[In the past week, as if to make up for his avoidance of the subject in the past months, Fugo has done a lot of reading about Bonds. Not the literature, of which there is a wealth of material on the subject-- tragic novels, romantic poetry, recently-illegal stage dramas, music of all genres. None of it has the answers to his own questions. What is a Bond, exactly? How would forming one with Giorno change the fabric of their lives, for better and for worse? For something at the heart of so much of Aefenglom’s day-to-day life and culture, practical answers about how Bonds are formed are mostly out of his reach as a newcomer who has just begun his study of magic.
But what information he can find, he’s studied obsessively. He knows now, from studying the development of the Wilders’ temporary Bond potions, that the closeness of a Bond comes from the magical signatures of two individuals being woven seamlessly together. He’s read the memoir of a famous Witch, reflecting on the tight Bonds she would form and then dissolve, for fear of their magic going wild, with her fellows to facilitate powerful spellwork that no single Witch could accomplish on their own. More recent essays on the benefits of Bonds between Monsters and Witches in comparison to familiars were helpful in understanding healthy cycling of magic.]
[So, practically speaking, Fugo gets it. Really, he understands as best as he is able, and he doesn’t need this Witch to not-really-explain things he’s spent all this time worrying about. The longer the explanation goes on, the more wound up he gets. His grip on Giorno’s hands is tight, just shy of being painful, and clenches even tighter with the blithe claim of it’s not complicated. Fugo takes a breath in, counts to seven, and lets it out. When he looks up at Giorno, the sight of his smile and the following offer to go first eases some of the tension he feels.]
No. It’s alright. [He shakes his head, which sends his at-one-point neatly combed hair flying around his face. It’s a little wavy, today, which bothered him all morning, so he tied it back; even though he adjusted the tie before they were called in his bangs, too short to stay in place, have already fallen out of place. With their hands clasped, there’s no way to fix it.] I’m ready. I can meet you.
[Half of a step. It’s easy to see, now, all the ways and times Giorno tried to reach for him leading up to this point. He can-- he must-- take this half of a step forward to meet him.]
I will walk with you. [As nervous as he has been this whole time, when it comes to the vow, Fugo’s voice, although soft, is steady. He has thought so much about this. What it is he wants to promise to Giorno, when he has already sworn himself to his dream, as half of the knot that will bind them together. There isn’t a flicker of doubt or uncertainty on his face when he speaks. He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t falter, doesn’t hesitate.] Wherever this path takes us, I will stay by your side, half of a step away. There is nowhere you could go, in this world or any other, that I would not follow. If the path we walk becomes too dark to see, I will find my way forward by holding your hand.
no subject
But what information he can find, he’s studied obsessively. He knows now, from studying the development of the Wilders’ temporary Bond potions, that the closeness of a Bond comes from the magical signatures of two individuals being woven seamlessly together. He’s read the memoir of a famous Witch, reflecting on the tight Bonds she would form and then dissolve, for fear of their magic going wild, with her fellows to facilitate powerful spellwork that no single Witch could accomplish on their own. More recent essays on the benefits of Bonds between Monsters and Witches in comparison to familiars were helpful in understanding healthy cycling of magic.]
[So, practically speaking, Fugo gets it. Really, he understands as best as he is able, and he doesn’t need this Witch to not-really-explain things he’s spent all this time worrying about. The longer the explanation goes on, the more wound up he gets. His grip on Giorno’s hands is tight, just shy of being painful, and clenches even tighter with the blithe claim of it’s not complicated. Fugo takes a breath in, counts to seven, and lets it out. When he looks up at Giorno, the sight of his smile and the following offer to go first eases some of the tension he feels.]
No. It’s alright. [He shakes his head, which sends his at-one-point neatly combed hair flying around his face. It’s a little wavy, today, which bothered him all morning, so he tied it back; even though he adjusted the tie before they were called in his bangs, too short to stay in place, have already fallen out of place. With their hands clasped, there’s no way to fix it.] I’m ready. I can meet you.
[Half of a step. It’s easy to see, now, all the ways and times Giorno tried to reach for him leading up to this point. He can-- he must-- take this half of a step forward to meet him.]
I will walk with you. [As nervous as he has been this whole time, when it comes to the vow, Fugo’s voice, although soft, is steady. He has thought so much about this. What it is he wants to promise to Giorno, when he has already sworn himself to his dream, as half of the knot that will bind them together. There isn’t a flicker of doubt or uncertainty on his face when he speaks. He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t falter, doesn’t hesitate.] Wherever this path takes us, I will stay by your side, half of a step away. There is nowhere you could go, in this world or any other, that I would not follow. If the path we walk becomes too dark to see, I will find my way forward by holding your hand.
Giorno, I am yours.