones. And even then, two to five locations is more than enough.]
[It's always Italian. Under this hill, between these walls, in each of their individual rooms, it's always Italian. It makes Giorno feel better than he can explain, like stepping into air conditioning after walking around a desert all day. They default automatically to Italian, because if they can't be home, this is at least a little closer.]
[He can't tell if Fugo's sad or tired or simply worried about him. Regardless, he does as directed, fingers curled carefully around the condensating water glass, which he doesn't put down on the side table without a coaster. Naturally.]
In that case, I'll definitely have to stay.
[They'll keep each other honest. Fugo with his bedtime routine or whatnot, and Giorno with . . . not repeating what happened a few months ago.]
[Toeing his shoes off the edge of the bed, he tucks his legs under him and clutches the water to his chest. Then he sighs.]
You remember Riley, don't you?
[He can't tell if Fugo's sad or tired or simply worried about him. Regardless, he does as directed, fingers curled carefully around the condensating water glass, which he doesn't put down on the side table without a coaster. Naturally.]
In that case, I'll definitely have to stay.
[They'll keep each other honest. Fugo with his bedtime routine or whatnot, and Giorno with . . . not repeating what happened a few months ago.]
[Toeing his shoes off the edge of the bed, he tucks his legs under him and clutches the water to his chest. Then he sighs.]
You remember Riley, don't you?
[When Giorno Giovanna enters the room, you can feel it. He just has this energy about him that catches the eye; a certain magnetism that catches and then holds the attention of anyone in front of him. Not tonight. Tonight, Giorno shifts quietly into the room and folds himself up tight. For all his creeping and twisting roots, he takes up very little space on the bed.]
Yes, I do. She's your friend. She ties her hair back with a ribbon. I last spoke to her at that Halloween party.
[Normally a harpy, occasionally a tiger-based manticore. When they first met on the beach, the second time he washed up on Ryslig's shore, she was missing a wing. Fugo has seen her in passing a few times since, enough to know that she and Trish have hit it off and that she and Giorno are close. No, it's more than that: Riley Williams is one of Giorno's people. He trusts her, in a way that he trusts no one else. Usually, when Riley's involved, there's a smile tugging at the corner of Giorno's mouth.
But not tonight. Tonight, Giorno's face is as smooth and still as a sheet of glass. As a mirror. And the vine on his back have wound tight in on themselves, deceptively small.]
Yes, I do. She's your friend. She ties her hair back with a ribbon. I last spoke to her at that Halloween party.
[Normally a harpy, occasionally a tiger-based manticore. When they first met on the beach, the second time he washed up on Ryslig's shore, she was missing a wing. Fugo has seen her in passing a few times since, enough to know that she and Trish have hit it off and that she and Giorno are close. No, it's more than that: Riley Williams is one of Giorno's people. He trusts her, in a way that he trusts no one else. Usually, when Riley's involved, there's a smile tugging at the corner of Giorno's mouth.
But not tonight. Tonight, Giorno's face is as smooth and still as a sheet of glass. As a mirror. And the vine on his back have wound tight in on themselves, deceptively small.]
[Fugo notices everything. That's part of why Giorno reached out to him, specifically. There is no one else better equipped to spot finnicky holes in a plan and able to neatly stitch them up the way that Fugo is.]
[That's the trouble here. Riley is the knife that ripped the fabric, and Riley is the needle. If he doesn't provide the truth, he doesn't know if Fugo will be equipped to help him at all.]
. . . I thought I might not explain. It's very personal to her, but at the same time all of this starts with her. So I'll do my best to balance . . . her privacy, and the children's needs.
[He doesn't need to say anything out loud, so he doesn't; just taps his claws uncertainly on his glass. If worst comes to worst, Riley will not be top priority. Not over children. Once upon a time, he would have thought she'd understand that instinctively. Now he really doesn't know.]
We've spoken a great deal about many very personal subjects. [His fingers still, as if frozen; his gaze flickers up to meet Fugo's.] You may have noticed some similarities between us, with what happened a few months back. Those are the sorts of things we talked about. Things that were and what we are now.
[The same, and the same. Or that's what he thought. Now he really doesn't know.]
She fell asleep. She experienced something. I knew it would be bad when she woke up. But . . .
[The surface of the water, which he's gone back to staring into, is interrupted every few moments by his own breathing. This reminds him that he's present and affecting the world around him in one small, meaningless way. As hopeless as all of this feels, he's not entirely paralyzed.]
Two weeks ago, Persephone Orphanage had three staff and ten children. Every night, Riley is murdering a parent she has hand-selected, then taking their child — or children — to the orphanage, where she threatens those three staff with death if they don't take appropriate care of them.
She is showing no sign of stopping. In fact, if she stops on her own, I'll be shocked.
[That's the trouble here. Riley is the knife that ripped the fabric, and Riley is the needle. If he doesn't provide the truth, he doesn't know if Fugo will be equipped to help him at all.]
. . . I thought I might not explain. It's very personal to her, but at the same time all of this starts with her. So I'll do my best to balance . . . her privacy, and the children's needs.
[He doesn't need to say anything out loud, so he doesn't; just taps his claws uncertainly on his glass. If worst comes to worst, Riley will not be top priority. Not over children. Once upon a time, he would have thought she'd understand that instinctively. Now he really doesn't know.]
We've spoken a great deal about many very personal subjects. [His fingers still, as if frozen; his gaze flickers up to meet Fugo's.] You may have noticed some similarities between us, with what happened a few months back. Those are the sorts of things we talked about. Things that were and what we are now.
[The same, and the same. Or that's what he thought. Now he really doesn't know.]
She fell asleep. She experienced something. I knew it would be bad when she woke up. But . . .
[The surface of the water, which he's gone back to staring into, is interrupted every few moments by his own breathing. This reminds him that he's present and affecting the world around him in one small, meaningless way. As hopeless as all of this feels, he's not entirely paralyzed.]
Two weeks ago, Persephone Orphanage had three staff and ten children. Every night, Riley is murdering a parent she has hand-selected, then taking their child — or children — to the orphanage, where she threatens those three staff with death if they don't take appropriate care of them.
She is showing no sign of stopping. In fact, if she stops on her own, I'll be shocked.
[Yakitori. Meat impaled on sharp little sticks. That is what his mind first zeroes in on, because that is the piece of information that Giorno chose to share with him. Will choose to share with him, someday, if they ever find a way to slip out of the fog's grasp and return to their Napoli.
They say it helped me to grow, but that's hard to see. Can you sympathize at all?]
[They haven't spoken about Haruno. But Fugo hasn't forgotten him. He doesn't think he'll ever forget Haruno or the impassive child who would one day answer to Reira. Or Riley. His memory of her in the bathroom, eyes wet with unshed tears and jaw tight with the effort to keep quiet as she struggled to wrap up half-a-dozen pinprick wounds on her arm, is very clear.
None of them chose to share that pain with him. He hasn't forgotten, but he won't poke and prod at old pain-- things that were in comparison to what we are now. He will not ask for further context, unless it is offered freely. What Giorno has given him in this conversation and what he saw that week is all he truly needs to understand the shape of the situation.]
[Through this explanation, Fugo watches Giorno with a sharp, canny expression. His fingers curl under his chin and he frowns. When he needs a moment, Fugo waits for him to continue; looks down to give Giorno a moment of privacy before he begins again. And after all is said and done, he takes a moment of his own to think. To slide the pieces together. He doesn't have the complete picture, but he has enough to understand the shape of it.]
I see.
[Riley Williams, a girl who learned not to cry because help would never come, now has the power to make the people who choose to hurt children in their care pay. The pattern is immediately, glaringly obvious. Although the incident as a whole was precipitated by whatever she experienced while asleep, the sheer scale of it implies months of planning, stalking, and imagining how it might go.]
So she's living out a fantasy.
[As Monsters, they all need to kill to survive. That's just the nature of this world. There's no getting around it. But this is not killing to eat. It's excessive. No matter what her justifications might be, it's killing for her own satisfaction; to ease a pain that just won't pass.]
How divorced is she from reality? Given what we've discussed so far, it seems she either doesn't want to-- or can't-- consider the farther-reaching consequences of this spree.
They say it helped me to grow, but that's hard to see. Can you sympathize at all?]
[They haven't spoken about Haruno. But Fugo hasn't forgotten him. He doesn't think he'll ever forget Haruno or the impassive child who would one day answer to Reira. Or Riley. His memory of her in the bathroom, eyes wet with unshed tears and jaw tight with the effort to keep quiet as she struggled to wrap up half-a-dozen pinprick wounds on her arm, is very clear.
None of them chose to share that pain with him. He hasn't forgotten, but he won't poke and prod at old pain-- things that were in comparison to what we are now. He will not ask for further context, unless it is offered freely. What Giorno has given him in this conversation and what he saw that week is all he truly needs to understand the shape of the situation.]
[Through this explanation, Fugo watches Giorno with a sharp, canny expression. His fingers curl under his chin and he frowns. When he needs a moment, Fugo waits for him to continue; looks down to give Giorno a moment of privacy before he begins again. And after all is said and done, he takes a moment of his own to think. To slide the pieces together. He doesn't have the complete picture, but he has enough to understand the shape of it.]
I see.
[Riley Williams, a girl who learned not to cry because help would never come, now has the power to make the people who choose to hurt children in their care pay. The pattern is immediately, glaringly obvious. Although the incident as a whole was precipitated by whatever she experienced while asleep, the sheer scale of it implies months of planning, stalking, and imagining how it might go.]
So she's living out a fantasy.
[As Monsters, they all need to kill to survive. That's just the nature of this world. There's no getting around it. But this is not killing to eat. It's excessive. No matter what her justifications might be, it's killing for her own satisfaction; to ease a pain that just won't pass.]
How divorced is she from reality? Given what we've discussed so far, it seems she either doesn't want to-- or can't-- consider the farther-reaching consequences of this spree.
[For one of the first times in his life, Giorno feels the same level of uncomfortable scrutiny that most feel under his stare. Fugo's attention is precise and intent. It's attention he asked for, but nonetheless uncomfortable. For a few moments he wrestles with this, unsure why it feels so strange — but in the end, it's not so complicated. He doesn't feel that canniness taking him apart; he feels Riley being dismantled, examined, and put back together again, and that's what's uncomfortable. He is supposed to protect her. And Fugo won't hurt her, but this is . . .]
[He knows she'd hate this. That's what it is. Just as he expected, he feels guilty. But even now, he doesn't know what other choice he could possibly have.]
[The question makes him wince. It's the right question to ask. He just hates the answer he has to give.]
. . . I can't give an objective answer on that. The biased answer I have to give is that she isn't as out of touch with reality as you might expect. Riley . . . snaps. This isn't snapping. She made a plan that she thought was sufficient to protect the children she is trying to save. If she were truly delusional, she would have killed the parents and left, or perhaps killed the parents and spoken to the children at a stretch. She wouldn't have taken them anywhere. She wouldn't have even considered the immediate consequences.
[It's . . . unkind, what he's about to say. It is. He knows that. But he's also becoming increasingly sure that it's true. Lifting his gaze to meet Fugo's, his discomfort and frustration are equally palpable.]
I don't think it's entirely a matter of lucidity, Fugo. I think she has simply never been in a position of experiencing a lack of physical resources. She thinks by solving the problem of emotional neglect, she has removed the greatest threat, and doesn't have the personal experience or . . . perspective to understand the very real physical threats she may be creating for these children's future.
She was surprised when I brought up what might happen in the next six months. She was shocked. I really . . . didn't expect that from her. But in hindsight, it makes a certain kind of sense.
[He knows she'd hate this. That's what it is. Just as he expected, he feels guilty. But even now, he doesn't know what other choice he could possibly have.]
[The question makes him wince. It's the right question to ask. He just hates the answer he has to give.]
. . . I can't give an objective answer on that. The biased answer I have to give is that she isn't as out of touch with reality as you might expect. Riley . . . snaps. This isn't snapping. She made a plan that she thought was sufficient to protect the children she is trying to save. If she were truly delusional, she would have killed the parents and left, or perhaps killed the parents and spoken to the children at a stretch. She wouldn't have taken them anywhere. She wouldn't have even considered the immediate consequences.
[It's . . . unkind, what he's about to say. It is. He knows that. But he's also becoming increasingly sure that it's true. Lifting his gaze to meet Fugo's, his discomfort and frustration are equally palpable.]
I don't think it's entirely a matter of lucidity, Fugo. I think she has simply never been in a position of experiencing a lack of physical resources. She thinks by solving the problem of emotional neglect, she has removed the greatest threat, and doesn't have the personal experience or . . . perspective to understand the very real physical threats she may be creating for these children's future.
She was surprised when I brought up what might happen in the next six months. She was shocked. I really . . . didn't expect that from her. But in hindsight, it makes a certain kind of sense.
[Giorno's answer isn't particularly kind. But in this situation, in these particular circumstances, he has very little room to be kind. Not about this. Not when it involves someone as close to his heart as Riley is. His kindness has been spent in the consideration of her privacy in how to tell this story, which cannot be told without without showing at least some of her deepest hurts. Showing even this much, talking about her in this way, is obviously painful for him.]
You are not obligated to be objective. Not about this. Not with me.
[He means that sincerely. It is not an exaggeration to say that Fugo would follow Giorno to the end of the earth and back again; he's also capable of making up his own mind about the situation. But, more than that, is this: Lucid or not, planned or impulsive, the devastating aftermath of Riley's actions in the past two weeks remains the same.]
Earlier, you said that I might have noticed some similarities between the two of you. But this is one of the ways in which you are different. She was shocked, but you are angry. Because, by bringing them to a facility that is not equipped to handle such a large increase in residents, she has likely introduced more danger and insecurity into the lives of the children she wanted to save.
[So far, Fugo has only caught a glimpse of it. A flickering shadow that stretches across the hall from another room, just solid enough for him to make out what Giorno has trusted him with. Giorno is angry with Riley because, despite what they have shared, even though he cares so much for her, she did not consider what things might look like six months from now. What after might look like wasn't as important as the now, when the after should have been the first thing she thought about.]
You are not obligated to be objective. Not about this. Not with me.
[He means that sincerely. It is not an exaggeration to say that Fugo would follow Giorno to the end of the earth and back again; he's also capable of making up his own mind about the situation. But, more than that, is this: Lucid or not, planned or impulsive, the devastating aftermath of Riley's actions in the past two weeks remains the same.]
Earlier, you said that I might have noticed some similarities between the two of you. But this is one of the ways in which you are different. She was shocked, but you are angry. Because, by bringing them to a facility that is not equipped to handle such a large increase in residents, she has likely introduced more danger and insecurity into the lives of the children she wanted to save.
[So far, Fugo has only caught a glimpse of it. A flickering shadow that stretches across the hall from another room, just solid enough for him to make out what Giorno has trusted him with. Giorno is angry with Riley because, despite what they have shared, even though he cares so much for her, she did not consider what things might look like six months from now. What after might look like wasn't as important as the now, when the after should have been the first thing she thought about.]
Edited 2021-12-05 06:33 (UTC)
[Back home, it has barely been a month since the last time he saw Fugo. Even with so little time past, people already whisper about him. They whisper, some of them, sometimes, when they think he doesn't hear: Fugo is a traitor. Fugo betrayed the boss. A messy, twisted lens through which to see reality, but one that is becoming frustratingly pervasive.]
[Although from a practical perspective, from a logical and hierarchical perspective, this might be true, Giorno has never felt betrayed by Fugo. Fugo would never have had to prove himself, he believes, if Fugo had not so desperately needed to prove loyalty to himself. Fugo has never, ever done something that has caused Giorno to lose faith in him.]
[As he listens, Giorno realizes . . . the same can no longer be said for Riley.]
[That's the basic problem here, isn't it? This is something Fugo would never do. Trish wouldn't. Mista wouldn't. Of course Bruno wouldn't. He would never in a thousand years have thought something like this would come from anyone he cares about, but if it had, not Riley. Never Riley. Not Riley, who understands what it's like to feel so helpless and so small that existence is terrifying. Surely she would put herself in the position to imagine what such a thing would feel like for her, if she were the child shoved into a strange place and not the righteous avenger punishing the world for her hurts.]
[He was wrong.]
. . . She said she didn't know me very well after all.
[His voice is hoarse, his knuckles pale where he grips his glass of water. Its surface tremors. After too many too-long seconds, he realizes it's because he's shaking. With great care, he wraps a vine around the glass and sets it on Fugo's bedside table. His hands end up bunched in loose fists on his lap.]
But we've talked about everything. There is almost nothing she doesn't know about me. She knows what's most important to me. She's told me what she most fears about herself and I told her that those things don't frighten me, because they don't. It never occurred to me that she would do something like this. That she would be this careless with children. Use them as props in this — pageantry. She clearly cares about them, but not enough to do this right, and that's not good enough.
[It's not. It's not acceptable. His throat is dry, knuckles white again, eyes wide and voice soft. Fugo is right: he's angry. This is his anger in its purest form, undiluted by grief or shock. Anything but this, anything at all, he could tolerate.]
I'm rarely wrong about people. But I'm beginning to think I put too much faith in Riley.
[From someone like him, who uses his own resolve as a guiding star, it's a condemnation. Of Riley, yes, but of himself, too. He trusted too much this time, it seems.]
[Although from a practical perspective, from a logical and hierarchical perspective, this might be true, Giorno has never felt betrayed by Fugo. Fugo would never have had to prove himself, he believes, if Fugo had not so desperately needed to prove loyalty to himself. Fugo has never, ever done something that has caused Giorno to lose faith in him.]
[As he listens, Giorno realizes . . . the same can no longer be said for Riley.]
[That's the basic problem here, isn't it? This is something Fugo would never do. Trish wouldn't. Mista wouldn't. Of course Bruno wouldn't. He would never in a thousand years have thought something like this would come from anyone he cares about, but if it had, not Riley. Never Riley. Not Riley, who understands what it's like to feel so helpless and so small that existence is terrifying. Surely she would put herself in the position to imagine what such a thing would feel like for her, if she were the child shoved into a strange place and not the righteous avenger punishing the world for her hurts.]
[He was wrong.]
. . . She said she didn't know me very well after all.
[His voice is hoarse, his knuckles pale where he grips his glass of water. Its surface tremors. After too many too-long seconds, he realizes it's because he's shaking. With great care, he wraps a vine around the glass and sets it on Fugo's bedside table. His hands end up bunched in loose fists on his lap.]
But we've talked about everything. There is almost nothing she doesn't know about me. She knows what's most important to me. She's told me what she most fears about herself and I told her that those things don't frighten me, because they don't. It never occurred to me that she would do something like this. That she would be this careless with children. Use them as props in this — pageantry. She clearly cares about them, but not enough to do this right, and that's not good enough.
[It's not. It's not acceptable. His throat is dry, knuckles white again, eyes wide and voice soft. Fugo is right: he's angry. This is his anger in its purest form, undiluted by grief or shock. Anything but this, anything at all, he could tolerate.]
I'm rarely wrong about people. But I'm beginning to think I put too much faith in Riley.
[From someone like him, who uses his own resolve as a guiding star, it's a condemnation. Of Riley, yes, but of himself, too. He trusted too much this time, it seems.]
[Fugo listens. He tries not to stare, to give Giorno the time and the space he needs to work through what he wants to say. He doesn't push. Once he has finished speaking, even though a part of him wants to fill the unhappy silence, he waits for Giorno to be ready to speak on his own terms. Because it's difficult, isn't it? Even for someone like Giorno, usually so certain and eloquent. To find the words to describe this sort of rejection.
Trust doesn't come easily for people like them. It is always a choice, rather than an instinct; one made with the implicit knowledge that trust is synonymous with vulnerability, because to trust is to allow another close enough to hurt. Giorno trusted Riley. Not just with some things, but as with as much of himself as he could. Obviously her rejection hurt him; Fugo can hear that pain in the hoarseness of his voice, see it in the tremor of his shoulders. All of his moments are so precise. So careful. Because if he doesn't take care, he will break something.
But what Giorno cannot wrap his mind around, what makes him so angry that he can't trust himself to hold onto his glass of water for fear of it inevitably cracking and shattering in his white-knuckled grip, is how Riley couldn't see how this spiral of violence she's thrown herself into runs contrary to everything Giorno stands for as a person. Everything he has ever fought and killed and bled for. She is too caught up in the spectacle of it, blinded by her own desire to play the heroine.]
[So, the question is this. Was it wrong of Giorno to trust Riley? To believe they were the same, that she shared his convictions? And where does he go from here?]
Do you think... it's possible to know someone too well?
[It's an odd question to pose. And Fugo knows it, before he even says it. But it's the only way that he knows how to begin. He's spent his whole life trying to know, really know, the people around him. So he can guess at what they want, what they need-- what he can give them that no one else can. So he can stay one step ahead. So he can always be ready for what happens next. But that's not how it works, is it?]
What I mean to say is... sometimes, even when you understand someone as well as two people can possibly know each other, you can still be blindsided by them. Maybe it's even easier, because you think you already know how they will act.
[Fugo shakes his head, then presses his mouth together. He won't bring it up here. But when Bucciarati first emerged from the basilica with Trish unconscious in his arms, Fugo knows that his first emotion in that moment was shock. That he just couldn't believe it. Even though he had known Bucciarati was hiding something from him, from all of them, the scope of it was unimaginable.]
I don't think you were wrong to trust her. But you aren't wrong to be angry with her either. She has chosen a path that you can't and won't ever follow her down.
[Giorno isn't sure that Riley can stop herself. But she is the only one who can end this. Just like trust, if Riley wants to have a relationship with Giorno and the children, she must choose to give this up. She has to put the children before her own anger, her own pain.]
What will matter most, what will say the most about her, is what she chooses to do next.
[Now that Giorno has made Riley look, forced her to acknowledge her own blind spot, will she be able to bring herself to stop? What will she do to protect and provide for the children whose lives she has thrust herself into? Giorno has already made up his mind what he wants to do. Hopefully, when the worst of whatever maelstrom that swallowed Riley whole passes, she will be able to meet him halfway.]
Trust doesn't come easily for people like them. It is always a choice, rather than an instinct; one made with the implicit knowledge that trust is synonymous with vulnerability, because to trust is to allow another close enough to hurt. Giorno trusted Riley. Not just with some things, but as with as much of himself as he could. Obviously her rejection hurt him; Fugo can hear that pain in the hoarseness of his voice, see it in the tremor of his shoulders. All of his moments are so precise. So careful. Because if he doesn't take care, he will break something.
But what Giorno cannot wrap his mind around, what makes him so angry that he can't trust himself to hold onto his glass of water for fear of it inevitably cracking and shattering in his white-knuckled grip, is how Riley couldn't see how this spiral of violence she's thrown herself into runs contrary to everything Giorno stands for as a person. Everything he has ever fought and killed and bled for. She is too caught up in the spectacle of it, blinded by her own desire to play the heroine.]
[So, the question is this. Was it wrong of Giorno to trust Riley? To believe they were the same, that she shared his convictions? And where does he go from here?]
Do you think... it's possible to know someone too well?
[It's an odd question to pose. And Fugo knows it, before he even says it. But it's the only way that he knows how to begin. He's spent his whole life trying to know, really know, the people around him. So he can guess at what they want, what they need-- what he can give them that no one else can. So he can stay one step ahead. So he can always be ready for what happens next. But that's not how it works, is it?]
What I mean to say is... sometimes, even when you understand someone as well as two people can possibly know each other, you can still be blindsided by them. Maybe it's even easier, because you think you already know how they will act.
[Fugo shakes his head, then presses his mouth together. He won't bring it up here. But when Bucciarati first emerged from the basilica with Trish unconscious in his arms, Fugo knows that his first emotion in that moment was shock. That he just couldn't believe it. Even though he had known Bucciarati was hiding something from him, from all of them, the scope of it was unimaginable.]
I don't think you were wrong to trust her. But you aren't wrong to be angry with her either. She has chosen a path that you can't and won't ever follow her down.
[Giorno isn't sure that Riley can stop herself. But she is the only one who can end this. Just like trust, if Riley wants to have a relationship with Giorno and the children, she must choose to give this up. She has to put the children before her own anger, her own pain.]
What will matter most, what will say the most about her, is what she chooses to do next.
[Now that Giorno has made Riley look, forced her to acknowledge her own blind spot, will she be able to bring herself to stop? What will she do to protect and provide for the children whose lives she has thrust herself into? Giorno has already made up his mind what he wants to do. Hopefully, when the worst of whatever maelstrom that swallowed Riley whole passes, she will be able to meet him halfway.]
[It's a strange question, certainly. But it's one that makes Giorno sit up straighter, gaze sharp and intent, because — it's not one he's ever considered. How could he have, when until this past year he's never let anyone know him?]
[Even when you understand someone as close to perfectly as possible, they can still blindside you. Maybe it's even easier, because you're so certain about that mutual understanding. Because you grow complacent.]
[The words he uses in the privacy of his own mind are sharper, more condemning, but that's only because he sees it now. He sees the pattern, or at least the beginning of it, the very end of that thread. He grabs onto it with both hands, ties one end around his wrist, and refuses to let go. This, he needs to keep. He needs to focus on this. He thinks this is where the answers are.]
[They are so, so similar, he and Riley. It shocked him — shocked them both — to find such a kindred spirit in the other. That's exactly what Fugo means. They're not the same person, they're only similar. He's made the assumption that they understand each other perfectly, but that's impossible. And both of them are such vicious perfectionists—]
[No wonder.]
. . . No wonder.
[His voice is quiet, almost breathless. Still angry, without a doubt, but hyperfocused now on what feels like a source of all of this wrongness, a way to possibly correct — if she'll let him. If.]
[That's such a qualifier, isn't it.]
[Glancing up at Fugo, he can practically feel how exhausted he looks. But there's gratitude there, too, underneath the tiredness and frustration. He doesn't know how Fugo can feel the way he does about himself when there is so much in his heart, given out for free like it's nothing.]
I think she's angry with me, too. Betrayed. Because I told her I would always stand by her. But I . . . assumed she understood. This is where the line is drawn. Causing pain and suffering to the most vulnerable people in this world is something I just can't allow.
[Something like laughter slips out through his teeth, now. He presses a palm to his forehead, fangs showing in a sharp, rueful smile.]
Because . . . the first people I ever shared anything with believed in just that. Automatically. So I thought she must understand. She felt . . . just the same. Like family. So that was my mistake . . .
[That was it.]
[And now, all he can do is wait.]
[With a sharp exhale, he lets his hand fall to his lap and shakes his head. Plainly:] All I know how to do with other people is fly blind. But sometimes, it gets very tiring . . . hitting windows.
[Even when you understand someone as close to perfectly as possible, they can still blindside you. Maybe it's even easier, because you're so certain about that mutual understanding. Because you grow complacent.]
[The words he uses in the privacy of his own mind are sharper, more condemning, but that's only because he sees it now. He sees the pattern, or at least the beginning of it, the very end of that thread. He grabs onto it with both hands, ties one end around his wrist, and refuses to let go. This, he needs to keep. He needs to focus on this. He thinks this is where the answers are.]
[They are so, so similar, he and Riley. It shocked him — shocked them both — to find such a kindred spirit in the other. That's exactly what Fugo means. They're not the same person, they're only similar. He's made the assumption that they understand each other perfectly, but that's impossible. And both of them are such vicious perfectionists—]
[No wonder.]
. . . No wonder.
[His voice is quiet, almost breathless. Still angry, without a doubt, but hyperfocused now on what feels like a source of all of this wrongness, a way to possibly correct — if she'll let him. If.]
[That's such a qualifier, isn't it.]
[Glancing up at Fugo, he can practically feel how exhausted he looks. But there's gratitude there, too, underneath the tiredness and frustration. He doesn't know how Fugo can feel the way he does about himself when there is so much in his heart, given out for free like it's nothing.]
I think she's angry with me, too. Betrayed. Because I told her I would always stand by her. But I . . . assumed she understood. This is where the line is drawn. Causing pain and suffering to the most vulnerable people in this world is something I just can't allow.
[Something like laughter slips out through his teeth, now. He presses a palm to his forehead, fangs showing in a sharp, rueful smile.]
Because . . . the first people I ever shared anything with believed in just that. Automatically. So I thought she must understand. She felt . . . just the same. Like family. So that was my mistake . . .
[That was it.]
[And now, all he can do is wait.]
[With a sharp exhale, he lets his hand fall to his lap and shakes his head. Plainly:] All I know how to do with other people is fly blind. But sometimes, it gets very tiring . . . hitting windows.
[The air in the room is heavy. No, not heavy: taut. Taut with tension, not between them, but winding tighter and tighter from Giorno. He's so focused. And then it clicks. No wonder, is what Giorno says, as a piece of the puzzle slides into place.
And yet ... there's no real release. This realization is painful. He laughs, but it's all teeth and bitter sharp edges. There's something around the edges that seems lighter, but that's just a brief break in the clouds. When Giorno reaches to touch his forehead, to hide his eyes behind his fingers and palm, he moves as if his own limbs are impossibly heavy. There is so much yet to do, but he is already exhausted. His own shoulders twinge in sympathetic, familiar pain.]
I don't ...
[What happens next isn't something Fugo intends. Not exactly. It's just that the legs, the change he's been dreading for months, that are a part of his body but don't feel like his at all-- he doesn't quite have a handle on them yet. When they move, he either has to think about what he wants to do. Or they move on their own, reaching to catch and balance him when he stumbles. In this moment he thinks, Giorno is so far away, and, he looks so alone.
Before he can catch himself, stop it before it happens, one of the upper legs stretches out and just sort of. Rests? On Giorno's taut shoulder, in what has to be the world's strangest "hand" on the shoulder.]
-- really-- know ... anything else. Either. [Oh, no. There are things he wants to say, to help the best he can, but they've gotten all mixed up in his own discombobulation over what his own stupid legs are up to. He thinks: lift up and it does, a little, hovering awkwardly around Giorno's ear. He doesn't pull entirely away, worried a little about moving too quickly and accidentally running into Giorno on his way back out.] Sorry, they ... I'm still getting used to them.
And yet ... there's no real release. This realization is painful. He laughs, but it's all teeth and bitter sharp edges. There's something around the edges that seems lighter, but that's just a brief break in the clouds. When Giorno reaches to touch his forehead, to hide his eyes behind his fingers and palm, he moves as if his own limbs are impossibly heavy. There is so much yet to do, but he is already exhausted. His own shoulders twinge in sympathetic, familiar pain.]
I don't ...
[What happens next isn't something Fugo intends. Not exactly. It's just that the legs, the change he's been dreading for months, that are a part of his body but don't feel like his at all-- he doesn't quite have a handle on them yet. When they move, he either has to think about what he wants to do. Or they move on their own, reaching to catch and balance him when he stumbles. In this moment he thinks, Giorno is so far away, and, he looks so alone.
Before he can catch himself, stop it before it happens, one of the upper legs stretches out and just sort of. Rests? On Giorno's taut shoulder, in what has to be the world's strangest "hand" on the shoulder.]
-- really-- know ... anything else. Either. [Oh, no. There are things he wants to say, to help the best he can, but they've gotten all mixed up in his own discombobulation over what his own stupid legs are up to. He thinks: lift up and it does, a little, hovering awkwardly around Giorno's ear. He doesn't pull entirely away, worried a little about moving too quickly and accidentally running into Giorno on his way back out.] Sorry, they ... I'm still getting used to them.
[All of this is terribly complicated. But Fugo . . . well, it's not that he's simple. But he provides something simpler. The ill-mannered behavior of his wayward limbs, an automatic gesture of comfort that Fugo can't catch quick enough to talk himself out of it. The heaviness on Giorno's face lifts instantly at the touch to his shoulder and flies away as though nothing's been wrong all along when he turns to see Fugo's spider-paw resting solemnly upon it.]
[He doesn't have time to rest his own hand atop it before Fugo pulls it away, so he takes it between his hands instead. He doesn't want it to go any farther.]
It's okay. I don't mind.
[The opposite, if anything. He desperately needs comfort, and he doesn't care which of Fugo's limbs it comes from, thanks. If anything, he's just grateful to the leg for letting him know what would help.]
Can you come sit with me? Please.
[He doesn't have time to rest his own hand atop it before Fugo pulls it away, so he takes it between his hands instead. He doesn't want it to go any farther.]
It's okay. I don't mind.
[The opposite, if anything. He desperately needs comfort, and he doesn't care which of Fugo's limbs it comes from, thanks. If anything, he's just grateful to the leg for letting him know what would help.]
Can you come sit with me? Please.
[ 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
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isawallflower
2021-12-06 05:53 am (UTC)(link)
[ Immediately, her talons dig into the cold ground beneath her. She turns, jumpy like a startled rabbit, eyes wide. ]
Fugo?! Oh, it— [ It's her intention to say she's just here for Giorno. She has no doubt, with the way that conversation went... Between him and Trish, there's no way Fugo wants anything to do with her. No way she'll be welcome in the beautiful Hill House ever again. No way—
But he looks so...different. ]
...Yeah. A lot...can happen, in...it's been a month. Right?
[ A lifetime. Sometimes...she thinks she's still back in that small room, waiting. Always waiting. Maybe she's there instead of here. Maybe everything's just been—
She blinks. Her puffy feathers slowly start to sit flat again. ]
Fugo?! Oh, it— [ It's her intention to say she's just here for Giorno. She has no doubt, with the way that conversation went... Between him and Trish, there's no way Fugo wants anything to do with her. No way she'll be welcome in the beautiful Hill House ever again. No way—
But he looks so...different. ]
...Yeah. A lot...can happen, in...it's been a month. Right?
