digiorno | ic inbox ( ǣfenglōm )

[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.]

[All things considered, they didn't live together for long before showing up here. It was more distant in the past for Giorno than Fugo, too, so by rights he shouldn't remember all the little things — except for how eagle-eyed he was for every tic, every motion, every breath. So yes, he does remember moments like this: Fugo hovering by the doorframe, carefully leaving it propped open before moving inside a room.]

[Why doesn't he do that anymore? He . . . does it matter? Everything matters more, with Fugo. Everything matters more to him now, with his cold skin wrapped tight around his bones.]

[Should he sit? In the end, he doesn't move.]

. . . I'm not sure it's comparable. [Emphasis being on not sure; he really doesn't know, and communicates this with a helpless shrug.] Purple Haze isn't [not wasn't, because he must fiercely believe that he is still in Fugo somewhere] mine. I've never been a witch. But from what I've seen, it isn't designed to be a closed system. Equilibrium can only be reached with two or more forces at play. Like in . . . physics, right?

[That's what physics is, isn't it? Briefly, he looks thoughtful and far away.]

[Isn't, not wasn't. Despite being completely disconnected from their Stands, with little to no chance of reaching them in this world, Giorno hasn't given up on them. Isn't, not wasn't, because he believes that this separation is only temporary. A tight feeling cinches around his chest like an anchor, painful and heavy. This isn't even what Giorno is here to talk about.]

... something like that. [It could be argued that equilibrium is more complicated than Giorno is making it out to be; that magic as Geardagas knows it is a sort river system, flowing from Witches to Monsters. Except that would be distraction tactics.] I'll spare you the formulas.

Practically speaking, I understand the necessity-- [And here, just for a moment, he truly does seem ill. Admitting this thing he has avoided for so long leaves him feeling sick to his stomach.] ... of a Bond. My concerns are primarily personal in nature.

[He almost lurches forward to offer Fugo a hand — to ask if he needs anything. Some tea, anything — but he doesn't. Instead, he hides his hands behind his back before clenching them into fists.]

[Don't interrupt him. Let him get it out. No matter how painfully formal it sounds, or how much he wants to cross the space between them to put his hands on Fugo's face. His nails, sharper than ever, dig into his palms.]

. . . Personal in what way? [A beat, before he clarifies.] I don't mean to be deliberately obtuse. I just don't want to assume that your reasons are the same as mine. [Even though, really, he's already assuming that, no matter what he says.]

[There is a long moment of silence. Fugo sits, as still as a statue and with little expression on his face, hands once again neatly folded in his lap. He can't move. Can't speak. He has to be as still as possible, to keep the worst of the poison spilling out.]

I am not-- pleasant. [Unpleasant-- what a joke. He's caustic, he's pessimistic, he's emotionally unstable. Even on his good days, his thoughts never really stop. What sort of person has to regularly force themselves to eat? And all of that before his regular nightmares and occasional night terrors.] I don't like the idea of someone having that much insight into me.

Edited 2020-01-11 05:59 (UTC)

[The way Fugo holds himself is like someone trying to keep from accidentally setting off a bomb. It's depressing, given that Giorno has the insider knowledge that in this scenario, Fugo is the bomb, at least in his own estimation. And with that same insider knowledge, he isn't surprised by the answer that comes. More surprised by the lack of vehemence. By how strongly Fugo is tamping his own self-loathing down.]

I can't blame you for that. I didn't like the idea, either. It's still sometimes uncomfortable.

[But . . . don't like is very gentle phrasing for the way Fugo is holding himself at arms' length from even the concept of Bonding. He tips his head slightly to one side, thoughtful.]

What are you worried will happen?

[Flatly:] There's nothing hypothetical about it.

[Giorno doesn't know. But maybe he can guess at it; he's seen glimpses of what Fugo's really like, in flashes of his violent temper and the twisted nature of his Stand. As things are now, he can navigate life from behind a mask of normalcy. He can go through the motions just by putting one foot in front of the next and allowing inertia to do the rest of the work. But with a Bond, there will be no hiding. There will be at least one person who can see beyond his affectations of personhood; who will know that underneath a paper-thin skin, he's rotted out from within.

And what then? Fugo can see only two paths, though both lead to the same inevitable destination. Either the Bond will be quickly severed, because his mind disgusting and burdensome, or his partner will maintain for a while out of pity until they eventually can't come to stand him.]

If I form a Bond with someone-- [He pauses, mouth twisting, and then forces it out:] If I form a Bond with you, you will see me.

[Hasn't Giorno already done enough for him. Forgiven enough. It would have been easier-- simpler, better-- to have him killed to protect his secrets, but Giorno let him live. Brought him back. Offered him a place at his side and when Fugo, too heavy and exhausted to move forward on his own, couldn't step forward to reach him, stepped halfway to him. He's only made it this far by clinging to Giorno's hand. This is it. There are no more chances for him. A Bond doesn't feel like hope. To Fugo, it's a death sentence.]

[Ah. The whisper of resignation, of bitter relief at a valve loosed, steam expelled. Quietly, subtly, he sighs through his nose. There it is.]

[He can only imagine what it's like behind Fugo's eyes, to be looking out at the world as someone who hates Fugo the way Fugo hates himself. He can guess at it, certainly. It isn't as subtle anymore as it once was — because, of course, he cheated. Because he did research and learned more and finally, finally the broken bits and pieces of Fugo's harlequin Stand started to fall into place.]

[Purple Haze's mouth is sewn shut because Fugo has been silenced, and silences himself. Purple Haze is angry because Fugo is angry. Purple Haze is anxious, and violent, and afraid, because Fugo is all of these things. Purple Haze is out of control because—]

[Fugo thinks: Because I am out of control.]

[Giorno thinks: Because you control yourself too tightly.]

[His hands fall loose at his sides, fingers open, palms marked with half-moons that almost break the skin.]

But I want to see you, Fugo.

[His voice is soft, helpless. Not quite hopeless, but close. He's trying to believe in an eventuality where Fugo will believe him, but it seems so improbable.]

I've always wanted to see you.

[Giorno wants to see him. Giorno... wants to see him. Has always wanted to see him.]

[Fugo stares. He doesn't blink. He barely breathes. The words sink in slowly, but they don't completely register. They're just so unbelievable. He doesn't-- can't focus on them. Instead, his expression to crack at the glimpse he gets of Giorno's palms; at this distance, all he can see is the line of red marks. Is he bleeding? Was he clenching his fists behind his back? Has he hurt himself?]

Giogio, your hands. [He blinks, quickly, then shakes his head; his hair goes flying, this way and that. Frazzled, he runs his hands through it and tries to get it out of his face.] You... want to see me.

[His first thought is this: how? And his second: why? Knowing what he does. Having seen his Stand-- having survived him. How can Giorno say that. Why would he still want to?]

ic inbox ( ǣfenglōm )

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)