[Before he leaves, Fugo makes one last check of his kit. He has had this ready since it became clear that he was stuck here for the long term-- just in case. It contains the following: his laptop, three changes of clothes, a pair of pajamas, travel-sized bottles of bathroom essentials, a hairbrush and a toothbrush, enough cash to support him for a week, and an assortment of knives.
When Abbacchio catches Fugo, he is at the door. He's wearing dark and muted clothes, a far cry from the garish colors he usually favors. His hair, too, has been pinned away from his face and tied back on the nape of his neck. Even his usual dangling earrings are missing, replaced with a pair of nondescript studs. Wherever he's going, he means business.]
I'm going to Persephone's. [Fugo sets his bag down on the floor and reaches for his coat. Even with the split panels in the back, which make it a little easier, getting the garment on is an entire ordeal.] Right now, the only Monster there is Jodariel. It's extremely vulnerable-- and a likely target, if Giorno's double continues to escalate.
[This is not a hunt. But he has drawn a line; a calculated position on the board.]
[ Fugo's level of preparation would be familiar to Abbacchio. It's second nature to both of them; even before Passione, he suspects. He doesn't like this; the idea of him going off alone, he never has. It doesn't matter how capable Fugo is, doesn't matter that he's able to defend himself – and Abbacchio knows this, he'd made sure of it – but above that he knows that this is something he has to do. Something he needs to do, even outside of any responsibilities he has at the orphanage, if something happened and he was absent, Fugo would never forgive himself.
So Abbacchio offers no protests, and instead of offering to go with him, (because really, what use would he be there?) he places a hand atop Fugo's shoulder, levels him with a hard gaze. ]
Listen to me. Don't do anything reckless. Rely on Jodariel if you have to, and if you need help, ask.
[ Abbacchio doesn't care who he chooses for help, whether it be himself, Bucciarati, or even Jodariel. He'd met her, briefly, yes, but if Fugo trusts her, then so does he. Anyone else he might know of to ask for help, he's sure that Fugo would do his best to ensure they're who he thinks they are.
He takes the coat, helps Fugo adjust it, because he doesn't think it's fair to watch him struggle with it on top of everything else, even if it's only a minor thing, it's something he can do. ]
[Abbacchio reaches out and rests a hand on his shoulder.]
[Fugo senses it coming. He sees the movement in his lateral eyes, the vague impression of Abbacchio's arm reaching towards him, and he feels it too, in the way Abbacchio shifts his weight and leans forward. Even so. Even so, his tight muscles bunch up further. Fugo looks up at Abbacchio, surprise swimming somewhere in the sea of nothing he's adrift in, and it's really him this time, the Fugo behind the things he needs to get done and take care of. Fugo, who is always surprised and never quite knows what to do with gestures of care. He doesn't pull away. Fugo, worn down with grief and guilt and regret.
I should have been there. I should have looked for him sooner. I shouldn't have let him go alone.
He just watches, throat thick with emotion he can't let himself express, and allows Abbacchio to take the coat from his hands and help him into it. It's much easier when someone helps him get the panels settled, but Fugo never asks. When he moves to fasten the buttons down the front, it's with trembling fingers. He then closes his eyes, takes a breath, and holds it. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. When he exhales, it's not as shaky as he thought it would be.]
Thank you. [At first, his voice is soft; rough around the edges with everything that he's holding in. But it gets easier, as he goes, to reign himself back in. To duck back out of sight.] I'll work closely with Jodariel. I've packed my laptop. I'll check in when I can. If you want to hear from me, just send me a message.
[There are two things Fugo cannot allow. He can't let the orphanage come to any harm. He must protect it. But, at the same time-- he can't let himself be killed. As strange as it is, as little sense as it makes, Fugo knows that Giorno would never be able to forgive himself if Fugo let himself die for this. He has to live. He has to keep moving forward, no matter what.]