[ A lifetime. Sometimes...she thinks she's still back in that small room, waiting. Always waiting. Maybe she's there instead of here. Maybe everything's just been—
She blinks. Her puffy feathers slowly start to sit flat again. ]
[When Riley startles, Fugo's shoulders jump. The long legs on his back twitch and shift, as if they need to find their footing again, even though he has them held up and above the snow. Where she puffs up, he tightens.]
Yeah, it has.
[Been a month, since they've seen each other. A lot has happened. His head almost feels too full with it, thoughts churning and sloshing about in his skull, as he works to keep everything-- organized. Managed. He can do it; he has to do it. It's something he has become very good at. There's a long moment where Fugo hesitates between November was shit and I think I'm finally finished growing extra body parts, neither of which seem right, and Riley seems to be lost in her own head.]
Would you like to come in?
[Riley must be here for Giorno. But she's been out here for a long while. She must be cold. It wouldn't hurt for her to come in and get warmed up, before she flies out to his tree.]
Yeah, it has.
[Been a month, since they've seen each other. A lot has happened. His head almost feels too full with it, thoughts churning and sloshing about in his skull, as he works to keep everything-- organized. Managed. He can do it; he has to do it. It's something he has become very good at. There's a long moment where Fugo hesitates between November was shit and I think I'm finally finished growing extra body parts, neither of which seem right, and Riley seems to be lost in her own head.]
Would you like to come in?
[Riley must be here for Giorno. But she's been out here for a long while. She must be cold. It wouldn't hurt for her to come in and get warmed up, before she flies out to his tree.]
[ Been a month. It's...been a month. Even though she has two weeks missing, two weeks of nothing after a painful death.
If she thinks about that... She can't make up what it feels like, to die. Not that vividly. Right? So, maybe she's here, outside a house set into the hills, in the snow, talking to a boy with many, many legs. ]
—In? Um- yes, if- [ A swallow. What keeps her warm right now, besides her plumage, is a tailored jacket, something Eridanus helped fix up for her. A pair of leggings, a gift from Steve. But what holds her hair up right now, it's a rather plain ribbon, instead of her normal ones, instead of one gifted from— ]
Giorno. Is he here? Is Giorno here?
[ She doesn't feel permitted to wear it anymore. Not when she knows... From the way he spoke, he wants her gone. It's simply the right thing for them both, to step aside. ]
If she thinks about that... She can't make up what it feels like, to die. Not that vividly. Right? So, maybe she's here, outside a house set into the hills, in the snow, talking to a boy with many, many legs. ]
—In? Um- yes, if- [ A swallow. What keeps her warm right now, besides her plumage, is a tailored jacket, something Eridanus helped fix up for her. A pair of leggings, a gift from Steve. But what holds her hair up right now, it's a rather plain ribbon, instead of her normal ones, instead of one gifted from— ]
Giorno. Is he here? Is Giorno here?
[ She doesn't feel permitted to wear it anymore. Not when she knows... From the way he spoke, he wants her gone. It's simply the right thing for them both, to step aside. ]
[Riley burns so brightly, flickering and wavering in front of him. She's here, but also not at all. She is tethered to the present only by her goal: find Giorno. He's reminded of Riley on the beach, vague and wandering until she snapped into focus with a direction to follow. As soon as she knows that Giorno isn't here, she's going to take to the air again.]
No. He isn't here. [Fugo's expression is carefully neutral. He doesn't have any questions for her. He has already offered her a moment of rest, knowing full well that she won't accept it. Without turning away from her, he reaches out to point in the direction of the home of Giorno's heart.] He's at his tree.
No. He isn't here. [Fugo's expression is carefully neutral. He doesn't have any questions for her. He has already offered her a moment of rest, knowing full well that she won't accept it. Without turning away from her, he reaches out to point in the direction of the home of Giorno's heart.] He's at his tree.
Oh. His tree. Of course.
[ Something flickers across Riley’s face as her jaw clenches. Fugo can, with his own experience, probably recognize it as some sort of…self-critique. ]
Right, that makes sense. [ Should’ve realized that, stupid, stupid— ] Then, um. I can’t. I just… I really need to talk to Giorno.
[ Something flickers across Riley’s face as her jaw clenches. Fugo can, with his own experience, probably recognize it as some sort of…self-critique. ]
Right, that makes sense. [ Should’ve realized that, stupid, stupid— ] Then, um. I can’t. I just… I really need to talk to Giorno.
[It's funny. No, it's not funny at all. He can almost hear the way she cuts herself down in the privacy of her own thoughts. It's so loud, in the way her expression darkens and her jaw tightens. After all, he's thought much the same about himself.]
He should be there for a while. So you should go see him. He needs to talk with you too, I think.
[It's been a month of silence. And as much as Giorno has tried to drown that silence with work, nothing can fill the hole in his life left in the wake of Riley's absence and what she's done. No matter what, how things go from here, whatever shape their relationship takes moving forward, November wasn't the end for them. No matter how final it feels. Those hurts can't begin to heal for either of them until they talk with, not to, each other.
What's strange about it, Fugo thinks, is how obvious this seems from the outside. When it must seem so impossible, so final from within. Ah, he really is ... an idiot, isn't he.]
He should be there for a while. So you should go see him. He needs to talk with you too, I think.
[It's been a month of silence. And as much as Giorno has tried to drown that silence with work, nothing can fill the hole in his life left in the wake of Riley's absence and what she's done. No matter what, how things go from here, whatever shape their relationship takes moving forward, November wasn't the end for them. No matter how final it feels. Those hurts can't begin to heal for either of them until they talk with, not to, each other.
What's strange about it, Fugo thinks, is how obvious this seems from the outside. When it must seem so impossible, so final from within. Ah, he really is ... an idiot, isn't he.]
[ A rising lump in her throat almost chokes her. He needs to talk with her. Needs to talk, of course, he needs closure. He needs to cut her off, once and for all, cut her out of his life. She's sure, Fugo would know. How much does he, though? How much has Giorno told him? There was once upon a time when she believed, all her secrets would be safe with Giorno, but—
Two dueling thoughts, the previous prevalent one of is this just what happens with family and the current leading theory did I stop being worth the effort of a good family?
She doesn't think she'd blame him. If, when he started dissecting what she did and how she did it, when he looked at her in that cold way, it never stopped. She thinks maybe, if she could turn Giorno that cruel, it's all she deserves. ]
Mm- hmm. [ As if it doesn't feel like her world is falling apart. As if she doesn't want to take off and fly and never land ever again. ] Yeah- okay. Thank you, I... I'll go do that, then.
Two dueling thoughts, the previous prevalent one of is this just what happens with family and the current leading theory did I stop being worth the effort of a good family?
She doesn't think she'd blame him. If, when he started dissecting what she did and how she did it, when he looked at her in that cold way, it never stopped. She thinks maybe, if she could turn Giorno that cruel, it's all she deserves. ]
Mm- hmm. [ As if it doesn't feel like her world is falling apart. As if she doesn't want to take off and fly and never land ever again. ] Yeah- okay. Thank you, I... I'll go do that, then.
[Looking at Riley isn't unlike staring down into the dark, churning waters of a river. Something is moving behind her eyes. Some thought she won't express, ugly and unhappy, whose shape he can't know. Only that it's pulled her under and she's been pulled out to sea. They aren't strangers, but they aren't friends either. It's not his place to judge her and it's not his place to comfort her. The best he can do is see her on her way.]
Okay. See you around, Riley.
[He steps out of her way. He's not entirely sure if it helps for Harpies to have room to take off, but there's room if she needs it.]
Okay. See you around, Riley.
[He steps out of her way. He's not entirely sure if it helps for Harpies to have room to take off, but there's room if she needs it.]
[ Will he? He's one of Giorno's, like Trish. She was happy, so happy, that Giorno could find his friends...but that’s the connection between the two of them. She has no illusion that in the end, Giorno's word is what will matter. She won't matter. It's only natural.
The lingering doubt in her mind, she looks away from Fugo and takes off, cold wind what's hurting her face, not her wet, wet eyes. ]
The lingering doubt in her mind, she looks away from Fugo and takes off, cold wind what's hurting her face, not her wet, wet eyes. ]
[Riley turns away from him. Fugo can't see her face anymore, but he watches her as she takes off. Her whole body tenses, wound as tight as a piano wire-- and then she's off. It's incredible, really. To see an object as large as a human body work to defy gravity and achieve flight.
Even so. There is something profoundly lonely about the cut of Riley's profile as she climbs higher, higher, higher still. Wind whips around below, tousling his bangs and kicking fresh snow around. Still, Fugo stands and watches her go.
Forward. Despite everything, she moves forward.]
Even so. There is something profoundly lonely about the cut of Riley's profile as she climbs higher, higher, higher still. Wind whips around below, tousling his bangs and kicking fresh snow around. Still, Fugo stands and watches her go.
Forward. Despite everything, she moves forward.]
[ 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?
[Trish is too distressed right now to realize the power she has just handed Fugo. Indeed, this is a surprise tool that will help him later.
There's a pause of a few minutes, and then she responds:]
No, everything is fine.
It's just
I need your help with something. I'm in my room.
[And then another ping follows, brusque in tone somehow despite the fact it's plain text.]
Don't tell anyone where you're going if they see you.
[Odd, because it's not like she hasn't had the boys in her room before. What could possibly be the matter?]
There's a pause of a few minutes, and then she responds:]
No, everything is fine.
It's just
I need your help with something. I'm in my room.
[And then another ping follows, brusque in tone somehow despite the fact it's plain text.]
Don't tell anyone where you're going if they see you.
[Odd, because it's not like she hasn't had the boys in her room before. What could possibly be the matter?]
[Nothing is wrong, but she needs his help with something in her room. At six in the morning. Given that Pannacotta Fugo was not born yesterday, he is able to suss this much out: something is wrong, but Trish doesn't want to commit it to writing. And, as he's puzzling this out, another message comes in: don't tell anyone.
It's weird. It's confusing. Why him, and not Bucciarati? Or Giorno? ... still. He can't leave her to it, whatever it is.]
Okay . . .
[You can just hear the uncertainty in those elipses.]
I'll be right over.
[True to his word, Fugo only bothers to brush his teeth, wash his face and hands, and pull on a pair of fuzzy socks (the floor is cold, okay!) before he makes the quick trip down the hall to Trish's bedroom. He knocks briskly on the door and calls, voice soft so as not to wake anyone else--]
Trish? It's Fugo.
It's weird. It's confusing. Why him, and not Bucciarati? Or Giorno? ... still. He can't leave her to it, whatever it is.]
Okay . . .
[You can just hear the uncertainty in those elipses.]
I'll be right over.
[True to his word, Fugo only bothers to brush his teeth, wash his face and hands, and pull on a pair of fuzzy socks (the floor is cold, okay!) before he makes the quick trip down the hall to Trish's bedroom. He knocks briskly on the door and calls, voice soft so as not to wake anyone else--]
Trish? It's Fugo.
[Trish has half a mind to berate him for his obvious skepticism, but she holds her tongue, shoving her laptop to the corner of her bed and sitting with her comforter wrapped around her shoulders. Like she's pink royalty, cape billowing all around her, if capes were puffy blankets.
She waits, the house exceptionally quiet at this hour. As such, she can't help the tension scrunching her shoulders when she hears the soft pad of footsteps, which couldn't be anyone with clawed feet, right? Which rules out several residents, but it does leave enough room for doubt it's Fugo until she hears his voice.
It's about time, but she knows he probably did the reasonable thing about sorting through his routine before coming here. He's a creature of habit. Regardless:]
Stop being polite and get in here.
[Trish practically hisses.
When Fugo steps in, he'll be treated to a bear girl that seems...fine? Her room is immaculate. The girl herself, also unharmed.
But she looks upset, so maybe it's something more cerebral she needs help with. Then it would make sense to summon him, right?]
She waits, the house exceptionally quiet at this hour. As such, she can't help the tension scrunching her shoulders when she hears the soft pad of footsteps, which couldn't be anyone with clawed feet, right? Which rules out several residents, but it does leave enough room for doubt it's Fugo until she hears his voice.
It's about time, but she knows he probably did the reasonable thing about sorting through his routine before coming here. He's a creature of habit. Regardless:]
Stop being polite and get in here.
[Trish practically hisses.
When Fugo steps in, he'll be treated to a bear girl that seems...fine? Her room is immaculate. The girl herself, also unharmed.
But she looks upset, so maybe it's something more cerebral she needs help with. Then it would make sense to summon him, right?]
[Fugo rolls his eyes towards the ceiling and bites back a retort, sorry for respecting your privacy, and mentally counts to three before he opens the door and slides quietly inside. Because it's Trish and because she's obviously anxious about being seen or overheard, Fugo closes the door behind him completely.
And so he here he is. He stands before the pink monarch in front of her bed in his pajamas (they have strawberries on them, because he is incredibly predictable) and with uncombed hair. But his teeth are brushed! No stinky breath.]
What can I help you with?
[He does not lead with are you okay because she is obviously not okay. The last time Trish hid under a blanket like this was the summer, when she was so horrified and disgusted by her own body that she couldn't stand for anyone to look at it. He can't help but be worried. He is also completely out of his depth.]
And so he here he is. He stands before the pink monarch in front of her bed in his pajamas (they have strawberries on them, because he is incredibly predictable) and with uncombed hair. But his teeth are brushed! No stinky breath.]
What can I help you with?
[He does not lead with are you okay because she is obviously not okay. The last time Trish hid under a blanket like this was the summer, when she was so horrified and disgusted by her own body that she couldn't stand for anyone to look at it. He can't help but be worried. He is also completely out of his depth.]
[Wow, all of his eyes? That sort of eyeroll is a brutal one to be sure.
Trish has half a mind to complain in the three seconds it takes him to come in, although she convinces herself to be barely patient, but then she sees Fugo in his sleep clothes, sees his mussed hair...and feels a tad guilty. She didn't wake him, no, but Giorno did say that Fugo has been through a lot. This is quibbling, perhaps, but she trusts him more than anyone to be blessedly clinical about it.
She trusts him in general, if she's honest.
So she looks at him from under her pink cotton veil, biting her lip while trying to find the words to best explain this. Because it is embarrassing, especially to have one of the boys do it, but she couldn't bear the ignominy if Yuzu or Bruno saw. Fugo and Giorno have seen her change while not drunk off their asses; they've helped her with her first kill. There's not too much room for shame with them, not anymore.
Trish lets the blanket slip to rest around her shoulders, then, beckoning Fugo over while avoiding eye contact.]
I need you to look at my hair and tell me if I'm hallucinating. I think I have...I don't know. I thought it was bugs, but they don't wash out.
[Do bugs in hair wash out?
Fuck. She doesn't know! She's never had this problem before! If it even is that.
Either way, she waits for Fugo's response. He probably thinks this is silly, but it's too hard for her to tell without a good mirror. After all, she smashed this room's mirrors to pieces, all during the selfsame summer that Fugo remembers.]
Trish has half a mind to complain in the three seconds it takes him to come in, although she convinces herself to be barely patient, but then she sees Fugo in his sleep clothes, sees his mussed hair...and feels a tad guilty. She didn't wake him, no, but Giorno did say that Fugo has been through a lot. This is quibbling, perhaps, but she trusts him more than anyone to be blessedly clinical about it.
She trusts him in general, if she's honest.
So she looks at him from under her pink cotton veil, biting her lip while trying to find the words to best explain this. Because it is embarrassing, especially to have one of the boys do it, but she couldn't bear the ignominy if Yuzu or Bruno saw. Fugo and Giorno have seen her change while not drunk off their asses; they've helped her with her first kill. There's not too much room for shame with them, not anymore.
Trish lets the blanket slip to rest around her shoulders, then, beckoning Fugo over while avoiding eye contact.]
I need you to look at my hair and tell me if I'm hallucinating. I think I have...I don't know. I thought it was bugs, but they don't wash out.
[Do bugs in hair wash out?
Fuck. She doesn't know! She's never had this problem before! If it even is that.
Either way, she waits for Fugo's response. He probably thinks this is silly, but it's too hard for her to tell without a good mirror. After all, she smashed this room's mirrors to pieces, all during the selfsame summer that Fugo remembers.]
Edited 2022-01-10 09:26 (UTC)
[He can see a flash of green, just the barest glint of light reflecting off her bright irises from underneath the shadow of her blanket-turned-hood. He thinks she might be frowning underneath it. He can almost imagine her subtle scowl because, as easily annoyed as Trish Una is on a bad day, she likes to pretend she's aloof and above it all.
And then she lets her disguise slip. She isn't frowning at all, actually. Her expression is a shade of vulnerable Fugo isn't used to on her. Even before she speaks, he can see it: the dark marks in her hair, an impossible scattering of speckles and spots across the usual pink.]
I would have to get a little closer to be sure, but... [Fugo narrows his eyes to try and get a better look at her and tips his head to the side, both worried and puzzled.] Your hair has has changed color, somewhat. From here it reminds me a bit of some of the patterns in your night form.
[As someone who has never gotten an good look at Diavolo, only just the briefest of glimpses when they were all fucked up by the ocean, Fugo doesn't even think of him.]
They look a bit like freckles.
[Can hair... get... freckly...? No, that's stupid. They're too big to be freckles. Hair doesn't get freckly.]
And then she lets her disguise slip. She isn't frowning at all, actually. Her expression is a shade of vulnerable Fugo isn't used to on her. Even before she speaks, he can see it: the dark marks in her hair, an impossible scattering of speckles and spots across the usual pink.]
I would have to get a little closer to be sure, but... [Fugo narrows his eyes to try and get a better look at her and tips his head to the side, both worried and puzzled.] Your hair has has changed color, somewhat. From here it reminds me a bit of some of the patterns in your night form.
[As someone who has never gotten an good look at Diavolo, only just the briefest of glimpses when they were all fucked up by the ocean, Fugo doesn't even think of him.]
They look a bit like freckles.
[Can hair... get... freckly...? No, that's stupid. They're too big to be freckles. Hair doesn't get freckly.]
Freckles?
[Trish echoes, clearly finding such an assertion as silly as he does. She may have a splash of freckles across her nose and shoulders as a rule, but that's not going to extend to her hair! Speckles is a similar, more accurate word, although it's too innocuous in description because...
She did think of Diavolo, when she first saw them. But that can't be, right? She's a dead ringer for his daughter as it is, why would this happen now? Is it because of the godforsaken bear part of her encroaching on the last few things she still likes about herself?
So, she wants to be sure.
Trish beckons Fugo over with a huff, then, trying to summon her usual haughtiness to the hunch of her shoulders.]
You're not going to do a lot of good standing all the way over there. It's not like I'm going to bite you.
[Look more closely, you nerd.]
[Trish echoes, clearly finding such an assertion as silly as he does. She may have a splash of freckles across her nose and shoulders as a rule, but that's not going to extend to her hair! Speckles is a similar, more accurate word, although it's too innocuous in description because...
She did think of Diavolo, when she first saw them. But that can't be, right? She's a dead ringer for his daughter as it is, why would this happen now? Is it because of the godforsaken bear part of her encroaching on the last few things she still likes about herself?
So, she wants to be sure.
Trish beckons Fugo over with a huff, then, trying to summon her usual haughtiness to the hunch of her shoulders.]
You're not going to do a lot of good standing all the way over there. It's not like I'm going to bite you.
[Look more closely, you nerd.]
[A touch of purple flush rises in the tips of Fugo's ears. Yes, Trish, he is well aware that freckles is probably not the right word to describe this particular phenomenon!!]
Yeah, yeah. [Fugo approaches the edge of the bed.] Turn around so I can see better. Do you have a comb nearby?
Yeah, yeah. [Fugo approaches the edge of the bed.] Turn around so I can see better. Do you have a comb nearby?
[Fugo at least trims the vulnerable edge from her expression when he takes his chance to be bossy back at her, and she huffs.
Huffs!!!!
But she does point briefly to the glamour dresser by her bedside, shimmying so she can turn around like he asks. Upon inspecting it, Fugo will find a frankly ridiculous number of combs.
She may or may not have several for her hair and some for her fur. Tail combs in particular abound.
All of this occurs while she complains over the curve of her shoulder at him, grousing:]
Of course I do. I don't style my hair with nothing.
[That pink swirl is a daily commitment!!!]
Huffs!!!!
But she does point briefly to the glamour dresser by her bedside, shimmying so she can turn around like he asks. Upon inspecting it, Fugo will find a frankly ridiculous number of combs.
She may or may not have several for her hair and some for her fur. Tail combs in particular abound.
All of this occurs while she complains over the curve of her shoulder at him, grousing:]
Of course I do. I don't style my hair with nothing.
[That pink swirl is a daily commitment!!!]
[Fugo pauses by Trish's dresser and carefully selects a comb. Specifically for her hair, not one of the tail combs. He gets the feeling she would be very annoyed if he tried to comb her head hair with a tail comb and ... honestly, if their positions were reversed, he would have the same opinion.]
Make sure to hold still while I'm working. I'll be as careful as I can but if I come across a tangle and it tugs, flinching will just make it hurt worse.
[What's this lecture about, huh? It's almost as if Fugo has been asked to comb someone else's hair in the past. Someone who was not very good at sitting still and had very little patience for tugs of any sort.
Anyway. Despite his warning, when Fugo does reach for Trish's hair his touch is slow and incredibly gentle. He isn't combing it in the traditional sense, rather, using the comb as a tool to help him get a closer look, section-by-section, at what's going on in her hair.]
Make sure to hold still while I'm working. I'll be as careful as I can but if I come across a tangle and it tugs, flinching will just make it hurt worse.
[What's this lecture about, huh? It's almost as if Fugo has been asked to comb someone else's hair in the past. Someone who was not very good at sitting still and had very little patience for tugs of any sort.
Anyway. Despite his warning, when Fugo does reach for Trish's hair his touch is slow and incredibly gentle. He isn't combing it in the traditional sense, rather, using the comb as a tool to help him get a closer look, section-by-section, at what's going on in her hair.]
[Hey, now, tail comb is just a name. But if that's what Fugo knows them by, it's always better to err on the side of caution.
Truthfully though, she's too distracted by – all of this. Because it takes a lot of trust for Trish Una to show her back to anyone, and she hopes he knows that! She's giving her wallpaper the grumpiest expression she can muster at ass o'clock in the morning, one that turns to bemusement the moment he starts to lecture her.
He's aware she knows all this, doesn't he? But what he says is definitely rehearsed, definitely born of habit.
She resists the urge to look over her shoulder at him with a raised brow, at any rate, sitting as still as possible.
And then he's picking through her hair with the comb, tuft by pink tuft, and if she wasn't so distressed, it would be...kind of nice? Actually, it is rather soothing despite the circumstances, and she turns pink herself at the realization. Her tail meanwhile has been draped in her lap since the start, since she imagines he wouldn't appreciate a fluffy tail brushing at him.
Indeed, for all her usual bluster, Trish is amazingly quiet and unobtrusive while he works.]
Truthfully though, she's too distracted by – all of this. Because it takes a lot of trust for Trish Una to show her back to anyone, and she hopes he knows that! She's giving her wallpaper the grumpiest expression she can muster at ass o'clock in the morning, one that turns to bemusement the moment he starts to lecture her.
He's aware she knows all this, doesn't he? But what he says is definitely rehearsed, definitely born of habit.
She resists the urge to look over her shoulder at him with a raised brow, at any rate, sitting as still as possible.
And then he's picking through her hair with the comb, tuft by pink tuft, and if she wasn't so distressed, it would be...kind of nice? Actually, it is rather soothing despite the circumstances, and she turns pink herself at the realization. Her tail meanwhile has been draped in her lap since the start, since she imagines he wouldn't appreciate a fluffy tail brushing at him.
Indeed, for all her usual bluster, Trish is amazingly quiet and unobtrusive while he works.]
[When Fugo does things, he never does them by halves. He meticulously examines her hair, working from left to right, always careful not to scratch her scalp with his claws.]
It definitely isn't bugs. I didn't see any signs of insect activity. [He pauses--] Sorry. I'm not trying to gross you out, just ease your mind.
[He combs down the hair on the back of her neck. He rubs a piece between his forefinger and thumb, examining it for anything that might come out or off of the hair. He finds nothing, of course. Trish's hair, as always, is very clean. It smells of the shampoo she likes to use and her perfume.]
It isn't dye or paint either. Given that you've washed it, we should be able to see some transfer at this point. As strange as it is, the best way to describe this is that your hair itself changed color.
Usually ... [Fugo trails off. Hm. It would ... probably upset Trish if he just bluntly said "your nightly transformation might include complete hair loss and regrowth". So he won't say that.] Well, nevermind. The speckle pattern reminds me of your fur. So it's safe to assume that this has something to do with your transformation.
It definitely isn't bugs. I didn't see any signs of insect activity. [He pauses--] Sorry. I'm not trying to gross you out, just ease your mind.
[He combs down the hair on the back of her neck. He rubs a piece between his forefinger and thumb, examining it for anything that might come out or off of the hair. He finds nothing, of course. Trish's hair, as always, is very clean. It smells of the shampoo she likes to use and her perfume.]
It isn't dye or paint either. Given that you've washed it, we should be able to see some transfer at this point. As strange as it is, the best way to describe this is that your hair itself changed color.
Usually ... [Fugo trails off. Hm. It would ... probably upset Trish if he just bluntly said "your nightly transformation might include complete hair loss and regrowth". So he won't say that.] Well, nevermind. The speckle pattern reminds me of your fur. So it's safe to assume that this has something to do with your transformation.
Edited 2022-02-05 20:50 (UTC)
[Well, she can't be any more grossed out than she already is. Although she does wrinkle her nose, muttering:]
I'm just glad you know what to look for. As unfortunate as that may be.
[Since it's almost too easy to imagine the circumstances where he would need them.
In fact, sitting here and silently pondering the motions of his hands makes her think...he's got to have done this for Narancia. Possibly Mista? But Narancia was so scruffy as a rule, and cared so very little about his own well-being to the point she found it highly distressing. She'll never forget how flippant he acted following his near-fatal encounter with Cioccolata's Stand. Not to say Narancia was particularly smelly, although being surrounded by strangers meant they all smelled weird to her, if she's being honest. But the fact of the matter was...Fugo worried about him too. Sometimes, she wonders what he was thinking when they were miles apart, and what Fugo thought of Narancia's ultimate fate. Sometimes it reminds her that as much as she's grown to trust him, there's a lot she doesn't know about Fugo, and how that might be entirely intentional. The one deeply personal thing he shared was done on accident, right?
As for Fugo's final assessment, Trish sighs, finally turning her head to look grimly over the curve of her shoulder at Fugo, lips pressed into a thin pink line.]
...I forgot you never met him. The boss, I mean. [she turns away again, continuing] I was almost hoping it would be bugs, because then I could get rid of these spots.
[Said with a surprising amount of venom over the most benign cosmetic change.]
If it were based on my transformation, the patterns would match my Stand instead. But this...
[This makes her look so much like him, as if she didn't reflect him too much already.]
I'm just glad you know what to look for. As unfortunate as that may be.
[Since it's almost too easy to imagine the circumstances where he would need them.
In fact, sitting here and silently pondering the motions of his hands makes her think...he's got to have done this for Narancia. Possibly Mista? But Narancia was so scruffy as a rule, and cared so very little about his own well-being to the point she found it highly distressing. She'll never forget how flippant he acted following his near-fatal encounter with Cioccolata's Stand. Not to say Narancia was particularly smelly, although being surrounded by strangers meant they all smelled weird to her, if she's being honest. But the fact of the matter was...Fugo worried about him too. Sometimes, she wonders what he was thinking when they were miles apart, and what Fugo thought of Narancia's ultimate fate. Sometimes it reminds her that as much as she's grown to trust him, there's a lot she doesn't know about Fugo, and how that might be entirely intentional. The one deeply personal thing he shared was done on accident, right?
As for Fugo's final assessment, Trish sighs, finally turning her head to look grimly over the curve of her shoulder at Fugo, lips pressed into a thin pink line.]
...I forgot you never met him. The boss, I mean. [she turns away again, continuing] I was almost hoping it would be bugs, because then I could get rid of these spots.
[Said with a surprising amount of venom over the most benign cosmetic change.]
If it were based on my transformation, the patterns would match my Stand instead. But this...
[This makes her look so much like him, as if she didn't reflect him too much already.]
[Fugo's hands still in her hair, then pull away as she twists to face him again. Oh. He was aware that Trish shared her father's hair and eye color, but he did not know about ... the spots. Fugo, who can be difficult to read on a good day, is plainly surprised. But only for a moment.]
You shouldn't call him that. ["Boss". That's Giorno's title, now. Except Giorno doesn't like to be called by it.] He doesn't have that power over you or anyone else here, except that loser Doppio.
I'm sure you'll wear it better than he ever could. Given how little he seems to leave whatever miserable hideout he's found for himself, I'm sure most people will associate the pattern with you instead of him.
[Just steal your dad's style, Trish! It's not his, it's yours now! Fugo steps back and lightly coughs into his hand.]
Matching your Stand is its own can of worms anyway. Personally, I can't recommend it.
[As if any of them have a choice about how their transformations look like in the end...]
You shouldn't call him that. ["Boss". That's Giorno's title, now. Except Giorno doesn't like to be called by it.] He doesn't have that power over you or anyone else here, except that loser Doppio.
I'm sure you'll wear it better than he ever could. Given how little he seems to leave whatever miserable hideout he's found for himself, I'm sure most people will associate the pattern with you instead of him.
[Just steal your dad's style, Trish! It's not his, it's yours now! Fugo steps back and lightly coughs into his hand.]
Matching your Stand is its own can of worms anyway. Personally, I can't recommend it.
[As if any of them have a choice about how their transformations look like in the end...]
[Surprising Fugo is rare feat indeed, and she would enjoy it more if it wasn't because of something that isn't gross, per se, but is still...well, cosmically gross.
That being said, she's turning pink again at the sudden...she doesn't know!! Fugo is usually subtle in his support, but he's almost effusive right now?! She'd shove him if she weren't busy turning around to face him. You're embarrassing, Fugo!!
She brings a hand up to rest her knuckles just above her lips instead instead, muttering:]
I don't say it like he has any authority. I was never part of Passione, so calling him that doesn't feel like acquiescence to me. It's more like talking about the manager of a fast-food restaurant for all the power it has.
[Using his name would be worse, also? Despite herself, however, hearing that is...nice. She's not sure how the others will react, but if they're anything like Fugo...
Oh, but Fugo seems to remember himself now, and Trish could snort, but he says something genuinely interesting.]
...Oh. I didn't realize, but you're right. Your colors are the same.
[Funny, he encourages her despite her looking like her awful father, and then curses his own Stand in that instance. But she remembers it, and how petrified he was of its mere presence when he truly believed it was here.
So Trish is quiet for a beat. And though the answer is obvious, she still asks:]
Does that...bother you?
That being said, she's turning pink again at the sudden...she doesn't know!! Fugo is usually subtle in his support, but he's almost effusive right now?! She'd shove him if she weren't busy turning around to face him. You're embarrassing, Fugo!!
She brings a hand up to rest her knuckles just above her lips instead instead, muttering:]
I don't say it like he has any authority. I was never part of Passione, so calling him that doesn't feel like acquiescence to me. It's more like talking about the manager of a fast-food restaurant for all the power it has.
[Using his name would be worse, also? Despite herself, however, hearing that is...nice. She's not sure how the others will react, but if they're anything like Fugo...
Oh, but Fugo seems to remember himself now, and Trish could snort, but he says something genuinely interesting.]
...Oh. I didn't realize, but you're right. Your colors are the same.
[Funny, he encourages her despite her looking like her awful father, and then curses his own Stand in that instance. But she remembers it, and how petrified he was of its mere presence when he truly believed it was here.
So Trish is quiet for a beat. And though the answer is obvious, she still asks:]
Does that...bother you?
[Fugo is tempted to correct her-- to urge Trish to call Diavolo by his name, if only because it would piss him off that the thing he tried to keep such a secret is now completely out of his hands. But he gets the sense Trish would rather change the subject, given her line of questioning.]
Of course it does. I hated that thing. Even though it's gone, I still can't be free of it. [He admits this so easily. He sighs, as if realizing how strange it sounds, before clarifying.] ... Purple Haze was an unusual Stand. Our relationship, if you could call it that, was tumultuous.
Of course it does. I hated that thing. Even though it's gone, I still can't be free of it. [He admits this so easily. He sighs, as if realizing how strange it sounds, before clarifying.] ... Purple Haze was an unusual Stand. Our relationship, if you could call it that, was tumultuous.
[Talking about Diavolo is fraught, sure, but listening to Fugo talk is cathartic, as much as it can be when the damage Diavolo has done can never be reversed. Fugo doesn't hesitate to loudly and angrily throw every ounce of umbrage he can at the man, in a way she hasn't really heard. Diavolo isn't a common topic for many reasons, but it's relieving that even when she looks every bit like him...the boys haven't seemed to think much of it.
Even now, if Fugo is anything to go by.
