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.
< Eb7#9 >
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.