[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.
no subject
[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.