[There is no hiding the naked relief in his voice. Even though he shouldn't be, selfishly, twin coals of gratitude and relief burn in his chest. Giorno is awake. He hasn't fallen through the gaps between the fog's fingers back into the sea of stars. He is still with them.
And for a moment, everything else falls away. The theater, the stage, the memory playing out in front of him. Fugo moves forward to close what distance remains between them until they stand side by side, shoulder to shoulder, close enough to touch. He doesn't give himself room to doubt. He reaches out to take his hand, to feel it between his own.]
You're here.
[In this awful place. With-- finally, he turns, to look at the stage. Ah, it hurts. It hurts and it's written all over his face, he's sure, to see this memory put on display. Fugo watches his hands reach up to touch his cheeks, his mouth, his throat. His self on the stage is in shock: he can't believe that he has been healed, so perfectly and so cleanly that he didn't even realize it until the lingering smell of oil and garlic flooded his senses.]
[The first statement strikes him, and it shows, lips curling down in a moue of concern. Has it been very long? How long? How long has he left Fugo alone in this place? — not alone, not really, but it feels like his responsibility — is his responsibility.]
[His fingers curl into a loose fist, hand braced at the wrist by the closed fingers of his other hand, the whole nervous conglomerate resting over his heart. But Fugo takes his hand, and he lets the other fall without thinking about it, nervous gesture banished by that simple gesture.]
Found my way back to you, [he murmurs, a semi-conscious echo of that first day on the grime-covered beach in a garden before a cottage whose owner he never confirmed but suspects he knows. The words come from the emotion, not the memory, which doesn't occur to him directly. He just — knows. He knows what he feels is the same as that moment.]
[But Fugo turns to look at the stage. Squeezing his hand, Giorno lifts his other hand to cradle Fugo's jaw and rest their foreheads together, forcing attention back onto himself. On the stage, Fugo speaks properly for the first time.]
Why me? I'm a traitor. You can't trust me.
[In the space between them, a tiny universe, Giorno shakes his head minutely, a repetitive movement in time to the music that seems meant to self-soothe as much as to deny the false Fugo's statement.]
I can't stop it. I'm sorry. I know it's private. It's not for anyone else.
[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.]
[That's true. Truer, now; he can keep his eyes closed and still know what's happening, not from having read it but from having lived it. Seconds ago, it seems, or some fraction of seconds, such a tiny sliver of time it's impossible to measure. All of this feels like an echo of something only just said.]
You don't believe you betrayed anyone, [the actor-self is saying.] You imagine we see you as a traitor, and you voice that notion preemptively.
That's what you said that day, too.
[Giorno's hands find Fugo's, both of his for both of Fugo's, and squeeze. It's painful to think about. It hurts. He feels so utterly shattered. Of all of them, he truly didn't think Fugo would stay behind.]
[He's never said it. Never once. The actor-Fugo is shivering behind him, he knows, and he shudders too, an echo of sorrow that all of them share, the real things and the memories and the pseudo-selves together. None of them has a monopoly on grief.]
I'm sorry for leaving you behind, [he manages, though it comes out rough and shaky around the lump in his throat.] It — mattered. Even to me, even so soon after meeting you, it mattered. You've always mattered to me, Fugo. You know that now, don't you?
[He doesn't realize until after the words are out that he's pleading.]
[Fugo stares. He watches Giorno’s eyes slip close; the way his eyelashes cast the faintest shadow on his face. His cold hands go limp in Giorno’s, fingers twitching, face pale with the shock of what this means.
Giorno has closed his eyes, because he doesn’t need to watch. There are two narrators on this stage. Fugo’s rotten corpse and Giorno’s faceless mirror. A thick breath escapes his lungs, the shadow of a sob still trapped within the cage of his body. His awful, hulking body is still so heavy. But the loneliness of the six months that separated has lifted from his shoulders.
This is Giorno’s memory too.]
It’s yours too. [Traitorously, he can feel the tremble in his mouth; the way his face goes tight with tears long unshed, blotchy patches of color rising to his cheeks.] You remember.
[Behind them, the memory continues. There is nothing either of them can do to stop it. The Giorno on the stage pushes forward, grimly determined to knock down every doubt Fugo might have had before he could even voice it. Back then, this had frightened him. Now, listening to it all over again, he can sense how tightly Giorno held himself. The actor on the stage is a void in his vibration sense; so intently focused on the Fugo in front of him that he barely breathes.