But his frankness takes a strange turn, because now he's talking about something personal to him, something she saw a glimpse of months ago, but never pushed to ask. Not because she didn't want to know, but because Fugo would speak when he wanted to. Which apparently is right now, and she scoots to the edge of her bed. She wordlessly pats the spot next to her while she digests his statement, because he shouldn't have to stand there? And he's already right here.]
I remember how you reacted to it during the week you were small. I realize Stands can be very dangerous, but it was very odd to me that you believed it would hurt you.
[A beat.]
You were right then, of course, because that wasn't your Stand and it very much wanted to hurt us all. Unless you're saying the real Purple Haze is the same way?
[That talk she had about Stands and intent with Doppio is something else she thinks about often. A reflection of the user's soul seemed to confer power in almost every instance.
And it's likely reasonable to assume Fugo had his Stand forced upon him. That seemed to be true of much of Bruno's gang. Did that have any effect on Fugo's relationship with his own Stand, she wonders?]
Even now, if Fugo is anything to go by.
But his frankness takes a strange turn, because now he's talking about something personal to him, something she saw a glimpse of months ago, but never pushed to ask. Not because she didn't want to know, but because Fugo would speak when he wanted to. Which apparently is right now, and she scoots to the edge of her bed. She wordlessly pats the spot next to her while she digests his statement, because he shouldn't have to stand there? And he's already right here.]
I remember how you reacted to it during the week you were small. I realize Stands can be very dangerous, but it was very odd to me that you believed it would hurt you.
[A beat.]
You were right then, of course, because that wasn't your Stand and it very much wanted to hurt us all. Unless you're saying the real Purple Haze is the same way?
[That talk she had about Stands and intent with Doppio is something else she thinks about often. A reflection of the user's soul seemed to confer power in almost every instance.
And it's likely reasonable to assume Fugo had his Stand forced upon him. That seemed to be true of much of Bruno's gang. Did that have any effect on Fugo's relationship with his own Stand, she wonders?]
[At first, Fugo doesn’t entirely understand what Trish means by that gesture. Why is she patting her comforter? It’s not until she shoots him an expectant look that it clicks. Oh. He’s supposed to sit beside her, while they talk. Because they’re going to continue to talk, apparently. About … Stands.
Fugo is stiff and a little awkward when he comes to sit next to Trish. Part of it is simply his limb situation; it’s a trial for him just to navigate normal living spaces, even if they’re large enough to accommodate larger Monsters. But his legs pull in close when he comes to sit, then twist around to settle largely behind him. His arms, too, fold over his chest. Without even thinking about it, he’s on the defensive.]
Whatever pretended to be Purple Haze this summer wasn’t entirely accurate. It never intentionally attacked me.
[He pauses, lips pressed together in a thin line, as he weighs how much he ought to tell Trish. He doesn’t like discussing it but, at the same time, knows he has no good reason to deny her. “I don’t want to” feels like such a shallow reason, especially for something that no longer exists.]
But I wasn’t immune to its ability. And I couldn’t control it, either. It had a mind of its own. [He sighs, bitterly, then rolls his eyes.] Not that it ever tried to think. That thing was a complete moron.
Fugo is stiff and a little awkward when he comes to sit next to Trish. Part of it is simply his limb situation; it’s a trial for him just to navigate normal living spaces, even if they’re large enough to accommodate larger Monsters. But his legs pull in close when he comes to sit, then twist around to settle largely behind him. His arms, too, fold over his chest. Without even thinking about it, he’s on the defensive.]
Whatever pretended to be Purple Haze this summer wasn’t entirely accurate. It never intentionally attacked me.
[He pauses, lips pressed together in a thin line, as he weighs how much he ought to tell Trish. He doesn’t like discussing it but, at the same time, knows he has no good reason to deny her. “I don’t want to” feels like such a shallow reason, especially for something that no longer exists.]
But I wasn’t immune to its ability. And I couldn’t control it, either. It had a mind of its own. [He sighs, bitterly, then rolls his eyes.] Not that it ever tried to think. That thing was a complete moron.
[She almost wonders if Fugo is going to change his mind and leave now that they've confirmed she doesn't have bugs, just the unfortunate happenstance of DNA expressing itself more vibrantly than ever before, but he eventually moves to join her.
Except he's closed off as always, even in posture, and she understands it.
He was petrified of his own Stand at a younger age than he is now, so even if that facsimile wasn't right, it wasn't entirely wrong, either. And Fugo always seemed to control everything about himself as tightly as he could, so to have a Stand that acted independently of him, and to act contrary to his wishes at that, must've been as maddening as it was terrifying. But to hear him complain about it like it was a big, dangerous dumb animal and not his very soul says a lot more about Fugo than it does about his Stand.
Trish is silent for a stretch, drumming her claws on her comforter.]
...It doesn't sound like you at all, does it? If it was so thoughtless you were worried it would act to the detriment of everyone around it.
[Unconscionable creature.]
But I wonder. It's not often Stands act independently, so I have to assume there was a reason for it. Spice Girl also acted independent of me, and it was a good thing, because she didn't panic like I did.
[If Purple Haze was so dangerous...would it struggle with itself if it knew that much about itself? Why not make it a Stand that could act only by orders alone, like Sticky Fingers seemed to?
It's curious.]
Except he's closed off as always, even in posture, and she understands it.
He was petrified of his own Stand at a younger age than he is now, so even if that facsimile wasn't right, it wasn't entirely wrong, either. And Fugo always seemed to control everything about himself as tightly as he could, so to have a Stand that acted independently of him, and to act contrary to his wishes at that, must've been as maddening as it was terrifying. But to hear him complain about it like it was a big, dangerous dumb animal and not his very soul says a lot more about Fugo than it does about his Stand.
Trish is silent for a stretch, drumming her claws on her comforter.]
...It doesn't sound like you at all, does it? If it was so thoughtless you were worried it would act to the detriment of everyone around it.
[Unconscionable creature.]
But I wonder. It's not often Stands act independently, so I have to assume there was a reason for it. Spice Girl also acted independent of me, and it was a good thing, because she didn't panic like I did.
[If Purple Haze was so dangerous...would it struggle with itself if it knew that much about itself? Why not make it a Stand that could act only by orders alone, like Sticky Fingers seemed to?
It's curious.]
[Firmly:] No. It's exactly like "me". Purple Haze is a part of myself.
[As much as he hates it, as much as he resents it, as much as he was and is afraid of it-- Purple Haze always was just him.]
I don't know why some Stands are more independent than others, beyond that it's more typical for long range and automatic Stands and less so for close range Stands. It probably has something to do with the users. [He pauses, chewing it over, before continuing.] I don't know what the others have told you about Stands, or anything about yours. But Stands and their abilities are, with very few exceptions, reflections of their users.
[He shifts to look at her. Fugo's stare is often intent. This afternoon, it's steely and unflinching. To Fugo, Spice Girl's calm in the face of Trish's own panic is, more or less, reflective of Trish's determination to survive. He might not like what Purple Haze reflects of him, but there's no point in denying it.]
[As much as he hates it, as much as he resents it, as much as he was and is afraid of it-- Purple Haze always was just him.]
I don't know why some Stands are more independent than others, beyond that it's more typical for long range and automatic Stands and less so for close range Stands. It probably has something to do with the users. [He pauses, chewing it over, before continuing.] I don't know what the others have told you about Stands, or anything about yours. But Stands and their abilities are, with very few exceptions, reflections of their users.
[He shifts to look at her. Fugo's stare is often intent. This afternoon, it's steely and unflinching. To Fugo, Spice Girl's calm in the face of Trish's own panic is, more or less, reflective of Trish's determination to survive. He might not like what Purple Haze reflects of him, but there's no point in denying it.]
[In a way, she gets it.
A Stand is a representation of someone's soul, but Fugo presents the corollary that it merely represents what is either a large or crucial part of that soul. Though, she has to wonder about that, because the way he talks about Purple Haze and the way she sees him are entirely at odds with one another.
She can't reconcile it. But she can only go off what Fugo tells her.
Trish meets his gaze, the hardness of his red eyes, and her lips press into a thin pink line.]
...There hasn't been any cause to talk about Stands, especially here, so I know about as much as I did before I met all of you.
[Spice Girl's ability could say any number of things about her, for example, and they may or may not be true. Does it mean anything as well that her Stand was not awakened by an Arrow? How can they be sure of anything ascribed to something as nebulous as a Stand ability?
That being said...]
But if what you're saying is true, then have you considered you might yourself be an exception? You're certainly not a "moron".
A Stand is a representation of someone's soul, but Fugo presents the corollary that it merely represents what is either a large or crucial part of that soul. Though, she has to wonder about that, because the way he talks about Purple Haze and the way she sees him are entirely at odds with one another.
She can't reconcile it. But she can only go off what Fugo tells her.
Trish meets his gaze, the hardness of his red eyes, and her lips press into a thin pink line.]
...There hasn't been any cause to talk about Stands, especially here, so I know about as much as I did before I met all of you.
[Spice Girl's ability could say any number of things about her, for example, and they may or may not be true. Does it mean anything as well that her Stand was not awakened by an Arrow? How can they be sure of anything ascribed to something as nebulous as a Stand ability?
That being said...]
But if what you're saying is true, then have you considered you might yourself be an exception? You're certainly not a "moron".
If there is anything you want to know, I'll do my best to explain. [He shrugs.] Stands might not be as relevant here, but you deserve to know.
[Trish is one of them. If she wants to know more about the power that the Fog stole from her, there's no reason to keep it from her.]
No. I'm not an exception. [He sighs, a little reluctant, before pushing through.] I'm not a moron, but-- ... when I really lose my temper, I don't see anything except what's in front of me. I can't stop.
[When he loses his temper, he stabs friends with silverware. He beats teachers with dictionaries. He throws himself at nightmares with nothing but a broken table leg, slamming it down over and over again until it's a bloody mess on the floor.]
[Trish is one of them. If she wants to know more about the power that the Fog stole from her, there's no reason to keep it from her.]
No. I'm not an exception. [He sighs, a little reluctant, before pushing through.] I'm not a moron, but-- ... when I really lose my temper, I don't see anything except what's in front of me. I can't stop.
[When he loses his temper, he stabs friends with silverware. He beats teachers with dictionaries. He throws himself at nightmares with nothing but a broken table leg, slamming it down over and over again until it's a bloody mess on the floor.]
trish started out feeling bad but now she can worry about him instead. success???
figlia_morbida
2022-03-16 01:51 am (UTC)(link)
Bucciarati actually humored my questions not too long after he arrived, but what he knew began and ended with the Arrow. Oh, and what Polnareff told us. I actually found that all very unenlightening. When I asked Spice Girl herself about everything I could think of, she said...
[Trish suddenly straightens up, taking on a steady but nearly robotic cadence, her tail going limp too, as if to really emphasize her personality being sapped away.]
"I don't understand these questions. I am you. That is all you need to know."
[Followed by Trish very maturely sticking her tongue out between her fangs.
Badmouthing her Stand seems to be her attempt at showing Fugo that maybe he can badmouth his own Stand too if he must, but...]
What I'm trying to say is, Purple Haze is a truth, but not the truth. I don't think you're nearly as animalistic as you claim your Stand to be.
[Her tail goes back to flicking back and forth.]
I can be afraid, and Spice Girl won't be. You can regret losing your temper, and Purple Haze won't care.
That's why they're not wholly us.
[Trish suddenly straightens up, taking on a steady but nearly robotic cadence, her tail going limp too, as if to really emphasize her personality being sapped away.]
"I don't understand these questions. I am you. That is all you need to know."
[Followed by Trish very maturely sticking her tongue out between her fangs.
Badmouthing her Stand seems to be her attempt at showing Fugo that maybe he can badmouth his own Stand too if he must, but...]
What I'm trying to say is, Purple Haze is a truth, but not the truth. I don't think you're nearly as animalistic as you claim your Stand to be.
[Her tail goes back to flicking back and forth.]
I can be afraid, and Spice Girl won't be. You can regret losing your temper, and Purple Haze won't care.
That's why they're not wholly us.
Edited 2022-03-16 02:39 (UTC)
[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?
[ Fugo's door being slightly ajar is familiar to him, though it hadn't occurred to him it would be a habit that persisted even here, without Purple Haze. Not that Abbacchio can blame him for old habits being hard to shake, he has his fair share of them too.
He hears Fugo before he reaches the door and opens it partially, as though the door itself is a physical representation of whatever this rift between them is. Abbacchio doesn't like it. Doesn't like the way Fugo is holding himself, too reminiscent of those early days when there was little to no trust between them and all bets were off when it came to their interactions.
While he doesn't think Fugo's nervousness comes from a place of perceiving Abbacchio as any kind of immediate danger, he still lets his own posture loosen into something less rigid. A visible indication that he is not here to fight, nor is he here as any kind of threat to Fugo. He wants to ask if Fugo is busy; recognises that would be pointless though, seeing as Fugo is always busy with something or other. Instead he opts for something else, with a clear out for Fugo should he want it. ]
D'you have time to talk?
He hears Fugo before he reaches the door and opens it partially, as though the door itself is a physical representation of whatever this rift between them is. Abbacchio doesn't like it. Doesn't like the way Fugo is holding himself, too reminiscent of those early days when there was little to no trust between them and all bets were off when it came to their interactions.
While he doesn't think Fugo's nervousness comes from a place of perceiving Abbacchio as any kind of immediate danger, he still lets his own posture loosen into something less rigid. A visible indication that he is not here to fight, nor is he here as any kind of threat to Fugo. He wants to ask if Fugo is busy; recognises that would be pointless though, seeing as Fugo is always busy with something or other. Instead he opts for something else, with a clear out for Fugo should he want it. ]
D'you have time to talk?
[Fugo fidgets with the doorknob and, before he can catch himself and hide , glances away. Guilty, guilty, guilty. He doesn't ... want to let Abbacchio in. It's selfish. Cowardly. He knows that, just as much as he knows they can't avoid this conversation forever.]
... yeah. Sure.
[He's actually busy. Fugo is always busy: he simply cannot function otherwise. If Fugo was not busy he knows, now, that he would simply fold in on himself and collapse. But he steps back and opens the door to allow Abbacchio in.
His room is very sparsely decorated and so clean that it's a little uncomfortable. Even his desk, where he was just working, the papers are all neatly aligned and the pen has already been put away in the jar. As there is only one chair, Fugo takes a seat on the perfectly made bed. He sits with one leg crossed over the other, arms folded over his back; his spider legs rest lightly on the bed behind him. He doesn't fidget. He doesn't slouch, either.]
... yeah. Sure.
[He's actually busy. Fugo is always busy: he simply cannot function otherwise. If Fugo was not busy he knows, now, that he would simply fold in on himself and collapse. But he steps back and opens the door to allow Abbacchio in.
His room is very sparsely decorated and so clean that it's a little uncomfortable. Even his desk, where he was just working, the papers are all neatly aligned and the pen has already been put away in the jar. As there is only one chair, Fugo takes a seat on the perfectly made bed. He sits with one leg crossed over the other, arms folded over his back; his spider legs rest lightly on the bed behind him. He doesn't fidget. He doesn't slouch, either.]
[ The fidgeting doesn't go unnoticed, however, it does go unremarked on. Even as Fugo steps back to allow him in, he waits. Gives Fugo ample time and opportunity should he decide to change his mind; it's only when he begins to enter the room himself that Abbacchio actually follows him inside, carefully closing the door behind him so that it doesn't shut tight. ]
Thanks.
[ Abbacchio pays no mind to the way Fugo keeps his room, is familiar with seeing what his presence in an area can do for its general appearance. More concerningly is how he sits, perfect posture and a concentrated effort not to fidget. That's what is uncomfortable.
He debates standing; if only so that he can leave quicker if it's asked of him. Ultimately he decides better of it. He doesn't want to stand here looking down on Fugo as if he's better than him, that's so far from his intention. (And so far from the truth anyway, even if Fugo doesn't believe it.) So he sits, makes the conscious decision to slouch, keeps his own posture as loose and casual as possible. ]
I know you're busy, and I know you don't want to talk about this, so I'll just get straight to the point.
[ People like Fugo and himself, they don't have conversations like this. Not with each other. He isn't being blunt out of rudeness or a lack of desire to be here, because as uncomfortable as it is, they do need to talk. They may not be close, but that he's here at all should say enough. Abbacchio does care about Fugo in his own way. He's willing to drop his usual pretence around him to get to the bottom of this, to figure out what he can do to minimise Fugo's discomfort. ]
You've been avoiding me. I don't want to know why, [ unless Fugo chooses to discuss it, he will not press ] I want to know what I can do – for you, I mean. To make this easier.
Thanks.
[ Abbacchio pays no mind to the way Fugo keeps his room, is familiar with seeing what his presence in an area can do for its general appearance. More concerningly is how he sits, perfect posture and a concentrated effort not to fidget. That's what is uncomfortable.
He debates standing; if only so that he can leave quicker if it's asked of him. Ultimately he decides better of it. He doesn't want to stand here looking down on Fugo as if he's better than him, that's so far from his intention. (And so far from the truth anyway, even if Fugo doesn't believe it.) So he sits, makes the conscious decision to slouch, keeps his own posture as loose and casual as possible. ]
I know you're busy, and I know you don't want to talk about this, so I'll just get straight to the point.
[ People like Fugo and himself, they don't have conversations like this. Not with each other. He isn't being blunt out of rudeness or a lack of desire to be here, because as uncomfortable as it is, they do need to talk. They may not be close, but that he's here at all should say enough. Abbacchio does care about Fugo in his own way. He's willing to drop his usual pretence around him to get to the bottom of this, to figure out what he can do to minimise Fugo's discomfort. ]
You've been avoiding me. I don't want to know why, [ unless Fugo chooses to discuss it, he will not press ] I want to know what I can do – for you, I mean. To make this easier.
[Fugo observes, from a disconnected point located between his chilly body and the simmering, poisonous muck that is his heart, that Abbacchio has done just about everything he can to make himself non-threatening. He slouches to appear smaller than he is-- so they can discuss this eye-to-eye, as if they're equals. He doesn't waste time with pleasantries, but he doesn't go out of his way to be cruel either.]
You didn't need to bother with the door.
[Fugo unfolds briefly; one hand reaches up to his hairline and, in a single sharp, precise gesture, combs his bangs out of his eyes to see Abbacchio better. His gaze is both intent and somehow distant. When he is finished, he folds his arms across his chest again. The wall between them hasn't budged.]
Purple Haze isn't here. It isn't a necessary precaution anymore.
[Nevermind that Fugo still leaves doors open behind him. He is uncomfortable living in this underground house, as beautiful as it is bizarre. He's been here for months, but has done so little to personalize this room that it might as well belong to someone else. The habit is for his own comfort, even though the discomfort he feels in closed up rooms is, at this point, stupid, irrational, and pointless.
This likely seems a non-sequitur. What he means is this: Abbacchio is under no obligation to comfort him. About this, or anything else.]
I've been avoiding you because I don't know where things stand between us. And it would be inappropriate of me to ask, given the circumstances of how I left and what happened after. As it would be impractical and dangerous to change my living arrangements, this seemed like the fairest course of action.
[He says all of this in a detached, almost clinical tone. Each word was chosen carefully. He lets no hint of his own feelings through. It wouldn't be fair. Abbacchio had enough garbage to deal with; Fugo's baggage about what happened in April should not be his problem.]
You don't need to do anything.
You didn't need to bother with the door.
[Fugo unfolds briefly; one hand reaches up to his hairline and, in a single sharp, precise gesture, combs his bangs out of his eyes to see Abbacchio better. His gaze is both intent and somehow distant. When he is finished, he folds his arms across his chest again. The wall between them hasn't budged.]
Purple Haze isn't here. It isn't a necessary precaution anymore.
[Nevermind that Fugo still leaves doors open behind him. He is uncomfortable living in this underground house, as beautiful as it is bizarre. He's been here for months, but has done so little to personalize this room that it might as well belong to someone else. The habit is for his own comfort, even though the discomfort he feels in closed up rooms is, at this point, stupid, irrational, and pointless.
This likely seems a non-sequitur. What he means is this: Abbacchio is under no obligation to comfort him. About this, or anything else.]
I've been avoiding you because I don't know where things stand between us. And it would be inappropriate of me to ask, given the circumstances of how I left and what happened after. As it would be impractical and dangerous to change my living arrangements, this seemed like the fairest course of action.
[He says all of this in a detached, almost clinical tone. Each word was chosen carefully. He lets no hint of his own feelings through. It wouldn't be fair. Abbacchio had enough garbage to deal with; Fugo's baggage about what happened in April should not be his problem.]
You don't need to do anything.
I know.
[ It's true that he didn't need to bother with the door out of a sense of precaution but that's not why he did it, leaving it open was intended as a non-verbal indication that Fugo is not trapped in here with Abbacchio, should he himself want to leave or if he wishes Abbacchio to leave.
Abbacchio lets him talk, he doesn't interrupt and keeps his expression as neutral as he's capable of. Shows no irritation at the idea that Fugo seeking him out would be inappropriate; regardless of whatever situation they would find themselves in, Abbacchio himself would never deem it inappropriate. Not this. They've been through too much and Fugo is far too important to him.
When Fugo has finished speaking, Abbacchio watches him quietly for a moment. ]
Let's get one thing out of the way, though. Absolutely no one would have expected you to change up your current living arrangements, least of all me, and especially not on my account. You were here first.
[ He means it in two ways really. Fugo was with Bucciarati first too, was technically Abbacchio's superior even if he didn't always behave like that was the case. Even back then he would do what he could to help Fugo when the other was willing. Fugo may not realise it, but just by virtue of having to interact with him so often Abbacchio was able to learn more about how he reacted to things, how to change those behaviours to better suit Fugo's needs at the time. ]
You're right. I don't need to do anything, but I want to, and not knowing where things stand between us is exactly why I'm here. If that means we need to discuss what happened in Venice – and I know neither of us wants to – then that's what happens.
But if you really don't want to talk about it, I'm not going to force you. Whatever needs to be done here, we do it at your pace. [ a pause, when he continues his voice is quieter, a touch softer. ] That said… I need you to know that I don't hold anything against you for the decision you made. It wasn't a test, Fugo, there was no right or wrong answer.
[ Fugo had made his decision and he'd stuck by it. Abbacchio had agreed with his assessment; in that regard he was right, but it was much more complicated than that. He knows that now. Sighing heavily, he glances away from Fugo. ]
… It just was what it was, and unfortunately it was mostly bad all around.
[ It's true that he didn't need to bother with the door out of a sense of precaution but that's not why he did it, leaving it open was intended as a non-verbal indication that Fugo is not trapped in here with Abbacchio, should he himself want to leave or if he wishes Abbacchio to leave.
Abbacchio lets him talk, he doesn't interrupt and keeps his expression as neutral as he's capable of. Shows no irritation at the idea that Fugo seeking him out would be inappropriate; regardless of whatever situation they would find themselves in, Abbacchio himself would never deem it inappropriate. Not this. They've been through too much and Fugo is far too important to him.
When Fugo has finished speaking, Abbacchio watches him quietly for a moment. ]
Let's get one thing out of the way, though. Absolutely no one would have expected you to change up your current living arrangements, least of all me, and especially not on my account. You were here first.
[ He means it in two ways really. Fugo was with Bucciarati first too, was technically Abbacchio's superior even if he didn't always behave like that was the case. Even back then he would do what he could to help Fugo when the other was willing. Fugo may not realise it, but just by virtue of having to interact with him so often Abbacchio was able to learn more about how he reacted to things, how to change those behaviours to better suit Fugo's needs at the time. ]
You're right. I don't need to do anything, but I want to, and not knowing where things stand between us is exactly why I'm here. If that means we need to discuss what happened in Venice – and I know neither of us wants to – then that's what happens.
But if you really don't want to talk about it, I'm not going to force you. Whatever needs to be done here, we do it at your pace. [ a pause, when he continues his voice is quieter, a touch softer. ] That said… I need you to know that I don't hold anything against you for the decision you made. It wasn't a test, Fugo, there was no right or wrong answer.
[ Fugo had made his decision and he'd stuck by it. Abbacchio had agreed with his assessment; in that regard he was right, but it was much more complicated than that. He knows that now. Sighing heavily, he glances away from Fugo. ]
… It just was what it was, and unfortunately it was mostly bad all around.
[It was... what it was?]
[Fugo doesn't interrupt Abbacchio as he speaks, or look away from his face for an instant. But it would be difficult to miss the way he tightens further; how his mouth twitches and his eyes narrow. Does Abbacchio sincerely believe that? Fugo doesn't think so. That morning in Venice, on the steps of the San Giorgio Maggiore, they were all given the opportunity to decide for themselves what sort of lives they wanted to live.]
That's objectively untrue.
[He can't keep the bitterness out of his voice. Of course it's easy for Abbacchio to talk about it that way. After all, even if his reasons were selfish, even if he regrets it, he still made the right decision. He didn't betray Bucciarati's ideals, or abandon Trish to her fate. He took the step. He got on the boat. He moved forward.]
There was nothing "right" about an argument that involves allowing an innocent bystander get murdered to preserve the status quo. More than that, I put the entire team in a terrible position by refusing to follow Bucciarati. You can't say that my absence did not have an affect on the rest of the mission.
[That morning might not have been a test, but there was still a right and a wrong decision to be made. Even if it saved his life, Fugo's decision was the wrong one.]
You can feel however you want to about it. But I don't want to hear any false platitudes about what happened, or the choice I made. It was wrong.
[Fugo doesn't interrupt Abbacchio as he speaks, or look away from his face for an instant. But it would be difficult to miss the way he tightens further; how his mouth twitches and his eyes narrow. Does Abbacchio sincerely believe that? Fugo doesn't think so. That morning in Venice, on the steps of the San Giorgio Maggiore, they were all given the opportunity to decide for themselves what sort of lives they wanted to live.]
That's objectively untrue.
[He can't keep the bitterness out of his voice. Of course it's easy for Abbacchio to talk about it that way. After all, even if his reasons were selfish, even if he regrets it, he still made the right decision. He didn't betray Bucciarati's ideals, or abandon Trish to her fate. He took the step. He got on the boat. He moved forward.]
There was nothing "right" about an argument that involves allowing an innocent bystander get murdered to preserve the status quo. More than that, I put the entire team in a terrible position by refusing to follow Bucciarati. You can't say that my absence did not have an affect on the rest of the mission.
[That morning might not have been a test, but there was still a right and a wrong decision to be made. Even if it saved his life, Fugo's decision was the wrong one.]
You can feel however you want to about it. But I don't want to hear any false platitudes about what happened, or the choice I made. It was wrong.
No, you think it's untrue. Doesn't mean I do.
[ He tries to keep the frustration out of his own voice, he really does, but Fugo is just as stubborn as Abbacchio himself. ]
Say you did get on that boat. You don't know for sure what difference it could have made, and I won't sit here and pretend that your absence didn't have an effect just to make you feel better. So, you get on the boat, what then? Maybe we make it out fine. Maybe you don't.
There's also nothing "wrong" with wanting to survive.
[ Abbacchio won't lie and say he wasn't relieved to hear that Fugo remained relatively unscathed. In Pompeii, he'd wanted to do something to help him; but dedication to the mission and to their orders had taken priority over Fugo's safety, when perhaps it shouldn't have. (Or, in spite of himself, maybe Giorno had been right.) ]
Look, I've spent too long thinking about what happened since I got here. All the different ways it could have played out, and I'm sure you've probably done the same, but… I'm tired of it. I'm not here to argue or fight, and I'm not here to change your mind either, you should know me better than that. I just- I thought you deserved to know where I stand.
[ He sounds surprisingly honest, all things considered. Abbacchio is well known for getting his head stuck in the past, letting it become all consuming until it's eating away at him, so this won't be a surprise for Fugo to hear. What's rare is that he's willing to admit to it, to Fugo no less, and to then further admit to the fact he knows it isn't doing him any good. ]
[ He tries to keep the frustration out of his own voice, he really does, but Fugo is just as stubborn as Abbacchio himself. ]
Say you did get on that boat. You don't know for sure what difference it could have made, and I won't sit here and pretend that your absence didn't have an effect just to make you feel better. So, you get on the boat, what then? Maybe we make it out fine. Maybe you don't.
There's also nothing "wrong" with wanting to survive.
[ Abbacchio won't lie and say he wasn't relieved to hear that Fugo remained relatively unscathed. In Pompeii, he'd wanted to do something to help him; but dedication to the mission and to their orders had taken priority over Fugo's safety, when perhaps it shouldn't have. (Or, in spite of himself, maybe Giorno had been right.) ]
Look, I've spent too long thinking about what happened since I got here. All the different ways it could have played out, and I'm sure you've probably done the same, but… I'm tired of it. I'm not here to argue or fight, and I'm not here to change your mind either, you should know me better than that. I just- I thought you deserved to know where I stand.
[ He sounds surprisingly honest, all things considered. Abbacchio is well known for getting his head stuck in the past, letting it become all consuming until it's eating away at him, so this won't be a surprise for Fugo to hear. What's rare is that he's willing to admit to it, to Fugo no less, and to then further admit to the fact he knows it isn't doing him any good. ]
[Abbacchio doesn't want to argue about it. Well-- that's fine, isn't it? Fugo doesn't want to argue about it either. Everything he has to say ... is just useless, navel-gazing self-pity. Nothing he has to say about it now, so long after the fact, will ever change the fact that he wasn't there.
So he closes his eyes. He takes a breath. And he keeps his mouth shut. The poison inside of him simmers and churns, but it doesn't escape.]
Okay.
[Whatever you want, his defeated tone seems to imply. In many ways, Venice still feels too raw and too close to discuss. When he adds the months up, six months at home and nearly six here in Ryslig, it has been a year. But his grief is still as thorny and heavy as ever. It hasn't changed at all.]
I wasn't avoiding you out of a sense of anger. I just... [He thinks of the San Siro. It was really bright that day. So bright he couldn't see Mista's face, especially from so far away. Idly, distantly, finally, Fugo moves; he begins to pick at a loose thread on his cuff.] This place is terrible.
I didn't want to add to that.
So he closes his eyes. He takes a breath. And he keeps his mouth shut. The poison inside of him simmers and churns, but it doesn't escape.]
Okay.
[Whatever you want, his defeated tone seems to imply. In many ways, Venice still feels too raw and too close to discuss. When he adds the months up, six months at home and nearly six here in Ryslig, it has been a year. But his grief is still as thorny and heavy as ever. It hasn't changed at all.]
I wasn't avoiding you out of a sense of anger. I just... [He thinks of the San Siro. It was really bright that day. So bright he couldn't see Mista's face, especially from so far away. Idly, distantly, finally, Fugo moves; he begins to pick at a loose thread on his cuff.] This place is terrible.
I didn't want to add to that.
Okay.
[ He nods, satisfied that it didn't devolve, because that really wasn't his intention. Abbacchio knows things are difficult for Fugo to accept, and knows that it's harder still for him to change his mind when he's already accepted something to be true. He understands this, because he too, finds himself in similar lines of thinking all too often.
So even if he recognises that Fugo's tone is one of defeat, recognises that the subject of Venice is still not one Fugo doesn't wish to talk about, he can accept that this is where they are right now.
Abbacchio had never thought Fugo was avoiding him due to anger, not really; as familiar as he is with Fugo's anger, this… was different. When Fugo shifts and begins to fidget, it brings with it a sense of relief, and Abbacchio allows himself to snort when Fugo gives his opinion on this place. ]
Yeah, no kidding. It's a fucking miserable hell hole.
[ Fugo's presence here, along with Bucciarati; is honestly a welcome relief. The two of them are familiar enough to Abbacchio that it makes some of this even remotely tolerable. And with Trish and Giorno here, it feels like a second chance at keeping them all safe – Reira may have said that going home is an impossibility; but there's still a small part of Abbacchio that hasn't quite been snuffed out yet, one that is holding on to the hope they may be able to return home to their normal lives one day. He has to, for their sakes. ]
Trust me when I say you could never add on to how awful this all is, not by a long shot.
[ He nods, satisfied that it didn't devolve, because that really wasn't his intention. Abbacchio knows things are difficult for Fugo to accept, and knows that it's harder still for him to change his mind when he's already accepted something to be true. He understands this, because he too, finds himself in similar lines of thinking all too often.
So even if he recognises that Fugo's tone is one of defeat, recognises that the subject of Venice is still not one Fugo doesn't wish to talk about, he can accept that this is where they are right now.
Abbacchio had never thought Fugo was avoiding him due to anger, not really; as familiar as he is with Fugo's anger, this… was different. When Fugo shifts and begins to fidget, it brings with it a sense of relief, and Abbacchio allows himself to snort when Fugo gives his opinion on this place. ]
Yeah, no kidding. It's a fucking miserable hell hole.
[ Fugo's presence here, along with Bucciarati; is honestly a welcome relief. The two of them are familiar enough to Abbacchio that it makes some of this even remotely tolerable. And with Trish and Giorno here, it feels like a second chance at keeping them all safe – Reira may have said that going home is an impossibility; but there's still a small part of Abbacchio that hasn't quite been snuffed out yet, one that is holding on to the hope they may be able to return home to their normal lives one day. He has to, for their sakes. ]
Trust me when I say you could never add on to how awful this all is, not by a long shot.
[Fugo glances up. Or, well. At least one set of his eyes do, the original pair from before he got saddled with all of this arachnid nonsense, while the other pair on his face remains focused on picking at his clothes. These eyes narrow in what should be a familiar expression to Abbacchio. This is the way Fugo looks at people when he's testing the air for a lie.
