digiorno | ic inbox ( ǣfenglōm )

[When Fugo began studying magic, he also began a journal. He's kept meticulous track of the spells he's been taught and what happens when he casts them. He makes a small check mark next to entries that are a success, while failures get a red x.

There have been a lot of entries with red marks lately. The farther he gets away from Octeuril, the lower his success rate becomes. He's tried to push through it; the Coven's teachers have made it very clear that Witches, especially those without Bonds, must practice their craft. Otherwise the magic inside in them will build up inside of them, until it literally explodes.]

[Lately, he's been itchy. No, that's not the word. There is no word for it. His skin tingles and prickles and crawls. His whole self feels like the shell for something else that has been outgrown. It's a suffocating, claustrophobic sensation. Most days, especially the days when he's practiced, he can push the feeling away. He hasn't been able to consistently practice lately. His magic sputters out and disappears without warning, only to suddenly come back with full force. He's been manic. He's been irritable. It's been bad. But the storm has passed. He can practice again. It will get better-- it has to.

It has to.]

[This was his idea: brew a pot of warming potion in the kitchen it, bottle it, distribute it amongst the refugees. It's a very basic alchemic spell, one of the first he ever learned. It has never failed. This is the reality: the sizzling, foul-smelling, acid green concoction on their stove is not safe for anyone. It's dissolved the wooden he was using to stir it with; the piece he has left is scorched and smoking in his white-knuckled grip. Frankly, he has concerns about the cast iron pot it's simmering in.]

God fucking damnit. God-- [Frustrated, he drops the spoon into the pot and turns the stove off. On top of everything else, his concoction is thick and viscous; even as the spoon burns and dissolves, it sinks slowly below the surface.] --fucking damnit, you stupid bastard.

[He scratches the back of his neck. It itches. Of course, even though the spell is too strong, it's far from enough. He'll have to try something else.]

Edited 2019-12-25 04:20 (UTC)

[It's an illusion, confirmation bias or something like that, the idea that he can sense Fugo's magic building towards a breaking point. Giorno knows that, on a sensible, logical level. He's not a witch. He has a certain sensitivity towards the taste of magic, the sense of it, but that doesn't mean he can feel it, or the pressure behind it in an unBonded witch.]

[Logic doesn't stop him from feeling that he feels it, though. The ease with which he recognizes Fugo's tells doesn't mitigate the illusion, either. Fugo's movements are pressurized, more and more so with every passing day. His posture gets tense; his speech gets terse. There is the palpable feeling that eventually, something is going to blow.]

[Strangely, Giorno doesn't find himself afraid. Not of Fugo; the concept is laughable for reasons that he wouldn't explain even if he was asked, might not be able to in the first place. The primary burst of emotion in him is concern, not for himself but for Fugo, over the outburst he walks in on in their kitchen. With one glance he takes it in: the dissolving spoon in awful, stinking, thick liquid; Fugo snarling at the stove, cursing and spitting like a cornered thing; the way he twitches, like Zelda did.]

[Just like Zelda did.]

Fugo—

[He takes a step into the kitchen, hesitant to get in the way but determined not to leave Fugo alone with his frustration.]

How can I help? Let me help.

[Caught in a fit of temper, Fugo first flinches. Before he turns around, his whole body is a snarl of tension; clenched jaw, bunched shoulders, fists at his side. One hand trembles with the effort to keep still-- he can't snap, can't shove the pot on the floor. Breathe, he tells himself, the bit of totally useless advice that everyone gives him, except he barely can. His lungs feel frozen. Keep it together. He turns slowly, face pale-- but still. And when he speaks, his voice is even and at least sounds calm.]

It's fine. It's just a spell gone wrong. I need to dispell it before it-- [Here, he can't keep himself from grimacing. He closes his eyes and takes as deep a breath as he can through his nose.] Goes worse. Don't come any closer.

[It's fine-- but don't come closer. There's a clear contradiction in his words, but he won't acknowledge it.]

[Don't come any closer?]

[His expression goes from concerned to puzzled. Why shouldn't he come closer? Is it the spell that's dangerous, or is Fugo worried about himself? Hard to say. Maybe both. Either way, it gives Giorno significant pause.]

I won't come closer if you don't want me to.