In front of him, the real Giorno takes his hands and holds them. His grip tightens and doesn’t loosen. Giorno holds onto him desperately; afraid, though not as much as he was that day in November, that Fugo might slip away from him if he doesn’t hold on as tight as he can.]
[Over and over, Fugo has heard things like this.
I can’t forgive you when I never blamed you in the first place. There’s also nothing “wrong” with wanting to survive. The mission was a success - and in addition, you survived. That’s why I don’t regret it. Not my choice and not yours either.
None of them blame him. None of them resent him. Over and over, Fugo has been told that he has nothing to apologize for; that there was nothing in his stance that was incorrect. This knowledge doesn’t comfort him. It doesn’t make the distance between the stone steps of the San Giorgio Maggiore and the boat any smaller. The knot of grief and guilt, pulled tight around his heart, doesn't loosen. If anything, it has only become tighter over time.
Because if he didn't do anything wrong, then why did none of them say goodbye? Why didn't they even look back? Was it really that easy to leave him behind?
Fugo doesn't want to think about any of it. It's too selfish, too horrible, too painful. He can't. He won't. He would rather be the one at fault, to shoulder the blame, than to consider any of that. He'll drown that pain as many times as it takes, so it never reaches the surface again.]
[Giorno, though. Giorno reaches past him. Draws it up, gasping for air, and holds it carefully with both hands.]
[I'm sorry for leaving you behind. You've always mattered to me, Fugo.]
I didn't know it that morning. I was afraid. I-- ... couldn't even bear to think about it.
[This hurts him to admit. But he thinks ... that Giorno knows, already. That the half of a step Fugo could make that morning was accepting that Giorno wanted him by his side; that he cared to try, that he cared to reach him where he was.]
Not the way I do now.
[Fugo doesn't want Giorno to let go of his hands. Giorno shouldn't have to let go if he doesn't want to. Instead, two of the long limbs on Fugo's back reach up and around to angle awkwardly around Giorno's shaking shoulders. He can feel it. Each shiver of emotion; each tremble of things left unsaid.]
"Did you come back to me, Fugo?"
[This hurts to remember, but in a better way. He remembers the numb shock of realizing how far apart they were; the way Fugo's cheeks are wet with tears, but he's smiling. Soft, crooked, warm.]
When I washed up on the shore, you asked me that. Almost before anything else. You met me halfway before you even knew you had promised it to me.
[It's been just over a year since then. Little by little, living and working together side-by-side, they have come to know each other. Accepting that he matters to Giorno-- that he has always mattered to Giorno, who risked everything to save him in Pompeii-- is part of meeting him halfway.]
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[There is no hiding the naked relief in his voice. Even though he shouldn't be, selfishly, twin coals of gratitude and relief burn in his chest. Giorno is awake. He hasn't fallen through the gaps between the fog's fingers back into the sea of stars. He is still with them.
And for a moment, everything else falls away. The theater, the stage, the memory playing out in front of him. Fugo moves forward to close what distance remains between them until they stand side by side, shoulder to shoulder, close enough to touch. He doesn't give himself room to doubt. He reaches out to take his hand, to feel it between his own.]
You're here.
[In this awful place. With-- finally, he turns, to look at the stage. Ah, it hurts. It hurts and it's written all over his face, he's sure, to see this memory put on display. Fugo watches his hands reach up to touch his cheeks, his mouth, his throat. His self on the stage is in shock: he can't believe that he has been healed, so perfectly and so cleanly that he didn't even realize it until the lingering smell of oil and garlic flooded his senses.]
no subject
[His fingers curl into a loose fist, hand braced at the wrist by the closed fingers of his other hand, the whole nervous conglomerate resting over his heart. But Fugo takes his hand, and he lets the other fall without thinking about it, nervous gesture banished by that simple gesture.]
Found my way back to you, [he murmurs, a semi-conscious echo of that first day on the grime-covered beach in a garden before a cottage whose owner he never confirmed but suspects he knows. The words come from the emotion, not the memory, which doesn't occur to him directly. He just — knows. He knows what he feels is the same as that moment.]
[But Fugo turns to look at the stage. Squeezing his hand, Giorno lifts his other hand to cradle Fugo's jaw and rest their foreheads together, forcing attention back onto himself. On the stage, Fugo speaks properly for the first time.][In the space between them, a tiny universe, Giorno shakes his head minutely, a repetitive movement in time to the music that seems meant to self-soothe as much as to deny the false Fugo's statement.]