He sort of understands what Abbacchio means. If nothing else the three of them-- Bucciarati, Fugo, and Abbacchio-- have experience as a team. The know each other, inasmuch as they allow anyone to know them. But never? That's bullshit. He can't see any signs of deception on Abbacchio's face, and Fugo knows his tells, but he doesn't believe it.]
... yeah, it sucks. [The mutations to his body, being forced to regularly kill and eat people, the constant existential dread. So on and so forth.] At least Purple Haze is dead.
[That's about the only net positive he can see. And even that's debatable, given that how strong his Stand was. Even when not in active use, Purple Haze was a powerful "don't fuck with me" deterrent for anyone who knew about it.]
But whatever. You've been settling in.
[It's not a question. But it is an opening. For Abbacchio to talk. Or complain, or whatever. Fugo's not good at this.]
He sort of understands what Abbacchio means. If nothing else the three of them-- Bucciarati, Fugo, and Abbacchio-- have experience as a team. The know each other, inasmuch as they allow anyone to know them. But never? That's bullshit. He can't see any signs of deception on Abbacchio's face, and Fugo knows his tells, but he doesn't believe it.]
... yeah, it sucks. [The mutations to his body, being forced to regularly kill and eat people, the constant existential dread. So on and so forth.] At least Purple Haze is dead.
[That's about the only net positive he can see. And even that's debatable, given that how strong his Stand was. Even when not in active use, Purple Haze was a powerful "don't fuck with me" deterrent for anyone who knew about it.]
But whatever. You've been settling in.
[It's not a question. But it is an opening. For Abbacchio to talk. Or complain, or whatever. Fugo's not good at this.]
[ The expression that Fugo fixes him with almost has Abbacchio rolling his eyes; instead, he just eyes him as if to say 'Really, this? Do you want me to take back what I said?'
The fact remains that Fugo is stubborn; he's annoying and contrary, and downright cantankerous at the best of times. He's prone to testing the limits of Abbacchio's already thin patience, even without realising he's doing it. And yet, even in the face of all that, it's nothing he could ever really hold against Fugo; it just is how he is. So, no, they may not be particularly close, and Abbacchio may not be likely to admit it to his face anytime soon; but he is fond of the kid.
Purple Haze is not a subject he wants to touch. Fugo's thoughts and the relationship with his Stand were complicated – and that's probably being extremely generous. Abbacchio himself feels an odd emptiness when he thinks of his own Stand, and it's similarly a subject he doesn't really want to touch just yet. ]
Yeah… Settling in. [ he scoffs. ] You know I'm not the greatest at that.
[ Adapting to change and the like, he's pretty slow to it generally speaking. Not taking into consideration that since he arrived here he's already yelled at Bucciarati, of all people, and made things worse with Giorno. ]
The fact remains that Fugo is stubborn; he's annoying and contrary, and downright cantankerous at the best of times. He's prone to testing the limits of Abbacchio's already thin patience, even without realising he's doing it. And yet, even in the face of all that, it's nothing he could ever really hold against Fugo; it just is how he is. So, no, they may not be particularly close, and Abbacchio may not be likely to admit it to his face anytime soon; but he is fond of the kid.
Purple Haze is not a subject he wants to touch. Fugo's thoughts and the relationship with his Stand were complicated – and that's probably being extremely generous. Abbacchio himself feels an odd emptiness when he thinks of his own Stand, and it's similarly a subject he doesn't really want to touch just yet. ]
Yeah… Settling in. [ he scoffs. ] You know I'm not the greatest at that.
[ Adapting to change and the like, he's pretty slow to it generally speaking. Not taking into consideration that since he arrived here he's already yelled at Bucciarati, of all people, and made things worse with Giorno. ]
[The truth of the matter is that Fugo does not understand affection. Not when it's directed towards him; not after what he believes was an impossibly stupid mistake, one that he will never be able to make up for.]
But you aren't drinking. [However bad things are right now, however bad things went back home, Abbacchio hasn't turned to alcohol. As far as Fugo has seen, he has maintained his sobriety. And it's not as if alcohol (or, for that matter, drugs) is to get in Bavan, especially with the morons behind Red Alert shilling their poison on the network.] That counts for something, especially in circumstances like these.
But you aren't drinking. [However bad things are right now, however bad things went back home, Abbacchio hasn't turned to alcohol. As far as Fugo has seen, he has maintained his sobriety. And it's not as if alcohol (or, for that matter, drugs) is to get in Bavan, especially with the morons behind Red Alert shilling their poison on the network.] That counts for something, especially in circumstances like these.
[ Were it anyone other than Fugo, he'd have walked straight out, frankly. But the circumstances of their first meeting and their shared history mean that Fugo is already privy to this, whether Abbacchio likes it or not, and the result is that he gets a pass – barely. It says a lot that it's a topic he'll allow Fugo to broach in the first place; that Abbacchio trusts him not to needle at that already too-thin line more than he should.
Still, he drops his gaze from Fugo's, glances around at the bare room. He's perfectly capable of drinking within reason and moderation a majority of the time – it's when things get bad, when the noise in his brain gets too loud or the problems seem too big, that he slips. And over the course of the two years or so that Abbacchio has known Fugo, even if it was nowhere near as bad or as frequent as those first few months, to Abbacchio, that slip is still viewed as an inevitability. ]
Yeah, well. [ There's a small puff of air; a short, humourless laugh. Empty and hollow. Abbacchio is not going to sit here and pretend he's something he's not, not to Fugo. Nor is he going to give him any false expectations, only to set him up for future disappointment. ] Don't hold your breath.
Still, he drops his gaze from Fugo's, glances around at the bare room. He's perfectly capable of drinking within reason and moderation a majority of the time – it's when things get bad, when the noise in his brain gets too loud or the problems seem too big, that he slips. And over the course of the two years or so that Abbacchio has known Fugo, even if it was nowhere near as bad or as frequent as those first few months, to Abbacchio, that slip is still viewed as an inevitability. ]
Yeah, well. [ There's a small puff of air; a short, humourless laugh. Empty and hollow. Abbacchio is not going to sit here and pretend he's something he's not, not to Fugo. Nor is he going to give him any false expectations, only to set him up for future disappointment. ] Don't hold your breath.
[ 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?
[ Fugo does always look tired - and, in turn, he rarely sounds bleary. Between his voice and the slightly-mussed state of his bangs, Bruno is guessing he was sleeping, and immediately regrets interrupting him. Another way the two of them are similar: always sleeping with one eye open, ready to snap awake at any signs of trouble, and thus rarely actually getting much interrupted time to doze. That regret doesn't make it into Bruno's expression outside of a slight tightening of his brow, but his ears do twitch downwards before he shakes his head. ]
No... Unfortunately, nothing's changed.
[ It would be nice if he did have some news. Just earlier, he'd checked on Trish, who was still sleeping like -- well, he won't even think it. Steve is with Giorno right now, so he's left them alone, but if Giorno did come back, he's sure he'd have heard about it by now. ]
I've spent a lot of time with them. This time, I wanted to check on you. [ a pause; he folds his arms, eyes flicking briefly to Fugo's rumpled bedsheets. ] Though if I'd known I was interrupting you, I might have changed my mind. I'm sorry.
No... Unfortunately, nothing's changed.
[ It would be nice if he did have some news. Just earlier, he'd checked on Trish, who was still sleeping like -- well, he won't even think it. Steve is with Giorno right now, so he's left them alone, but if Giorno did come back, he's sure he'd have heard about it by now. ]
I've spent a lot of time with them. This time, I wanted to check on you. [ a pause; he folds his arms, eyes flicking briefly to Fugo's rumpled bedsheets. ] Though if I'd known I was interrupting you, I might have changed my mind. I'm sorry.
Edited 2022-02-06 08:10 (UTC)
[Fugo sighs. In a way, he's relieved. Nothing has changed. There have been no more attacks; no more murderous doubles out to replace the people they came from. But in every other way, he's bitterly disappointed. Nothing has changed. Giorno is still dead. Trish is still asleep. There is ... nothing he can do about either of these things, except wait for them to come back.]
It's alright. You don't need to apologize. [He shrugs, lightly. He is a little puzzled that Bucciarati would come to check on him, but does not outwardly question it. He ... probably would want to do the same, if he wasn't so tired.] It's an odd hour to try and sleep. I was probably going to get up soon anyway.
Have you eaten?
It's alright. You don't need to apologize. [He shrugs, lightly. He is a little puzzled that Bucciarati would come to check on him, but does not outwardly question it. He ... probably would want to do the same, if he wasn't so tired.] It's an odd hour to try and sleep. I was probably going to get up soon anyway.
Have you eaten?
[ it's a complete non-sequitur. If Bruno didn't know any better, he'd almost think Fugo is the one who walked in to check on him. He raises an eyebrow just slightly, but says nothing. He's used to this kind of thing from him. Easier to worry about someone else than oneself - he should know.
Between the two of them, they manage to take care of each other. Usually. That's how it used to work. ]
I ate breakfast. [ and he's probably had lot of coffee, which counts as food. Maybe. ] Have you?
Between the two of them, they manage to take care of each other. Usually. That's how it used to work. ]
I ate breakfast. [ and he's probably had lot of coffee, which counts as food. Maybe. ] Have you?
[It's a non-sequitur. It's a reflex. Between the two of them, they have had to get into this habit. Have you eaten? Have you slept? How long has it been since you got up? How does your wound feel? Both of them are terrible at attending to their own needs, but are sensitive to each other's.
As for Bruno's question, Fugo turns it over in his mind. He doesn't have an appetite. But how long ago was it that he ate? He raises one hand and holds it over his mouth and tries not to think about it, or the man who became his meal. At least that appetite has been taken care of.]
... I should probably eat. [He reaches up again to try and rub the grit out of his eyes.] Something light, though. I don't trust my stomach.
As for Bruno's question, Fugo turns it over in his mind. He doesn't have an appetite. But how long ago was it that he ate? He raises one hand and holds it over his mouth and tries not to think about it, or the man who became his meal. At least that appetite has been taken care of.]
... I should probably eat. [He reaches up again to try and rub the grit out of his eyes.] Something light, though. I don't trust my stomach.
[ the reaction is cause for some concern, but he has a feeling he knows the cause for it. The less said about that new and disgusting facet of their lives, the better. He won't make Fugo relive it. There's a vast difference between killing some piece of shit for their job and killing one with the intention of eating them. Bruno feels like it almost puts him on the same level as those men they met in Rome - Cioccolata and Secco - and is grimly grateful that Fugo can't make the same association. ]
Then I'll bring you something. [ he tilts his head. ] Sit back down. I know you've been running all over.
[ tidying up Giorno's affairs, no doubt. Bruno would be proud of him for being so dutiful if it weren't for the circumstances. ]
Then I'll bring you something. [ he tilts his head. ] Sit back down. I know you've been running all over.
[ tidying up Giorno's affairs, no doubt. Bruno would be proud of him for being so dutiful if it weren't for the circumstances. ]
[Fugo nods. Normally, he might argue that he can at least make it up to the kitchen-- if not help Bucciarati with the task. But he really is very tired. His body is heavy; a dull headache pounds between his temples. The thought of dragging himself and all of his limbs up to the top floor, honestly, sounds exhausting.]
Okay. I'll leave the door open for you. [His hand falls back down to the side and he turns back into his room.] Thanks, Bucciarati.
Okay. I'll leave the door open for you. [His hand falls back down to the side and he turns back into his room.] Thanks, Bucciarati.
[ a single nod; then he's vanished from the doorway again to procure some food.
In truth, it's a relief to be able to do something, even as minor as this. He's been utterly helpless in a way he's not used to this month. Bucciarati is a man of action, but all he can do for Giorno and Trish is wait and pray. At least he can get Fugo some damn food.
Not much later, he returns again with a simple plate, as requested - some cheesy and crusty bread, a light Italian breakfast. By now, it seems he's gotten quite good at manipulating things with his claws; where he might have struggled with something like a plate before, he's now comfortable enough to hold it one hand while he gently closes the door behind him with the other. ]
Still awake?
In truth, it's a relief to be able to do something, even as minor as this. He's been utterly helpless in a way he's not used to this month. Bucciarati is a man of action, but all he can do for Giorno and Trish is wait and pray. At least he can get Fugo some damn food.
Not much later, he returns again with a simple plate, as requested - some cheesy and crusty bread, a light Italian breakfast. By now, it seems he's gotten quite good at manipulating things with his claws; where he might have struggled with something like a plate before, he's now comfortable enough to hold it one hand while he gently closes the door behind him with the other. ]
Still awake?
[Fugo sits down at his desk. And he waits. For once, he doesn't think of much; he doesn't try to get anything done. A pen finds its way out of its place in an organizer to the face of desk. He idly rolls it underneath his palm, up and down, until he can feel Bruno's footsteps approach the door again.]
Yes, I'm awake. [He plucks the pen off the desk and neatly returns it to its proper place. He shifts in place to face Bruno.] Thanks.
[When Bruno approaches, he holds up his hands to receive the plate. He sets it down on the desk in a typically particular Fugo way: perfectly centered, nudging it forward to be a certain distance from the edge of the desk.]
You've gotten better with manipulating objects. [With his claws and paws. Not too long ago, Bucciarati would not have been able to manage this on his own.]
Yes, I'm awake. [He plucks the pen off the desk and neatly returns it to its proper place. He shifts in place to face Bruno.] Thanks.
[When Bruno approaches, he holds up his hands to receive the plate. He sets it down on the desk in a typically particular Fugo way: perfectly centered, nudging it forward to be a certain distance from the edge of the desk.]
You've gotten better with manipulating objects. [With his claws and paws. Not too long ago, Bucciarati would not have been able to manage this on his own.]
[ he hums in response. It's not exactly something he's proud of; then again, he's not exactly sure Fugo was trying to pay him a compliment, either. It's something to comment on that isn't the two elephants in the room. ]
I had to adapt. This is no time to be a burden. [ if there's another seat for him to take, he'll do so, setting himself down primly; if there isn't, he's fine making himself comfortable leaning his back against the wall. ] My hair is the only thing I still can't do properly.
[ much to his dismay. ]
I'm envious of you, in some ways.
I had to adapt. This is no time to be a burden. [ if there's another seat for him to take, he'll do so, setting himself down primly; if there isn't, he's fine making himself comfortable leaning his back against the wall. ] My hair is the only thing I still can't do properly.
[ much to his dismay. ]
I'm envious of you, in some ways.
[Mechanically, Fugo brings the toast to his mouth. Bites, chews, swallows. Distantly, he knows that the food is probably good. It doesn't taste like much of anything today, though.]
Each individual transformation comes with its own struggles. It's a testament to your strength of will that you have been able to overcome this.
[This is a very Fugo sort of thing to say. Although phrased a statement of fact, because that is how he sees it, it's a disarmingly sincere compliment. Fugo, who mistrusts people on principle, has an unshakable faith in Bruno Bucciarati's ability to survive and do good.]
I probably wouldn't be very good at it to begin with. But if you're willing to put up with my learning curve, I'd be happy to help you with your hair when our schedules match up.
Each individual transformation comes with its own struggles. It's a testament to your strength of will that you have been able to overcome this.
[This is a very Fugo sort of thing to say. Although phrased a statement of fact, because that is how he sees it, it's a disarmingly sincere compliment. Fugo, who mistrusts people on principle, has an unshakable faith in Bruno Bucciarati's ability to survive and do good.]
I probably wouldn't be very good at it to begin with. But if you're willing to put up with my learning curve, I'd be happy to help you with your hair when our schedules match up.
[ at that, he shakes his head. ]
No, you have enough to do. I can handle it. [ a beat. ] Consider it a matter of pride.
[ he knows Fugo would do it, just like he knows Fugo means that compliment so wholeheartedly that he didn't even intend for it to be a compliment in the first place. He takes it to heart. It's exactly why he has to look out for him - because Fugo would use up everything he has looking out for the others if no one is there to stop him. Bucciarati is glad he's eating something. Glad, too, that Fugo's faith in him is great enough that he'll allow Bucciarati to take care of him.
He's quiet for a few moments before he speaks again. ]
Tragedy seems to visit us all at once.
[ this isn't the first time they've had a catastrophe like this - even if Bruno wasn't alive to see the full effects of the last one. ]
No, you have enough to do. I can handle it. [ a beat. ] Consider it a matter of pride.
[ he knows Fugo would do it, just like he knows Fugo means that compliment so wholeheartedly that he didn't even intend for it to be a compliment in the first place. He takes it to heart. It's exactly why he has to look out for him - because Fugo would use up everything he has looking out for the others if no one is there to stop him. Bucciarati is glad he's eating something. Glad, too, that Fugo's faith in him is great enough that he'll allow Bucciarati to take care of him.
He's quiet for a few moments before he speaks again. ]
Tragedy seems to visit us all at once.
[ this isn't the first time they've had a catastrophe like this - even if Bruno wasn't alive to see the full effects of the last one. ]
Edited 2022-03-24 05:58 (UTC)
[ 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.]
[ Fugo's level of preparation would be familiar to Abbacchio. It's second nature to both of them; even before Passione, he suspects. He doesn't like this; the idea of him going off alone, he never has. It doesn't matter how capable Fugo is, doesn't matter that he's able to defend himself – and Abbacchio knows this, he'd made sure of it – but above that he knows that this is something he has to do. Something he needs to do, even outside of any responsibilities he has at the orphanage, if something happened and he was absent, Fugo would never forgive himself.
So Abbacchio offers no protests, and instead of offering to go with him, (because really, what use would he be there?) he places a hand atop Fugo's shoulder, levels him with a hard gaze. ]
Listen to me. Don't do anything reckless. Rely on Jodariel if you have to, and if you need help, ask.
[ Abbacchio doesn't care who he chooses for help, whether it be himself, Bucciarati, or even Jodariel. He'd met her, briefly, yes, but if Fugo trusts her, then so does he. Anyone else he might know of to ask for help, he's sure that Fugo would do his best to ensure they're who he thinks they are.
He takes the coat, helps Fugo adjust it, because he doesn't think it's fair to watch him struggle with it on top of everything else, even if it's only a minor thing, it's something he can do. ]
So Abbacchio offers no protests, and instead of offering to go with him, (because really, what use would he be there?) he places a hand atop Fugo's shoulder, levels him with a hard gaze. ]
Listen to me. Don't do anything reckless. Rely on Jodariel if you have to, and if you need help, ask.
[ Abbacchio doesn't care who he chooses for help, whether it be himself, Bucciarati, or even Jodariel. He'd met her, briefly, yes, but if Fugo trusts her, then so does he. Anyone else he might know of to ask for help, he's sure that Fugo would do his best to ensure they're who he thinks they are.
He takes the coat, helps Fugo adjust it, because he doesn't think it's fair to watch him struggle with it on top of everything else, even if it's only a minor thing, it's something he can do. ]
[Abbacchio reaches out and rests a hand on his shoulder.]
[Fugo senses it coming. He sees the movement in his lateral eyes, the vague impression of Abbacchio's arm reaching towards him, and he feels it too, in the way Abbacchio shifts his weight and leans forward. Even so. Even so, his tight muscles bunch up further. Fugo looks up at Abbacchio, surprise swimming somewhere in the sea of nothing he's adrift in, and it's really him this time, the Fugo behind the things he needs to get done and take care of. Fugo, who is always surprised and never quite knows what to do with gestures of care. He doesn't pull away. Fugo, worn down with grief and guilt and regret.
I should have been there. I should have looked for him sooner. I shouldn't have let him go alone.
He just watches, throat thick with emotion he can't let himself express, and allows Abbacchio to take the coat from his hands and help him into it. It's much easier when someone helps him get the panels settled, but Fugo never asks. When he moves to fasten the buttons down the front, it's with trembling fingers. He then closes his eyes, takes a breath, and holds it. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. When he exhales, it's not as shaky as he thought it would be.]
Thank you. [At first, his voice is soft; rough around the edges with everything that he's holding in. But it gets easier, as he goes, to reign himself back in. To duck back out of sight.] I'll work closely with Jodariel. I've packed my laptop. I'll check in when I can. If you want to hear from me, just send me a message.
[There are two things Fugo cannot allow. He can't let the orphanage come to any harm. He must protect it. But, at the same time-- he can't let himself be killed. As strange as it is, as little sense as it makes, Fugo knows that Giorno would never be able to forgive himself if Fugo let himself die for this. He has to live. He has to keep moving forward, no matter what.]
Look after Bucciarati. [And let him look after you, he thinks, but doesn't say.] And-- ... if you check on her, could you bring Trish some water? Just in case she wakes up. The brand she prefers is in the main kitchen's refrigerator. I've written her name on the bottles it so no one drinks it accidentally.
[Fugo senses it coming. He sees the movement in his lateral eyes, the vague impression of Abbacchio's arm reaching towards him, and he feels it too, in the way Abbacchio shifts his weight and leans forward. Even so. Even so, his tight muscles bunch up further. Fugo looks up at Abbacchio, surprise swimming somewhere in the sea of nothing he's adrift in, and it's really him this time, the Fugo behind the things he needs to get done and take care of. Fugo, who is always surprised and never quite knows what to do with gestures of care. He doesn't pull away. Fugo, worn down with grief and guilt and regret.
I should have been there. I should have looked for him sooner. I shouldn't have let him go alone.
He just watches, throat thick with emotion he can't let himself express, and allows Abbacchio to take the coat from his hands and help him into it. It's much easier when someone helps him get the panels settled, but Fugo never asks. When he moves to fasten the buttons down the front, it's with trembling fingers. He then closes his eyes, takes a breath, and holds it. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. When he exhales, it's not as shaky as he thought it would be.]
Thank you. [At first, his voice is soft; rough around the edges with everything that he's holding in. But it gets easier, as he goes, to reign himself back in. To duck back out of sight.] I'll work closely with Jodariel. I've packed my laptop. I'll check in when I can. If you want to hear from me, just send me a message.
[There are two things Fugo cannot allow. He can't let the orphanage come to any harm. He must protect it. But, at the same time-- he can't let himself be killed. As strange as it is, as little sense as it makes, Fugo knows that Giorno would never be able to forgive himself if Fugo let himself die for this. He has to live. He has to keep moving forward, no matter what.]
Look after Bucciarati. [And let him look after you, he thinks, but doesn't say.] And-- ... if you check on her, could you bring Trish some water? Just in case she wakes up. The brand she prefers is in the main kitchen's refrigerator. I've written her name on the bottles it so no one drinks it accidentally.
[ He doesn't need to read minds to know what Fugo is probably thinking – it's written across his face, in the way he holds himself, in his steely determination to see this through.
The truth is, Abbacchio feels the same way. He and Giorno may not be on the same page; he may not even care about him in the same way he does Fugo, but he can't help feeling some burden of responsibility. That he should have done more. Should have done anything. Logically, he knows it's unreasonable. What could he have done? If Giorno was no match for his own doppelganger, Abbacchio would have been dealt with as easily as swatting a fly.
Abbacchio wants to tell Fugo this isn't his fault. That no blame here lies with him – or any of them – but if someone were to offer those words to Abbacchio, they wouldn't do anything, not right now, and he can only guess that Fugo would be of the same mind. He bites his tongue while Fugo allows him to help, remains silent as he inhales and holds himself together, despite how hard Abbacchio knows this must be for him – and fleetingly, he remembers just how far this kid has come, and why he's proud of him in the first place.
All that leaves is to do whatever he can do now. Meeting Fugo's eyes, he tilts his head forward in acquiescence, a silent promise to keep an eye on both Bucciarati and Trish. He retrieves Fugo's bag from where he set it down and holds it out towards him, expression softening at the edges just slightly. ]
I'll be in touch.
The truth is, Abbacchio feels the same way. He and Giorno may not be on the same page; he may not even care about him in the same way he does Fugo, but he can't help feeling some burden of responsibility. That he should have done more. Should have done anything. Logically, he knows it's unreasonable. What could he have done? If Giorno was no match for his own doppelganger, Abbacchio would have been dealt with as easily as swatting a fly.
Abbacchio wants to tell Fugo this isn't his fault. That no blame here lies with him – or any of them – but if someone were to offer those words to Abbacchio, they wouldn't do anything, not right now, and he can only guess that Fugo would be of the same mind. He bites his tongue while Fugo allows him to help, remains silent as he inhales and holds himself together, despite how hard Abbacchio knows this must be for him – and fleetingly, he remembers just how far this kid has come, and why he's proud of him in the first place.
All that leaves is to do whatever he can do now. Meeting Fugo's eyes, he tilts his head forward in acquiescence, a silent promise to keep an eye on both Bucciarati and Trish. He retrieves Fugo's bag from where he set it down and holds it out towards him, expression softening at the edges just slightly. ]
I'll be in touch.
[Fugo accepts the bag. Nods. Where Abbacchio softens, Fugo seems to sharpen. Before, he was just out of foucs. Now ... what he needs to do feels clear and certain. He can set his own doubts and anxiety aside, at least for a little while.]
I'll be back soon.
[And then he turns, opens the door, and carefully closes it behind him-- so the cold doesn't get in.]
[It's a long while before Fugo comes back to Hill House. It's not until the doppelgangers are dead and gone. And, even then, it's only to rest. Abbacchio won't see much of him in the days after the doppelgangers disappear and before Giorno revives because, even though the danger has passed, there are still things to take care of. Messes to clean up. And, unfortunately, an appetite to sate.
One night, Abbacchio will find Fugo in the kitchen. He isn't doing anything in particular. Waiting, mostly. He sits at the counter with a glass of water in front of him, resting on a coaster. There are some recently washed dishes drying next to the sink: a frying pan and spatula, a plate, a fork and a knife. A set of oddly shaped knives, including what's clearly a small hand saw, rest on a towel, waiting to be packed into their carrying case. There's a lingering smell of garlic and oil in the air, not so dissimilar from a normal meal.]
Hello, Abbacchio. You're still awake?
[He doesn't turn when Abbacchio enters the room. Although it's unsettling, there is an explanation for it: between his extra limbs and extra eyes Fugo has a very, very wide area of awareness. When he's paying attention to these extra senses, it is nearly impossible catch him by surprise. Meticulous as always, he has also learned to isolate and identify the footsteps of his housemates. Especially those he knows from home. ]
I'll be back soon.
[And then he turns, opens the door, and carefully closes it behind him-- so the cold doesn't get in.]
[It's a long while before Fugo comes back to Hill House. It's not until the doppelgangers are dead and gone. And, even then, it's only to rest. Abbacchio won't see much of him in the days after the doppelgangers disappear and before Giorno revives because, even though the danger has passed, there are still things to take care of. Messes to clean up. And, unfortunately, an appetite to sate.
One night, Abbacchio will find Fugo in the kitchen. He isn't doing anything in particular. Waiting, mostly. He sits at the counter with a glass of water in front of him, resting on a coaster. There are some recently washed dishes drying next to the sink: a frying pan and spatula, a plate, a fork and a knife. A set of oddly shaped knives, including what's clearly a small hand saw, rest on a towel, waiting to be packed into their carrying case. There's a lingering smell of garlic and oil in the air, not so dissimilar from a normal meal.]
Hello, Abbacchio. You're still awake?
[He doesn't turn when Abbacchio enters the room. Although it's unsettling, there is an explanation for it: between his extra limbs and extra eyes Fugo has a very, very wide area of awareness. When he's paying attention to these extra senses, it is nearly impossible catch him by surprise. Meticulous as always, he has also learned to isolate and identify the footsteps of his housemates. Especially those he knows from home. ]
[ Once Fugo leaves, the brief check-ins over the network did nothing to assuage any of the building tensions that Abbacchio may or may not (definitely) have had. It isn't that long before he sees Fugo again, but it feels like it – when the presence of someone has become familiar, it's hard not to notice when they're not there.
He hadn't intended to catch Fugo like this, nor does it really surprise him that Fugo knows it's him without turning – extra senses aside, the two have spent enough time around each other that the idea he would simply recognise the sound of Abbacchio's footsteps doesn't strike him as out of the ordinary. What does strike him as odd, is that Fugo questions his still being awake. Why is it that everyone seems so surprised to see him around at odd hours? As if he's ever had a decent sleep schedule. That's a better excuse than the truth in this case, at least, that he's barely slept all week. That it's near impossible to do so when he's so hyper aware of the fact that Giorno's body isn't too far away. It's disconcerting.
As Abbacchio enters the kitchen properly, his eyes linger on the tools that have been left out for a moment longer than necessary, before he very pointedly decides not to mention them, Fugo's business is his own, and frankly Abbacchio doesn't think it's a conversation he can stomach right now. Instead, he turns his gaze towards Fugo instead. ]
Mhm. Sorry if I'm disturbing you.
[ It's barely an answer. He knows that, though he can't really be blamed for it. Silently, he gets his own glass and fills it with water. When he sets it down on the counter, he's at least retrieved a coaster for it, if only for Fugo's sake. He sits, far enough away from Fugo that he's not encroaching on his space, and rests both his elbows on the surface; dropping his face into his hands and rubbing at his eyes. There's a beat of silence before he eventually rests his face against a single hand, turning to face Fugo. His words are quiet, inelegant, but sincere. Barefaced as he is, it's easy to see the relief clear on his face, even through his exhaustion. ]
It's good to see you.
[ Safe, alive, and in one piece. ]
He hadn't intended to catch Fugo like this, nor does it really surprise him that Fugo knows it's him without turning – extra senses aside, the two have spent enough time around each other that the idea he would simply recognise the sound of Abbacchio's footsteps doesn't strike him as out of the ordinary. What does strike him as odd, is that Fugo questions his still being awake. Why is it that everyone seems so surprised to see him around at odd hours? As if he's ever had a decent sleep schedule. That's a better excuse than the truth in this case, at least, that he's barely slept all week. That it's near impossible to do so when he's so hyper aware of the fact that Giorno's body isn't too far away. It's disconcerting.
As Abbacchio enters the kitchen properly, his eyes linger on the tools that have been left out for a moment longer than necessary, before he very pointedly decides not to mention them, Fugo's business is his own, and frankly Abbacchio doesn't think it's a conversation he can stomach right now. Instead, he turns his gaze towards Fugo instead. ]
Mhm. Sorry if I'm disturbing you.
[ It's barely an answer. He knows that, though he can't really be blamed for it. Silently, he gets his own glass and fills it with water. When he sets it down on the counter, he's at least retrieved a coaster for it, if only for Fugo's sake. He sits, far enough away from Fugo that he's not encroaching on his space, and rests both his elbows on the surface; dropping his face into his hands and rubbing at his eyes. There's a beat of silence before he eventually rests his face against a single hand, turning to face Fugo. His words are quiet, inelegant, but sincere. Barefaced as he is, it's easy to see the relief clear on his face, even through his exhaustion. ]
It's good to see you.
[ Safe, alive, and in one piece. ]
[Fugo shakes his head. The gesture displaces his bangs; he reaches to push them behind his ear. They're too long to stay without a hairpin, so they fall back into their usual position almost immediately.]
It's fine. I'm done with that, more or less.
[It's just a matter of waiting for his tools to dry, so he can pack them back up again. Fugo quietly watches as Abbacchio pours himself a glass of water and settles in a seat at the counter, close enough to talk but not so close that he feels overbearing. A comfortable distance. Abbacchio almost looks like a different person without his makeup on-- but Fugo knows this face, too. They've spent more than their fair share of time late at night in a kitchen, sipping lukewarm tap water and avoiding going back to bed. The kitchen might be different, but everything else is the same.]
It's good to see you too. [The words are stiff, but sincere. Or at least as sincere as Fugo gets when he's like this.] Can't sleep?
It's fine. I'm done with that, more or less.
[It's just a matter of waiting for his tools to dry, so he can pack them back up again. Fugo quietly watches as Abbacchio pours himself a glass of water and settles in a seat at the counter, close enough to talk but not so close that he feels overbearing. A comfortable distance. Abbacchio almost looks like a different person without his makeup on-- but Fugo knows this face, too. They've spent more than their fair share of time late at night in a kitchen, sipping lukewarm tap water and avoiding going back to bed. The kitchen might be different, but everything else is the same.]
It's good to see you too. [The words are stiff, but sincere. Or at least as sincere as Fugo gets when he's like this.] Can't sleep?
[ Abbacchio watches him quietly, and in the back of his mind makes a note to buy extra bobby pins the next time he needs more hair ties- which will likely be soon given how he's been going through them here, because wow, they really are not made to last, are they?
Sitting like this, despite the circumstances and how discomfiting it could be, it really doesn't feel like that. It's not as though it's comfortable by any means, but nor is it uncomfortable. It just is. For all the shit they sling at each other, there have been plenty of other times like this, too; a neutral state that the two of them can slip into, without putting up a front and allowing themselves, however briefly, to merely exist with no expectations. ]
Something like that, yeah. [ And because he feels like Fugo will pick up on it anyway, he adds: ] Not that I was getting much, to begin with.
[ He's sure he doesn't need to explain. Letting his gaze move away from Fugo, he drinks some of the water, not bothering with polite sips, there's no need for table manners here between them. There are a lot of things about Abbacchio that Fugo is privy to just by the nature of their history, yet very little is anything Abbacchio has actually shared himself.
Something about this whole thing with Giorno and the reality of this place is beginning to set like stone. It has him wondering exactly what the point is in holding things so close to his chest. Fugo is here now, yes, but there was the distinct possibility that he might not have arrived back, that he too could have been found dead. The thought alone has him gripping the edge of the counter, knuckles audibly cracking.
