[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.
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[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.