[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.]
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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.
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.