[Giorno's answer isn't particularly kind. But in this situation, in these particular circumstances, he has very little room to be kind. Not about this. Not when it involves someone as close to his heart as Riley is. His kindness has been spent in the consideration of her privacy in how to tell this story, which cannot be told without without showing at least some of her deepest hurts. Showing even this much, talking about her in this way, is obviously painful for him.]
You are not obligated to be objective. Not about this. Not with me.
[He means that sincerely. It is not an exaggeration to say that Fugo would follow Giorno to the end of the earth and back again; he's also capable of making up his own mind about the situation. But, more than that, is this: Lucid or not, planned or impulsive, the devastating aftermath of Riley's actions in the past two weeks remains the same.]
Earlier, you said that I might have noticed some similarities between the two of you. But this is one of the ways in which you are different. She was shocked, but you are angry. Because, by bringing them to a facility that is not equipped to handle such a large increase in residents, she has likely introduced more danger and insecurity into the lives of the children she wanted to save.
[So far, Fugo has only caught a glimpse of it. A flickering shadow that stretches across the hall from another room, just solid enough for him to make out what Giorno has trusted him with. Giorno is angry with Riley because, despite what they have shared, even though he cares so much for her, she did not consider what things might look like six months from now. What after might look like wasn't as important as the now, when the after should have been the first thing she thought about.]
[Back home, it has barely been a month since the last time he saw Fugo. Even with so little time past, people already whisper about him. They whisper, some of them, sometimes, when they think he doesn't hear: Fugo is a traitor. Fugo betrayed the boss. A messy, twisted lens through which to see reality, but one that is becoming frustratingly pervasive.]
[Although from a practical perspective, from a logical and hierarchical perspective, this might be true, Giorno has never felt betrayed by Fugo. Fugo would never have had to prove himself, he believes, if Fugo had not so desperately needed to prove loyalty to himself. Fugo has never, ever done something that has caused Giorno to lose faith in him.]
[As he listens, Giorno realizes . . . the same can no longer be said for Riley.]
[That's the basic problem here, isn't it? This is something Fugo would never do. Trish wouldn't. Mista wouldn't. Of course Bruno wouldn't. He would never in a thousand years have thought something like this would come from anyone he cares about, but if it had, not Riley. Never Riley. Not Riley, who understands what it's like to feel so helpless and so small that existence is terrifying. Surely she would put herself in the position to imagine what such a thing would feel like for her, if she were the child shoved into a strange place and not the righteous avenger punishing the world for her hurts.]
[He was wrong.]
. . . She said she didn't know me very well after all.
[His voice is hoarse, his knuckles pale where he grips his glass of water. Its surface tremors. After too many too-long seconds, he realizes it's because he's shaking. With great care, he wraps a vine around the glass and sets it on Fugo's bedside table. His hands end up bunched in loose fists on his lap.]
But we've talked about everything. There is almost nothing she doesn't know about me. She knows what's most important to me. She's told me what she most fears about herself and I told her that those things don't frighten me, because they don't. It never occurred to me that she would do something like this. That she would be this careless with children. Use them as props in this — pageantry. She clearly cares about them, but not enough to do this right, and that's not good enough.
[It's not. It's not acceptable. His throat is dry, knuckles white again, eyes wide and voice soft. Fugo is right: he's angry. This is his anger in its purest form, undiluted by grief or shock. Anything but this, anything at all, he could tolerate.]
I'm rarely wrong about people. But I'm beginning to think I put too much faith in Riley.
[From someone like him, who uses his own resolve as a guiding star, it's a condemnation. Of Riley, yes, but of himself, too. He trusted too much this time, it seems.]
[Fugo listens. He tries not to stare, to give Giorno the time and the space he needs to work through what he wants to say. He doesn't push. Once he has finished speaking, even though a part of him wants to fill the unhappy silence, he waits for Giorno to be ready to speak on his own terms. Because it's difficult, isn't it? Even for someone like Giorno, usually so certain and eloquent. To find the words to describe this sort of rejection.