[But he also, very pointedly, isn't leaving. There's more going on here than a messed-up spell. In a different situation, he'd ask if Fugo wanted to talk about it, but . . . this is very clearly not the time.]

[What he does do is turn his back, giving Fugo a moment of at least visual privacy, in order to grab the trash can and some rags. After his puttering is concluded, he stands at the ready. Solemn and unmoving.]

[Fugo allows himself one thing. He reaches up to press his temples and then take another breath. Calm. He needs to be calm: think rationally. He can't let his temper-- or his magic-- control him. And then he turns back to the stove, absently scratching at his wrist; the gesture leaves behind angry red marks on his skin, joining the others that creep up his forearms.]

[He needs to undo the spell on his failed potion. But the way his magic has been working lately, it's likely not safe to cast that spell in the house; if he loses control of it, he runs the risk of undoing the magic that keeps their household running. Lights, water, heat. It needs to happen outside. First things first: he reaches for a lid to the pot, then a pair of mismatched oven mits to protect his hands. He takes hold of the pot and very, very carefully lifts it away from the stove.]

Could you open the door for me? I'm going to undo it in the garden.

[The marks worry him. Upset him, a little. He doesn't let himself show it, expression carefully guarded as he watches Fugo gather himself. That part is good. Taking a breath, taking a second — even literally just one second — is an improvement.]

[Quick to nod, he nudges the trash can out of the way with his toe before darting to the door and holding it open. The sun's down, fortunately, or this would go — well, poorly. Very poorly.]

Got it!

[He focuses on making the journey one step at a time, jaw tight. He places one foot in front of the other, taking care to make his footsteps as smooth as possible; spilling the failed potion at this point would be disastrous. With Giorno at the door, it's just a matter of bracing himself for the cold night air that hits him as he steps from the kitchen to the outdoors.

He sets it down on a fairly clear patch under the eaves of the mansion, then reaches into his pocket for a small vial of red sand; he uses it to draw a circle around the pot wide enough for him to stand in. Giorno should recognize it as a tool to keep rowdy magic contained, given to Fugo by his instructors. Once he's certain that there is an unbroken line between himself and the rest of the house, Fugo kneels down in the snow. When he removes the lid from the pot, a cloud of foul-smelling steam rolls off of the potion.]

Ugh. Disgusting. [Fugo irritably wafts it away the best he can, then holds his hands above it.] You-- probably are going to want to stand downwind of this.

[Failed alchemy... very rarely smells good. Even once it's been dispelled. Gross.]

[It's true: that mess stinks. With his sense of smell stronger than ever, he's already wrinkling his nose against it as they leave the house, although admittedly it's better out here in the open air.]

[With a glance at Fugo, he takes a few sideways steps away from the direct path of the steam and tucks his shirt up over his nose. He doesn't move further away from Fugo, though. If Fugo is the center of a circle, then he will only travel its circumference. He has no intentions of making it bigger — of giving Fugo more space than he absolutely insists on.]

Okay. [Slightly muffled beneath his shirt collar, he gives Fugo an okay sign with his fingers. O-kay.] Go ahead. I want to see how this is done, anyway.

[It might be stinky, but he's curious.]

[Most of him wishes Giorno would keep a safer distance. This stuff Isn't any worse than Purple Haze's virus but, given what it did to the spoon, it's still very dangerous; there's no Gold Experience to heal either one of them and there's no telling what Fugo's healing spells will do tonight. But there's also some small, selfish part of him that is relieved that he's here. If Giorno is at his elbow, he has no choice but to succeed-- because he won't let his mistakes hurt Giorno.]

It's not going to be very exciting. [... hopefully.] I have to... [He bites his cheek, unsure of how to explain it.] This spell will pull the magic back out of it. I don't trust anything more complicated. I don't want to damage the spells in the house.

[He almost snorts, but manages to contain it. Well, hopefully it won't be exciting, no. Still, he's not unsympathetic to Fugo's anxiety. He wishes he could be a little closer to help soothe it, but — later.]

Sort of like dehydrating it, but the water is magic.

[The analogy makes sense to him, anyway.]

I wouldn't have thought about the magic in the house. I think it's a good idea. But — where does the magic go, once you pull it out?

[He has a sinking feeling he already knows.]

Yeah, something like that. And I'll be drawing it back into myself. [And then, before Giorno can even object, Fugo bristles up defensively.] It's my magic. I just cast this spell, so it's not a problem. And it needs to be taken care of, now, before it gets any worse. This is the only option.

