[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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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.]