Ho ho ho! Your secret Santa gift recipient for this year is CheeryCherry on the network.
Her name is... Riley, I think? You might have to find her surname out yourself.
Please spend no more than 20 solars on a gift for Riley, and ensure she receives it on or before Christmas Day (December 25). If not, Santa Claus will come to your house and glare disappointedly through the windows until you cough up.
Merry Winter-Holiday-Of-Your-Choice!
Her name is... Riley, I think? You might have to find her surname out yourself.
Please spend no more than 20 solars on a gift for Riley, and ensure she receives it on or before Christmas Day (December 25). If not, Santa Claus will come to your house and glare disappointedly through the windows until you cough up.
Merry Winter-Holiday-Of-Your-Choice!
Forward dated to the 21st but done now because i Needed To
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missleadingquestions
2020-12-12 11:41 pm (UTC)(link)
[After a bit of investigating, Maya figures out how to have this particular gift delivered to Giorno's residence.
A courier will deliver to him a small, purple fabric satin pouch in the style of omiyage. In it is a wax-paper parcel filled with seaglass-colored & blue-hawaii flavored kohakutou, a simple abalone stick pin, a distinctly japanese good fortune charm, and a bag of what appears to be folded up... confetti?
Upon inspecting the confetti, it's tied with a note that says "for your friend"; each piece of confetti itself says "tits" in very clean handwriting.
The only other note simply says, "Enjoy the holidays! From your Secret Santa."]
A courier will deliver to him a small, purple fabric satin pouch in the style of omiyage. In it is a wax-paper parcel filled with seaglass-colored & blue-hawaii flavored kohakutou, a simple abalone stick pin, a distinctly japanese good fortune charm, and a bag of what appears to be folded up... confetti?
Upon inspecting the confetti, it's tied with a note that says "for your friend"; each piece of confetti itself says "tits" in very clean handwriting.
The only other note simply says, "Enjoy the holidays! From your Secret Santa."]
[Honestly, the whole package is pretty and thoughtful in a way that touches him unexpectedly, especially considering he signed up for this whole thing sort-of-accidentally. In the way of someone very bad at receiving presents, he unwraps everything with extreme care and some trepidation until he gets to the . . . confetti.]
[It takes him a minute, and then he has to cover his whole face with both hands to keep the whole house from hearing him shriek-laughing.]
[Roughly halfway through the 22nd, Maya will receive a very poor quality picture of tits confetti displayed artfully on ruby-red cardstock and framed in gold, along with the message:] half of it's still set aside for throwing, but i wanted to preserve some. what do you think?
[It takes him a minute, and then he has to cover his whole face with both hands to keep the whole house from hearing him shriek-laughing.]
[Roughly halfway through the 22nd, Maya will receive a very poor quality picture of tits confetti displayed artfully on ruby-red cardstock and framed in gold, along with the message:] half of it's still set aside for throwing, but i wanted to preserve some. what do you think?
[What does one get for an errant stepson? Well, Erina is going to find out. She sends along a dozen gingerbread cookies decorated with royal icing. Some of them are not as neat as others (clearly, Jonathan and Lizzie helped). Along with the cookies, comes a navy scarf, neatly knitted. and a cloak, lovingly decorated.]
Dearest Son,
I hope that I'm not overstepping, but I couldn't possibly bear the thought that you would go through the winter too chilly. I've been quite busy the last two months, so I hope that you enjoy both of these gifts, and the cookies.
With affection, your Stepmother,
Erina
Dearest Son,
I hope that I'm not overstepping, but I couldn't possibly bear the thought that you would go through the winter too chilly. I've been quite busy the last two months, so I hope that you enjoy both of these gifts, and the cookies.
With affection, your Stepmother,
Erina
[He opens this present with . . . less trepidation than expected, actually. Having interacted with her properly, he still feels out of his depth but not so panicked about it; she's a good-natured person, even if he doesn't quite understand why she wants anything to do with him.]