Trust doesn't come easily for people like them. It is always a choice, rather than an instinct; one made with the implicit knowledge that trust is synonymous with vulnerability, because to trust is to allow another close enough to hurt. Giorno trusted Riley. Not just with some things, but as with as much of himself as he could. Obviously her rejection hurt him; Fugo can hear that pain in the hoarseness of his voice, see it in the tremor of his shoulders. All of his moments are so precise. So careful. Because if he doesn't take care, he will break something.
But what Giorno cannot wrap his mind around, what makes him so angry that he can't trust himself to hold onto his glass of water for fear of it inevitably cracking and shattering in his white-knuckled grip, is how Riley couldn't see how this spiral of violence she's thrown herself into runs contrary to everything Giorno stands for as a person. Everything he has ever fought and killed and bled for. She is too caught up in the spectacle of it, blinded by her own desire to play the heroine.]
[So, the question is this. Was it wrong of Giorno to trust Riley? To believe they were the same, that she shared his convictions? And where does he go from here?]
Do you think... it's possible to know someone too well?
[It's an odd question to pose. And Fugo knows it, before he even says it. But it's the only way that he knows how to begin. He's spent his whole life trying to know, really know, the people around him. So he can guess at what they want, what they need-- what he can give them that no one else can. So he can stay one step ahead. So he can always be ready for what happens next. But that's not how it works, is it?]
What I mean to say is... sometimes, even when you understand someone as well as two people can possibly know each other, you can still be blindsided by them. Maybe it's even easier, because you think you already know how they will act.
[Fugo shakes his head, then presses his mouth together. He won't bring it up here. But when Bucciarati first emerged from the basilica with Trish unconscious in his arms, Fugo knows that his first emotion in that moment was shock. That he just couldn't believe it. Even though he had known Bucciarati was hiding something from him, from all of them, the scope of it was unimaginable.]
I don't think you were wrong to trust her. But you aren't wrong to be angry with her either. She has chosen a path that you can't and won't ever follow her down.
[Giorno isn't sure that Riley can stop herself. But she is the only one who can end this. Just like trust, if Riley wants to have a relationship with Giorno and the children, she must choose to give this up. She has to put the children before her own anger, her own pain.]
What will matter most, what will say the most about her, is what she chooses to do next.
[Now that Giorno has made Riley look, forced her to acknowledge her own blind spot, will she be able to bring herself to stop? What will she do to protect and provide for the children whose lives she has thrust herself into? Giorno has already made up his mind what he wants to do. Hopefully, when the worst of whatever maelstrom that swallowed Riley whole passes, she will be able to meet him halfway.]
[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.
[The air in the room is heavy. No, not heavy: taut. Taut with tension, not between them, but winding tighter and tighter from Giorno. He's so focused. And then it clicks. No wonder, is what Giorno says, as a piece of the puzzle slides into place.
And yet ... there's no real release. This realization is painful. He laughs, but it's all teeth and bitter sharp edges. There's something around the edges that seems lighter, but that's just a brief break in the clouds. When Giorno reaches to touch his forehead, to hide his eyes behind his fingers and palm, he moves as if his own limbs are impossibly heavy. There is so much yet to do, but he is already exhausted. His own shoulders twinge in sympathetic, familiar pain.]
I don't ...
[What happens next isn't something Fugo intends. Not exactly. It's just that the legs, the change he's been dreading for months, that are a part of his body but don't feel like his at all-- he doesn't quite have a handle on them yet. When they move, he either has to think about what he wants to do. Or they move on their own, reaching to catch and balance him when he stumbles. In this moment he thinks, Giorno is so far away, and, he looks so alone.
Before he can catch himself, stop it before it happens, one of the upper legs stretches out and just sort of. Rests? On Giorno's taut shoulder, in what has to be the world's strangest "hand" on the shoulder.]
-- really-- know ... anything else. Either. [Oh, no. There are things he wants to say, to help the best he can, but they've gotten all mixed up in his own discombobulation over what his own stupid legs are up to. He thinks: lift up and it does, a little, hovering awkwardly around Giorno's ear. He doesn't pull entirely away, worried a little about moving too quickly and accidentally running into Giorno on his way back out.] Sorry, they ... I'm still getting used to them.