Why is it so difficult to say the things that really, truly matter? Whether it's that that has been weighing heavily on his mind, or if it's the sleep deprivation affecting his filter, he doesn't know. Maybe it's just the atmosphere, the fact it's just the two of them here. Whatever it is, he feels like it has to be said, so he turns to Fugo with his jaw set. ]
I mean it.
[ He sighs, heavy, unfamiliar with exactly how he's supposed to word himself without sounding like an idiot. It's easy to skirt around honesty, to hide his genuine affection behind barbs of jest, but too much has happened. ]
I really am glad you're back here. That you're safe. If anything happened to you, I– [ Whatever it is he wants to say, it gets stuck in his throat. Instead, he opts for another mouthful of water. When he speaks again, it's quieter, though no less sincere. ] You're too fuckin' important.
Sitting like this, despite the circumstances and how discomfiting it could be, it really doesn't feel like that. It's not as though it's comfortable by any means, but nor is it uncomfortable. It just is. For all the shit they sling at each other, there have been plenty of other times like this, too; a neutral state that the two of them can slip into, without putting up a front and allowing themselves, however briefly, to merely exist with no expectations. ]
Something like that, yeah. [ And because he feels like Fugo will pick up on it anyway, he adds: ] Not that I was getting much, to begin with.
[ He's sure he doesn't need to explain. Letting his gaze move away from Fugo, he drinks some of the water, not bothering with polite sips, there's no need for table manners here between them. There are a lot of things about Abbacchio that Fugo is privy to just by the nature of their history, yet very little is anything Abbacchio has actually shared himself.
Something about this whole thing with Giorno and the reality of this place is beginning to set like stone. It has him wondering exactly what the point is in holding things so close to his chest. Fugo is here now, yes, but there was the distinct possibility that he might not have arrived back, that he too could have been found dead. The thought alone has him gripping the edge of the counter, knuckles audibly cracking.
Why is it so difficult to say the things that really, truly matter? Whether it's that that has been weighing heavily on his mind, or if it's the sleep deprivation affecting his filter, he doesn't know. Maybe it's just the atmosphere, the fact it's just the two of them here. Whatever it is, he feels like it has to be said, so he turns to Fugo with his jaw set. ]
I mean it.
[ He sighs, heavy, unfamiliar with exactly how he's supposed to word himself without sounding like an idiot. It's easy to skirt around honesty, to hide his genuine affection behind barbs of jest, but too much has happened. ]
I really am glad you're back here. That you're safe. If anything happened to you, I– [ Whatever it is he wants to say, it gets stuck in his throat. Instead, he opts for another mouthful of water. When he speaks again, it's quieter, though no less sincere. ] You're too fuckin' important.
[Fugo nods, then doesn't needle Abbacchio with more questions. He does understand. There is an emptiness in Abbacchio, a dark mineshaft of unhappiness cut into the soft meat of his heart, and it recognizes a similar emptiness in Fugo. They have never spoken of it, never directly, but they both know.
Sometimes, misery loves company. They have spent a lot of nights together, sitting without speaking.]
[So Fugo is surprised when Abbacchio speaks. His tells aren't as obvious as they usually are; a slight downturn of the corners of his mouth, an almost imperceptible pinch of his eyebrows. And then he's just ... confused. It's not like Abbacchio to repeat himself, or to circle back to a part of a conversation that has already finished. Especially something that is, more or less, a social nicety. There is naked emotion in his voice, as bare as his pale and thin face. His throat works.
Abbacchio ... is glad that he is back in the house. That he is safe. If anything had happened-- something did happen; the double drew blood, but it's fine, he took care of it, the wound is wrapped and disinfected and only distantly aches, the pain is nothing really, he's survived much worse-- Abbacchio would have ... what? He doesn't know. Abbacchio can't get those words out, whatever they were; they got stuck, so he had to swallow them back down with the water. Abbacchio would have something, because Fugo is too... important?]
Me?
[He doesn't understand. He genuinely doesn't. He thinks he can see the shape of what Abbacchio means, but it doesn't ... fit. Not for him. It would make sense if he said this about Bucciarati, or-- ... ... or Trish, maybe. Trish is important; Trish hasn't woken up yet. But him? Fugo?]
... I'm fine, Abbacchio. I handled it.
Sometimes, misery loves company. They have spent a lot of nights together, sitting without speaking.]
[So Fugo is surprised when Abbacchio speaks. His tells aren't as obvious as they usually are; a slight downturn of the corners of his mouth, an almost imperceptible pinch of his eyebrows. And then he's just ... confused. It's not like Abbacchio to repeat himself, or to circle back to a part of a conversation that has already finished. Especially something that is, more or less, a social nicety. There is naked emotion in his voice, as bare as his pale and thin face. His throat works.
Abbacchio ... is glad that he is back in the house. That he is safe. If anything had happened-- something did happen; the double drew blood, but it's fine, he took care of it, the wound is wrapped and disinfected and only distantly aches, the pain is nothing really, he's survived much worse-- Abbacchio would have ... what? He doesn't know. Abbacchio can't get those words out, whatever they were; they got stuck, so he had to swallow them back down with the water. Abbacchio would have something, because Fugo is too... important?]
Me?
[He doesn't understand. He genuinely doesn't. He thinks he can see the shape of what Abbacchio means, but it doesn't ... fit. Not for him. It would make sense if he said this about Bucciarati, or-- ... ... or Trish, maybe. Trish is important; Trish hasn't woken up yet. But him? Fugo?]
... I'm fine, Abbacchio. I handled it.
[ Whether either of them cares to admit it aloud, they're often far more alike than they are different at times, and this is one such instance. Abbacchio knows Fugo will be doing mental gymnastics to justify Abbacchio's words; to figure out what they truly mean with logic, or if there's some sort of ulterior motive — one that he won't find simply because it doesn't exist, and there is no logic to be had because it doesn't apply here. ]
Yes, you.
[ Pinching at the bridge of his nose, it takes work not to snap a petty retort, to ask Fugo who the hell else he'd be talking to. Because he knows, he knows Fugo isn't being deliberately obtuse. They've been over this before. Inevitably, whenever anyone says anything even remotely positive about Fugo, he finds it hard to believe, and Abbacchio is the same, which is why on some intrinsic level he can't bring himself to be annoyed at Fugo for even questioning the statement.
He says he's fine, and that he handled it but the issue is that he shouldn't have had to. They shouldn't be in this mess, this god awful peninsula with its feuding gods and danger right around every corner — it's worse than Naples. That's not all though, dying offers him a different perspective. Death may not be permanent here, not for those brought in by the fog, but that doesn't change the outlook that comes with it. Everything you know, and care about can come to the end in the blink of an eye and for men like Abbacchio, who survived by keeping their cards to their chest, all that's left behind is uncertainty and questions.
So the fact remains, that to Abbacchio, Fugo is important — just as important as Bucciarati. It would be stranger if he were to say such things about Trish. While she is important, she's not significant to Abbacchio, not on a personal level, not yet, not in the way that Fugo is. It's hard to put that into words though, to explain how big of an impact Fugo's mere presence in Abbacchio's life has had.
Abbacchio could sit here and explain, or he could close the lid on that box, for now, lock it back up and deflect. ]
It doesn't matter if you see it or not, you are important. Not just to me, but to Bucciarati and to Trish. [ a pause, and then quieter ] To Giorno, too.
Yes, you.
[ Pinching at the bridge of his nose, it takes work not to snap a petty retort, to ask Fugo who the hell else he'd be talking to. Because he knows, he knows Fugo isn't being deliberately obtuse. They've been over this before. Inevitably, whenever anyone says anything even remotely positive about Fugo, he finds it hard to believe, and Abbacchio is the same, which is why on some intrinsic level he can't bring himself to be annoyed at Fugo for even questioning the statement.
He says he's fine, and that he handled it but the issue is that he shouldn't have had to. They shouldn't be in this mess, this god awful peninsula with its feuding gods and danger right around every corner — it's worse than Naples. That's not all though, dying offers him a different perspective. Death may not be permanent here, not for those brought in by the fog, but that doesn't change the outlook that comes with it. Everything you know, and care about can come to the end in the blink of an eye and for men like Abbacchio, who survived by keeping their cards to their chest, all that's left behind is uncertainty and questions.
So the fact remains, that to Abbacchio, Fugo is important — just as important as Bucciarati. It would be stranger if he were to say such things about Trish. While she is important, she's not significant to Abbacchio, not on a personal level, not yet, not in the way that Fugo is. It's hard to put that into words though, to explain how big of an impact Fugo's mere presence in Abbacchio's life has had.
Abbacchio could sit here and explain, or he could close the lid on that box, for now, lock it back up and deflect. ]
It doesn't matter if you see it or not, you are important. Not just to me, but to Bucciarati and to Trish. [ a pause, and then quieter ] To Giorno, too.
[Abbacchio's words float down, from elsewhere. They hang in front of him, painfully close but still just out of reach. Abbacchio is just a single step away from him: you are important. Not just to him-- as if somehow, what Abbacchio values is less and means less than what maters to the others-- but to Bucciarati, Trish. Giorno, too, even though Abbacchio is still the last holdout in their group when it comes to truly trusting him.
There was a time, once, when those words would have been-- ... he doesn't even know. A relief, maybe. At least that. The point is that he should be happy.]
[But right now, they don't seem real. He can't reach them. He doesn't know what to do with them. He just feels empty. And very, very tired.]
... I don't-- [Halting, awkward, uncomfortable. He doesn't see. He doesn't understand.] I don't know what you want me to say.
[Staying in the house was not an option. Someone had to protect the orphanage. With Bucciarati and Abbacchio's transformations still incomplete, strategically, Fugo was the best option.]
There was a time, once, when those words would have been-- ... he doesn't even know. A relief, maybe. At least that. The point is that he should be happy.]
[But right now, they don't seem real. He can't reach them. He doesn't know what to do with them. He just feels empty. And very, very tired.]
... I don't-- [Halting, awkward, uncomfortable. He doesn't see. He doesn't understand.] I don't know what you want me to say.
[Staying in the house was not an option. Someone had to protect the orphanage. With Bucciarati and Abbacchio's transformations still incomplete, strategically, Fugo was the best option.]
[ A small shake of his head. ]
Fugo, I don't want you to say anything.
[ Abbacchio understands how easy it is to forget that people actually care, that people will continue to care. Maybe in part, he's thinking about Pompeii. How quickly he'd been willing to abandon Fugo for the sake of the mission. Both of them had been willing to do whatever was necessary, even if that meant putting themselves at risk. At the time he'd thought that was the right thing to do, there was nothing more important than their duty to carry out their mission. But now? Now he can't help but wonder what it must have been like for Fugo.
Fugo, who must have known without a doubt, what choice Abbacchio would have made. Who then would have been able to justify that choice because he would have done the same—or at least, Abbacchio believes he would have. It's part of the job. It was expected of them. But that mentality, that they aren't important—it makes it easy to throw away one's self-preservation. It comes to him easily, and when it comes down to it, he worries that Fugo is much the same, and therein lies the concern.
With what he knows now, had that mission in Pompeii gone differently, had Fugo not made it out, he thinks it would have been a devastating blow. Not to the mission—screw the mission—but to them as people. No matter how much they all try to compartmentalise. ]
I just want you to remember, even when it's hard and things get shitty.
Fugo, I don't want you to say anything.
[ Abbacchio understands how easy it is to forget that people actually care, that people will continue to care. Maybe in part, he's thinking about Pompeii. How quickly he'd been willing to abandon Fugo for the sake of the mission. Both of them had been willing to do whatever was necessary, even if that meant putting themselves at risk. At the time he'd thought that was the right thing to do, there was nothing more important than their duty to carry out their mission. But now? Now he can't help but wonder what it must have been like for Fugo.
Fugo, who must have known without a doubt, what choice Abbacchio would have made. Who then would have been able to justify that choice because he would have done the same—or at least, Abbacchio believes he would have. It's part of the job. It was expected of them. But that mentality, that they aren't important—it makes it easy to throw away one's self-preservation. It comes to him easily, and when it comes down to it, he worries that Fugo is much the same, and therein lies the concern.
With what he knows now, had that mission in Pompeii gone differently, had Fugo not made it out, he thinks it would have been a devastating blow. Not to the mission—screw the mission—but to them as people. No matter how much they all try to compartmentalise. ]
I just want you to remember, even when it's hard and things get shitty.
Edited 2022-04-08 19:50 (UTC)
[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.
[Upstairs to the garden, Fugo repeats, and Giorno squeezes his wrist, an instant of reassurance before they're running, going, quick as a wink up the incline to the garden, somewhere earmarked as safe space, quiet space — no one goes there but him, and Tsukikage, but not anymore because Tsukikage's gone.]
[He shuts it down. Shuts it down because Reira might hear, and only one thing matters now, and it's what broadcasts in the space between them, only letting up once they reach the garden proper—]
Stay with Fugo stay with Fugo stay with Fugo stay
[Dragging Fugo over to his space, which might as well be their space, his olive tree squat but sturdy by now, just big enough to sit under, to curl on its roots, he finally lets go of Fugo's wrist, leaving pale marks behind, and pulls him into a hug. It's tight and intent, fierce. He means it. He means every bit of it.]
I'm here. I'm not leaving.
[He shuts it down. Shuts it down because Reira might hear, and only one thing matters now, and it's what broadcasts in the space between them, only letting up once they reach the garden proper—]
Stay with Fugo stay with Fugo stay with Fugo stay
[Dragging Fugo over to his space, which might as well be their space, his olive tree squat but sturdy by now, just big enough to sit under, to curl on its roots, he finally lets go of Fugo's wrist, leaving pale marks behind, and pulls him into a hug. It's tight and intent, fierce. He means it. He means every bit of it.]
I'm here. I'm not leaving.
[Giorno's thoughts appear in his head. Not in his voice. Not in anyone's voice. It's like reading a book, except not. It rises above the cacophony of the rest of the network: screaming and singing and a constant stream of chatter. Fugo doesn't understand how Reira can cope with it on a daily basis. It's overwhelming.
But Giorno's thoughts are louder than the rest. Somehow, they're just for him. They are a metronome that he can time his footsteps to, as they ascend the stairs. Quickly, quickly. It should take longer, but it's like the time between then and now has just-- disappeared. There is grass under his feet. He can smell water and greenery, all the living things in the garden, as Giorno pulls him down. And close, holding him to his chest.]
I know. I know. [His body should... be too big for this. Too awkward, too many limbs. But it has somehow folded itself into the small space; his four arachnid legs above and around them, around Giorno, a protective cage that brushes up against the leaves of the tree.] I'm sorry. I didn't--
[His throat catches. He claps a hand over his mouth, trying to hold it down. He can stop his voice, but his thoughts are another matter.]
I didn't mean to think about him -- narancia -- oh no I can't -- I can't I can't -- stop stop stop stop stop stop
But Giorno's thoughts are louder than the rest. Somehow, they're just for him. They are a metronome that he can time his footsteps to, as they ascend the stairs. Quickly, quickly. It should take longer, but it's like the time between then and now has just-- disappeared. There is grass under his feet. He can smell water and greenery, all the living things in the garden, as Giorno pulls him down. And close, holding him to his chest.]
I know. I know. [His body should... be too big for this. Too awkward, too many limbs. But it has somehow folded itself into the small space; his four arachnid legs above and around them, around Giorno, a protective cage that brushes up against the leaves of the tree.] I'm sorry. I didn't--
[His throat catches. He claps a hand over his mouth, trying to hold it down. He can stop his voice, but his thoughts are another matter.]
I didn't mean to think about him -- narancia -- oh no I can't -- I can't I can't -- stop stop stop stop stop stop
Edited 2022-04-04 06:08 (UTC)
[He doesn't see it, but he feels it: the way Fugo's legs cage them in. The way they are so safe, how even in the midst of all this, Fugo protects him. That is just the way Fugo is. There's nothing to be done about it, nothing to change it . . . that's just him.]
[And still, he apologizes. But Giorno—]
"doesn't he deserve to be known"
she's right
sorry doesn't fit
[Squeezing Fugo tight, he shakes his head, resting his cheek against Fugo's shoulder as he gazes off to the side, lips miserably tight, holding back tears.]
It's okay. You don't have to try so hard. You can think about Narancia— [narancianaranciaohgodnarancia] —you can say it. You can hurt, here, and it won't hurt anybody else.
[And still, he apologizes. But Giorno—]
"doesn't he deserve to be known"
she's right
sorry doesn't fit
[Squeezing Fugo tight, he shakes his head, resting his cheek against Fugo's shoulder as he gazes off to the side, lips miserably tight, holding back tears.]
It's okay. You don't have to try so hard. You can think about Narancia— [narancianaranciaohgodnarancia] —you can say it. You can hurt, here, and it won't hurt anybody else.
[Fugo flinches. No; his whole body seizes up, as if he's just been stabbed. It hurts. Those words, they hurt. Doesn't he deserve to be known? His shoulders tremble, then shudder.]
It isn't fair, [Fugo says, voice barely above a whisper, each syllable harsh and every consonant sharp. These are the words he uses to shred himself to ribbons.] Not for me. Not when it's--
I didn't stop him I didn't understand him until it was too late he made the right choice and died and I was a coward and lived it's my fault if not for me, then--
[There's such an ugly storm brewing within him. Amidst his racing thoughts, there are painfully clear flickers: glimpses of his too-perfect memory. The perfect arc of Narancia's body, jumping into the water of the bay. Narancia, younger, eyes bright and mouth stretched wide in a toothy grin, with Passione's badge held triumphantly between his forefinger and thumb.
Narancia, barely recognizable under the filthy bandage wrapped around half of his face and the grime of the streets, clutching a nearly bare soup bone with his knobby fingers. Narancia, barely recognizable because, in that moment, everything about him was flat. He was nothing and no one, so resigned to his circumstances that he couldn't bring himself to feel a thing when some stranger caught him dumpster diving. He was there, in that alley, but also somewhere far, far away.]
It isn't fair, [Fugo says, voice barely above a whisper, each syllable harsh and every consonant sharp. These are the words he uses to shred himself to ribbons.] Not for me. Not when it's--
I didn't stop him I didn't understand him until it was too late he made the right choice and died and I was a coward and lived it's my fault if not for me, then--
[There's such an ugly storm brewing within him. Amidst his racing thoughts, there are painfully clear flickers: glimpses of his too-perfect memory. The perfect arc of Narancia's body, jumping into the water of the bay. Narancia, younger, eyes bright and mouth stretched wide in a toothy grin, with Passione's badge held triumphantly between his forefinger and thumb.
Narancia, barely recognizable under the filthy bandage wrapped around half of his face and the grime of the streets, clutching a nearly bare soup bone with his knobby fingers. Narancia, barely recognizable because, in that moment, everything about him was flat. He was nothing and no one, so resigned to his circumstances that he couldn't bring himself to feel a thing when some stranger caught him dumpster diving. He was there, in that alley, but also somewhere far, far away.]
[The images hurt. The oldest one most of all, because of course — there was a time that Narancia was not part of Passione. There was a time he was just a boy, someone Fugo saved, someone who struggled as all of them did. Fugo who brought him into the fold, who must feel guilty—]
me too
[he tries to stop it and he can't]
it's my fault, not yours, it's my fault
[a flicker of that moment, the worst one, blurry through tears on the dark floor of the Coliseum, blood and emptiness, deadness — and Giorno squeezes his eyes shut until he trusts himself to only share the last one, because his mind won't let him keep them to himself but it can show this, just this, Narancia resting almost-peacefully with flowers almost-hiding him from view]
[Tender. Loving. Loved. If nothing else, then that.]
It's more fair for you than for—
[No. He swallows hard, opens his eyes and stares at the opposite wall of the gardens. Grips Fugo as tightly as he can.]
If not for you — if not for you, he would have died right there in that alley, Fugo. You saved him. You did that, no one else. So it's fair. It's okay, it's just me, let it go. Please.
me too
[he tries to stop it and he can't]
it's my fault, not yours, it's my fault
[a flicker of that moment, the worst one, blurry through tears on the dark floor of the Coliseum, blood and emptiness, deadness — and Giorno squeezes his eyes shut until he trusts himself to only share the last one, because his mind won't let him keep them to himself but it can show this, just this, Narancia resting almost-peacefully with flowers almost-hiding him from view]
[Tender. Loving. Loved. If nothing else, then that.]
It's more fair for you than for—
[No. He swallows hard, opens his eyes and stares at the opposite wall of the gardens. Grips Fugo as tightly as he can.]
If not for you — if not for you, he would have died right there in that alley, Fugo. You saved him. You did that, no one else. So it's fair. It's okay, it's just me, let it go. Please.
[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.
[It doesn't occur to him. It doesn't. He'll rip himself to shreds over it later, how careless and unintentionally cruel, and how little intention matters — how all he wants is to keep from making things harder for Fugo, and here he is doing exactly that.]
[But right now, the thought isn't there. Nothing is there, really, but static and the sticky smell of copper filling his nose. It must be awful to have a sharpened sense of smell, he thinks. Blood smells vile.]
[There's blood on his keyboard, he notices absently. Too bad the Fog doesn't give warranties.]
there's a cove on the southeast side of lake dala. not far from the house. i'll send directions.
[Which he does. They're efficient, clear, and completely impersonal.]
[But right now, the thought isn't there. Nothing is there, really, but static and the sticky smell of copper filling his nose. It must be awful to have a sharpened sense of smell, he thinks. Blood smells vile.]
[There's blood on his keyboard, he notices absently. Too bad the Fog doesn't give warranties.]
there's a cove on the southeast side of lake dala. not far from the house. i'll send directions.
[Which he does. They're efficient, clear, and completely impersonal.]
I'm on my way.
[Before he begins to move, Fugo stares at his screen. Not for long: only as long as it takes for him to memorize Giorno's directions, which isn't very. When he's finished, he closes the lid of the machine and his eyes. Draws in a deep breath; lets it go. And then, he stands, and gets to work.]
[He descends into the hills and changes into his work clothes: dark, unremarkable, easy to wash. He retrieves, from out of the tallest cabinets in the kitchen, the tools he will use to dismember the body and the various containers he will store the pieces in. He loads it all into into the trunk of one of their cars, already lined with a tarp. And then he loads himself in, long legs folding awkwardly around the driver's seat to rest behind him in the back.
He drives. He tries not to think. He focuses on the task at hand: on making it to Giorno's side as quickly as he reasonably can.]
[The location isn't far. Giorno's directions were very clear; Fugo has no trouble making it to the cove in question. There is no one here; it is very quiet, save for the murmur of the water in the distance and the hum of the car's engine, and very still. Fugo turns the car off, pulls the key out of the ignition, and kills the headlights. Knowing Giorno, he won't be within sight of the road. And he can see well enough in the dark anyway. Fugo steps out of the car. Before anything else, he makes sure to have all of his legs on the ground: he wants to get a sense of who, if anyone, might be around them.]
[Before he begins to move, Fugo stares at his screen. Not for long: only as long as it takes for him to memorize Giorno's directions, which isn't very. When he's finished, he closes the lid of the machine and his eyes. Draws in a deep breath; lets it go. And then, he stands, and gets to work.]
[He descends into the hills and changes into his work clothes: dark, unremarkable, easy to wash. He retrieves, from out of the tallest cabinets in the kitchen, the tools he will use to dismember the body and the various containers he will store the pieces in. He loads it all into into the trunk of one of their cars, already lined with a tarp. And then he loads himself in, long legs folding awkwardly around the driver's seat to rest behind him in the back.
He drives. He tries not to think. He focuses on the task at hand: on making it to Giorno's side as quickly as he reasonably can.]
[The location isn't far. Giorno's directions were very clear; Fugo has no trouble making it to the cove in question. There is no one here; it is very quiet, save for the murmur of the water in the distance and the hum of the car's engine, and very still. Fugo turns the car off, pulls the key out of the ignition, and kills the headlights. Knowing Giorno, he won't be within sight of the road. And he can see well enough in the dark anyway. Fugo steps out of the car. Before anything else, he makes sure to have all of his legs on the ground: he wants to get a sense of who, if anyone, might be around them.]
[There is no one there.]
[There is no one anywhere. Or at least there seems not to be. There's something humming in the ground, but it doesn't feel like feet, not even Giorno's off-brand amalgamation of roots masquerading as feet. Nature moves around Fugo as he monitors, slightly tentative but beginning to return to normal, as though something unusual happened an hour or two ago and the creatures in the undergrowth are still recalibrating.]
[Something moves in the earth. Slightly. Barely perceptible. But Fugo will feel it. Growing.]
[In the end, Fugo will find him not far from where he's parked. Giorno is by the lake, but behind the treeline, close enough that he can watch the moon off the surface of the water but far enough that he can disappear before anyone approaching sees him.]
[They would know he'd been there, though. Not immediately, but they would stumble into the knowledge eventually. Fugo won't, but it's a lucky thing. If he were less attentive or in the body of a less precise monster, he might walk right into the muck — a slurry of liquid and solid barely perceptible in the dark, swampy and copper-smelling and fetid. The air seems to cling here, hanging uncomfortably off one's skin; the trees bend in too close, brushing limbs against elbows and fingertips, moving when they shouldn't, when the night is so still.]
[The ground squishes underfoot.]
[It's easy math, and Fugo is good at math. There's no sign of the body. It smells like a person pulled inside out. Everything is wet and squelching except for the occasional soft spot, something that gives instead of sucks the foot in. Slippery.]
[Flesh.]
[And Giorno — who ripped the corpse to shreds with teeth and claws, whose roots have spread deep into the earth and woven in and out of the detritus that used to be a person, who even in this moment is taking it all in, one with the castoff waste that human and monster garbage creates, whose connection to the earth is so deep in this moment that his legs have sunk down almost to the knee — he sits at the base of a maple tree, lashed in blood top to toe, back against the trunk and his eyes trained on Fugo's expression. As the arachne picks his way amongst the scraps of flesh, he, dull-eyed, lifts a hand in blank greeting.]
. . . Buona sera. Sorry for the mess.
[Odd. There was fury here, and now there's nothing. He's empty. Or wearing a very good mask.]
[There is no one anywhere. Or at least there seems not to be. There's something humming in the ground, but it doesn't feel like feet, not even Giorno's off-brand amalgamation of roots masquerading as feet. Nature moves around Fugo as he monitors, slightly tentative but beginning to return to normal, as though something unusual happened an hour or two ago and the creatures in the undergrowth are still recalibrating.]
[Something moves in the earth. Slightly. Barely perceptible. But Fugo will feel it. Growing.]
[In the end, Fugo will find him not far from where he's parked. Giorno is by the lake, but behind the treeline, close enough that he can watch the moon off the surface of the water but far enough that he can disappear before anyone approaching sees him.]
[They would know he'd been there, though. Not immediately, but they would stumble into the knowledge eventually. Fugo won't, but it's a lucky thing. If he were less attentive or in the body of a less precise monster, he might walk right into the muck — a slurry of liquid and solid barely perceptible in the dark, swampy and copper-smelling and fetid. The air seems to cling here, hanging uncomfortably off one's skin; the trees bend in too close, brushing limbs against elbows and fingertips, moving when they shouldn't, when the night is so still.]
[The ground squishes underfoot.]
[It's easy math, and Fugo is good at math. There's no sign of the body. It smells like a person pulled inside out. Everything is wet and squelching except for the occasional soft spot, something that gives instead of sucks the foot in. Slippery.]
[Flesh.]
[And Giorno — who ripped the corpse to shreds with teeth and claws, whose roots have spread deep into the earth and woven in and out of the detritus that used to be a person, who even in this moment is taking it all in, one with the castoff waste that human and monster garbage creates, whose connection to the earth is so deep in this moment that his legs have sunk down almost to the knee — he sits at the base of a maple tree, lashed in blood top to toe, back against the trunk and his eyes trained on Fugo's expression. As the arachne picks his way amongst the scraps of flesh, he, dull-eyed, lifts a hand in blank greeting.]
. . . Buona sera. Sorry for the mess.
[Odd. There was fury here, and now there's nothing. He's empty. Or wearing a very good mask.]
Edited 2022-04-18 07:39 (UTC)
[It is so quiet here. It is so still. Even the trees seem tense; beyond the message Giorno sent earlier, this is the surest sign of his presence. If Fugo was any other monster, it might have taken hours to find him. As an arachne, Fugo lifts himself up and off of his human feet to stand fully on the long legs attached to his back: he flips the hood of his jacket up to block his lateral eyes, closes the rest, and holds his hands over his ears. He allows himself a full minute, sixty seconds, to focus solely on his sense of vibration.
He does not sense footsteps. He senses a pulse. A deep, underground throbbing. It's faint from where he stands now, but he knows what it is; he knows that he isn't far from where he needs to be.
Fugo turns back to the car. He pulls out a duffel bag, shoulders it, and sets out.]
[It takes time to find Giorno. Fugo isn't exactly sure how long. Only that he walks forward-- pauses to feel the vibrations-- adjusts his course as he gets closer-- moves on. The night is clear to him, so he doesn't stumble even as he moves away from the shore and into the treeline. But even without the night vision that comes part and parcel of being an arachne, Fugo would be able to be able to smell it.
Sickly sweet, metallic, and foul. Not just blood, not just earth, but the rank smell of shredded intestines. He knows this smell. It's what was left behind after Purple Haze killed someone.]
Buona sera, Giogio.
[With Giorno, it's always Italian. Always.]
[Fugo mildly surveys the scattered remains of what was once a body and mentally acknowledges that, more or less, there is little left worth salvaging. Perhaps some of the bones; even broken, they can still extract the marrow for Steve. There is no sense of disgust about him. While he doesn't know the exact why this person wound up torn to pieces, he has a few guesses. But between his three years in Passione, his own Stand, and the work of butchering he is starting to become quite good at-- Fugo finds himself largely numb to the violence that happened here.
Before he moves, Fugo takes a moment to mildly survey the muck. But when he moves through the waste, it's as if he doesn't care about the mess. It's not that he doesn't see it. He sees through it and steps into it anyway. What's important is getting to Giorno's side as quickly as possible, while avoiding stepping on any of his roots. His footsteps echo wetly, except for one that crunches when his weight comes down on a section of ribcage, in the quiet until he makes it to the tree. Once there, he reaches into the bag and retrieves a bottle of water. He untwists the cap, then offers it to Giorno.]
Here. Drink this. [If Giorno accepts the offer, he will find that the water is still chill from the refrigerator; condensation has beaded on its side during the trip from the Hill House to his hand.]
He does not sense footsteps. He senses a pulse. A deep, underground throbbing. It's faint from where he stands now, but he knows what it is; he knows that he isn't far from where he needs to be.
Fugo turns back to the car. He pulls out a duffel bag, shoulders it, and sets out.]
[It takes time to find Giorno. Fugo isn't exactly sure how long. Only that he walks forward-- pauses to feel the vibrations-- adjusts his course as he gets closer-- moves on. The night is clear to him, so he doesn't stumble even as he moves away from the shore and into the treeline. But even without the night vision that comes part and parcel of being an arachne, Fugo would be able to be able to smell it.
Sickly sweet, metallic, and foul. Not just blood, not just earth, but the rank smell of shredded intestines. He knows this smell. It's what was left behind after Purple Haze killed someone.]
Buona sera, Giogio.
[With Giorno, it's always Italian. Always.]
[Fugo mildly surveys the scattered remains of what was once a body and mentally acknowledges that, more or less, there is little left worth salvaging. Perhaps some of the bones; even broken, they can still extract the marrow for Steve. There is no sense of disgust about him. While he doesn't know the exact why this person wound up torn to pieces, he has a few guesses. But between his three years in Passione, his own Stand, and the work of butchering he is starting to become quite good at-- Fugo finds himself largely numb to the violence that happened here.
Before he moves, Fugo takes a moment to mildly survey the muck. But when he moves through the waste, it's as if he doesn't care about the mess. It's not that he doesn't see it. He sees through it and steps into it anyway. What's important is getting to Giorno's side as quickly as possible, while avoiding stepping on any of his roots. His footsteps echo wetly, except for one that crunches when his weight comes down on a section of ribcage, in the quiet until he makes it to the tree. Once there, he reaches into the bag and retrieves a bottle of water. He untwists the cap, then offers it to Giorno.]
Here. Drink this. [If Giorno accepts the offer, he will find that the water is still chill from the refrigerator; condensation has beaded on its side during the trip from the Hill House to his hand.]
[Watching Fugo come his way feels like watching a film through a telescope. There's some part of him that's touched at how efficiently Fugo moves towards him, another that feels guilt for making him deal with all of this. Fugo likes neatness, after all, and this is not neat. Having to walk through the slush of human refuse that he's left behind, that's not fair to him. It's not fair to ask these things of him. And yet Fugo does them, without a second thought.]
[Giorno feels guilt and tenderness and empathy from the space of a light-year, a space that only slightly contracts as Fugo comes closer to him. Even when Fugo stands right in front of him, he still feels separated by the space of a stadium. Six months and over a year and one whole space of humanity is what separates them. The two of them, from two different worlds that happen to be the same one.]
[And still, Fugo is the only person he trusted to come here. To see him this way, and to understand, without a word needing to be said by either of them.]