Look after Bucciarati. [And let him look after you, he thinks, but doesn't say.] And-- ... if you check on her, could you bring Trish some water? Just in case she wakes up. The brand she prefers is in the main kitchen's refrigerator. I've written her name on the bottles it so no one drinks it accidentally.
[ He doesn't need to read minds to know what Fugo is probably thinking – it's written across his face, in the way he holds himself, in his steely determination to see this through.
The truth is, Abbacchio feels the same way. He and Giorno may not be on the same page; he may not even care about him in the same way he does Fugo, but he can't help feeling some burden of responsibility. That he should have done more. Should have done anything. Logically, he knows it's unreasonable. What could he have done? If Giorno was no match for his own doppelganger, Abbacchio would have been dealt with as easily as swatting a fly.
Abbacchio wants to tell Fugo this isn't his fault. That no blame here lies with him – or any of them – but if someone were to offer those words to Abbacchio, they wouldn't do anything, not right now, and he can only guess that Fugo would be of the same mind. He bites his tongue while Fugo allows him to help, remains silent as he inhales and holds himself together, despite how hard Abbacchio knows this must be for him – and fleetingly, he remembers just how far this kid has come, and why he's proud of him in the first place.
All that leaves is to do whatever he can do now. Meeting Fugo's eyes, he tilts his head forward in acquiescence, a silent promise to keep an eye on both Bucciarati and Trish. He retrieves Fugo's bag from where he set it down and holds it out towards him, expression softening at the edges just slightly. ]
[Fugo accepts the bag. Nods. Where Abbacchio softens, Fugo seems to sharpen. Before, he was just out of foucs. Now ... what he needs to do feels clear and certain. He can set his own doubts and anxiety aside, at least for a little while.]
I'll be back soon.
[And then he turns, opens the door, and carefully closes it behind him-- so the cold doesn't get in.]
[It's a long while before Fugo comes back to Hill House. It's not until the doppelgangers are dead and gone. And, even then, it's only to rest. Abbacchio won't see much of him in the days after the doppelgangers disappear and before Giorno revives because, even though the danger has passed, there are still things to take care of. Messes to clean up. And, unfortunately, an appetite to sate.
One night, Abbacchio will find Fugo in the kitchen. He isn't doing anything in particular. Waiting, mostly. He sits at the counter with a glass of water in front of him, resting on a coaster. There are some recently washed dishes drying next to the sink: a frying pan and spatula, a plate, a fork and a knife. A set of oddly shaped knives, including what's clearly a small hand saw, rest on a towel, waiting to be packed into their carrying case. There's a lingering smell of garlic and oil in the air, not so dissimilar from a normal meal.]
Hello, Abbacchio. You're still awake?
[He doesn't turn when Abbacchio enters the room. Although it's unsettling, there is an explanation for it: between his extra limbs and extra eyes Fugo has a very, very wide area of awareness. When he's paying attention to these extra senses, it is nearly impossible catch him by surprise. Meticulous as always, he has also learned to isolate and identify the footsteps of his housemates. Especially those he knows from home. ]
[ Once Fugo leaves, the brief check-ins over the network did nothing to assuage any of the building tensions that Abbacchio may or may not (definitely) have had. It isn't that long before he sees Fugo again, but it feels like it – when the presence of someone has become familiar, it's hard not to notice when they're not there.
He hadn't intended to catch Fugo like this, nor does it really surprise him that Fugo knows it's him without turning – extra senses aside, the two have spent enough time around each other that the idea he would simply recognise the sound of Abbacchio's footsteps doesn't strike him as out of the ordinary. What does strike him as odd, is that Fugo questions his still being awake. Why is it that everyone seems so surprised to see him around at odd hours? As if he's ever had a decent sleep schedule. That's a better excuse than the truth in this case, at least, that he's barely slept all week. That it's near impossible to do so when he's so hyper aware of the fact that Giorno's body isn't too far away. It's disconcerting.