[All of this is terribly complicated. But Fugo . . . well, it's not that he's simple. But he provides something simpler. The ill-mannered behavior of his wayward limbs, an automatic gesture of comfort that Fugo can't catch quick enough to talk himself out of it. The heaviness on Giorno's face lifts instantly at the touch to his shoulder and flies away as though nothing's been wrong all along when he turns to see Fugo's spider-paw resting solemnly upon it.]
[He doesn't have time to rest his own hand atop it before Fugo pulls it away, so he takes it between his hands instead. He doesn't want it to go any farther.]
It's okay. I don't mind.
[The opposite, if anything. He desperately needs comfort, and he doesn't care which of Fugo's limbs it comes from, thanks. If anything, he's just grateful to the leg for letting him know what would help.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
You are not obligated to be objective. Not about this. Not with me.
[He means that sincerely. It is not an exaggeration to say that Fugo would follow Giorno to the end of the earth and back again; he's also capable of making up his own mind about the situation. But, more than that, is this: Lucid or not, planned or impulsive, the devastating aftermath of Riley's actions in the past two weeks remains the same.]
Earlier, you said that I might have noticed some similarities between the two of you. But this is one of the ways in which you are different. She was shocked, but you are angry. Because, by bringing them to a facility that is not equipped to handle such a large increase in residents, she has likely introduced more danger and insecurity into the lives of the children she wanted to save.
[So far, Fugo has only caught a glimpse of it. A flickering shadow that stretches across the hall from another room, just solid enough for him to make out what Giorno has trusted him with. Giorno is angry with Riley because, despite what they have shared, even though he cares so much for her, she did not consider what things might look like six months from now. What after might look like wasn't as important as the now, when the after should have been the first thing she thought about.]
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[Although from a practical perspective, from a logical and hierarchical perspective, this might be true, Giorno has never felt betrayed by Fugo. Fugo would never have had to prove himself, he believes, if Fugo had not so desperately needed to prove loyalty to himself. Fugo has never, ever done something that has caused Giorno to lose faith in him.]
[As he listens, Giorno realizes . . . the same can no longer be said for Riley.]
[That's the basic problem here, isn't it? This is something Fugo would never do. Trish wouldn't. Mista wouldn't. Of course Bruno wouldn't. He would never in a thousand years have thought something like this would come from anyone he cares about, but if it had, not Riley. Never Riley. Not Riley, who understands what it's like to feel so helpless and so small that existence is terrifying. Surely she would put herself in the position to imagine what such a thing would feel like for her, if she were the child shoved into a strange place and not the righteous avenger punishing the world for her hurts.]
[He was wrong.]
. . . She said she didn't know me very well after all.
[His voice is hoarse, his knuckles pale where he grips his glass of water. Its surface tremors. After too many too-long seconds, he realizes it's because he's shaking. With great care, he wraps a vine around the glass and sets it on Fugo's bedside table. His hands end up bunched in loose fists on his lap.]
But we've talked about everything. There is almost nothing she doesn't know about me. She knows what's most important to me. She's told me what she most fears about herself and I told her that those things don't frighten me, because they don't. It never occurred to me that she would do something like this. That she would be this careless with children. Use them as props in this — pageantry. She clearly cares about them, but not enough to do this right, and that's not good enough.
[It's not. It's not acceptable. His throat is dry, knuckles white again, eyes wide and voice soft. Fugo is right: he's angry. This is his anger in its purest form, undiluted by grief or shock. Anything but this, anything at all, he could tolerate.]
I'm rarely wrong about people. But I'm beginning to think I put too much faith in Riley.
[From someone like him, who uses his own resolve as a guiding star, it's a condemnation. Of Riley, yes, but of himself, too. He trusted too much this time, it seems.]
no subject
Trust doesn't come easily for people like them. It is always a choice, rather than an instinct; one made with the implicit knowledge that trust is synonymous with vulnerability, because to trust is to allow another close enough to hurt. Giorno trusted Riley. Not just with some things, but as with as much of himself as he could. Obviously her rejection hurt him; Fugo can hear that pain in the hoarseness of his voice, see it in the tremor of his shoulders. All of his moments are so precise. So careful. Because if he doesn't take care, he will break something.
