[Fugo's composure cracks. His eyes widen, just barely, with shock.]
[It's been years since he's put this sort of wall up around Bucciarati. It's a hasty construction, built on top of an unsteady foundation. And once it cracks, it crumbles. As it always is with Fugo, no matter how hard he tries, what he feels is written plain on his face. His mouth works. His fingers tremble, then tighten. He bites the inside of his cheek, then ducks his head down and away.]
That's ... backwards. [Fugo numbly mumbles, his thick with emotion.] If anyone was the enemy, it was me.
[Bucciarati left without looking back. With no regrets. Of course he did. The choice he made was right. Doesn't he get it? Doesn't he see how Fugo betrayed his ideals? Isn't that how it works, in their world?]
I would have let her die. [That's the truth. The awful, horrible truth. He regrets it. He regretted it even before he came to know Trish, but especially now that he does. It's disgusting.] We were all free to choose, but I-- ... the choice I made was wrong. It went against everything you tried to teach me.
[When Fugo looks up, his expression is a tangled tapestry of hurt. He just doesn't understand. How can Bucciarati stand to look at him, now that he knows how weak-hearted and selfish he is? How can he not just be willing to work with him, but ... still want to be his friend?]
How can you still have faith in me after that day?
[ there's the real Fugo. No more of the careful posturing or protective walls. As raw as he is, as tangible as the conflict inside him feels, that Fugo opens up to him still brings Bruno a small amount of relief. The new divide yawning between them isn't too wide to be crossed. ]
No. You chose to live.
[ the fact of the matter is that both of them have killed to survive countless times. They both know. Why did Bruno draw the line at Trish? It was arbitrary, at some level; the Boss had killed innocents before, without a doubt, and Trish would simply have been the next to fall. There was no personal stake. None of them knew her. It was purely ideals that stayed his hand - personal ideals, lofty ones, grand illusions of a future that he'd shared with only Giorno. Why should Fugo have believed the same?
He does now. It's clear in his torn expression and strained words; he's said as much, that he was wrong, betraying the morals that bound Bucciarati like steel. But he didn't then, in Bruno's mind. Fugo wasn't willingly choosing the wrong path, voluntarily rejecting some 'teachings,' as he says; he had no desire to see Trish put down. Fugo was simply choosing survival, and for Bruno to disparage him for that would make him a hypocrite. Choosing survival was what put them all in this strange little group of misfits in the first place. ]
You lacked conviction. And you lacked confidence - in yourself, and in me. That was my failing. [ he should have helped Fugo more; perhaps he leaned on him too much, took more from him than he gave. Regardless, he continues, his voice quiet but strong, even against the backdrop of his exhaustion: ] But you lived. You survived to have regrets, and you went back to Passione to start making changes. You've grown.
[ he curls his fingers around the handle of his mug. ]
I won't pretend that I never had doubts, but it's clear to me that my faith in you wasn't misplaced. If I still had any, you've dispelled them tonight.
[Fugo doesn't cry. He gave it up, even when alone, a lifetime ago. Crying is stupid, crying is childish, crying doesn't change anything. He cried for the first time in a decade in front of Giorno, over the photograph of the team he couldn't follow. If not for that, he wouldn't be able to recognize the signs of the tears that threaten to fall now. His face gets red and blotchy; the corners of his eyes prickle.
Fugo swipes, frustrated, at his eyes with the knuckle of his thumb. He isn't going to cry. Not in front of Bucciarati. Not over this.]
[It's difficult to say, how he feels. He's so confused. How ... can his perspective and Bucciarati's about what happened be so different? What makes his life so valuable? Even now, so selfishly, Fugo knows what he wanted in that moment was for them to live. He just can't see it. How he has grown, how Bucciarati can still have so much faith in him. It just doesn't match up with what he has come to accept as the truth.]
I'll... do my best. Not to let you down. [Again hangs in the air, not spoken, but written in dark letters on his heart.] Moving forward.
I'm sorry. [His jaw tightens.] Because it wasn't your failing, Bucciarati. It was mine.
[ he's never seen Fugo cry; he supposes he still hasn't, technically, with how Fugo's fighting for his life to keep those tears in. The signs are there, though, and that's enough. Bucciarati's expression softens further, despite the fact that Fugo most certainly doesn't want his sympathy. Sometimes, there's no helping these things. He's never been able to stop himself from caring. ]
I told you - I blame you for nothing.
[ Bruno can't say exactly what Fugo is thinking. For all their similarities, their minds work in very different ways. He doesn't doubt that Fugo hears what he's saying, though, and maybe that's where the problem lies - his desire to listen conflicting with this obvious guilt he's still wrestling with. (That, Bruno understands. Surviving isn't easy; those feelings won't go away in one night.)