[It will probably just feel uncomfortable, until he finds another outlet for it. The skin on the back of his neck prickles and crawls; Fugo sits very, very still.]

[Giorno barely manages to keep from rolling his eyes. The tension that flickers over his face before it settles into cool neutrality is a good enough indicator of how he's feeling about the attitude.]

I was going to say you could probably siphon it into me, but obviously if this is the only option, then nevermind.

[The acerbic nature of this statement is significantly undercut by the fact that his shirt is still up over his mouth and nose. He gestures vaguely at the hell pot.]

Go ahead.

[Fugo clenches his jaw and bites down his own comeback. What's the point? Giorno has already made up his mind that he's going about this the wrong way. He forces his shoulders down and ignores the unpleasantly cold feeling of snow melting into his slacks. He pushes everything aside to focus on the spell; on opening up his senses to magic. He can taste the spell now-- bitter and sour. He can feel the heat of it beneath his palms, slowly eating away at the vessel it was born in.

Come back to me, he thinks, because more than anything else, this spell is about willpower. Come back and we'll try again.]

[Slowly, something else begins to rise up with the steam. Giorno will recognize the color of it-- a shimmering purple haze, the same color as the mirage of water in the distance. It isn't really here, but neither is it there, caught in the still foul-smelling liquid underneath Fugo's hands. It creeps sullenly back into him, as if it's reluctant to cram itself back in with the rest of his magic.]

[It's pretty.]

[That's the first thing he thinks and, more or less, where his thinking stops. Because it is familiar. This isn't the time or the place to think about how much he misses Purple Haze, despite everything, and yet — here and now, watching Fugo draw magic back into his body . . . it's too familiar, isn't it?]

[With the ache gone from his newly-reborn body, he feels sadness more acutely. Everything is bigger, brighter, louder — more. He doesn't look away, but he does look distant, the longer Fugo works. Eventually, his collar falls back around his neck, and he doesn't stop it or try to readjust it.]

[He thinks he should say something, but he doesn't know what. Something. That Fugo is doing well? He isn't. That's sort of the whole point. Ugh. After some time, he lets out a soft sigh.]

. . . You were right. [Not really. But in one very, very specific sense.] It's working.

[It's an uncomfortable feeling, pulling the magic back into himself. It's thick and heavy, as if he's drawing lead into his fingers and hands. It doesn't want to; there's barely any room. But he can manage it. Pulling in has always been easier for him than letting go. By the end of it, he feels something close to nausea. He pulls his hands back, stiffly flexing his fingers. He stares down at what's left of his spell-- just a kettle of gross, foul-smelling sludge. At least it's stopped bubbling.]

... I've been having difficulty controlling the output of my spells lately. I know the spell you mentioned, but-- [He sighs, then pushes his hands through his hair.] It would be difficult for me like this. It wasn't worth the risk.

[Mutely, he nods. Yes, he knows Fugo has been having trouble. He didn't have to ask. It would have been pointless to ask. He just knew by looking. Which feels like spying, in a way, and almost bad, but — if Fugo were able to keep this to himself, he would until he literally exploded.]

[He's so frustrating, sometimes, Giorno thinks, without an ounce of self-awareness.]

That makes sense. [Uncharacteristically, he dips his chin towards the ground, gaze below and just to one side of Fugo's face.] Here, I'll — get the trash can.

[He ducks back in the open doorway briefly, grabs the can and, after a moment, just removes the bag from it. No point burning through the whole thing. Idly wishing for some steel gloves, he tucks his shirt back over his nose and heads back to Fugo with the back open. Just keep moving, he thinks. This will be easier if he keeps moving.]

What are you going to do?

[What are you going to do?]

[Well, there it is: The Question, out in the open at last. They've talked about Bonds before, but only in passing; nearly always abstractly, never in relation to Fugo. Giorno has never pressed him about it. Never once, in the ever-growing handful of days and weeks and months since he fell through the mirror into this world, brought attention to the fact that Fugo has not formed a Bond of his own.

Until this moment, Giorno has simply left it alone. Which, honestly, is not like him at all.]

[It's an ugly task, cleaning up this mess. Although not as ugly as it could be. As not as foul-smelling as it could be. When Giorno brings him the garbage can, Fugo pushes himself up and lifts up the pot of his potion gone awry; taking care not to get it on either of their hands, he unceremoniously upends it into the trash.]