[Staring up at him, hair hanging messy and lank in its dissolving braid over one shoulder, Giorno parts his lips as though to speak. Nothing comes out. There's only air. He doesn't want to drink the water. He wants to say something. The only trouble is, he doesn't know what it is that he wants to say. Would it even matter if he said it? Almost certainly not.]
[In the end, he reaches out with numb fingers to take the bottle. Obedient and on automatic, he drinks. He doesn't put the bottle down until it's empty, or Fugo tells him to stop, fingers digging so hard into the plastic that it makes a sound like ice sheets breaking.]
[Giorno feels guilt and tenderness and empathy from the space of a light-year, a space that only slightly contracts as Fugo comes closer to him. Even when Fugo stands right in front of him, he still feels separated by the space of a stadium. Six months and over a year and one whole space of humanity is what separates them. The two of them, from two different worlds that happen to be the same one.]
[And still, Fugo is the only person he trusted to come here. To see him this way, and to understand, without a word needing to be said by either of them.]
[Staring up at him, hair hanging messy and lank in its dissolving braid over one shoulder, Giorno parts his lips as though to speak. Nothing comes out. There's only air. He doesn't want to drink the water. He wants to say something. The only trouble is, he doesn't know what it is that he wants to say. Would it even matter if he said it? Almost certainly not.]
[In the end, he reaches out with numb fingers to take the bottle. Obedient and on automatic, he drinks. He doesn't put the bottle down until it's empty, or Fugo tells him to stop, fingers digging so hard into the plastic that it makes a sound like ice sheets breaking.]
[When Fugo hands Giorno the water bottle, the heel of Giorno's hand blindly brushes up against his knuckles. Blood, dry enough to be unpleasantly tacky but still more than wet enough to transfer, smears across the back of his hand.
Fugo, who was trained to hate mess as soon as he was old enough to understand the concept, doesn't flinch away from it. He holds on to the bottle until he's sure Giorno has a good grip on it, then wordlessly watches him drink.]
[He doesn't tell him to stop. A whole bottle in one go would be too much, he thinks, for anyone but a nymph or a mer. But who knows how long it's been since Giorno had something to drink? Giorno needs water, just the same as he needs sun and needs blood. The cold, too, should help. Physical sensations almost always do, in moments like these. He doesn't speak, not to explain what they need to do next or ask Giorno what happened. He simply watches and waits for him to finish; then holds his hand out for the empty bottle, which he neatly tucks back away. One set of eyes glances down into the open mouth of the bag, so he doesn't have to blindly search for what he needs next.
Fugo pulls out a second bottle of water and a washcloth. Like the first, he untwists the cap; but rather than drinking it himself or offering it to Giorno, he uses about half of it to wet the cloth. And then, finally, while he twists the cap back on and then puts the bottle away again, he speaks. His voice is soft, but it seems to echo in the silence between them.]
May I?
[Giorno is covered in blood. Fugo knows, from experience, how miserable of an experience it is. How it sticks and it clings. How even when one scrubs under hot, soapy water, it doesn't like to come off. It will probably take Giorno a long, long while before he gets it all out of his hair.
There isn't much Fugo can do for him out here. But he at least has enough to help Giorno wash his face and hands. To take care of him in this small way, if Giorno wants him to, before they work to clean the rest of it up.]
Fugo, who was trained to hate mess as soon as he was old enough to understand the concept, doesn't flinch away from it. He holds on to the bottle until he's sure Giorno has a good grip on it, then wordlessly watches him drink.]
[He doesn't tell him to stop. A whole bottle in one go would be too much, he thinks, for anyone but a nymph or a mer. But who knows how long it's been since Giorno had something to drink? Giorno needs water, just the same as he needs sun and needs blood. The cold, too, should help. Physical sensations almost always do, in moments like these. He doesn't speak, not to explain what they need to do next or ask Giorno what happened. He simply watches and waits for him to finish; then holds his hand out for the empty bottle, which he neatly tucks back away. One set of eyes glances down into the open mouth of the bag, so he doesn't have to blindly search for what he needs next.
Fugo pulls out a second bottle of water and a washcloth. Like the first, he untwists the cap; but rather than drinking it himself or offering it to Giorno, he uses about half of it to wet the cloth. And then, finally, while he twists the cap back on and then puts the bottle away again, he speaks. His voice is soft, but it seems to echo in the silence between them.]
May I?
[Giorno is covered in blood. Fugo knows, from experience, how miserable of an experience it is. How it sticks and it clings. How even when one scrubs under hot, soapy water, it doesn't like to come off. It will probably take Giorno a long, long while before he gets it all out of his hair.
There isn't much Fugo can do for him out here. But he at least has enough to help Giorno wash his face and hands. To take care of him in this small way, if Giorno wants him to, before they work to clean the rest of it up.]
[About sixty percent of an adult human's body is made of water. Logically speaking, he shouldn't be dehydrated. He shouldn't need this water. If he was thinking, he'd likely have pointed this out to Fugo before even taking the water in the first place. But because he isn't, because he doesn't, he feels the crisp cold of the water sliding down his throat, reminding him that his body is something he's attached to, whether he likes it or not.]
[Once he's done, pulling back off the mouth of the bottle with a gasp, he lifts his face to Fugo again, at once more conscious than before and excruciatingly aware of how exhausted he is. His muscles burn from the exertion of destroying the body that lies in pieces around them, and his roots ache from the nutrients he's forced them to absorb in so little time. In the darkness, his eyes are dim and emotionless.]
[May I?]
[For long seconds, he blinks, parsing but very slowly, the gears in his head turning at quarter-speed. A cloth, water, Fugo's hand outstretched, a request for permission. What is it that Fugo wants to do for him? He wants to help, but what—]
[Fugo's hands holding the damp cloth are pale, long-fingered, and clean. In slow motion, he looks down at his own. Red, tacky, stinking. Looking back up at Fugo, he feels the stretch and pull of drying blood across the skin of his face.]
[Oh.]
[Something complex flashes across his expression. Even so, he nods wordless acquiescence. Holds one hand out for Fugo to take, if he likes. There is some feeling welling up in his throat, making his chest clench. He doesn't know what it is, but he wishes he didn't have to hold it.]
[Once he's done, pulling back off the mouth of the bottle with a gasp, he lifts his face to Fugo again, at once more conscious than before and excruciatingly aware of how exhausted he is. His muscles burn from the exertion of destroying the body that lies in pieces around them, and his roots ache from the nutrients he's forced them to absorb in so little time. In the darkness, his eyes are dim and emotionless.]
[May I?]
[For long seconds, he blinks, parsing but very slowly, the gears in his head turning at quarter-speed. A cloth, water, Fugo's hand outstretched, a request for permission. What is it that Fugo wants to do for him? He wants to help, but what—]
[Fugo's hands holding the damp cloth are pale, long-fingered, and clean. In slow motion, he looks down at his own. Red, tacky, stinking. Looking back up at Fugo, he feels the stretch and pull of drying blood across the skin of his face.]
[Oh.]
[Something complex flashes across his expression. Even so, he nods wordless acquiescence. Holds one hand out for Fugo to take, if he likes. There is some feeling welling up in his throat, making his chest clench. He doesn't know what it is, but he wishes he didn't have to hold it.]
[Fugo takes Giorno's hand. He will always take Giorno's hand.]
[His palm slides beneath Giorno's, shoring it up, fingers curling around the side to hold it in place in the still night air. He looks down at their hands, expression settling into something profoundly melancholy; feels the chill of Giorno's fingertips, the pulsing warmth of the life he consumed thrumming through his veins. He brushes his thumb over the top of Giorno's knuckles, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, before carefully turning it to be palm-up.]
I'm sorry. It's probably going to be cold. [He should have thought to bring a bottle of lukewarm water, or warm one of them in the microwave while he prepared the rest of his supplies.] I'll be careful.
[And then he begins. Working in small circles, one section at a time, Fugo washes the blood from Giorno's hands. He starts with the palm, working his way out from the center over the heel and the meat of his thumb until just beyond the wrist. Next are the fingers, beginning with the thumb and ending with the pinky; he has no nail brush on hand to clean underneath his claws, but he does his best to get the worst of it out. Finally, he turns it over to attend to the knuckles and the back of the hand. When the work is complete, as best as he can manage it, he rinses Giorno's skin with more water from the bottle. Cool and clean. And then he begins again, repeating the exact same process from start to finish, with Giorno's other hand.
It takes time. To Fugo, it doesn't feel like too long. This time is vitally necessary, to help Giorno come back to himself. He knows how uncomfortable it is. He knows how exhausting it is. How awful it feels, to reinhabit a body that was left behind because the world it existed in was too miserable to bear.]
[His palm slides beneath Giorno's, shoring it up, fingers curling around the side to hold it in place in the still night air. He looks down at their hands, expression settling into something profoundly melancholy; feels the chill of Giorno's fingertips, the pulsing warmth of the life he consumed thrumming through his veins. He brushes his thumb over the top of Giorno's knuckles, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, before carefully turning it to be palm-up.]
I'm sorry. It's probably going to be cold. [He should have thought to bring a bottle of lukewarm water, or warm one of them in the microwave while he prepared the rest of his supplies.] I'll be careful.
[And then he begins. Working in small circles, one section at a time, Fugo washes the blood from Giorno's hands. He starts with the palm, working his way out from the center over the heel and the meat of his thumb until just beyond the wrist. Next are the fingers, beginning with the thumb and ending with the pinky; he has no nail brush on hand to clean underneath his claws, but he does his best to get the worst of it out. Finally, he turns it over to attend to the knuckles and the back of the hand. When the work is complete, as best as he can manage it, he rinses Giorno's skin with more water from the bottle. Cool and clean. And then he begins again, repeating the exact same process from start to finish, with Giorno's other hand.
It takes time. To Fugo, it doesn't feel like too long. This time is vitally necessary, to help Giorno come back to himself. He knows how uncomfortable it is. He knows how exhausting it is. How awful it feels, to reinhabit a body that was left behind because the world it existed in was too miserable to bear.]
[Fugo's thumb is a metronome, slow and steady as it strikes a beat across his knuckles. The sensation is so intimate that he, in his distant state, can barely feel it. He sees it, though, and seeing it makes it real. This is something Fugo is doing to comfort him, but also to comfort himself. The look on Fugo's face is complicated, but part of that complicated is sad. He's made Fugo sad, doing this. Being this way. Losing control.]
[This makes him sad, too. Distantly. It seems like a terribly unfair thing to do to someone who already hurts so much. His lips part as though to speak, to conjure an apology with words he's sure must exist; but then he's interrupted by Fugo's reassurance. I'll be careful, he says, and it's something that would ordinarily make Giorno smile. Unnecessary. Fugo is always careful — with everything, but especially with him.]
[The muscles in his face don't form a smile. After a few seconds, he forgets about the feeling that should make a smile happen, one that feels already as though it happened a thousand years ago. Instead, he watches Fugo work: methodical, rhythmic, practiced. As though he's done this a hundred times before. On his own hands. Perhaps on Narancia's.]
[Something lurches sharply in his chest, strong as a living thing; his thumb twitches, but otherwise he doesn't move.]
[Methodical, rhythmic, practiced. Like striking the keys. Not rough, but firm. Small circles. The lines in his palm lose their new coloring, like rivers flowing in reverse. Fugo pays attention to every groove, every cuticle, as though every millimeter of his skin is significant enough to require his attention.]
[He feels conflicted about this. Somehow, he can't imagine that it's true. Not when he's made so many mistakes — when he's trusted too freely in the quest to trust at all. He's done so much so wrong. And here is Fugo, who came to the woods in the middle of the night at his call, who is before him now washing the drying blood off his hands.]
[He should tell him to go.]
[His mouth stays closed. The whole time, he doesn't say a word. Reluctantly and with some resistance, he begins to feel the cling of his skin to his body again; the sensation of his roots buried deep in the earth; his own fullness; the tension in his shoulders and back from all the violence he's done tonight; the heaviness of shame where it drips from his lips and eyes and every unclean inch of his body. Fugo wipes it away, but he can't keep up even if he wanted to. As quickly as it washes away, it begins to grow back.]
[For now, his hands are clean. For now, they anchor him to this world one gentle swipe at a time. He doesn't want to be here, but he knows he has to. He's grateful, but it hurts. And the whole time he doesn't say anything, not anything, doesn't make a sound or move a muscle.]
[A single saline drop falling from his blurry vision to the heel of Fugo's busy hand — that's not something he can stop. He doesn't even realize tears are forming until it's too late to blink them away.]
[This makes him sad, too. Distantly. It seems like a terribly unfair thing to do to someone who already hurts so much. His lips part as though to speak, to conjure an apology with words he's sure must exist; but then he's interrupted by Fugo's reassurance. I'll be careful, he says, and it's something that would ordinarily make Giorno smile. Unnecessary. Fugo is always careful — with everything, but especially with him.]
[The muscles in his face don't form a smile. After a few seconds, he forgets about the feeling that should make a smile happen, one that feels already as though it happened a thousand years ago. Instead, he watches Fugo work: methodical, rhythmic, practiced. As though he's done this a hundred times before. On his own hands. Perhaps on Narancia's.]
[Something lurches sharply in his chest, strong as a living thing; his thumb twitches, but otherwise he doesn't move.]
[Methodical, rhythmic, practiced. Like striking the keys. Not rough, but firm. Small circles. The lines in his palm lose their new coloring, like rivers flowing in reverse. Fugo pays attention to every groove, every cuticle, as though every millimeter of his skin is significant enough to require his attention.]
[He feels conflicted about this. Somehow, he can't imagine that it's true. Not when he's made so many mistakes — when he's trusted too freely in the quest to trust at all. He's done so much so wrong. And here is Fugo, who came to the woods in the middle of the night at his call, who is before him now washing the drying blood off his hands.]
[He should tell him to go.]
[His mouth stays closed. The whole time, he doesn't say a word. Reluctantly and with some resistance, he begins to feel the cling of his skin to his body again; the sensation of his roots buried deep in the earth; his own fullness; the tension in his shoulders and back from all the violence he's done tonight; the heaviness of shame where it drips from his lips and eyes and every unclean inch of his body. Fugo wipes it away, but he can't keep up even if he wanted to. As quickly as it washes away, it begins to grow back.]
[For now, his hands are clean. For now, they anchor him to this world one gentle swipe at a time. He doesn't want to be here, but he knows he has to. He's grateful, but it hurts. And the whole time he doesn't say anything, not anything, doesn't make a sound or move a muscle.]
[A single saline drop falling from his blurry vision to the heel of Fugo's busy hand — that's not something he can stop. He doesn't even realize tears are forming until it's too late to blink them away.]
This 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?
psychologically i think it's something about the adrenaline cycle of fear but that's not a very good reason for so many fictional women getting stabbed in showers
i'm not sure. i'm still trying to figure that out. did you see any chainsaws? i saw a lot of chainsaws. that really doesn't seem like a practical weapon at all
i'm not sure. i'm still trying to figure that out. did you see any chainsaws? i saw a lot of chainsaws. that really doesn't seem like a practical weapon at all
Wait, are you serious? That's the appeal? People enjoy an adrenaline rush from... being afraid?
[One can practically see the speech bubble with ??? hovering over Fugo's head. That's... his least favorite thing about dangerous situations?]
A couple. But I honestly didn't see many of the movies... only what happened to be on when I visited the house in the hill to pick up some fresh clothes. I spent the week at the orphanage.
They aren't. Chainsaws are very heavy, loud, and require more finesse than you might think for such a large object. And that's not even getting into the mess they would make.
[One can practically see the speech bubble with ??? hovering over Fugo's head. That's... his least favorite thing about dangerous situations?]
A couple. But I honestly didn't see many of the movies... only what happened to be on when I visited the house in the hill to pick up some fresh clothes. I spent the week at the orphanage.
They aren't. Chainsaws are very heavy, loud, and require more finesse than you might think for such a large object. And that's not even getting into the mess they would make.
Edited (i changed my mind about the tag but forgot to take out the cw rip) 2022-04-27 04:06 (UTC)
i think so. but as someone who does not enjoy fear, i don't think i could explain it better than that.
thank you again for doing that by the way. i'm starting to think we should build a moat and drawbridge for this kind of situation. i also keep wondering, wouldn't chunks get stuck in the chain and so on? i'm surprised there wasn't more of that.
thank you again for doing that by the way. i'm starting to think we should build a moat and drawbridge for this kind of situation. i also keep wondering, wouldn't chunks get stuck in the chain and so on? i'm surprised there wasn't more of that.
I can't wrap my head around that either. Maybe I should ask a fan of the genre.
Always, Giogio. You don't need to thank me for that. Anyway if we're going to go that far, we might as well also install some catapults on the roof.
As for the chainsaw, jamming would honestly the best case scenario. And it absolutely would happen, because tissue and chunks of bone would get caught in the chain. Worst case scenario, the chain would suddenly snap and wrap back around. Which can cause all sorts of injuries, including severing the wielder's own limbs.
Always, Giogio. You don't need to thank me for that. Anyway if we're going to go that far, we might as well also install some catapults on the roof.
As for the chainsaw, jamming would honestly the best case scenario. And it absolutely would happen, because tissue and chunks of bone would get caught in the chain. Worst case scenario, the chain would suddenly snap and wrap back around. Which can cause all sorts of injuries, including severing the wielder's own limbs.
i don't know anyone who is. maybe cairo. cairo seems to like things that are terrible out of contrary malice. which i respect.
i'm all for catapults on the condition that naga can't get into them. i feel like naga specifically cannot be trusted with catapults.
IS there a worse weapon??? that sounds like the worst one fugo!
i'm all for catapults on the condition that naga can't get into them. i feel like naga specifically cannot be trusted with catapults.
IS there a worse weapon??? that sounds like the worst one fugo!
Maybe. That's dangerous ground, though. Cairo seems fairly capricious. I can't tell if she would actually explain it, or give me shit for not understanding. Probably both.
Probably not. Do you think they would be satisfied with ... no, nevermind. They probably shouldn't be allowed to have a miniature catapult either. Anyway, I'll include those security details in the formal proposal.
I can think of at least one, but there aren't many worse options. Chainsaws are unwieldy, difficult to control, and practically as dangerous to the wielder as they are to the victim. I rank them 1/10. They get a point because I guess you can kill someone with them, but it would be a huge pain in the ass.
Probably not. Do you think they would be satisfied with ... no, nevermind. They probably shouldn't be allowed to have a miniature catapult either. Anyway, I'll include those security details in the formal proposal.
I can think of at least one, but there aren't many worse options. Chainsaws are unwieldy, difficult to control, and practically as dangerous to the wielder as they are to the victim. I rank them 1/10. They get a point because I guess you can kill someone with them, but it would be a huge pain in the ass.
it depends on which one is funnier. for example, she was too excited to teach me about sexy halloween costumes to give me much shit for not knowing. i think she probably has a lot of opinions about horror movies and therefore would skip over some of the giving you shit.
please don't introduce toy catapults to the orphanage ecosystem, that's terrifying. the last thing naga needs is a siege weapon.
noted. chainsaws bad. on that note, which is the best weapon? an actual physical weapon. i personally feel like a knife is always an efficient bet, but i'm curious about your opinion.
please don't introduce toy catapults to the orphanage ecosystem, that's terrifying. the last thing naga needs is a siege weapon.
noted. chainsaws bad. on that note, which is the best weapon? an actual physical weapon. i personally feel like a knife is always an efficient bet, but i'm curious about your opinion.
That's a good point... maybe I'll try to catch her in a good mood, if/when I ask. Or at least in a mood where she really wants someone to listen to her opinions.
Don't worry, it was only a passing thought. I won't.
Oh, I don't know. That depends. Knives are pretty good, but you have to be careful about what kind of knife it is; there are a lot of junk blades out there. They can also slip in your hand if you aren't using them right.
Bats are nice. Yes, they can be messy, but they're also relatively lightweight, mostly inconspicuous, and designed to be swung. Honestly just about everything can be used as a bludgeoning tool. Guns are quick and easy, so long as you know how to handle them... but have a risk of hearing loss over time, plus you have to be careful about things like casings, spent cartridges, bullets, etc. Assuming of course there's a competent investigation happening.
Don't worry, it was only a passing thought. I won't.
Oh, I don't know. That depends. Knives are pretty good, but you have to be careful about what kind of knife it is; there are a lot of junk blades out there. They can also slip in your hand if you aren't using them right.
Bats are nice. Yes, they can be messy, but they're also relatively lightweight, mostly inconspicuous, and designed to be swung. Honestly just about everything can be used as a bludgeoning tool. Guns are quick and easy, so long as you know how to handle them... but have a risk of hearing loss over time, plus you have to be careful about things like casings, spent cartridges, bullets, etc. Assuming of course there's a competent investigation happening.
[ 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.]
[This is the network equivalent of someone trying to hit you with a pie only for them to not only dodge it, but be armed with a pie themselves.
Trish blinks at her screen, her lips twisting suspiciously after a beat. Fugo can enjoy the delay in her response, before it pops up grumpily on his screen.]
Did you even read what I wrote?
Trish blinks at her screen, her lips twisting suspiciously after a beat. Fugo can enjoy the delay in her response, before it pops up grumpily on his screen.]
Did you even read what I wrote?
:/
\:
It's not about accuracy. I've regurgitated more detailed arguments several times to no avail as far as convincing you.
What's changed? I can't have gotten more annoying in one single post.
\:
It's not about accuracy. I've regurgitated more detailed arguments several times to no avail as far as convincing you.
What's changed? I can't have gotten more annoying in one single post.
1) I would appreciate the distraction. It would be interesting to at least try.
2) If I'm being completely honest I think being a mer is fucking with my head. Music is one of the things I've been more preoccupied with, lately.
The things I was worried about before seem ...
[There's a long pause. He really doesn't know how to describe it. How, in the wake of Bucciarati's absence, parts of him feel as sharp as the edge of a razor; how others have simply flattened out. In the end, he abandons the idea.]
Well, it doesn't matter. They don't bother me as much right now. So why not?
2) If I'm being completely honest I think being a mer is fucking with my head. Music is one of the things I've been more preoccupied with, lately.
The things I was worried about before seem ...
[There's a long pause. He really doesn't know how to describe it. How, in the wake of Bucciarati's absence, parts of him feel as sharp as the edge of a razor; how others have simply flattened out. In the end, he abandons the idea.]
Well, it doesn't matter. They don't bother me as much right now. So why not?
1) We're doing this now, are we?
A) If it helps you feel even a little better, I've noticed a change with this new form too. Maybe being a mer inspires us to give less of a damn about things in general. I can see how that's annoying as a concept, but I can't be assed to regret it in advance. Can you?
So, if you're serious about it, then I am too.
I have been the whole time, but I feel it needs to be said.
A) If it helps you feel even a little better, I've noticed a change with this new form too. Maybe being a mer inspires us to give less of a damn about things in general. I can see how that's annoying as a concept, but I can't be assed to regret it in advance. Can you?
So, if you're serious about it, then I am too.
I have been the whole time, but I feel it needs to be said.
1) You literally started it. Also I like lists, they're organized.
2) I don't know about that, but I do find myself more interested in new things. Which is weird, because usually I'm not really interested one way or another outside of practical applications.
3) Yes, I'm serious. And I can tell you have been although I really don't know why you've been so stubborn about it.
2) I don't know about that, but I do find myself more interested in new things. Which is weird, because usually I'm not really interested one way or another outside of practical applications.
3) Yes, I'm serious. And I can tell you have been although I really don't know why you've been so stubborn about it.
Edited 2022-05-28 05:19 (UTC)
F#) Is it really my fault when you're so fond of them I had no choice but to try speaking your language this time?
B) There's a lot to be said about how whims can change as much as our bodies do here. Are you sure it's the fact you're a fish? What if it's that once in a blue moon itch?
G#) You know me well by now. I'm stubborn about most things. But I will say I've been adamant with this exactly because you've only refused me outright. If you try it and hate it, fine. But it feels half-assed if I accept you saying no without convincing you to try at least once.
B) There's a lot to be said about how whims can change as much as our bodies do here. Are you sure it's the fact you're a fish? What if it's that once in a blue moon itch?
G#) You know me well by now. I'm stubborn about most things. But I will say I've been adamant with this exactly because you've only refused me outright. If you try it and hate it, fine. But it feels half-assed if I accept you saying no without convincing you to try at least once.
1) I'm fond of them because they're practical. And they make it easier to review conversations at a later date. By the way, chords make that more difficult.
2.1) Excuse you. I am currently a cephalopod mollusk, not a fish. Get it right, Una.
2.2) I don't have once in a blue moon itches, especially when it comes to music.
3) Yeah, yeah, I've figured that out by now. You are, if not the stubbornest person I've ever met, certainly in the top three. I don't entirely agree, but I suppose I can see your point.
2.1) Excuse you. I am currently a cephalopod mollusk, not a fish. Get it right, Una.
2.2) I don't have once in a blue moon itches, especially when it comes to music.
3) Yeah, yeah, I've figured that out by now. You are, if not the stubbornest person I've ever met, certainly in the top three. I don't entirely agree, but I suppose I can see your point.
They don't make it more difficult if you recognize the scale they come from, rompicoglioni.
If anything, decimals are more confusing and unsightly on top of that. :/ I don't give a damn what water creature you are either. Fish and mollusks both can kiss my ass.
I'd be happy to show you I'm in fact the most stubborn person you know, too. I will leave zero doubt henceforth.
So were you being facetious or not? I am two seconds from walking away from my laptop to give you a piece of my mind instead. Maybe that will be more compelling.
[Without emotes he can still vividly picture her face right now, which is as close to ">:(" as a human face can be.]
If anything, decimals are more confusing and unsightly on top of that. :/ I don't give a damn what water creature you are either. Fish and mollusks both can kiss my ass.
I'd be happy to show you I'm in fact the most stubborn person you know, too. I will leave zero doubt henceforth.
So were you being facetious or not? I am two seconds from walking away from my laptop to give you a piece of my mind instead. Maybe that will be more compelling.
[Without emotes he can still vividly picture her face right now, which is as close to ">:(" as a human face can be.]
[Oh, she's peeved. Fugo can just picture Trish's annoyed frown and the irritated slap of a tail that isn't there. He's very tempted to continue tweaking her nose, so to speak; she's practically handing the material to him, what with the statement about fish, mollusks, and her ass. If it were any other subject, he probably would. But today, he lets it drop.]
No, I'm not being facetious. Not about this and not with you.
I can't promise that I'll be an easy student to teach. Or that I'll like it. Or that you'll like teaching me. But we can at least try it.
And: noted, re: stubbornness. You can fight it out with Giorno if you want that title. Let me know what the two of you figure out.
No, I'm not being facetious. Not about this and not with you.
I can't promise that I'll be an easy student to teach. Or that I'll like it. Or that you'll like teaching me. But we can at least try it.
And: noted, re: stubbornness. You can fight it out with Giorno if you want that title. Let me know what the two of you figure out.
[One day he ought to. It'll teach her to be careful with her words when she gets grumpy!
For her part, she is prepared for him to continue to be a pain in the ass in return for her being a pain in the ass, but instead he diverts to being...entirely genuine.
Trish cools off immediately, although she's now left holding the bag in a manner of speaking, and it's full of vitriol that is no longer appropriate to the conversation. Awful.]
Oh.
You're being serious. Right? You're being completely serious. If this is true, pick what kind of guitar you want to learn and I'll believe you wholeheartedly.
The corollary to this is that I can and will be bringing this guitar and an entire lesson plan with me the next time we meet in the piano room.
And for the record, I refuse to fight with Giorno on the matter. Not because I would lose, but because it would be a war of attrition and I'm too tired to even think about that.
[That, and they fight enough already without fighting over something dumb. She doesn't need another reason!!!]
For her part, she is prepared for him to continue to be a pain in the ass in return for her being a pain in the ass, but instead he diverts to being...entirely genuine.
Trish cools off immediately, although she's now left holding the bag in a manner of speaking, and it's full of vitriol that is no longer appropriate to the conversation. Awful.]
Oh.
You're being serious. Right? You're being completely serious. If this is true, pick what kind of guitar you want to learn and I'll believe you wholeheartedly.
The corollary to this is that I can and will be bringing this guitar and an entire lesson plan with me the next time we meet in the piano room.
And for the record, I refuse to fight with Giorno on the matter. Not because I would lose, but because it would be a war of attrition and I'm too tired to even think about that.
[That, and they fight enough already without fighting over something dumb. She doesn't need another reason!!!]
Trish, I know enough about guitars to know that I actually know jack shit about guitars. If you want me to pick, you're either going to have to wait for me to do some research or provide some information on the subject yourself. But yes, for the third time, I'm being serious.
The other part, where you bring a guitar and a lesson plan to our next practice session, that's fine.
How about this. You both can occupy the #1 spot. It can be a joint position.
The other part, where you bring a guitar and a lesson plan to our next practice session, that's fine.
How about this. You both can occupy the #1 spot. It can be a joint position.
You're ridiculous, Fugo. You're the only boy I've ever known who thinks so much about the technical aspects and nothing else. Do you know how many people pick up guitar because they think it makes them look cool?
I'm not ashamed to admit that was my reason for picking up guitar at all, even if I found out I like bass far better. Regardless, playing a rock instrument is inherently attractive.
[Trish, holding a megaphone to Fugo's ear: SOME PEOPLE PLAY GUITAR BECAUSE IT'S SEXY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
She's also picturing her and Giorno sharing a throne. She is now sitting on him on this hypothetical throne. Her city now. Not that she's going to say any of this, but do know she's thinking it.]
But fine. I'll explain to you the difference and let you decide.
The main thing about a basic guitar is that it has six strings, and plays higher octaves than a bass. It's typically going to carry the main melody of a song, and if you enjoy solos and the spotlight, it's the instrument you want. The body is smaller than a bass's too, meaning it's easier to hold, and similarly the thinner strings make it much easier to play. It will hurt your fingers regardless, though. Once you develop calluses you'll be fine, but I do want to make that clear.
Conversely, bass plays at lower octaves and has four, thick strings. The thick strings can make it harder to play for children or people with weak fingers, and the bulky body can make it difficult to hold. Otherwise, it's arguably much easier to play. The arrangements are simpler because of the fewer amount of strings, and you will usually play a supporting melody, so it's a good choice if you don't want to stand out. At least, that's the common opinion. You know from me that bass arrangements can actually be beautifully complex, and I find being constrained to four strings encourages creativity in technique and melodies. Geddy Lee and Chris Squire are a testament to that.
Any questions?
I'm not ashamed to admit that was my reason for picking up guitar at all, even if I found out I like bass far better. Regardless, playing a rock instrument is inherently attractive.
[Trish, holding a megaphone to Fugo's ear: SOME PEOPLE PLAY GUITAR BECAUSE IT'S SEXY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
She's also picturing her and Giorno sharing a throne. She is now sitting on him on this hypothetical throne. Her city now. Not that she's going to say any of this, but do know she's thinking it.]
But fine. I'll explain to you the difference and let you decide.
The main thing about a basic guitar is that it has six strings, and plays higher octaves than a bass. It's typically going to carry the main melody of a song, and if you enjoy solos and the spotlight, it's the instrument you want. The body is smaller than a bass's too, meaning it's easier to hold, and similarly the thinner strings make it much easier to play. It will hurt your fingers regardless, though. Once you develop calluses you'll be fine, but I do want to make that clear.
Conversely, bass plays at lower octaves and has four, thick strings. The thick strings can make it harder to play for children or people with weak fingers, and the bulky body can make it difficult to hold. Otherwise, it's arguably much easier to play. The arrangements are simpler because of the fewer amount of strings, and you will usually play a supporting melody, so it's a good choice if you don't want to stand out. At least, that's the common opinion. You know from me that bass arrangements can actually be beautifully complex, and I find being constrained to four strings encourages creativity in technique and melodies. Geddy Lee and Chris Squire are a testament to that.
Any questions?
Edited (wording!) 2022-06-04 07:11 (UTC)
[Trish is lucky that she actually gave him some information to chew on, because he's genuinely baffled by the idea of 1) people, generally speaking, learning to play the guitar because it's cool and/or "inherently attractive" and 2) that's why Trish picked it up???
Much to think about.]
I'm not going to respond to your provocations because we just got done arguing. But no, I did not know that.
It's interesting how the two instruments seem to support each other. It's a bit like the violin family, but with less overlap in terms of octaves. Honestly, they both seem interesting.
What drew you to the bass over the guitar? Especially since you started with the guitar.
Much to think about.]
I'm not going to respond to your provocations because we just got done arguing. But no, I did not know that.
It's interesting how the two instruments seem to support each other. It's a bit like the violin family, but with less overlap in terms of octaves. Honestly, they both seem interesting.
What drew you to the bass over the guitar? Especially since you started with the guitar.
[It's the wonders of being allowed to choose to do something just because, or for absolutely silly reasons!
Trish knows his relationship with music is incredibly fraught under the surface in a way she's only glimpsed and therefore can't completely fathom, and it must be similarly unfathomable for him to read this justification.]
They weren't really provocations, but you're welcome.
Something I want you to understand is that I picked up guitar when I was six years old. My perception of the guitar was by virtue of that very shallow. I wanted to play it because it was cool-looking, and the basic image of music to me was "person doing guitar solos". However. it can be very frustrating for a child to work through getting that level of dexterity and the like. Indeed, I got very frustrated. But as we just discussed, I'm equally stubborn, and continued despite the fact it was hard.