As Abbacchio enters the kitchen properly, his eyes linger on the tools that have been left out for a moment longer than necessary, before he very pointedly decides not to mention them, Fugo's business is his own, and frankly Abbacchio doesn't think it's a conversation he can stomach right now. Instead, he turns his gaze towards Fugo instead. ]
Mhm. Sorry if I'm disturbing you.
[ It's barely an answer. He knows that, though he can't really be blamed for it. Silently, he gets his own glass and fills it with water. When he sets it down on the counter, he's at least retrieved a coaster for it, if only for Fugo's sake. He sits, far enough away from Fugo that he's not encroaching on his space, and rests both his elbows on the surface; dropping his face into his hands and rubbing at his eyes. There's a beat of silence before he eventually rests his face against a single hand, turning to face Fugo. His words are quiet, inelegant, but sincere. Barefaced as he is, it's easy to see the relief clear on his face, even through his exhaustion. ]
[Fugo shakes his head. The gesture displaces his bangs; he reaches to push them behind his ear. They're too long to stay without a hairpin, so they fall back into their usual position almost immediately.]
It's fine. I'm done with that, more or less.
[It's just a matter of waiting for his tools to dry, so he can pack them back up again. Fugo quietly watches as Abbacchio pours himself a glass of water and settles in a seat at the counter, close enough to talk but not so close that he feels overbearing. A comfortable distance. Abbacchio almost looks like a different person without his makeup on-- but Fugo knows this face, too. They've spent more than their fair share of time late at night in a kitchen, sipping lukewarm tap water and avoiding going back to bed. The kitchen might be different, but everything else is the same.]
It's good to see you too. [The words are stiff, but sincere. Or at least as sincere as Fugo gets when he's like this.] Can't sleep?
[ Abbacchio watches him quietly, and in the back of his mind makes a note to buy extra bobby pins the next time he needs more hair ties- which will likely be soon given how he's been going through them here, because wow, they really are not made to last, are they?
Sitting like this, despite the circumstances and how discomfiting it could be, it really doesn't feel like that. It's not as though it's comfortable by any means, but nor is it uncomfortable. It just is. For all the shit they sling at each other, there have been plenty of other times like this, too; a neutral state that the two of them can slip into, without putting up a front and allowing themselves, however briefly, to merely exist with no expectations. ]
Something like that, yeah. [ And because he feels like Fugo will pick up on it anyway, he adds: ] Not that I was getting much, to begin with.
[ He's sure he doesn't need to explain. Letting his gaze move away from Fugo, he drinks some of the water, not bothering with polite sips, there's no need for table manners here between them. There are a lot of things about Abbacchio that Fugo is privy to just by the nature of their history, yet very little is anything Abbacchio has actually shared himself.
Something about this whole thing with Giorno and the reality of this place is beginning to set like stone. It has him wondering exactly what the point is in holding things so close to his chest. Fugo is here now, yes, but there was the distinct possibility that he might not have arrived back, that he too could have been found dead. The thought alone has him gripping the edge of the counter, knuckles audibly cracking.
Why is it so difficult to say the things that really, truly matter? Whether it's that that has been weighing heavily on his mind, or if it's the sleep deprivation affecting his filter, he doesn't know. Maybe it's just the atmosphere, the fact it's just the two of them here. Whatever it is, he feels like it has to be said, so he turns to Fugo with his jaw set. ]
I mean it.
[ He sighs, heavy, unfamiliar with exactly how he's supposed to word himself without sounding like an idiot. It's easy to skirt around honesty, to hide his genuine affection behind barbs of jest, but too much has happened. ]
I really am glad you're back here. That you're safe. If anything happened to you, I– [ Whatever it is he wants to say, it gets stuck in his throat. Instead, he opts for another mouthful of water. When he speaks again, it's quieter, though no less sincere. ] You're too fuckin' important.
[Fugo nods, then doesn't needle Abbacchio with more questions. He does understand. There is an emptiness in Abbacchio, a dark mineshaft of unhappiness cut into the soft meat of his heart, and it recognizes a similar emptiness in Fugo. They have never spoken of it, never directly, but they both know.