But what Giorno cannot wrap his mind around, what makes him so angry that he can't trust himself to hold onto his glass of water for fear of it inevitably cracking and shattering in his white-knuckled grip, is how Riley couldn't see how this spiral of violence she's thrown herself into runs contrary to everything Giorno stands for as a person. Everything he has ever fought and killed and bled for. She is too caught up in the spectacle of it, blinded by her own desire to play the heroine.]
[So, the question is this. Was it wrong of Giorno to trust Riley? To believe they were the same, that she shared his convictions? And where does he go from here?]
Do you think... it's possible to know someone too well?
[It's an odd question to pose. And Fugo knows it, before he even says it. But it's the only way that he knows how to begin. He's spent his whole life trying to know, really know, the people around him. So he can guess at what they want, what they need-- what he can give them that no one else can. So he can stay one step ahead. So he can always be ready for what happens next. But that's not how it works, is it?]
What I mean to say is... sometimes, even when you understand someone as well as two people can possibly know each other, you can still be blindsided by them. Maybe it's even easier, because you think you already know how they will act.
[Fugo shakes his head, then presses his mouth together. He won't bring it up here. But when Bucciarati first emerged from the basilica with Trish unconscious in his arms, Fugo knows that his first emotion in that moment was shock. That he just couldn't believe it. Even though he had known Bucciarati was hiding something from him, from all of them, the scope of it was unimaginable.]
I don't think you were wrong to trust her. But you aren't wrong to be angry with her either. She has chosen a path that you can't and won't ever follow her down.
[Giorno isn't sure that Riley can stop herself. But she is the only one who can end this. Just like trust, if Riley wants to have a relationship with Giorno and the children, she must choose to give this up. She has to put the children before her own anger, her own pain.]
What will matter most, what will say the most about her, is what she chooses to do next.
[Now that Giorno has made Riley look, forced her to acknowledge her own blind spot, will she be able to bring herself to stop? What will she do to protect and provide for the children whose lives she has thrust herself into? Giorno has already made up his mind what he wants to do. Hopefully, when the worst of whatever maelstrom that swallowed Riley whole passes, she will be able to meet him halfway.]
no subject
[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.
no subject
And yet ... there's no real release. This realization is painful. He laughs, but it's all teeth and bitter sharp edges. There's something around the edges that seems lighter, but that's just a brief break in the clouds. When Giorno reaches to touch his forehead, to hide his eyes behind his fingers and palm, he moves as if his own limbs are impossibly heavy. There is so much yet to do, but he is already exhausted. His own shoulders twinge in sympathetic, familiar pain.]
I don't ...
[What happens next isn't something Fugo intends. Not exactly. It's just that the legs, the change he's been dreading for months, that are a part of his body but don't feel like his at all-- he doesn't quite have a handle on them yet. When they move, he either has to think about what he wants to do. Or they move on their own, reaching to catch and balance him when he stumbles. In this moment he thinks, Giorno is so far away, and, he looks so alone.
Before he can catch himself, stop it before it happens, one of the upper legs stretches out and just sort of. Rests? On Giorno's taut shoulder, in what has to be the world's strangest "hand" on the shoulder.]
-- really-- know ... anything else. Either. [Oh, no. There are things he wants to say, to help the best he can, but they've gotten all mixed up in his own discombobulation over what his own stupid legs are up to. He thinks: lift up and it does, a little, hovering awkwardly around Giorno's ear. He doesn't pull entirely away, worried a little about moving too quickly and accidentally running into Giorno on his way back out.] Sorry, they ... I'm still getting used to them.
no subject
[He doesn't have time to rest his own hand atop it before Fugo pulls it away, so he takes it between his hands instead. He doesn't want it to go any farther.]
It's okay. I don't mind.
[The opposite, if anything. He desperately needs comfort, and he doesn't care which of Fugo's limbs it comes from, thanks. If anything, he's just grateful to the leg for letting him know what would help.]
Can you come sit with me? Please.