[The cookies make sense. The scarf is a little overwhelming, but Tsukikage also gave him a scarf, so he understands that, too. The cloak is — he has to stop to just absorb its existence for a while, to run his fingertips over the fine decorations. His breath catches, too emotional, when he sees how fine the stitches are. For a while, his chest feels tight.]
[Somewhat later, Erina receives a photo and a message. The photo is poor quality, obviously, because there is no other option, but it shows its subject clearly: Giorno walking pink-cheeked in the snow, laughing at something someone off-shot has said, wrapped warmly in both his cloak and his scarf.]
[The message just says:]
Thank you.
[The cookies make sense. The scarf is a little overwhelming, but Tsukikage also gave him a scarf, so he understands that, too. The cloak is — he has to stop to just absorb its existence for a while, to run his fingertips over the fine decorations. His breath catches, too emotional, when he sees how fine the stitches are. For a while, his chest feels tight.]
[Somewhat later, Erina receives a photo and a message. The photo is poor quality, obviously, because there is no other option, but it shows its subject clearly: Giorno walking pink-cheeked in the snow, laughing at something someone off-shot has said, wrapped warmly in both his cloak and his scarf.]
[The message just says:]
Thank you.
[Alongside a frankly longwinded christmas greeting, comes a christmas gift! Jonathan, granted, doesn't really know what sort of monster Giorno will be at this point, and doesn't want to risk gifting anything that would turn out to be Terrible for some other species, so the gift is rather simple; one part is a charcoal drawing- rather like in older textbooks- of the various plants in the HillHouse, and around it. The second part is a pack of flowering seeds gathered by recommendation from local gardeners!]
<CheeryCherry> | blanket warning for drugs/painkiller abuse in this entire thread
isawallflower
2021-01-11 12:22 am (UTC)(link)
[ So it's...rather early in the morning, when Giorno gets this text. ]
hhey
journo
is thtt how t spell youor name??
i have afavorr to ask
pleas?
[ oh no. ]
hhey
journo
is thtt how t spell youor name??
i have afavorr to ask
pleas?
[ oh no. ]
[ Mista knew more than anyone how rough the rest of the month had been for Giorno, talking it out might have helped but ultimately he thought he needed a breather more than anything. Something nice when nothing felt nice at all. He'd been gathering a few things and putting together a few ideas over the last few weeks, simple things to try and soothe him however he could.
He'd wanted to give him these in person, but the truth was that he had no idea how well-received any of it would be. The two of them got on spectacularly well, but even he couldn't fool himself into believing that Giorno had the same romantic streak that Mista had running through him.
Whether Giorno was awake or not, at midnight on February 14th there is a knock on his door and rather than a person he'll find a few miscellaneous but strangely well-wrapped gifts outside of his door. The majority of it is made up of the classic and painfully cliché Valentine's day fare: chocolates, flowers and little figures of ladybugs and frogs decorated in pink and red glitter. Some of it is tacky, really, especially in comparison to one of the larger boxes that had been left for him.
In the more decorative and carefully packed box is a special glass filled with that Chocolate Drink that he seemed to be so fond of. Included in the box is a messy but handmade booklet full of vouchers for homemade chocolate drinks whenever he wants one without leaving the comfort of his room. There's a card attached that doesn't really say anything, instead there's just a heart scrawled on it followed by Mista's signature.
Even if he'd slithered off quickly, at least it was clear where this gift had come from. ]
He'd wanted to give him these in person, but the truth was that he had no idea how well-received any of it would be. The two of them got on spectacularly well, but even he couldn't fool himself into believing that Giorno had the same romantic streak that Mista had running through him.