Sometimes, misery loves company. They have spent a lot of nights together, sitting without speaking.]
[So Fugo is surprised when Abbacchio speaks. His tells aren't as obvious as they usually are; a slight downturn of the corners of his mouth, an almost imperceptible pinch of his eyebrows. And then he's just ... confused. It's not like Abbacchio to repeat himself, or to circle back to a part of a conversation that has already finished. Especially something that is, more or less, a social nicety. There is naked emotion in his voice, as bare as his pale and thin face. His throat works.
Abbacchio ... is glad that he is back in the house. That he is safe. If anything had happened-- something did happen; the double drew blood, but it's fine, he took care of it, the wound is wrapped and disinfected and only distantly aches, the pain is nothing really, he's survived much worse-- Abbacchio would have ... what? He doesn't know. Abbacchio can't get those words out, whatever they were; they got stuck, so he had to swallow them back down with the water. Abbacchio would have something, because Fugo is too... important?]
Me?
[He doesn't understand. He genuinely doesn't. He thinks he can see the shape of what Abbacchio means, but it doesn't ... fit. Not for him. It would make sense if he said this about Bucciarati, or-- ... ... or Trish, maybe. Trish is important; Trish hasn't woken up yet. But him? Fugo?]
[ Whether either of them cares to admit it aloud, they're often far more alike than they are different at times, and this is one such instance. Abbacchio knows Fugo will be doing mental gymnastics to justify Abbacchio's words; to figure out what they truly mean with logic, or if there's some sort of ulterior motive — one that he won't find simply because it doesn't exist, and there is no logic to be had because it doesn't apply here. ]
Yes, you.
[ Pinching at the bridge of his nose, it takes work not to snap a petty retort, to ask Fugo who the hell else he'd be talking to. Because he knows, he knows Fugo isn't being deliberately obtuse. They've been over this before. Inevitably, whenever anyone says anything even remotely positive about Fugo, he finds it hard to believe, and Abbacchio is the same, which is why on some intrinsic level he can't bring himself to be annoyed at Fugo for even questioning the statement.
He says he's fine, and that he handled it but the issue is that he shouldn't have had to. They shouldn't be in this mess, this god awful peninsula with its feuding gods and danger right around every corner — it's worse than Naples. That's not all though, dying offers him a different perspective. Death may not be permanent here, not for those brought in by the fog, but that doesn't change the outlook that comes with it. Everything you know, and care about can come to the end in the blink of an eye and for men like Abbacchio, who survived by keeping their cards to their chest, all that's left behind is uncertainty and questions.
So the fact remains, that to Abbacchio, Fugo is important — just as important as Bucciarati. It would be stranger if he were to say such things about Trish. While she is important, she's not significant to Abbacchio, not on a personal level, not yet, not in the way that Fugo is. It's hard to put that into words though, to explain how big of an impact Fugo's mere presence in Abbacchio's life has had.
Abbacchio could sit here and explain, or he could close the lid on that box, for now, lock it back up and deflect. ]
It doesn't matter if you see it or not, you are important. Not just to me, but to Bucciarati and to Trish. [ a pause, and then quieter ] To Giorno, too.
[Abbacchio's words float down, from elsewhere. They hang in front of him, painfully close but still just out of reach. Abbacchio is just a single step away from him: you are important. Not just to him-- as if somehow, what Abbacchio values is less and means less than what maters to the others-- but to Bucciarati, Trish. Giorno, too, even though Abbacchio is still the last holdout in their group when it comes to truly trusting him.
There was a time, once, when those words would have been-- ... he doesn't even know. A relief, maybe. At least that. The point is that he should be happy.]
[But right now, they don't seem real. He can't reach them. He doesn't know what to do with them. He just feels empty. And very, very tired.]