It was actually my mother's idea to try bass. She wasn't a musician, but she knew what music I liked, and realized there was a guitar out there that was seemingly simpler in scope. Obviously not true, but she suggested it all the same, and it turned out I loved it. But I was also eight then, had a much better idea of what I was doing, and tried it out with experience behind me.
That was a lot of background, but I do want to emphasize that it wasn't something I decided through brilliance or hearty deliberation. Almost by happenstance I found I enjoyed bass's sound much more, and became fascinated by the techniques I could use. My taste had become more sophisticated as I got older as well, so I was enraptured by the sheer technique of skilled musicians now that I better understood what they were doing. Watching live performances on television also helped with that.
Overall, for you, you're already a skilled musician of another sort of instrument, but I think it will still inform what you ultimately choose. The breadth of sound in piano can also be found in a basic guitar, for example. But if you're tired of that and craving something almost entirely new, I can just as easily see you choosing bass.
Trish knows his relationship with music is incredibly fraught under the surface in a way she's only glimpsed and therefore can't completely fathom, and it must be similarly unfathomable for him to read this justification.]
They weren't really provocations, but you're welcome.
Something I want you to understand is that I picked up guitar when I was six years old. My perception of the guitar was by virtue of that very shallow. I wanted to play it because it was cool-looking, and the basic image of music to me was "person doing guitar solos". However. it can be very frustrating for a child to work through getting that level of dexterity and the like. Indeed, I got very frustrated. But as we just discussed, I'm equally stubborn, and continued despite the fact it was hard.
It was actually my mother's idea to try bass. She wasn't a musician, but she knew what music I liked, and realized there was a guitar out there that was seemingly simpler in scope. Obviously not true, but she suggested it all the same, and it turned out I loved it. But I was also eight then, had a much better idea of what I was doing, and tried it out with experience behind me.
That was a lot of background, but I do want to emphasize that it wasn't something I decided through brilliance or hearty deliberation. Almost by happenstance I found I enjoyed bass's sound much more, and became fascinated by the techniques I could use. My taste had become more sophisticated as I got older as well, so I was enraptured by the sheer technique of skilled musicians now that I better understood what they were doing. Watching live performances on television also helped with that.
Overall, for you, you're already a skilled musician of another sort of instrument, but I think it will still inform what you ultimately choose. The breadth of sound in piano can also be found in a basic guitar, for example. But if you're tired of that and craving something almost entirely new, I can just as easily see you choosing bass.
Edited (sorry for edits fdsjsdjddsf) 2022-06-07 07:44 (UTC)
[Trish’s reply is ... interesting. Everything she writes about goes against his own experience with music. It doesn’t catch him as off-guard as it would have in the past, but he still finds it so odd to read about. Their experiences are just fundamentally different. His grandfather never would have suggested an alternative to the piano out of consideration for him; it would only have been because there was a "more suitable" instrument to learn.
Honestly, he doesn't have a clue how to even begin approaching it. The best he can do, for now, is turn it around in his mind. Again, again, again.]
I see. Thanks for taking the time to explain it. Your process was a lot different from mine. Early on, I studied violin for a year or so, but those lessons ended so I could focus my efforts completely on the piano.
I’m not sure I can come to a definitive conclusion based on my personal preferences. To be honest, when it comes to music, that’s something I struggle with. This is the first time I’ve been even remotely interested in learning how to play a new instrument for its own sake. Both have their individual merits.
Why don’t you just bring whatever you feel like showing me, next time? If I don’t like it, I’ll try the other. If you need to buy anything for the lesson I’ll pay you back.
Honestly, he doesn't have a clue how to even begin approaching it. The best he can do, for now, is turn it around in his mind. Again, again, again.]
I see. Thanks for taking the time to explain it. Your process was a lot different from mine. Early on, I studied violin for a year or so, but those lessons ended so I could focus my efforts completely on the piano.
I’m not sure I can come to a definitive conclusion based on my personal preferences. To be honest, when it comes to music, that’s something I struggle with. This is the first time I’ve been even remotely interested in learning how to play a new instrument for its own sake. Both have their individual merits.
Why don’t you just bring whatever you feel like showing me, next time? If I don’t like it, I’ll try the other. If you need to buy anything for the lesson I’ll pay you back.
[Trish knows. She doesn't say it, because he's spoken it so plainly himself, but it's a common refrain when music comes up.
His experience was diametrically opposed to hers in every way possible, she's sure, even if he keeps it vague.
"You were allowed to quit, if you wanted to?"
Trish holds onto that, and it's a balance, isn't it? She maybe isn't so different for pestering him to try another instrument on her insistence, but that phrase, God willing, won't come up in any way, shape, or form. He'll be allowed to quit. What she wants most is for him to explore, and find something he likes in so doing. That's all. She's selfish, perhaps, but maybe being a different kind of selfish will prompt him to explore what's out there and see it for himself. The fact he's willing now is already more than she could ask for.]
That's fine, Fugo. Though you know I can be biased, so maybe you won't be surprised by what you see when we meet up next time.
:|b
Joking aside, I doubt I'll have to buy anything. Unless you happen to fall so hopelessly in love with whatever instrument you choose that I'll simply have no choice but to get you one of your own. ♥
His experience was diametrically opposed to hers in every way possible, she's sure, even if he keeps it vague.
"You were allowed to quit, if you wanted to?"
Trish holds onto that, and it's a balance, isn't it? She maybe isn't so different for pestering him to try another instrument on her insistence, but that phrase, God willing, won't come up in any way, shape, or form. He'll be allowed to quit. What she wants most is for him to explore, and find something he likes in so doing. That's all. She's selfish, perhaps, but maybe being a different kind of selfish will prompt him to explore what's out there and see it for himself. The fact he's willing now is already more than she could ask for.]
That's fine, Fugo. Though you know I can be biased, so maybe you won't be surprised by what you see when we meet up next time.
:|b
Joking aside, I doubt I'll have to buy anything. Unless you happen to fall so hopelessly in love with whatever instrument you choose that I'll simply have no choice but to get you one of your own. ♥
[There is a heart at the end of Trish's message. It's the very last character she chose, likely to imply that she would be very pleased at this particular hypothetical outcome. She wants him to fall in love with playing the guitar, so much so that she would have to (would want to?) buy one for him.
He really doesn't know what to do with it. Should he mention it? Probably not. Definitely not. If he mentions it, she'll pounce on the opening.]
I don't know. With you, it really could be either. You're obviously biased towards the bass. But I'm sure you suggested guitar to begin with so we could play songs with multiple parts together. I would say it's a solid 50/50.
I'm not sure how to respond to that. I might not know much about guitars, but I know they can be expensive. That's a lot of money to spend on a lark. You don't need to do that for me.
He really doesn't know what to do with it. Should he mention it? Probably not. Definitely not. If he mentions it, she'll pounce on the opening.]
I don't know. With you, it really could be either. You're obviously biased towards the bass. But I'm sure you suggested guitar to begin with so we could play songs with multiple parts together. I would say it's a solid 50/50.
I'm not sure how to respond to that. I might not know much about guitars, but I know they can be expensive. That's a lot of money to spend on a lark. You don't need to do that for me.
[Fugo doesn't comment on the heart.
It's kind of a shame, really. As much as she likes playing cat and mouse, it's no fun if he doesn't engage. Knowing Fugo though, he probably over-thought himself into being flummoxed about it.]
You've really thought about this, haven't you? I'm flattered.
And of course I don't need to. I don't do anything I don't want to, as I'm sure you're aware. I'm not going to pressure you by buying one against your wishes though.
It's exactly as I said.
If you fall in love, then my mind will be made up. If you don't, then I will refrain. I think that's fair, don't you?
It's kind of a shame, really. As much as she likes playing cat and mouse, it's no fun if he doesn't engage. Knowing Fugo though, he probably over-thought himself into being flummoxed about it.]
You've really thought about this, haven't you? I'm flattered.
And of course I don't need to. I don't do anything I don't want to, as I'm sure you're aware. I'm not going to pressure you by buying one against your wishes though.
It's exactly as I said.
If you fall in love, then my mind will be made up. If you don't, then I will refrain. I think that's fair, don't you?
I could turn that back on you. I try not to make choices impulsively. It almost never works out.
Do you have to put it like that? "If I fall in love with it" seems so dramatic. I'm not sure if "fair" has anything to do with it. But it's definitely over-the-top.
Do you have to put it like that? "If I fall in love with it" seems so dramatic. I'm not sure if "fair" has anything to do with it. But it's definitely over-the-top.
You could, but you didn't. Curious, that.
And yes, I do. I'm not here to heckle you into doing some half-hearted endeavor. I really do mean what I say, and passion is important to me besides. No passion, no point.
If that's being over-the-top, then I will lie in my bed of roses without shame.
[Now she's just being dramatic on purpose.]
And yes, I do. I'm not here to heckle you into doing some half-hearted endeavor. I really do mean what I say, and passion is important to me besides. No passion, no point.
If that's being over-the-top, then I will lie in my bed of roses without shame.
[Now she's just being dramatic on purpose.]
In all seriousness, Trish, you should
[There's a pause here. Strange, for Fugo, who by the time he starts typing has already long since figured out what he wants to say.]
probably temper your expectations. I'm probably always going to seem half-hearted, compared to you.
I don't think I can be passionate about music the way that you are. I'm interested in what you have to teach me. And I don't think it will be a bad time. I trust you not to be an asshole about it and I promise that I'll take it seriously.
But I don't think
[Another pause, another unusual moment of hesitation, before he continues and tries again. He really doesn't know how to describe it to her.]
how I feel about music, generally speaking, is going to change that dramatically from learning to play a different instrument.
[There's a pause here. Strange, for Fugo, who by the time he starts typing has already long since figured out what he wants to say.]
probably temper your expectations. I'm probably always going to seem half-hearted, compared to you.
I don't think I can be passionate about music the way that you are. I'm interested in what you have to teach me. And I don't think it will be a bad time. I trust you not to be an asshole about it and I promise that I'll take it seriously.
But I don't think
[Another pause, another unusual moment of hesitation, before he continues and tries again. He really doesn't know how to describe it to her.]
how I feel about music, generally speaking, is going to change that dramatically from learning to play a different instrument.
[Interesting. Trish waits as his response trickles in. She sees how it stops, starts.
Once again, she's brushed against that invisible wall between Fugo and music, and she knows he probably would never make a career out of it. He's in an interesting spot as a person, really. He's so incredibly intelligent and diligent that he could do anything he wanted. But...what does he want? What does Fugo want for himself?
When she thinks about it, it's never really clear. Unless it's to serve Giorno, Fugo has never spoken passionately about...anything.]
But you imply it will change, right? Just a little.
Listen, I like my hyperbole, but I don't actually expect you to approach music the way I do. That's not what I want at all.
What I want is for you to enjoy yourself. It doesn't have to completely change your life or your mind, but if I can pass on even the tiniest amount of how I feel about music to you, I'll be happy. And even if I don't, I have a good time playing with you. That's enough for me.
However, the last thing I want to do is to make it about me. Don't worry about whether or not you'll let me down. There's no need for that kind of pressure when you're experimenting.
That's what this is, ultimately. You're trying something new. In every way, this will be new.
Once again, she's brushed against that invisible wall between Fugo and music, and she knows he probably would never make a career out of it. He's in an interesting spot as a person, really. He's so incredibly intelligent and diligent that he could do anything he wanted. But...what does he want? What does Fugo want for himself?
When she thinks about it, it's never really clear. Unless it's to serve Giorno, Fugo has never spoken passionately about...anything.]
But you imply it will change, right? Just a little.
Listen, I like my hyperbole, but I don't actually expect you to approach music the way I do. That's not what I want at all.
What I want is for you to enjoy yourself. It doesn't have to completely change your life or your mind, but if I can pass on even the tiniest amount of how I feel about music to you, I'll be happy. And even if I don't, I have a good time playing with you. That's enough for me.
However, the last thing I want to do is to make it about me. Don't worry about whether or not you'll let me down. There's no need for that kind of pressure when you're experimenting.
That's what this is, ultimately. You're trying something new. In every way, this will be new.
[This is Trish meeting him halfway. She doesn't know the words of that promise, but she's reaching for him still, as far as she can: blindly in the dark, because he's still too much of a coward to let her see just how bad it is.]
What I meant is that my feelings about music, as they are now, have already changed tremendously from how they used to be. And I'm grateful for that. Taking it back means a lot to me, even if it it isn't necessarily a pleasant task.
But I don't know if I'll enjoy it, or that things will change from where they are. Even if it's only a little bit. It would be nice, but it seems unrealistic.
Promising that I will try and that I trust you with this is as far as I can meet you, for now. Maybe that will change in the future, maybe it won't. And if it doesn't, I don't want you to think that it's your fault or that you have strong-armed me into something I didn't want to do.
What I meant is that my feelings about music, as they are now, have already changed tremendously from how they used to be. And I'm grateful for that. Taking it back means a lot to me, even if it it isn't necessarily a pleasant task.
But I don't know if I'll enjoy it, or that things will change from where they are. Even if it's only a little bit. It would be nice, but it seems unrealistic.
Promising that I will try and that I trust you with this is as far as I can meet you, for now. Maybe that will change in the future, maybe it won't. And if it doesn't, I don't want you to think that it's your fault or that you have strong-armed me into something I didn't want to do.
Edited 2022-07-03 23:32 (UTC)
[It's inelegant, but Trish is persistent regardless. She wants to know him, as much as he'll allow. Maybe more than that.
She's stubborn, and pushy, and demanding. But she is trying, this time, to be as patient as she can. To understand, even if she keeps missing the mark. At least, that's how it's felt, so it's surprising to hear what they've been doing...is a marked change for him.
Well, maybe not completely surprising, from what very little she knows, but the fact it hadn't really improved in the time away from his home until now, it's...]
That's fine, Fugo.
In fact, that's really all I wanted to know. Where you're at, specifically, and how I can accommodate you.
So, this helps.
And I promise you I won't blame myself. I'm happy you're trying at all. I couldn't ask for more.
[But she will hope for it.
She won't say it, but she will hope for it all the same. Fugo deserves to enjoy his hobbies, to find passion in something besides work. He hasn't gotten to do that and it shows. In all ways, it shows.]
She's stubborn, and pushy, and demanding. But she is trying, this time, to be as patient as she can. To understand, even if she keeps missing the mark. At least, that's how it's felt, so it's surprising to hear what they've been doing...is a marked change for him.
Well, maybe not completely surprising, from what very little she knows, but the fact it hadn't really improved in the time away from his home until now, it's...]
That's fine, Fugo.
In fact, that's really all I wanted to know. Where you're at, specifically, and how I can accommodate you.
So, this helps.
And I promise you I won't blame myself. I'm happy you're trying at all. I couldn't ask for more.
[But she will hope for it.
She won't say it, but she will hope for it all the same. Fugo deserves to enjoy his hobbies, to find passion in something besides work. He hasn't gotten to do that and it shows. In all ways, it shows.]
[The vise around his chest, always there and always wound tight, loosens. Not much. Just a little. She hasn't given up on it-- on him-- yet. Even though she has every right to. Even though she would have a better time on her own, or with someone who shares her passion for music.
Despite everything, she still wants to play guitar with him. She wants to meet him where he is.]
Okay. As long as you're sure, then.
[And then, a few moments later--]
Sorry, that was stupid. You wouldn't have asked me this many times if you weren't sure about it.
Despite everything, she still wants to play guitar with him. She wants to meet him where he is.]
Okay. As long as you're sure, then.
[And then, a few moments later--]
Sorry, that was stupid. You wouldn't have asked me this many times if you weren't sure about it.
[Fugo can't seem to conceptualize that Trish likes spending time with him. She doesn't care about some imaginary, hypothetical person who loves music as much as she does.
They're immaterial to her relationship with Fugo! She can't care about someone she hasn't met over the very real boy she sees every day.
He's her friend too, and they can and do have fun. He can be a bastard, and they can butt heads, but they're friends.]
It's fine. I can be a a pain in the ass, and you'll be happy to know that a symptom of that is that my interest never wanes no matter what.
That's how stubborn I am.
They're immaterial to her relationship with Fugo! She can't care about someone she hasn't met over the very real boy she sees every day.
He's her friend too, and they can and do have fun. He can be a bastard, and they can butt heads, but they're friends.]
It's fine. I can be a a pain in the ass, and you'll be happy to know that a symptom of that is that my interest never wanes no matter what.
That's how stubborn I am.
[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.]
To be fair to the guilty party, he didn't describe it that way either.
[That's just how it came off with how she could practically hear Giorno's grin behind the screen.
Because he didn't just see this dance, he witnessed it. The fact it's Narancia's dance makes this...less surprising, then, but also more sobering.
Hmmm.]
What would it take to convince you to show me this dance?
[That's just how it came off with how she could practically hear Giorno's grin behind the screen.
Because he didn't just see this dance, he witnessed it. The fact it's Narancia's dance makes this...less surprising, then, but also more sobering.
Hmmm.]
What would it take to convince you to show me this dance?
Yeah, yeah.
[But, knowing Giorno, he almost certainly described it in a way that would intentionally pique Trish's curiosity. If it was Abbacchio, he would have been blunt about what sort of dance it was and his low opinion of it.]
First of all, why do you even want to see it? If it's just to tease me because that sort of thing is outside of my usual interests, then no.
[But, knowing Giorno, he almost certainly described it in a way that would intentionally pique Trish's curiosity. If it was Abbacchio, he would have been blunt about what sort of dance it was and his low opinion of it.]
First of all, why do you even want to see it? If it's just to tease me because that sort of thing is outside of my usual interests, then no.
Edited 2022-06-17 00:57 (UTC)
I'll be honest and admit I was mostly curious. He never said what kind of dance it was, which was interesting. Most dances have a name, don't they?
Salsa dancing, ballroom dancing. Things like that.
Now I know it's got to be something entirely unique. Narancia didn't seem the type to learn traditional dancing, you know? What he came up with had to be pure in its inspiration.
I'd like to see it.
Salsa dancing, ballroom dancing. Things like that.
Now I know it's got to be something entirely unique. Narancia didn't seem the type to learn traditional dancing, you know? What he came up with had to be pure in its inspiration.
I'd like to see it.
[It feels wrong, talking about this. It's not his. Just thinking about it feels like handling a live wire. ... but if anyone deserves to know, wouldn't it be Trish? He doesn't know.]
It wasn't traditional, no. It's not that he was haphazard with it, but he incorporated movements from a range of different styles. It's hip hop, sort of, but also not at all.
I don't know. It would look strange if I did it myself, since he choregraphed it as a group performance. And it had a specific BGM. He mixed that, too.
[Giorno wasn't lying. IT REALLY WAS SYNCHRONIZED...]
It wasn't traditional, no. It's not that he was haphazard with it, but he incorporated movements from a range of different styles. It's hip hop, sort of, but also not at all.
I don't know. It would look strange if I did it myself, since he choregraphed it as a group performance. And it had a specific BGM. He mixed that, too.
[Giorno wasn't lying. IT REALLY WAS SYNCHRONIZED...]
[Trish is aware Fugo is likely uncomfortable talking about Narancia's dance. There's a pain he's carrying that will never go away.
But letting a happy memory stick in his throat like it had when they shared a mind...it was a disaster, but did it really have to be?
Maybe then, because it was a memory about something Narancia never got to see, but this memory? It's one he lived and breathed in. A synchronized dance, just like Giorno said. More than that, Narancia mixed music for it?]
Hip hop but not. That sounds just like him.
If it helps, he must have showed you how to do it on his own before he had a group to match his vision.
How about this, actually.
Instead of just showing me, teach me step by step. I can't tease you if I'm doing the same thing, can I?
But letting a happy memory stick in his throat like it had when they shared a mind...it was a disaster, but did it really have to be?
Maybe then, because it was a memory about something Narancia never got to see, but this memory? It's one he lived and breathed in. A synchronized dance, just like Giorno said. More than that, Narancia mixed music for it?]
Hip hop but not. That sounds just like him.
If it helps, he must have showed you how to do it on his own before he had a group to match his vision.
How about this, actually.
Instead of just showing me, teach me step by step. I can't tease you if I'm doing the same thing, can I?
I don't think I can say yes or no right now.
I need some time to think about it. When I'm ready, I'll tell you one way or the other.
[And that's all Fugo will say about it. No matter how Trish replies, this will be the last response on the conversation from Fugo. He doesn't trust his instincts. To be honest, he doesn't trust his own mind about it either. But ... there isn't anyone else to tell this story. It's just him.
And the memory of Narancia, begging him over and over again: dance with me, please, it's no good with just one person.]
[It takes time. It's days before another reply comes. Fugo thinks about it on his own, chewing on it in the back of his mind even when he doesn't have a free moment. It hurts. It aches, in a way that's not so dissimilar to the phantom limbs on his back that he didn't realize he had become accustomed to until they were gone. It's bitter. It feels wrong. It shouldn't be him. It should be Narancia, showing her this dance.
This is what he keeps coming back to. Narancia would, Fugo believes, want Trish to dance with him. That, if there had been even a moment where they could let their guards down, he would have shown it to her.]
"Trish is me. Her wounds are my wounds."
That's the last thing I heard Narancia say, as he swam to the boat. I couldn't understand what he meant for a long time. To be honest... I probably still don't understand it completely. Narancia and I were very different. But I think at least part of it was that he saw you as one of us. He wanted to be your friend.
He probably would have wanted to show you himself. But since he's not here, if you want to learn it, I'll show you. That way if he ever shows up here, you'll be able to dance with him.
I need some time to think about it. When I'm ready, I'll tell you one way or the other.
[And that's all Fugo will say about it. No matter how Trish replies, this will be the last response on the conversation from Fugo. He doesn't trust his instincts. To be honest, he doesn't trust his own mind about it either. But ... there isn't anyone else to tell this story. It's just him.
And the memory of Narancia, begging him over and over again: dance with me, please, it's no good with just one person.]
[It takes time. It's days before another reply comes. Fugo thinks about it on his own, chewing on it in the back of his mind even when he doesn't have a free moment. It hurts. It aches, in a way that's not so dissimilar to the phantom limbs on his back that he didn't realize he had become accustomed to until they were gone. It's bitter. It feels wrong. It shouldn't be him. It should be Narancia, showing her this dance.
This is what he keeps coming back to. Narancia would, Fugo believes, want Trish to dance with him. That, if there had been even a moment where they could let their guards down, he would have shown it to her.]
"Trish is me. Her wounds are my wounds."
That's the last thing I heard Narancia say, as he swam to the boat. I couldn't understand what he meant for a long time. To be honest... I probably still don't understand it completely. Narancia and I were very different. But I think at least part of it was that he saw you as one of us. He wanted to be your friend.
He probably would have wanted to show you himself. But since he's not here, if you want to learn it, I'll show you. That way if he ever shows up here, you'll be able to dance with him.
[Trish may have replied something along the lines of "It's okay to refuse me outright, you know."
But Fugo never answers, not for days.
She sees him in person, of course, several times. Still, she can't tell what he's thinking, and trying to glean his thoughts from his expressions, before he's spoken them aloud as promised is...she knows she's impatient. So she stops herself, and pretends like the conversation never happened. He may not speak on it again, and she knows that's another fair choice too. After all, they shouldn't feel obligated to do anything she asks. Their relationship isn't like that anymore, nor should it be.
She wonders why he didn't just say no. And then Fugo answers that question himself, and tells her something she's never heard before. Narancia must have said that when she was unconscious, her hand neatly reattached to her wrist with one of Bruno's zippers. Narancia...never quite understood her fully, but he tried, and she liked him all the more for it. He was considerate of her feelings in the same way Bruno was, even if neither of them were completely successful. He was kind.]
I think it was less that he viewed me as one of you, and more that he saw no difference between us on a basic, human level. This is the first time I've heard these words of his, but it makes a lot of sense with what I know of him. There were things I would never "get", but that didn't matter. He wanted to keep me safe.
You probably know this too, but it bears repeating. I also wanted to be his friend.
So if you're willing, if it truly doesn't bother you, I'd like to learn. I'd like to dance with him one day. Nothing would make me happier.
[Sheer honesty on display, and it admittedly makes her feel itchy, and her throat is a little dry, but what's the harm, ultimately?
What's the harm of reaching out to him this way? Giorno orchestrated this, in some ways, and she wonders what his intent was. Did he want her to learn of all of this from Fugo himself? Not just the dance, but how Narancia felt too?]
But Fugo never answers, not for days.
She sees him in person, of course, several times. Still, she can't tell what he's thinking, and trying to glean his thoughts from his expressions, before he's spoken them aloud as promised is...she knows she's impatient. So she stops herself, and pretends like the conversation never happened. He may not speak on it again, and she knows that's another fair choice too. After all, they shouldn't feel obligated to do anything she asks. Their relationship isn't like that anymore, nor should it be.
She wonders why he didn't just say no. And then Fugo answers that question himself, and tells her something she's never heard before. Narancia must have said that when she was unconscious, her hand neatly reattached to her wrist with one of Bruno's zippers. Narancia...never quite understood her fully, but he tried, and she liked him all the more for it. He was considerate of her feelings in the same way Bruno was, even if neither of them were completely successful. He was kind.]
I think it was less that he viewed me as one of you, and more that he saw no difference between us on a basic, human level. This is the first time I've heard these words of his, but it makes a lot of sense with what I know of him. There were things I would never "get", but that didn't matter. He wanted to keep me safe.
You probably know this too, but it bears repeating. I also wanted to be his friend.
So if you're willing, if it truly doesn't bother you, I'd like to learn. I'd like to dance with him one day. Nothing would make me happier.
[Sheer honesty on display, and it admittedly makes her feel itchy, and her throat is a little dry, but what's the harm, ultimately?
What's the harm of reaching out to him this way? Giorno orchestrated this, in some ways, and she wonders what his intent was. Did he want her to learn of all of this from Fugo himself? Not just the dance, but how Narancia felt too?]
[Bother isn't the right word at all. Fugo isn't sure what Trish is looking for, but all he has is a bitter, frustrated sadness. It shouldn't be him. Those were Narancia's words and this is Narancia's dance. But if he says nothing, if he keeps it locked up in his memory, it's the same as if there was no one to remember it at all. And isn't it worse, to suffocate Narancia's memory? He can't stand that thought.
He deserves to remembered. He deserves to be mourned, by the people who were loyal with him to the very end.]
I don't know if I can describe how I feel about it. But it's not a bother and I'm willing.
[Is this where he should say something like "I'm glad you wanted to be his friend"? "I wish you had more time together"? "Thank you for thinking of him"? All of them seem so pithy, so false. Especially from him. So he doesn't write any of them.]
I'll do my best to teach you. I'm not a good teacher and I'm not a good dancer, but I want to share what I remember with you. That way, it can live on.
He deserves to remembered. He deserves to be mourned, by the people who were loyal with him to the very end.]
I don't know if I can describe how I feel about it. But it's not a bother and I'm willing.
[Is this where he should say something like "I'm glad you wanted to be his friend"? "I wish you had more time together"? "Thank you for thinking of him"? All of them seem so pithy, so false. Especially from him. So he doesn't write any of them.]
I'll do my best to teach you. I'm not a good teacher and I'm not a good dancer, but I want to share what I remember with you. That way, it can live on.
Edited 2022-07-03 04:25 (UTC)
[It feels...sort of like there's a clash. She's not sure where, and maybe it's the inner war in Fugo coming out, but he gently deflects her words. She's not a bother. He's willing.
But he does feel some kind of way about it.
She wants him to feel the tiniest bit better about it, but he can't, right? When someone's gone, even if remembering them is deserved and ultimately a balm, it's still painful. They're still gone. Remembering them is also a reminder of the void they've left behind. But there's no sense in backing off now.]
I appreciate it, Fugo.
Whenever you're ready, just reach out to me. I can't promise to be a good student or a good dancer myself, but that's fine, I think. It's not about being good.
[Everything about Narancia was unrefined, unpolished...but lively as could be. She doubts he'd care that they did it perfectly. Just the fact they're dancing at all would doubtlessly make him happy.
That's enough.]
But he does feel some kind of way about it.
She wants him to feel the tiniest bit better about it, but he can't, right? When someone's gone, even if remembering them is deserved and ultimately a balm, it's still painful. They're still gone. Remembering them is also a reminder of the void they've left behind. But there's no sense in backing off now.]
I appreciate it, Fugo.
Whenever you're ready, just reach out to me. I can't promise to be a good student or a good dancer myself, but that's fine, I think. It's not about being good.
[Everything about Narancia was unrefined, unpolished...but lively as could be. She doubts he'd care that they did it perfectly. Just the fact they're dancing at all would doubtlessly make him happy.
That's enough.]
[It's not about being good. This isn't the first time Fugo has heard this sentiment, but it's rare enough that he can count the instances on his fingers. It feels wholly foreign.
But she isn't wrong. Narancia's dance, for as particular as he was about them all being in sync, was about expressing something that couldn't be said in words. It was a part of himself that he wanted to share with his friends. That's why, as uncomfortable as he is to be the one sharing it, he knows it's right to share it with Trish.]
You say that. But you're too stubborn to settle for anything but the best.
I'll try to keep that in mind. But only as long as you do.
But she isn't wrong. Narancia's dance, for as particular as he was about them all being in sync, was about expressing something that couldn't be said in words. It was a part of himself that he wanted to share with his friends. That's why, as uncomfortable as he is to be the one sharing it, he knows it's right to share it with Trish.]
You say that. But you're too stubborn to settle for anything but the best.
I'll try to keep that in mind. But only as long as you do.
[Obviously, Fugo can't see it, but that comment does inspire a brief smile from her. He knows her too well.
But really, his best will be shown the moment he reaches out again. Asking this of him is already a lot.]
You have my word, Fugo.
Promise.
But really, his best will be shown the moment he reaches out again. Asking this of him is already a lot.]
You have my word, Fugo.
Promise.
[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.
[There's almost no chance Fugo won't regret asking this question. Because Giorno answers it honestly.]
well, i recently learned from riley that she felt anxious about sexual changes she experienced but was too embarrassed to express those anxieties to me, even though we talk about almost everything and i could actually be helpful in this situation. it was a bit hurtful, but after she explained [in capslock] that this was in part because she struggles with being physically comfortable with herself overall, it made me think of you. i wondered, is fugo in a similar situation, where he is concerned about asking for support around such things? i felt it was important to tell you that you don't need to be.
i also considered mentioning this to trish, but she's so avoidant of talking about her changes that it seems like a nonstarter. i also like being alive.
well, i recently learned from riley that she felt anxious about sexual changes she experienced but was too embarrassed to express those anxieties to me, even though we talk about almost everything and i could actually be helpful in this situation. it was a bit hurtful, but after she explained [in capslock] that this was in part because she struggles with being physically comfortable with herself overall, it made me think of you. i wondered, is fugo in a similar situation, where he is concerned about asking for support around such things? i felt it was important to tell you that you don't need to be.
i also considered mentioning this to trish, but she's so avoidant of talking about her changes that it seems like a nonstarter. i also like being alive.
Edited (clarification) 2022-07-28 21:07 (UTC)
[ 
]
[In real physical life, Fugo reads Giorno's message, mutters Jesus Christ, and goes a deep violet from the tips of his ears and down the back of his neck. Thankfully, his hands are busy with a thread and needle, so he has minimal temptation to send Giorno something along the lines of what the hell??????
That would not be helpful in the situation. Because as absolutely mortifying as it is to receive this message, both for himself and for Riley, it's immediately distinct from the ways Giorno goes out of his way to tease and fluster him for sport. No, this message is sincere. Painfully so. He can easily see Giorno's train of thought, how it began with Riley and ends with him.
He just ... needs a minute. To not let the startled garbage in his brain spill out onto the screen via his fingers. Eventually, he jabs his needle into a pincushion and attempts to make sense of this conversation that he's having.]
I'm glad your survival instincts are strong when it comes to Trish, but you might want to keep that sort of thing in mind for Riley too. Given that this is a subject that she's sensitive about and finds embarrassing to discuss, even with someone she trusts as much as she trusts you, I'm not sure she would appreciate you sharing that with me.
To answer your question, so you don't have to worry, I have not had changes of that nature as an arachne (beyond the obvious changes to my skin and blood color). Which is honestly a relief, as pedipalps sound like a tremendous pain in the ass to deal with when paired with human anatomy. It probably would be different if I was a "drider" arachne but, you know, whatever. Many things would be different in that scenario.
As for how I feel about my physical changes in general... I don't know. That's harder to pin down. They're uncomfortable and annoying, I guess? I'm sick of all this purple? But I think you know those things already. And that's just part and parcel of living in a physical body anyway. So I haven't really given it much thought.
][In real physical life, Fugo reads Giorno's message, mutters Jesus Christ, and goes a deep violet from the tips of his ears and down the back of his neck. Thankfully, his hands are busy with a thread and needle, so he has minimal temptation to send Giorno something along the lines of what the hell??????
That would not be helpful in the situation. Because as absolutely mortifying as it is to receive this message, both for himself and for Riley, it's immediately distinct from the ways Giorno goes out of his way to tease and fluster him for sport. No, this message is sincere. Painfully so. He can easily see Giorno's train of thought, how it began with Riley and ends with him.
He just ... needs a minute. To not let the startled garbage in his brain spill out onto the screen via his fingers. Eventually, he jabs his needle into a pincushion and attempts to make sense of this conversation that he's having.]