We should put a note on this for the trash collectors. [That's not the answer Giorno is looking for. But it's something they really should do, so whoever comes to pick up their trash doesn't accidentally splash any of it on themselves.] I don't know. In the short term, I'll-- find some open space where it doesn't matter if the magic goes wrong and try to burn some it off.

[That isn't it either. It's nothing but a temporary, short-lived barely-even-counts solution.]

[Somehow, despite being pretty well aware of what Fugo's most likely to say, his heart sinks anyway. In the short term— which they both know isn't what he was asking about. Sure, he left the door open for Fugo to take it however he wanted, but he was hoping . . .]

[He ducks his head, tucking his chin in something resembling a nod.]

. . . Yes. We should write a note.

[It's not incorrect. It's just wildly unrelated to the point. All of this is wildly unrelated to the point.]

[He's quiet for a few moments, watching Fugo get the stupid stinking smoking pot settled. The task takes longer than it needs to, because they're both stalling. He doesn't want to push Fugo, and Fugo doesn't want to be pushed. Only it has to end eventually. The moment won't stick.]

[And when it melts away, he sighs. Faint and tired. Lets go one side of the trash can and pushes his hair out of his eyes.]

I almost killed someone. Before I Bonded. [. . . Well, no. That's not right. Another faint sigh, and he sucks in air through his teeth.] I almost killed Zelda. I just don't want anything bad to happen to you. That's why I'm asking. Not to be cruel.

[Giorno did not ask him to be cruel. But the question still cuts; still drives a knife in his back, in a soft spot angled up underneath his ribs. Fugo’s expression twists-- and his body twists too, angling away to hide his face from Giorno. There’s no hiding the frantic thump of his heart, though, not from Giorno. No masking the tension knotted up in his back and shoulders.

That’s not fair, is what he first thinks, childish and frustrated and suddenly sick with a sense of failure. That’s not fair.]

[Sometimes, he hates how well Giorno knows him-- can see over and through the walls that have stopped everyone else who has tried to get close to him. Logically, he knows Giorno has the right of it: he doesn't want to lose control and hurt someone. (Except for the part of him that does. Purple Haze isn't gone; it will never really be gone. He just can't reach it, after falling through the mirror.) What he hates is how pointless and futile everything he's done up until now feels. The fact that Giorno, despite it all, is trying to spare his feelings is just salt in the wound.]

I know. [His hands curl tightly around the rim of the kettle. It's heavy. It will need to be washed, but now's probably not the time for it. Unceremoniously, he leaves it to the side of the kitchen door; there's no point in bringing it in to stink up the rest of the kitchen. Without anything to occupy them, his hands clench tightly into fists; his nails bite into his palms.] ... I don't want to talk about this out here.

[It isn't a step. It isn't even half a step. But the closed door between them on the subject of Bonds-- it's been unlocked. Cracked open, if only a little.]

Edited 2020-01-03 05:14 (UTC)

[Sometimes, when Fugo is feeling this way — taut as a wire pulled to its tightest extreme, liable to snap in half or snap back — he does things like this. Moves abruptly, without warning, or in ways that don't entirely make sense. There was a time, once, when Giorno might have startled at it, or shrunk away, or gone flat. But he's a different person now. They're both different people now. Fugo . . .]

[Even with no Bond, no matter how bad things get, Fugo will never hurt him. This is something he not only believes but knows. Not a theory, but a fact.]

[After another moment of thoughtful quiet, he nods, straightens up. His posture corrects, chin tipped up and eyes clear as ever.]

I'll follow you, then.

[In this, he's happy to follow Fugo's lead.]

... that's backwards, you know. [Stepping into the warmth of the kitchen, Fugo defensively folds his arms across his chest and wraps his hands around his elbows. It's better, this way; less chance for him to lash out. To grab some weapon, or let his hands tighten into fists. At the end of the day, Fugo doesn't trust himself not to hurt people.] I'm the one who swore to follow you.

[Still. He moves forward, focusing on simply putting one foot in front of the other. If he has to talk about this-- and, as much as he hates to admit it, things have quickly escalated to the point where he must-- he'd rather do it in the privacy of one of their rooms. It doesn't really matter to him which one. Though he doubts Maria or Kaede cares to eavesdrop, at the same time the thought of them overhearing this conversation is mortifying.]