... I don't-- [Halting, awkward, uncomfortable. He doesn't see. He doesn't understand.] I don't know what you want me to say.
[Staying in the house was not an option. Someone had to protect the orphanage. With Bucciarati and Abbacchio's transformations still incomplete, strategically, Fugo was the best option.]
[ Abbacchio understands how easy it is to forget that people actually care, that people will continue to care. Maybe in part, he's thinking about Pompeii. How quickly he'd been willing to abandon Fugo for the sake of the mission. Both of them had been willing to do whatever was necessary, even if that meant putting themselves at risk. At the time he'd thought that was the right thing to do, there was nothing more important than their duty to carry out their mission. But now? Now he can't help but wonder what it must have been like for Fugo.
Fugo, who must have known without a doubt, what choice Abbacchio would have made. Who then would have been able to justify that choice because he would have done the same—or at least, Abbacchio believes he would have. It's part of the job. It was expected of them. But that mentality, that they aren't important—it makes it easy to throw away one's self-preservation. It comes to him easily, and when it comes down to it, he worries that Fugo is much the same, and therein lies the concern.
With what he knows now, had that mission in Pompeii gone differently, had Fugo not made it out, he thinks it would have been a devastating blow. Not to the mission—screw the mission—but to them as people. No matter how much they all try to compartmentalise. ]
I just want you to remember, even when it's hard and things get shitty.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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When Abbacchio catches Fugo, he is at the door. He's wearing dark and muted clothes, a far cry from the garish colors he usually favors. His hair, too, has been pinned away from his face and tied back on the nape of his neck. Even his usual dangling earrings are missing, replaced with a pair of nondescript studs. Wherever he's going, he means business.]
I'm going to Persephone's. [Fugo sets his bag down on the floor and reaches for his coat. Even with the split panels in the back, which make it a little easier, getting the garment on is an entire ordeal.] Right now, the only Monster there is Jodariel. It's extremely vulnerable-- and a likely target, if Giorno's double continues to escalate.
[This is not a hunt. But he has drawn a line; a calculated position on the board.]
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So Abbacchio offers no protests, and instead of offering to go with him, (because really, what use would he be there?) he places a hand atop Fugo's shoulder, levels him with a hard gaze. ]
Listen to me. Don't do anything reckless. Rely on Jodariel if you have to, and if you need help, ask.
[ Abbacchio doesn't care who he chooses for help, whether it be himself, Bucciarati, or even Jodariel. He'd met her, briefly, yes, but if Fugo trusts her, then so does he. Anyone else he might know of to ask for help, he's sure that Fugo would do his best to ensure they're who he thinks they are.
He takes the coat, helps Fugo adjust it, because he doesn't think it's fair to watch him struggle with it on top of everything else, even if it's only a minor thing, it's something he can do. ]
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[Fugo senses it coming. He sees the movement in his lateral eyes, the vague impression of Abbacchio's arm reaching towards him, and he feels it too, in the way Abbacchio shifts his weight and leans forward. Even so. Even so, his tight muscles bunch up further. Fugo looks up at Abbacchio, surprise swimming somewhere in the sea of nothing he's adrift in, and it's really him this time, the Fugo behind the things he needs to get done and take care of. Fugo, who is always surprised and never quite knows what to do with gestures of care. He doesn't pull away. Fugo, worn down with grief and guilt and regret.
I should have been there. I should have looked for him sooner. I shouldn't have let him go alone.
He just watches, throat thick with emotion he can't let himself express, and allows Abbacchio to take the coat from his hands and help him into it. It's much easier when someone helps him get the panels settled, but Fugo never asks. When he moves to fasten the buttons down the front, it's with trembling fingers. He then closes his eyes, takes a breath, and holds it. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. When he exhales, it's not as shaky as he thought it would be.]
Thank you. [At first, his voice is soft; rough around the edges with everything that he's holding in. But it gets easier, as he goes, to reign himself back in. To duck back out of sight.] I'll work closely with Jodariel. I've packed my laptop. I'll check in when I can. If you want to hear from me, just send me a message.