I'm glad your survival instincts are strong when it comes to Trish, but you might want to keep that sort of thing in mind for Riley too. Given that this is a subject that she's sensitive about and finds embarrassing to discuss, even with someone she trusts as much as she trusts you, I'm not sure she would appreciate you sharing that with me.
To answer your question, so you don't have to worry, I have not had changes of that nature as an arachne (beyond the obvious changes to my skin and blood color). Which is honestly a relief, as pedipalps sound like a tremendous pain in the ass to deal with when paired with human anatomy. It probably would be different if I was a "drider" arachne but, you know, whatever. Many things would be different in that scenario.
As for how I feel about my physical changes in general... I don't know. That's harder to pin down. They're uncomfortable and annoying, I guess? I'm sick of all this purple? But I think you know those things already. And that's just part and parcel of living in a physical body anyway. So I haven't really given it much thought.
Edited 2022-07-30 23:43 (UTC)
[???]
well, you're not going to tell her. you never tell anyone anything. so it's fine, isn't it?
[ISN'T IT?????????]
good, though. not that you don't have those specific changes but that you're not bothered by it. a lot of people seem to be very troubled by those changes, and that's frankly much less troubling to me than my lack of FEET.
i don't think i agree that being in a physical body is inherently uncomfortable and annoying, though. i don't think it's meant to be?
well, you're not going to tell her. you never tell anyone anything. so it's fine, isn't it?
[ISN'T IT?????????]
good, though. not that you don't have those specific changes but that you're not bothered by it. a lot of people seem to be very troubled by those changes, and that's frankly much less troubling to me than my lack of FEET.
i don't think i agree that being in a physical body is inherently uncomfortable and annoying, though. i don't think it's meant to be?
Of course not, on top of my usual disinclinations Riley would kill me if she ever found out. But me not telling anyone about it isn't the same as me not knowing about it, which I believe would be Riley's preference in this case. Does that make more sense?
Well, I had to deal with things moving internally when I was a mer. But once I got used to it and thought it over, I found it made a certain amount of sense given that form's aquatic nature. But I agree, as startling as those changes can be, at least in my experience they aren't really any more or less startling than any of the rest.
Oh. Well, that's probably just my personal experience in this case. Feel free to disregard.
[Fugo. That isn't something you just casually bring up and then drop. Fugo.]
Well, I had to deal with things moving internally when I was a mer. But once I got used to it and thought it over, I found it made a certain amount of sense given that form's aquatic nature. But I agree, as startling as those changes can be, at least in my experience they aren't really any more or less startling than any of the rest.
Oh. Well, that's probably just my personal experience in this case. Feel free to disregard.
[Fugo. That isn't something you just casually bring up and then drop. Fugo.]
[Fugo is very patient with him. It has taken him until this exact moment to realize that what Fugo is being with him right now is patient, and he possibly does not deserve it. There's a significant pause as he rolls all of this advice around in his head and tries to decide if he should feel bad about it.]
[Ultimately:] i think it does. but i'm going to think about it a bit more, because i'm not sure i entirely get it yet. i would like to understand. it's just confusing because i don't understand why it's so important to keep secret.
that isn't something you just casually bring up and then drop, fugo............. [FUGO!!]
[Ultimately:] i think it does. but i'm going to think about it a bit more, because i'm not sure i entirely get it yet. i would like to understand. it's just confusing because i don't understand why it's so important to keep secret.
that isn't something you just casually bring up and then drop, fugo............. [FUGO!!]
If it helps, I think what matters in this situation is less an immediate and complete understanding of her perspective and more respecting her boundaries. Think of it as a way to help her feel safe with you. The safer she feels, the easier it will be for the two of you to understand each other.
Oh. Well. I suppose so, especially given the context of the conversation. Sorry, I'm not trying to brush you off! It's just something I came to terms with a long time ago, I guess.
But given all of those ellipses, I feel as if that's a sentiment you aren't going to agree with.
Oh. Well. I suppose so, especially given the context of the conversation. Sorry, I'm not trying to brush you off! It's just something I came to terms with a long time ago, I guess.
But given all of those ellipses, I feel as if that's a sentiment you aren't going to agree with.
oh. yes, that helps. that helps a lot. i will still think about it more, but that's a better angle to approach it from. thank you, fugo.
it's not about brushing me off, fugo! it's not even changing the subject, it's actually extremely relevant. but i'm not going to drop it, either. i want to know who gave you the impression that you should feel that uncomfortable in your body as a baseline.
[
]
it's not about brushing me off, fugo! it's not even changing the subject, it's actually extremely relevant. but i'm not going to drop it, either. i want to know who gave you the impression that you should feel that uncomfortable in your body as a baseline.
[
]You're always welcome, Giogio. I'm glad to help.
[And then, a gap. Fugo isn't entirely certain want to say. He isn't even sure he wants to say anything else about it. But it's out there now, isn't it. If he asked Giorno for time, he would give it to him. But he wouldn't drop it and he wouldn't let it go.]
I don't know. It's something that... I don't think it was any one person in particular. And it's difficult to recall a specific point when it began. Sorry.
[And then, a gap. Fugo isn't entirely certain want to say. He isn't even sure he wants to say anything else about it. But it's out there now, isn't it. If he asked Giorno for time, he would give it to him. But he wouldn't drop it and he wouldn't let it go.]
I don't know. It's something that... I don't think it was any one person in particular. And it's difficult to recall a specific point when it began. Sorry.
[On the other end, Giorno pulls a pained face.]
please don't apologize. you haven't done anything wrong. i don't want you to feel as though you have.
it's not about that, you know? it's about — i want to understand. you know how i feel about the idea of "normal," but hating your own skin so much, that's not something everyone experiences, and it's certainly not something you deserve.
please don't apologize. you haven't done anything wrong. i don't want you to feel as though you have.
it's not about that, you know? it's about — i want to understand. you know how i feel about the idea of "normal," but hating your own skin so much, that's not something everyone experiences, and it's certainly not something you deserve.
I know. Or at least I think I do. I want to.
It's not something I feel like I deserve so much as something that just... is. It's just always been this way. It's difficult to imagine anything else, so I... forget, sometimes, that it isn't something that most people experience.
[Always, always, always. He has been the odd one out, the one with all the extra little rules to follow just to spend an hour or two outside. There was always someone who noticed when he slouched, or caught him scowling behind an annoying teacher's back. When his grandfather inspected his hands, no matter how many times they tried to correct the bad habit, he was inevitably bitterly disappointed by his grandson's short and bitten fingernails.]
It's a sort of heaviness. Even before Ryslig. I would wake up, my head would ache, and my body would be heavy. Some days it feels lighter than others. Others, it just drags. Either way, when I look in the mirror, I don't see anything particularly wrong; just myself. And I push through it.
It's not something I feel like I deserve so much as something that just... is. It's just always been this way. It's difficult to imagine anything else, so I... forget, sometimes, that it isn't something that most people experience.
[Always, always, always. He has been the odd one out, the one with all the extra little rules to follow just to spend an hour or two outside. There was always someone who noticed when he slouched, or caught him scowling behind an annoying teacher's back. When his grandfather inspected his hands, no matter how many times they tried to correct the bad habit, he was inevitably bitterly disappointed by his grandson's short and bitten fingernails.]
It's a sort of heaviness. Even before Ryslig. I would wake up, my head would ache, and my body would be heavy. Some days it feels lighter than others. Others, it just drags. Either way, when I look in the mirror, I don't see anything particularly wrong; just myself. And I push through it.
[I don't see anything particularly wrong; just myself. And I push through it.]
[There's so much in that statement, isn't there. Something that must feel so simple, so natural for Fugo to say — does he understand how much it reveals about him? It does hurt to read. But at the same time, he asked for it.]
[It's just hard, loving someone so much when they don't love themselves.]
i see.
i don't think it's fair to say "i understand" since i'm sure it's not exactly the same. but i used to feel that way all the time. i still do, sometimes. i just lie.
[There's so much in that statement, isn't there. Something that must feel so simple, so natural for Fugo to say — does he understand how much it reveals about him? It does hurt to read. But at the same time, he asked for it.]
[It's just hard, loving someone so much when they don't love themselves.]
i see.
i don't think it's fair to say "i understand" since i'm sure it's not exactly the same. but i used to feel that way all the time. i still do, sometimes. i just lie.
[Something in his heart seizes. The slow and subtle shift of a glacier, dragging its wounded belly over cracked and barren stone. He thinks of whales. Of baleen, calves being pushed up to the surface for their first gasping breath of air. Bright eyes hidden under dark fringe, peeping at him from over the edge of a couch arm, eyes that belonged to someone who learned to keep very still and very quiet.
They have never spoken about that time. Of the week they spent as Haruno and Panni.]
Can I come see you? We don't have to talk about this over the network.
[This conversation is difficult. It's a little easier, for him at least, with the distance of the network between them. But he hates it. The idea of gift-wrapping this knowledge, when it is something so painful that Giorno won't speak of it on his own, and just handing it over to Elias.]
They have never spoken about that time. Of the week they spent as Haruno and Panni.]
Can I come see you? We don't have to talk about this over the network.
[This conversation is difficult. It's a little easier, for him at least, with the distance of the network between them. But he hates it. The idea of gift-wrapping this knowledge, when it is something so painful that Giorno won't speak of it on his own, and just handing it over to Elias.]
[He's surprised. That's not a strong enough word, really — the question tugs at him like a hook, neither bad nor good but unquestionably unusual. This isn't fun for either of them, not really, and while Giorno would be fine doing this in person at this point, Fugo doesn't like being vulnerable face to face.]
[But.]
[Over the network. After a moment it clicks: Elias. Is — Fugo worried? Even about something this personal? Or is it especially because of something this personal?]
yes. of course. if you're sure that's all right.
[If he's sure that it won't be too much . . . he's always welcome. Even if it's hard.]
[But.]
[Over the network. After a moment it clicks: Elias. Is — Fugo worried? Even about something this personal? Or is it especially because of something this personal?]
yes. of course. if you're sure that's all right.
[If he's sure that it won't be too much . . . he's always welcome. Even if it's hard.]
I'm sure.
I'm on my way.
[Fugo closes his laptop. He takes a breath, closes his eyes, and breathes.]
[A while later, notably much longer than it ought to have taken Fugo to make the trip from his bedroom down the hall to Giorno's, there's a soft... well, it's not a knock. It's a sort of thud and tap. This is because Fugo, hands full with a tray carrying two steaming mugs and a plate of little shortbread cookies, has used one of his spider legs to carefully knock on Giorno's bedroom door.]
Giogio? It's Fugo.
I'm on my way.
[Fugo closes his laptop. He takes a breath, closes his eyes, and breathes.]
[A while later, notably much longer than it ought to have taken Fugo to make the trip from his bedroom down the hall to Giorno's, there's a soft... well, it's not a knock. It's a sort of thud and tap. This is because Fugo, hands full with a tray carrying two steaming mugs and a plate of little shortbread cookies, has used one of his spider legs to carefully knock on Giorno's bedroom door.]
Giogio? It's Fugo.
Edited 2022-08-15 01:57 (UTC)
[When Giorno opens the door, he isn't nervous.]
[He's not sure what emotion it is he's feeling, actually. The whole situation feels strange. When he let himself say it over text, he began to drift a little. That was safe to do, since they were only talking on the laptops. But Fugo is coming to see him now, and he's not able to entirely pull himself back. Not yet.]
[So what Fugo sees is a version of Giorno who is marginally, but not significantly, more vague-seeming than his usual self. The way he stands is off, maybe; he doesn't focus quite right. But he does smile at the gesture, looking at the cookies as though he might snag one off of the plate. It's too much effort in the end, but he does think about it.]
Come in. Here, you can just set that on the bed.
[Because that's where Giorno plans to sit, and if Fugo knows what's good for him he'll sit there too. Roots curling in loose spirals, he climbs up into his usual spot, the small of his back pressed against his headboard, as all of his pillows have been shoved aside.]
[He's not sure what emotion it is he's feeling, actually. The whole situation feels strange. When he let himself say it over text, he began to drift a little. That was safe to do, since they were only talking on the laptops. But Fugo is coming to see him now, and he's not able to entirely pull himself back. Not yet.]
[So what Fugo sees is a version of Giorno who is marginally, but not significantly, more vague-seeming than his usual self. The way he stands is off, maybe; he doesn't focus quite right. But he does smile at the gesture, looking at the cookies as though he might snag one off of the plate. It's too much effort in the end, but he does think about it.]
Come in. Here, you can just set that on the bed.
[Because that's where Giorno plans to sit, and if Fugo knows what's good for him he'll sit there too. Roots curling in loose spirals, he climbs up into his usual spot, the small of his back pressed against his headboard, as all of his pillows have been shoved aside.]
[Fugo follows Giorno, bare feet quiet and spider feet clicking on the floor as he pads along behind him. He can't help but watch the way Giorno moves, the shapes his roots make as he shifts along the floor. Dozens-- hundreds-- of tiny vibrations echo through the floor with each step, shivering up through each of his four legs to his shoulders.]
Thank you.
[His voice is quiet, subdued. He isn't sure what to do with himself, or how to hold himself, or where to put himself. He places the tray on the bed as requested, within easy reach of Giorno's vines. And then, after a moment of thought he spends biting the inside of his cheek, Fugo snags one of the mugs and holds it between his palms. He stretches two of his longer legs over the other side of the bed and hauls himself up and over, winding up in a mirror of Giorno's position at the foot of the bed.]
Sorry I took so long. I-- made some tea. [Ginger tea. But that should be obvious, from the smell.] ... yours has extra sugar.
Thank you.
[His voice is quiet, subdued. He isn't sure what to do with himself, or how to hold himself, or where to put himself. He places the tray on the bed as requested, within easy reach of Giorno's vines. And then, after a moment of thought he spends biting the inside of his cheek, Fugo snags one of the mugs and holds it between his palms. He stretches two of his longer legs over the other side of the bed and hauls himself up and over, winding up in a mirror of Giorno's position at the foot of the bed.]
Sorry I took so long. I-- made some tea. [Ginger tea. But that should be obvious, from the smell.] ... yours has extra sugar.
[It's good when Fugo sits on the bed with him. It's good that he can see Fugo's face. It's good that Fugo is here, he realizes; it calms him, it soothes him, it makes him feel safer. This is better than talking over the network for more reasons than just Elias.]
[Fugo made some tea. Giorno smiles, fond and faintly amused — and a bit more present, as though the warmth of this gesture has anchored him more in reality.] I see that. Thank you. Don't apologize.
[Not for extra sugar, certainly. One of his vines does, in fact, slither out to wrap around the other mug's handle; the heat of it, though, is best held between his hands, which is where the mug is ultimately deposited. He'll go for the cookies, too. Just not yet. Best to drink this while it's hot.]
[It's quiet for a moment, then. Something that feels like peace falls for a while. The rustle of leaves breaks it as Giorno adjusts, one leg crossing over the other at the ankles.]
. . . Are you upset? [A beat, then clarification:] That I brought it up, that is. We don't have to talk about that.
[Fugo made some tea. Giorno smiles, fond and faintly amused — and a bit more present, as though the warmth of this gesture has anchored him more in reality.] I see that. Thank you. Don't apologize.
[Not for extra sugar, certainly. One of his vines does, in fact, slither out to wrap around the other mug's handle; the heat of it, though, is best held between his hands, which is where the mug is ultimately deposited. He'll go for the cookies, too. Just not yet. Best to drink this while it's hot.]
[It's quiet for a moment, then. Something that feels like peace falls for a while. The rustle of leaves breaks it as Giorno adjusts, one leg crossing over the other at the ankles.]
. . . Are you upset? [A beat, then clarification:] That I brought it up, that is. We don't have to talk about that.
[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.]
[Fugo must have hated that smell, he thinks absently; Fugo hates any strong smell, he gets nauseous so easily. Or is it possible that he couldn't smell anything but blood? He'll have to review the dossier. He still has it, back in the real world, or whatever Ryslig is.]
[Footsteps behind him. His hands fall to his sides as he half-turns.]
[It does. It really, really does.]
Fugo.
[There's so much in one word, two syllables: guilt, apology, shame, gratitude, relief, the aching loneliness the two of them share that can never be entirely banished, that no one understands but them. And even with this shared knowledge, this unspoken communication, neither of them can do anything to stop the show.]
[Footsteps behind him. His hands fall to his sides as he half-turns.]
Gio . . .[Disorienting, like being at the bottom of a well as someone shouts your name. He almost stumbles, but catches himself. There's anxiety in the set of his shoulders, the perfection of his posture. Behind him comes an addendum: Giogio flows off the tongue nicely, don't you think?]Giogio—? Call me Giogio.
[It does. It really, really does.]
Fugo.
[There's so much in one word, two syllables: guilt, apology, shame, gratitude, relief, the aching loneliness the two of them share that can never be entirely banished, that no one understands but them. And even with this shared knowledge, this unspoken communication, neither of them can do anything to stop the show.]
You must have a lot of questions.
You’re awake.
[There is no hiding the naked relief in his voice. Even though he shouldn't be, selfishly, twin coals of gratitude and relief burn in his chest. Giorno is awake. He hasn't fallen through the gaps between the fog's fingers back into the sea of stars. He is still with them.
And for a moment, everything else falls away. The theater, the stage, the memory playing out in front of him. Fugo moves forward to close what distance remains between them until they stand side by side, shoulder to shoulder, close enough to touch. He doesn't give himself room to doubt. He reaches out to take his hand, to feel it between his own.]
You're here.
[In this awful place. With-- finally, he turns, to look at the stage. Ah, it hurts. It hurts and it's written all over his face, he's sure, to see this memory put on display. Fugo watches his hands reach up to touch his cheeks, his mouth, his throat. His self on the stage is in shock: he can't believe that he has been healed, so perfectly and so cleanly that he didn't even realize it until the lingering smell of oil and garlic flooded his senses.]
[There is no hiding the naked relief in his voice. Even though he shouldn't be, selfishly, twin coals of gratitude and relief burn in his chest. Giorno is awake. He hasn't fallen through the gaps between the fog's fingers back into the sea of stars. He is still with them.
And for a moment, everything else falls away. The theater, the stage, the memory playing out in front of him. Fugo moves forward to close what distance remains between them until they stand side by side, shoulder to shoulder, close enough to touch. He doesn't give himself room to doubt. He reaches out to take his hand, to feel it between his own.]
You're here.
[In this awful place. With-- finally, he turns, to look at the stage. Ah, it hurts. It hurts and it's written all over his face, he's sure, to see this memory put on display. Fugo watches his hands reach up to touch his cheeks, his mouth, his throat. His self on the stage is in shock: he can't believe that he has been healed, so perfectly and so cleanly that he didn't even realize it until the lingering smell of oil and garlic flooded his senses.]
[The first statement strikes him, and it shows, lips curling down in a moue of concern. Has it been very long? How long? How long has he left Fugo alone in this place? — not alone, not really, but it feels like his responsibility — is his responsibility.]
[His fingers curl into a loose fist, hand braced at the wrist by the closed fingers of his other hand, the whole nervous conglomerate resting over his heart. But Fugo takes his hand, and he lets the other fall without thinking about it, nervous gesture banished by that simple gesture.]
Found my way back to you, [he murmurs, a semi-conscious echo of that first day on the grime-covered beach in a garden before a cottage whose owner he never confirmed but suspects he knows. The words come from the emotion, not the memory, which doesn't occur to him directly. He just — knows. He knows what he feels is the same as that moment.]
[But Fugo turns to look at the stage. Squeezing his hand, Giorno lifts his other hand to cradle Fugo's jaw and rest their foreheads together, forcing attention back onto himself. On the stage, Fugo speaks properly for the first time.]
I can't stop it. I'm sorry. I know it's private. It's not for anyone else.
[His fingers curl into a loose fist, hand braced at the wrist by the closed fingers of his other hand, the whole nervous conglomerate resting over his heart. But Fugo takes his hand, and he lets the other fall without thinking about it, nervous gesture banished by that simple gesture.]
Found my way back to you, [he murmurs, a semi-conscious echo of that first day on the grime-covered beach in a garden before a cottage whose owner he never confirmed but suspects he knows. The words come from the emotion, not the memory, which doesn't occur to him directly. He just — knows. He knows what he feels is the same as that moment.]
[But Fugo turns to look at the stage. Squeezing his hand, Giorno lifts his other hand to cradle Fugo's jaw and rest their foreheads together, forcing attention back onto himself. On the stage, Fugo speaks properly for the first time.]
Why me? I'm a traitor. You can't trust me.[In the space between them, a tiny universe, Giorno shakes his head minutely, a repetitive movement in time to the music that seems meant to self-soothe as much as to deny the false Fugo's statement.]
I can't stop it. I'm sorry. I know it's private. It's not for anyone else.
[There is a warm touch at the corner of his jaw. The light prickle of a claw, grown just a little longer than Giorno likes to keep them. This is all it takes for Fugo to turn back to Giorno, leaving the stage nothing but a colorless blur in his peripheral vision. He knows what the Giorno on stage will say, between one sip of water from his crystal clear glass and the other, next. If he wanted to, he could mouth the words along with him.]
Because for all of its pain, all the fear and the uncertainty, this is a good memory. This is the heart of his belief in Giorno. Very selfishly, he doesn't want to share it. Fugo shivers, as his shadow stiffens; caught and pinned, unable to move as his rotten guts are pulled out. Because what Giorno has just said, the real Giorno, flesh and blood and sap and leaf, is in itself an echo. Of when Giorno reached out to meet him halfway, even though he himself had no memory of the promise.]
I believed you would.
[It's selfish to think of it that way. Giorno has more than just him to come back to: he has Steve, he has Trish, he has Riley. He has all the children of the orphanage. And although neither of them would admit it, he has Abbacchio too. But in this moment, with Giorno expressing the same sentiment, maybe it's alright to be a little selfish. Giorno found his way back to him. He isn't alone in the theater after all. It's alright to be relieved. To feel, in some distant way, gladness.]
I know.
[I know, he says, and it's obvious that he hates it. There is nothing either of them can do to stop it. There is no way to know who might have seen this play already; who might come upon it after they leave. Fugo takes a breath, shallow, not-quite-panicked. There's a just barely contained storm in his lungs that he can't let out. Instead, hesitantly, not quite in rhythm, he mirrors Giorno's gesture. Does that make it better? Does being close help, at least a little?]
Don't apologize. It's yours too.
[This memory, even though he has carried it alone this whole time, belongs just as much to Giorno as it ever has to Fugo. Haruno's pain and loneliness-- yakitori, they tell me it helped me to grow, his mother-- have been put on ghoulish display. It was shared in confidence; a desperate bid to reach across the gap to someone so burdened by grief that he could no longer move forward.]
"That is your worst trait. You don't believe what you just said."[Fugo swallows. This scene is burned into his memory. Having it unfold next to him all over again, on a stage, a show for whoever might walk past guts him in a way that Venice can't.
Because for all of its pain, all the fear and the uncertainty, this is a good memory. This is the heart of his belief in Giorno. Very selfishly, he doesn't want to share it. Fugo shivers, as his shadow stiffens; caught and pinned, unable to move as his rotten guts are pulled out. Because what Giorno has just said, the real Giorno, flesh and blood and sap and leaf, is in itself an echo. Of when Giorno reached out to meet him halfway, even though he himself had no memory of the promise.]
I believed you would.
[It's selfish to think of it that way. Giorno has more than just him to come back to: he has Steve, he has Trish, he has Riley. He has all the children of the orphanage. And although neither of them would admit it, he has Abbacchio too. But in this moment, with Giorno expressing the same sentiment, maybe it's alright to be a little selfish. Giorno found his way back to him. He isn't alone in the theater after all. It's alright to be relieved. To feel, in some distant way, gladness.]
I know.
[I know, he says, and it's obvious that he hates it. There is nothing either of them can do to stop it. There is no way to know who might have seen this play already; who might come upon it after they leave. Fugo takes a breath, shallow, not-quite-panicked. There's a just barely contained storm in his lungs that he can't let out. Instead, hesitantly, not quite in rhythm, he mirrors Giorno's gesture. Does that make it better? Does being close help, at least a little?]
Don't apologize. It's yours too.
[This memory, even though he has carried it alone this whole time, belongs just as much to Giorno as it ever has to Fugo. Haruno's pain and loneliness-- yakitori, they tell me it helped me to grow, his mother-- have been put on ghoulish display. It was shared in confidence; a desperate bid to reach across the gap to someone so burdened by grief that he could no longer move forward.]
Edited 2022-10-09 22:29 (UTC)
. . . It's mine too.
[That's true. Truer, now; he can keep his eyes closed and still know what's happening, not from having read it but from having lived it. Seconds ago, it seems, or some fraction of seconds, such a tiny sliver of time it's impossible to measure. All of this feels like an echo of something only just said.]
[He's never said it. Never once. The actor-Fugo is shivering behind him, he knows, and he shudders too, an echo of sorrow that all of them share, the real things and the memories and the pseudo-selves together. None of them has a monopoly on grief.]
I'm sorry for leaving you behind, [he manages, though it comes out rough and shaky around the lump in his throat.] It — mattered. Even to me, even so soon after meeting you, it mattered. You've always mattered to me, Fugo. You know that now, don't you?
[He doesn't realize until after the words are out that he's pleading.]
[That's true. Truer, now; he can keep his eyes closed and still know what's happening, not from having read it but from having lived it. Seconds ago, it seems, or some fraction of seconds, such a tiny sliver of time it's impossible to measure. All of this feels like an echo of something only just said.]
You don't believe you betrayed anyone, [the actor-self is saying.] You imagine we see you as a traitor, and you voice that notion preemptively.[Giorno's hands find Fugo's, both of his for both of Fugo's, and squeeze. It's painful to think about. It hurts. He feels so utterly shattered. Of all of them, he truly didn't think Fugo would stay behind.]
That's what you said that day, too.
[He's never said it. Never once. The actor-Fugo is shivering behind him, he knows, and he shudders too, an echo of sorrow that all of them share, the real things and the memories and the pseudo-selves together. None of them has a monopoly on grief.]
I'm sorry for leaving you behind, [he manages, though it comes out rough and shaky around the lump in his throat.] It — mattered. Even to me, even so soon after meeting you, it mattered. You've always mattered to me, Fugo. You know that now, don't you?
[He doesn't realize until after the words are out that he's pleading.]
[Fugo stares. He watches Giorno’s eyes slip close; the way his eyelashes cast the faintest shadow on his face. His cold hands go limp in Giorno’s, fingers twitching, face pale with the shock of what this means.
Giorno has closed his eyes, because he doesn’t need to watch. There are two narrators on this stage. Fugo’s rotten corpse and Giorno’s faceless mirror. A thick breath escapes his lungs, the shadow of a sob still trapped within the cage of his body. His awful, hulking body is still so heavy. But the loneliness of the six months that separated has lifted from his shoulders.
This is Giorno’s memory too.]
It’s yours too. [Traitorously, he can feel the tremble in his mouth; the way his face goes tight with tears long unshed, blotchy patches of color rising to his cheeks.] You remember.
[Behind them, the memory continues. There is nothing either of them can do to stop it. The Giorno on the stage pushes forward, grimly determined to knock down every doubt Fugo might have had before he could even voice it. Back then, this had frightened him. Now, listening to it all over again, he can sense how tightly Giorno held himself. The actor on the stage is a void in his vibration sense; so intently focused on the Fugo in front of him that he barely breathes.
In front of him, the real Giorno takes his hands and holds them. His grip tightens and doesn’t loosen. Giorno holds onto him desperately; afraid, though not as much as he was that day in November, that Fugo might slip away from him if he doesn’t hold on as tight as he can.]
[Over and over, Fugo has heard things like this.
I can’t forgive you when I never blamed you in the first place.
There’s also nothing “wrong” with wanting to survive.
The mission was a success - and in addition, you survived. That’s why I don’t regret it. Not my choice and not yours either.
None of them blame him. None of them resent him. Over and over, Fugo has been told that he has nothing to apologize for; that there was nothing in his stance that was incorrect. This knowledge doesn’t comfort him. It doesn’t make the distance between the stone steps of the San Giorgio Maggiore and the boat any smaller. The knot of grief and guilt, pulled tight around his heart, doesn't loosen. If anything, it has only become tighter over time.
Because if he didn't do anything wrong, then why did none of them say goodbye? Why didn't they even look back? Was it really that easy to leave him behind?
Fugo doesn't want to think about any of it. It's too selfish, too horrible, too painful. He can't. He won't. He would rather be the one at fault, to shoulder the blame, than to consider any of that. He'll drown that pain as many times as it takes, so it never reaches the surface again.]
[Giorno, though. Giorno reaches past him. Draws it up, gasping for air, and holds it carefully with both hands.]
[I'm sorry for leaving you behind. You've always mattered to me, Fugo.]
I didn't know it that morning. I was afraid. I-- ... couldn't even bear to think about it.
[This hurts him to admit. But he thinks ... that Giorno knows, already. That the half of a step Fugo could make that morning was accepting that Giorno wanted him by his side; that he cared to try, that he cared to reach him where he was.]
Not the way I do now.
[Fugo doesn't want Giorno to let go of his hands. Giorno shouldn't have to let go if he doesn't want to. Instead, two of the long limbs on Fugo's back reach up and around to angle awkwardly around Giorno's shaking shoulders. He can feel it. Each shiver of emotion; each tremble of things left unsaid.]
"Did you come back to me, Fugo?"
[This hurts to remember, but in a better way. He remembers the numb shock of realizing how far apart they were; the way Fugo's cheeks are wet with tears, but he's smiling. Soft, crooked, warm.]
When I washed up on the shore, you asked me that. Almost before anything else. You met me halfway before you even knew you had promised it to me.
[It's been just over a year since then. Little by little, living and working together side-by-side, they have come to know each other. Accepting that he matters to Giorno-- that he has always mattered to Giorno, who risked everything to save him in Pompeii-- is part of meeting him halfway.]
Giorno has closed his eyes, because he doesn’t need to watch. There are two narrators on this stage. Fugo’s rotten corpse and Giorno’s faceless mirror. A thick breath escapes his lungs, the shadow of a sob still trapped within the cage of his body. His awful, hulking body is still so heavy. But the loneliness of the six months that separated has lifted from his shoulders.
This is Giorno’s memory too.]
It’s yours too. [Traitorously, he can feel the tremble in his mouth; the way his face goes tight with tears long unshed, blotchy patches of color rising to his cheeks.] You remember.
[Behind them, the memory continues. There is nothing either of them can do to stop it. The Giorno on the stage pushes forward, grimly determined to knock down every doubt Fugo might have had before he could even voice it. Back then, this had frightened him. Now, listening to it all over again, he can sense how tightly Giorno held himself. The actor on the stage is a void in his vibration sense; so intently focused on the Fugo in front of him that he barely breathes.
In front of him, the real Giorno takes his hands and holds them. His grip tightens and doesn’t loosen. Giorno holds onto him desperately; afraid, though not as much as he was that day in November, that Fugo might slip away from him if he doesn’t hold on as tight as he can.]
[Over and over, Fugo has heard things like this.
I can’t forgive you when I never blamed you in the first place.
There’s also nothing “wrong” with wanting to survive.
The mission was a success - and in addition, you survived. That’s why I don’t regret it. Not my choice and not yours either.
None of them blame him. None of them resent him. Over and over, Fugo has been told that he has nothing to apologize for; that there was nothing in his stance that was incorrect. This knowledge doesn’t comfort him. It doesn’t make the distance between the stone steps of the San Giorgio Maggiore and the boat any smaller. The knot of grief and guilt, pulled tight around his heart, doesn't loosen. If anything, it has only become tighter over time.
Because if he didn't do anything wrong, then why did none of them say goodbye? Why didn't they even look back? Was it really that easy to leave him behind?
Fugo doesn't want to think about any of it. It's too selfish, too horrible, too painful. He can't. He won't. He would rather be the one at fault, to shoulder the blame, than to consider any of that. He'll drown that pain as many times as it takes, so it never reaches the surface again.]
[Giorno, though. Giorno reaches past him. Draws it up, gasping for air, and holds it carefully with both hands.]
[I'm sorry for leaving you behind. You've always mattered to me, Fugo.]
I didn't know it that morning. I was afraid. I-- ... couldn't even bear to think about it.
[This hurts him to admit. But he thinks ... that Giorno knows, already. That the half of a step Fugo could make that morning was accepting that Giorno wanted him by his side; that he cared to try, that he cared to reach him where he was.]
Not the way I do now.
[Fugo doesn't want Giorno to let go of his hands. Giorno shouldn't have to let go if he doesn't want to. Instead, two of the long limbs on Fugo's back reach up and around to angle awkwardly around Giorno's shaking shoulders. He can feel it. Each shiver of emotion; each tremble of things left unsaid.]
"Did you come back to me, Fugo?"
[This hurts to remember, but in a better way. He remembers the numb shock of realizing how far apart they were; the way Fugo's cheeks are wet with tears, but he's smiling. Soft, crooked, warm.]
When I washed up on the shore, you asked me that. Almost before anything else. You met me halfway before you even knew you had promised it to me.
[It's been just over a year since then. Little by little, living and working together side-by-side, they have come to know each other. Accepting that he matters to Giorno-- that he has always mattered to Giorno, who risked everything to save him in Pompeii-- is part of meeting him halfway.]
Edited 2023-05-18 01:35 (UTC)
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