Whether Giorno was awake or not, at midnight on February 14th there is a knock on his door and rather than a person he'll find a few miscellaneous but strangely well-wrapped gifts outside of his door. The majority of it is made up of the classic and painfully cliché Valentine's day fare: chocolates, flowers and little figures of ladybugs and frogs decorated in pink and red glitter. Some of it is tacky, really, especially in comparison to one of the larger boxes that had been left for him.
In the more decorative and carefully packed box is a special glass filled with that Chocolate Drink that he seemed to be so fond of. Included in the box is a messy but handmade booklet full of vouchers for homemade chocolate drinks whenever he wants one without leaving the comfort of his room. There's a card attached that doesn't really say anything, instead there's just a heart scrawled on it followed by Mista's signature.
Even if he'd slithered off quickly, at least it was clear where this gift had come from. ]
[On February 13, Giorno had thought that Valentine's Day was stupid. This was a thought he had voiced more than once in the past. He had a lot of reasons for this, many of them logical and many of them not, but they all ultimately boiled down to this: the celebration of romance as a central point in people's lives was excessive and unnecessary. There were better things to celebrate.]
[By 12:03 AM on February 14, he'd entirely changed his position.]
[It wasn't . . . as though it was that unusual for them to give each other things. They did, a lot, because Giorno had found that he liked to and Mista was a naturally giving person. Here, when they were so close to each other's rooms, it was easy to drop something off just to make the other smile. But Mista usually stuck around to see him open whatever it was, if it was even wrapped. More than that, this . . . wasn't I saw this and thought of you, this was specific. Thematic. Deliberate. Purposeful.]
[He brought everything into his room quickly, sat it on the bed, closed and locked the door, and just stared at the pile for a while before gingerly sitting down next to it and and carefully beginning to open the boxes. It was cliche, which was a nightmare, because it was Mista and that meant it was genuine. Mista was a by-the-book romantic. Mista always—]
[There were little frogs. With glitter on them. Did Mista do that himself? He must have. There was no way he found something so absurdly tailored to Giorno's very specific tastes. The booklet he definitely made. The glass was . . . there'd been one thing that consistently made him smile this month, and that had been it.]
[He felt like he couldn't breathe. All he could smell was chocolate and construction paper and the flowers, which had ended up on his nightstand — he must have put them there, but he didn't remember, it was just so much. But not — bad. Not bad. He didn't feel bad. It was something else.]
[To clear his head, he spent the next hour carefully arranging the little figurines on his bookshelf, which was on the wall to the left of the bed. After some thought, he put the booklet there, too, and the glass (once he finished it and washed it out). If he lay on his side on the bed, he could look at all of it at once, including the flowers. There weren't any other personal touches in the room, just these things Mista had brought him today and a few other little knickknacks from other days. Everything that Mista brought him made his room feel more like home.]
[He fell asleep looking at the ladybug he had placed on the highest shelf. At some point in the morning, he woke up and went to the bathroom, picking up a package that had been left outside his bedroom door on the way back in. It wasn't very interesting, especially not after he saw the glass set carefully on his bookshelf, with the card right next to it. After opening, he discarded it in the trash and went back to sleep.]
[The next time he woke up, it was with his teeth clamped down tight around his pillow, screams muffled by the cloth. It hurt. He had experienced so much pain in his life, but nothing like this, not even any of the times he'd almost died. Somewhere in the back of his mind it occurred to him to ask for help, he had to ask for help, but as soon as he thought it the thought vanished, shoved away by a crack of bone that made his blood run cold.]
[That was his. His head, his bone, his skull.]
[The next few minutes were whiteness. On the other side of it, he lay in the fetal position on the bed, legs tugged up to his chest and hidden almost entirely under the blanket. Most of the mess was on the floor, but some of it wasn't. His hair was down for the night, so that was . . . good, but he was a bloody mess, and he was shaking.]
[Mista sat at the edge of the bed, tail curled up under him and trailing along the floor. The thing was — it was just like Mista. Mista as he was, here and now, Mista in the present rather than some idealized version. It was dizzying. It was almost enough to convince him that it was real.]
