[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.]
"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.]
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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.]