[He wants to reach out. It's hurting him, actually, not to reach out — to let Fugo walk up the stairs with his shoulders pulled tight and his arms wrapped around himself. But as important as it is to protect Fugo from the world, this is what Fugo has decided he needs to do to make this moment, this conversation, easier: to sequester himself off physically, balancing out, at least in theory, the emotional vulnerability.]

[Giorno can't imagine that that will work. But he owes it to Fugo to give him a chance to try.]

While I understand your point . . . [And it's accurate. As their feet hit the top step, he hesitates, thoughtful. His door is further down the hall, under the eaves. Fugo's is here.] That isn't exactly how friendship works.

[A gentle reminder. If Fugo hears it, which — well, he hopes.]

[Friendship. He remembers, suddenly, the shape of Giorno's hand held out to him: palm facing up, fingers loose and relax. Not to kiss his rings, to swear an oath of loyalty, but for him to take and to hold; to pull him up from his seat in the dark, into the warmth of the sun pouring from the window behind them.

Will you lend me your talents again? I have a dream. And I need friends to help me with that dream.]

[Back then... in that moment, he couldn't take Giorno's hand; even though Giorno was a single step away, he couldn't cross that distance. But Giorno didn't leave him. Half of a step. Even now, that promise rings in his ears: If you can't take a step forward, then I'll step halfway to you. It was up to him to make the decision to move forward, but Giorno was there to catch him when he lurched half a step into the future he still can't bring himself to believe he deserves. Beyond bringing him back into Passione, Giorno wanted to accept Fugo as his friend.]

... yeah. [His posture doesn't relax. Not by far. But it loosens, just a little. He unfolds, at least long enough to open the door to his room; enough to let Giorno get a glimpse at his expression. Rather than angry or sad, he just seems tired.] I suppose you're right about that.

[Unseen, or perhaps not, the slightest hint of a smile curves at his lips. At the corners of his eyes, too, and maybe more there than anywhere. It's a subtle thing, charmed and relieved and tired all at once. Complicated. I suppose you're right about that. The joke, of course, is that neither of them really knows any better than the other.]

I'd like to think so, anyway.

[His voice is quiet, as though they're in a library. Fugo's room isn't a sacred place, he's spent plenty of time in here, but — this moment is a moment that deserves respect, he supposes. That's what makes it different. So as he follows Fugo in, he doesn't take up as much space as he might on another day; doesn't let his being leach out and infect every surface, doesn't claim everything as his own on instinct. Just leans against Fugo's dresser, hands in his pockets.]

Secretly, I'm not an authority on everything. [Not even Bonds. Certainly not Fugo, even if he wants to know everything about him. Even if not knowing how to fix this for him fucking hurts.]

[As they move into the room, Fugo catches a glimpse of Giorno's smile out of the corner of his eye. He doesn't get it, but that's nothing new. Even on his better days, he just can't understand why Giorno smiles so much around him. Dour, argumentative, unpleasant him. What's there to smile about? With a shake of his head, Fugo tries to shake the thought out of the forefront of his mind.

Fugo's bedroom hasn't changed much since he moved into it. There are the heavy curtains, but those were for Giorno's comfort during the day. There's hardly anything personal about it, save for the framed photograph on his nightstand-- and even that lies face down. There are his books, his notes, various materials for spells; if not for the bed, it would seem like a workroom. There's not a wrinkle on his bed or a speck of dust to be found. Fugo lingers near the door, fiddling with the handle; even without Purple Haze to think of, Fugo finds himself leaving doors open behind him in the house.]

[In the end, he closes it. There's nothing to be worried about. Not for the first time, he thinks to himself: I need to stop. It's a stupid, pointless habit.

In the end, he himself sits on the edge of the bed. Elbows close, feet flat on the floor, fighting the urge to pick at his fingernails.]

I don't... know where to begin. [He bites his cheek, then sighs. Without thinking, he reaches to scratch at his wrist.] With all of this. Other than, I-- ... it's not like I haven't managed something similar on my own in the past. I know my own limits.

[Or, at least-- he thought he did. He doesn't miss Purple Haze, but at least he knew how to handle it. At least he could take care of it on his own.]

sometime in december - action

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