For now, being heard - not being pushed further away - is enough. This is not his team, and it's not his future. It's Giorno's, and it's Fugo's, too, and he will have to learn to let them go on without him one day. But that day hasn't come yet, and when it does, he'll be able to bid Fugo farewell properly. As a friend, not a traitor. ]
I don't want your apologies... but I will take your best efforts. [ though one hand is still at his mug, he leans over the table just slightly, extending his other towards Fugo, open and waiting. It would be patronizing to pat him on the head or rub his shoulder - or, rather, Bruno knows Fugo would take it that way. A handshake, though - that should be acceptably mature. ] To moving forward. I'll walk with you while I still can.
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[It's been years since he's put this sort of wall up around Bucciarati. It's a hasty construction, built on top of an unsteady foundation. And once it cracks, it crumbles. As it always is with Fugo, no matter how hard he tries, what he feels is written plain on his face. His mouth works. His fingers tremble, then tighten. He bites the inside of his cheek, then ducks his head down and away.]
That's ... backwards. [Fugo numbly mumbles, his thick with emotion.] If anyone was the enemy, it was me.
[Bucciarati left without looking back. With no regrets. Of course he did. The choice he made was right. Doesn't he get it? Doesn't he see how Fugo betrayed his ideals? Isn't that how it works, in their world?]
I would have let her die. [That's the truth. The awful, horrible truth. He regrets it. He regretted it even before he came to know Trish, but especially now that he does. It's disgusting.] We were all free to choose, but I-- ... the choice I made was wrong. It went against everything you tried to teach me.
[When Fugo looks up, his expression is a tangled tapestry of hurt. He just doesn't understand. How can Bucciarati stand to look at him, now that he knows how weak-hearted and selfish he is? How can he not just be willing to work with him, but ... still want to be his friend?]
How can you still have faith in me after that day?
[After Fugo has already betrayed him?]
no subject
No. You chose to live.
[ the fact of the matter is that both of them have killed to survive countless times. They both know. Why did Bruno draw the line at Trish? It was arbitrary, at some level; the Boss had killed innocents before, without a doubt, and Trish would simply have been the next to fall. There was no personal stake. None of them knew her. It was purely ideals that stayed his hand - personal ideals, lofty ones, grand illusions of a future that he'd shared with only Giorno. Why should Fugo have believed the same?
He does now. It's clear in his torn expression and strained words; he's said as much, that he was wrong, betraying the morals that bound Bucciarati like steel. But he didn't then, in Bruno's mind. Fugo wasn't willingly choosing the wrong path, voluntarily rejecting some 'teachings,' as he says; he had no desire to see Trish put down. Fugo was simply choosing survival, and for Bruno to disparage him for that would make him a hypocrite. Choosing survival was what put them all in this strange little group of misfits in the first place. ]
You lacked conviction. And you lacked confidence - in yourself, and in me. That was my failing. [ he should have helped Fugo more; perhaps he leaned on him too much, took more from him than he gave. Regardless, he continues, his voice quiet but strong, even against the backdrop of his exhaustion: ] But you lived. You survived to have regrets, and you went back to Passione to start making changes. You've grown.
[ he curls his fingers around the handle of his mug. ]
I won't pretend that I never had doubts, but it's clear to me that my faith in you wasn't misplaced. If I still had any, you've dispelled them tonight.
no subject
Fugo swipes, frustrated, at his eyes with the knuckle of his thumb. He isn't going to cry. Not in front of Bucciarati. Not over this.]
[It's difficult to say, how he feels. He's so confused. How ... can his perspective and Bucciarati's about what happened be so different? What makes his life so valuable? Even now, so selfishly, Fugo knows what he wanted in that moment was for them to live. He just can't see it. How he has grown, how Bucciarati can still have so much faith in him. It just doesn't match up with what he has come to accept as the truth.]
I'll... do my best. Not to let you down. [Again hangs in the air, not spoken, but written in dark letters on his heart.] Moving forward.
I'm sorry. [His jaw tightens.] Because it wasn't your failing, Bucciarati. It was mine.
no subject
I told you - I blame you for nothing.
[ Bruno can't say exactly what Fugo is thinking. For all their similarities, their minds work in very different ways. He doesn't doubt that Fugo hears what he's saying, though, and maybe that's where the problem lies - his desire to listen conflicting with this obvious guilt he's still wrestling with. (That, Bruno understands. Surviving isn't easy; those feelings won't go away in one night.)
For now, being heard - not being pushed further away - is enough. This is not his team, and it's not his future. It's Giorno's, and it's Fugo's, too, and he will have to learn to let them go on without him one day. But that day hasn't come yet, and when it does, he'll be able to bid Fugo farewell properly. As a friend, not a traitor. ]
I don't want your apologies... but I will take your best efforts. [ though one hand is still at his mug, he leans over the table just slightly, extending his other towards Fugo, open and waiting. It would be patronizing to pat him on the head or rub his shoulder - or, rather, Bruno knows Fugo would take it that way. A handshake, though - that should be acceptably mature. ] To moving forward. I'll walk with you while I still can.