I can't stop it. I'm sorry. I know it's private. It's not for anyone else.
no subject
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.]
no subject
[That's true. Truer, now; he can keep his eyes closed and still know what's happening, not from having read it but from having lived it. Seconds ago, it seems, or some fraction of seconds, such a tiny sliver of time it's impossible to measure. All of this feels like an echo of something only just said.][Giorno's hands find Fugo's, both of his for both of Fugo's, and squeeze. It's painful to think about. It hurts. He feels so utterly shattered. Of all of them, he truly didn't think Fugo would stay behind.]
[He's never said it. Never once. The actor-Fugo is shivering behind him, he knows, and he shudders too, an echo of sorrow that all of them share, the real things and the memories and the pseudo-selves together. None of them has a monopoly on grief.]
I'm sorry for leaving you behind, [he manages, though it comes out rough and shaky around the lump in his throat.] It — mattered. Even to me, even so soon after meeting you, it mattered. You've always mattered to me, Fugo. You know that now, don't you?
[He doesn't realize until after the words are out that he's pleading.]
no subject
Giorno has closed his eyes, because he doesn’t need to watch. There are two narrators on this stage. Fugo’s rotten corpse and Giorno’s faceless mirror. A thick breath escapes his lungs, the shadow of a sob still trapped within the cage of his body. His awful, hulking body is still so heavy. But the loneliness of the six months that separated has lifted from his shoulders.
This is Giorno’s memory too.]
It’s yours too. [Traitorously, he can feel the tremble in his mouth; the way his face goes tight with tears long unshed, blotchy patches of color rising to his cheeks.] You remember.
[Behind them, the memory continues. There is nothing either of them can do to stop it. The Giorno on the stage pushes forward, grimly determined to knock down every doubt Fugo might have had before he could even voice it. Back then, this had frightened him. Now, listening to it all over again, he can sense how tightly Giorno held himself. The actor on the stage is a void in his vibration sense; so intently focused on the Fugo in front of him that he barely breathes.
In front of him, the real Giorno takes his hands and holds them. His grip tightens and doesn’t loosen. Giorno holds onto him desperately; afraid, though not as much as he was that day in November, that Fugo might slip away from him if he doesn’t hold on as tight as he can.]
[Over and over, Fugo has heard things like this.
I can’t forgive you when I never blamed you in the first place.
There’s also nothing “wrong” with wanting to survive.
The mission was a success - and in addition, you survived. That’s why I don’t regret it. Not my choice and not yours either.
None of them blame him. None of them resent him. Over and over, Fugo has been told that he has nothing to apologize for; that there was nothing in his stance that was incorrect. This knowledge doesn’t comfort him. It doesn’t make the distance between the stone steps of the San Giorgio Maggiore and the boat any smaller. The knot of grief and guilt, pulled tight around his heart, doesn't loosen. If anything, it has only become tighter over time.
Because if he didn't do anything wrong, then why did none of them say goodbye? Why didn't they even look back? Was it really that easy to leave him behind?
Fugo doesn't want to think about any of it. It's too selfish, too horrible, too painful. He can't. He won't. He would rather be the one at fault, to shoulder the blame, than to consider any of that. He'll drown that pain as many times as it takes, so it never reaches the surface again.]
[Giorno, though. Giorno reaches past him. Draws it up, gasping for air, and holds it carefully with both hands.]
[I'm sorry for leaving you behind. You've always mattered to me, Fugo.]
I didn't know it that morning. I was afraid. I-- ... couldn't even bear to think about it.
[This hurts him to admit. But he thinks ... that Giorno knows, already. That the half of a step Fugo could make that morning was accepting that Giorno wanted him by his side; that he cared to try, that he cared to reach him where he was.]
Not the way I do now.
[Fugo doesn't want Giorno to let go of his hands. Giorno shouldn't have to let go if he doesn't want to. Instead, two of the long limbs on Fugo's back reach up and around to angle awkwardly around Giorno's shaking shoulders. He can feel it. Each shiver of emotion; each tremble of things left unsaid.]
"Did you come back to me, Fugo?"
[This hurts to remember, but in a better way. He remembers the numb shock of realizing how far apart they were; the way Fugo's cheeks are wet with tears, but he's smiling. Soft, crooked, warm.]
When I washed up on the shore, you asked me that. Almost before anything else. You met me halfway before you even knew you had promised it to me.
[It's been just over a year since then. Little by little, living and working together side-by-side, they have come to know each other. Accepting that he matters to Giorno-- that he has always mattered to Giorno, who risked everything to save him in Pompeii-- is part of meeting him halfway.]