[There are two things Fugo cannot allow. He can't let the orphanage come to any harm. He must protect it. But, at the same time-- he can't let himself be killed. As strange as it is, as little sense as it makes, Fugo knows that Giorno would never be able to forgive himself if Fugo let himself die for this. He has to live. He has to keep moving forward, no matter what.]
Look after Bucciarati. [And let him look after you, he thinks, but doesn't say.] And-- ... if you check on her, could you bring Trish some water? Just in case she wakes up. The brand she prefers is in the main kitchen's refrigerator. I've written her name on the bottles it so no one drinks it accidentally.
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The truth is, Abbacchio feels the same way. He and Giorno may not be on the same page; he may not even care about him in the same way he does Fugo, but he can't help feeling some burden of responsibility. That he should have done more. Should have done anything. Logically, he knows it's unreasonable. What could he have done? If Giorno was no match for his own doppelganger, Abbacchio would have been dealt with as easily as swatting a fly.
Abbacchio wants to tell Fugo this isn't his fault. That no blame here lies with him – or any of them – but if someone were to offer those words to Abbacchio, they wouldn't do anything, not right now, and he can only guess that Fugo would be of the same mind. He bites his tongue while Fugo allows him to help, remains silent as he inhales and holds himself together, despite how hard Abbacchio knows this must be for him – and fleetingly, he remembers just how far this kid has come, and why he's proud of him in the first place.
All that leaves is to do whatever he can do now. Meeting Fugo's eyes, he tilts his head forward in acquiescence, a silent promise to keep an eye on both Bucciarati and Trish. He retrieves Fugo's bag from where he set it down and holds it out towards him, expression softening at the edges just slightly. ]
I'll be in touch.
cw: implied cannibalism
I'll be back soon.
[And then he turns, opens the door, and carefully closes it behind him-- so the cold doesn't get in.]
[It's a long while before Fugo comes back to Hill House. It's not until the doppelgangers are dead and gone. And, even then, it's only to rest. Abbacchio won't see much of him in the days after the doppelgangers disappear and before Giorno revives because, even though the danger has passed, there are still things to take care of. Messes to clean up. And, unfortunately, an appetite to sate.
One night, Abbacchio will find Fugo in the kitchen. He isn't doing anything in particular. Waiting, mostly. He sits at the counter with a glass of water in front of him, resting on a coaster. There are some recently washed dishes drying next to the sink: a frying pan and spatula, a plate, a fork and a knife. A set of oddly shaped knives, including what's clearly a small hand saw, rest on a towel, waiting to be packed into their carrying case. There's a lingering smell of garlic and oil in the air, not so dissimilar from a normal meal.]
Hello, Abbacchio. You're still awake?
[He doesn't turn when Abbacchio enters the room. Although it's unsettling, there is an explanation for it: between his extra limbs and extra eyes Fugo has a very, very wide area of awareness. When he's paying attention to these extra senses, it is nearly impossible catch him by surprise. Meticulous as always, he has also learned to isolate and identify the footsteps of his housemates. Especially those he knows from home. ]
no subject
He hadn't intended to catch Fugo like this, nor does it really surprise him that Fugo knows it's him without turning – extra senses aside, the two have spent enough time around each other that the idea he would simply recognise the sound of Abbacchio's footsteps doesn't strike him as out of the ordinary. What does strike him as odd, is that Fugo questions his still being awake. Why is it that everyone seems so surprised to see him around at odd hours? As if he's ever had a decent sleep schedule. That's a better excuse than the truth in this case, at least, that he's barely slept all week. That it's near impossible to do so when he's so hyper aware of the fact that Giorno's body isn't too far away. It's disconcerting.
As Abbacchio enters the kitchen properly, his eyes linger on the tools that have been left out for a moment longer than necessary, before he very pointedly decides not to mention them, Fugo's business is his own, and frankly Abbacchio doesn't think it's a conversation he can stomach right now. Instead, he turns his gaze towards Fugo instead. ]
Mhm. Sorry if I'm disturbing you.
