[ 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. ]
no subject
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?