[But this thing hurt him. It hurt him a lot. Mista never would. So what the hell was it? Did he do this, somehow? Why couldn't he stop shaking? The thing on his bed started speaking to him, little phrases of little consequence, how are you, what do you wanna do today, and it made him want to scream. At the back of his mind he thought: When did he leave those things? Last night? I didn't say anything. I didn't tell him I got them. I didn't say — anything. At all.]
[Even reeling from dizzying pain and terror, the idea of inadvertently hurting Mista's feelings made him panic. His message was sloppy, poorly spelled and punctuated from anxiety and his own shaking hands, but he sent it. In the moment, it felt like the only thing that mattered.]
Mista i got your pressent thank you i am feeling
weird but not because of tht you're
thank you
dont feel well but thnk you
i shoudlve s
[And . . . that seemed to be as much as he could manage. His hands were shaking too badly to continue. Balling them up into fists, he squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the blanket over his head. No more, no more, no more, he couldn't. He just wanted to think, but the thing that wasn't Mista was talking to him, gently running its fingers through his hair, and no matter what he did thoughts wouldn't come.]
[By 12:03 AM on February 14, he'd entirely changed his position.]
[It wasn't . . . as though it was that unusual for them to give each other things. They did, a lot, because Giorno had found that he liked to and Mista was a naturally giving person. Here, when they were so close to each other's rooms, it was easy to drop something off just to make the other smile. But Mista usually stuck around to see him open whatever it was, if it was even wrapped. More than that, this . . . wasn't I saw this and thought of you, this was specific. Thematic. Deliberate. Purposeful.]
[He brought everything into his room quickly, sat it on the bed, closed and locked the door, and just stared at the pile for a while before gingerly sitting down next to it and and carefully beginning to open the boxes. It was cliche, which was a nightmare, because it was Mista and that meant it was genuine. Mista was a by-the-book romantic. Mista always—]
[There were little frogs. With glitter on them. Did Mista do that himself? He must have. There was no way he found something so absurdly tailored to Giorno's very specific tastes. The booklet he definitely made. The glass was . . . there'd been one thing that consistently made him smile this month, and that had been it.]
[He felt like he couldn't breathe. All he could smell was chocolate and construction paper and the flowers, which had ended up on his nightstand — he must have put them there, but he didn't remember, it was just so much. But not — bad. Not bad. He didn't feel bad. It was something else.]
[To clear his head, he spent the next hour carefully arranging the little figurines on his bookshelf, which was on the wall to the left of the bed. After some thought, he put the booklet there, too, and the glass (once he finished it and washed it out). If he lay on his side on the bed, he could look at all of it at once, including the flowers. There weren't any other personal touches in the room, just these things Mista had brought him today and a few other little knickknacks from other days. Everything that Mista brought him made his room feel more like home.]
[He fell asleep looking at the ladybug he had placed on the highest shelf. At some point in the morning, he woke up and went to the bathroom, picking up a package that had been left outside his bedroom door on the way back in. It wasn't very interesting, especially not after he saw the glass set carefully on his bookshelf, with the card right next to it. After opening, he discarded it in the trash and went back to sleep.]
[The next time he woke up, it was with his teeth clamped down tight around his pillow, screams muffled by the cloth. It hurt. He had experienced so much pain in his life, but nothing like this, not even any of the times he'd almost died. Somewhere in the back of his mind it occurred to him to ask for help, he had to ask for help, but as soon as he thought it the thought vanished, shoved away by a crack of bone that made his blood run cold.]
[That was his. His head, his bone, his skull.]
[The next few minutes were whiteness. On the other side of it, he lay in the fetal position on the bed, legs tugged up to his chest and hidden almost entirely under the blanket. Most of the mess was on the floor, but some of it wasn't. His hair was down for the night, so that was . . . good, but he was a bloody mess, and he was shaking.]