[ It's barely an answer. He knows that, though he can't really be blamed for it. Silently, he gets his own glass and fills it with water. When he sets it down on the counter, he's at least retrieved a coaster for it, if only for Fugo's sake. He sits, far enough away from Fugo that he's not encroaching on his space, and rests both his elbows on the surface; dropping his face into his hands and rubbing at his eyes. There's a beat of silence before he eventually rests his face against a single hand, turning to face Fugo. His words are quiet, inelegant, but sincere. Barefaced as he is, it's easy to see the relief clear on his face, even through his exhaustion. ]
It's good to see you.
[ Safe, alive, and in one piece. ]
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It's fine. I'm done with that, more or less.
[It's just a matter of waiting for his tools to dry, so he can pack them back up again. Fugo quietly watches as Abbacchio pours himself a glass of water and settles in a seat at the counter, close enough to talk but not so close that he feels overbearing. A comfortable distance. Abbacchio almost looks like a different person without his makeup on-- but Fugo knows this face, too. They've spent more than their fair share of time late at night in a kitchen, sipping lukewarm tap water and avoiding going back to bed. The kitchen might be different, but everything else is the same.]
It's good to see you too. [The words are stiff, but sincere. Or at least as sincere as Fugo gets when he's like this.] Can't sleep?
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Sitting like this, despite the circumstances and how discomfiting it could be, it really doesn't feel like that. It's not as though it's comfortable by any means, but nor is it uncomfortable. It just is. For all the shit they sling at each other, there have been plenty of other times like this, too; a neutral state that the two of them can slip into, without putting up a front and allowing themselves, however briefly, to merely exist with no expectations. ]
Something like that, yeah. [ And because he feels like Fugo will pick up on it anyway, he adds: ] Not that I was getting much, to begin with.
[ He's sure he doesn't need to explain. Letting his gaze move away from Fugo, he drinks some of the water, not bothering with polite sips, there's no need for table manners here between them. There are a lot of things about Abbacchio that Fugo is privy to just by the nature of their history, yet very little is anything Abbacchio has actually shared himself.
Something about this whole thing with Giorno and the reality of this place is beginning to set like stone. It has him wondering exactly what the point is in holding things so close to his chest. Fugo is here now, yes, but there was the distinct possibility that he might not have arrived back, that he too could have been found dead. The thought alone has him gripping the edge of the counter, knuckles audibly cracking.
Why is it so difficult to say the things that really, truly matter? Whether it's that that has been weighing heavily on his mind, or if it's the sleep deprivation affecting his filter, he doesn't know. Maybe it's just the atmosphere, the fact it's just the two of them here. Whatever it is, he feels like it has to be said, so he turns to Fugo with his jaw set. ]
I mean it.
[ He sighs, heavy, unfamiliar with exactly how he's supposed to word himself without sounding like an idiot. It's easy to skirt around honesty, to hide his genuine affection behind barbs of jest, but too much has happened. ]
I really am glad you're back here. That you're safe. If anything happened to you, I– [ Whatever it is he wants to say, it gets stuck in his throat. Instead, he opts for another mouthful of water. When he speaks again, it's quieter, though no less sincere. ] You're too fuckin' important.
no subject
Sometimes, misery loves company. They have spent a lot of nights together, sitting without speaking.]
[So Fugo is surprised when Abbacchio speaks. His tells aren't as obvious as they usually are; a slight downturn of the corners of his mouth, an almost imperceptible pinch of his eyebrows. And then he's just ... confused. It's not like Abbacchio to repeat himself, or to circle back to a part of a conversation that has already finished. Especially something that is, more or less, a social nicety. There is naked emotion in his voice, as bare as his pale and thin face. His throat works.
Abbacchio ... is glad that he is back in the house. That he is safe. If anything had happened-- something did happen; the double drew blood, but it's fine, he took care of it, the wound is wrapped and disinfected and only distantly aches, the pain is nothing really, he's survived much worse-- Abbacchio would have ... what? He doesn't know. Abbacchio can't get those words out, whatever they were; they got stuck, so he had to swallow them back down with the water. Abbacchio would have something, because Fugo is too... important?]
Me?
[He doesn't understand. He genuinely doesn't. He thinks he can see the shape of what Abbacchio means, but it doesn't ... fit. Not for him. It would make sense if he said this about Bucciarati, or-- ... ... or Trish, maybe. Trish is important; Trish hasn't woken up yet. But him? Fugo?]
... I'm fine, Abbacchio. I handled it.
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Yes, you.
[ Pinching at the bridge of his nose, it takes work not to snap a petty retort, to ask Fugo who the hell else he'd be talking to. Because he knows, he knows Fugo isn't being deliberately obtuse. They've been over this before. Inevitably, whenever anyone says anything even remotely positive about Fugo, he finds it hard to believe, and Abbacchio is the same, which is why on some intrinsic level he can't bring himself to be annoyed at Fugo for even questioning the statement.
He says he's fine, and that he handled it but the issue is that he shouldn't have had to. They shouldn't be in this mess, this god awful peninsula with its feuding gods and danger right around every corner — it's worse than Naples. That's not all though, dying offers him a different perspective. Death may not be permanent here, not for those brought in by the fog, but that doesn't change the outlook that comes with it. Everything you know, and care about can come to the end in the blink of an eye and for men like Abbacchio, who survived by keeping their cards to their chest, all that's left behind is uncertainty and questions.
So the fact remains, that to Abbacchio, Fugo is important — just as important as Bucciarati. It would be stranger if he were to say such things about Trish. While she is important, she's not significant to Abbacchio, not on a personal level, not yet, not in the way that Fugo is. It's hard to put that into words though, to explain how big of an impact Fugo's mere presence in Abbacchio's life has had.
Abbacchio could sit here and explain, or he could close the lid on that box, for now, lock it back up and deflect. ]
It doesn't matter if you see it or not, you are important. Not just to me, but to Bucciarati and to Trish. [ a pause, and then quieter ] To Giorno, too.
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There was a time, once, when those words would have been-- ... he doesn't even know. A relief, maybe. At least that. The point is that he should be happy.]
[But right now, they don't seem real. He can't reach them. He doesn't know what to do with them. He just feels empty. And very, very tired.]
... I don't-- [Halting, awkward, uncomfortable. He doesn't see. He doesn't understand.] I don't know what you want me to say.
[Staying in the house was not an option. Someone had to protect the orphanage. With Bucciarati and Abbacchio's transformations still incomplete, strategically, Fugo was the best option.]
no subject
Fugo, I don't want you to say anything.
[ Abbacchio understands how easy it is to forget that people actually care, that people will continue to care. Maybe in part, he's thinking about Pompeii. How quickly he'd been willing to abandon Fugo for the sake of the mission. Both of them had been willing to do whatever was necessary, even if that meant putting themselves at risk. At the time he'd thought that was the right thing to do, there was nothing more important than their duty to carry out their mission. But now? Now he can't help but wonder what it must have been like for Fugo.
Fugo, who must have known without a doubt, what choice Abbacchio would have made. Who then would have been able to justify that choice because he would have done the same—or at least, Abbacchio believes he would have. It's part of the job. It was expected of them. But that mentality, that they aren't important—it makes it easy to throw away one's self-preservation. It comes to him easily, and when it comes down to it, he worries that Fugo is much the same, and therein lies the concern.
With what he knows now, had that mission in Pompeii gone differently, had Fugo not made it out, he thinks it would have been a devastating blow. Not to the mission—screw the mission—but to them as people. No matter how much they all try to compartmentalise. ]
I just want you to remember, even when it's hard and things get shitty.