[Mista sat at the edge of the bed, tail curled up under him and trailing along the floor. The thing was — it was just like Mista. Mista as he was, here and now, Mista in the present rather than some idealized version. It was dizzying. It was almost enough to convince him that it was real.]
[But this thing hurt him. It hurt him a lot. Mista never would. So what the hell was it? Did he do this, somehow? Why couldn't he stop shaking? The thing on his bed started speaking to him, little phrases of little consequence, how are you, what do you wanna do today, and it made him want to scream. At the back of his mind he thought: When did he leave those things? Last night? I didn't say anything. I didn't tell him I got them. I didn't say — anything. At all.]
[Even reeling from dizzying pain and terror, the idea of inadvertently hurting Mista's feelings made him panic. His message was sloppy, poorly spelled and punctuated from anxiety and his own shaking hands, but he sent it. In the moment, it felt like the only thing that mattered.]
Mista i got your pressent thank you i am feeling
weird but not because of tht you're
thank you
dont feel well but thnk you
i shoudlve s
[And . . . that seemed to be as much as he could manage. His hands were shaking too badly to continue. Balling them up into fists, he squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the blanket over his head. No more, no more, no more, he couldn't. He just wanted to think, but the thing that wasn't Mista was talking to him, gently running its fingers through his hair, and no matter what he did thoughts wouldn't come.]
cw for more of the same shit (blood, body horror, emeto??)
grilletto
- 2021-02-16 02:56 (UTC) - Expand[Just when you thought you might escape your stepmother, Giorno, another bit of mail comes in for him.
In fact, it is an very decorated card as well as a small box of chocolate-dipped shortbread cookies, the chocolate side sprinkled with walnuts. Inside, in Erina's swooping, extremely Victorian handwriting reads,]
Dear Giorno,
Happy Valentine's to you, my dear Giorno. I thought the card reminded me of you very much, and I am also sending along a few chocolates and cookies for you to enjoy. Thank you for joining Jonathan & I's re-marriage. We appreciated your presence very much. If it pleases you, share them with that young man that joined you.
With deepest affection, your stepmother,
Erina
In fact, it is an very decorated card as well as a small box of chocolate-dipped shortbread cookies, the chocolate side sprinkled with walnuts. Inside, in Erina's swooping, extremely Victorian handwriting reads,]
Dear Giorno,
Happy Valentine's to you, my dear Giorno. I thought the card reminded me of you very much, and I am also sending along a few chocolates and cookies for you to enjoy. Thank you for joining Jonathan & I's re-marriage. We appreciated your presence very much. If it pleases you, share them with that young man that joined you.
With deepest affection, your stepmother,
Erina
[Atypically, an electronic message comes for Giorno, instead of one of Erina's usual handwritten ones.]
Good morning, son,
Thank you again for the tea set, I'm looking forward to using it with you when we're both free next. But I have some news for you that you may or may not like to keep beneath your metaphorical hat. Your father's birthday is April 4th, and if you would like, you and I can go hunting for gifts for him. Jonathan will, of course, tell you he needs nothing (and while it is a bit childish to bring him gifts, I think he would like it greatly).
So let us both surprise him. I am going to convince Lizzie to think hard on a gift as well.
With affection,
Your Stepmother
Good morning, son,
Thank you again for the tea set, I'm looking forward to using it with you when we're both free next. But I have some news for you that you may or may not like to keep beneath your metaphorical hat. Your father's birthday is April 4th, and if you would like, you and I can go hunting for gifts for him. Jonathan will, of course, tell you he needs nothing (and while it is a bit childish to bring him gifts, I think he would like it greatly).
So let us both surprise him. I am going to convince Lizzie to think hard on a gift as well.
With affection,
Your Stepmother
[ So let's start with a little backstory, shall we?
Several days ago, Steve spotted a bug-themed knick-knack in a store, basically entered a fugue state, and walked out of said store with said knick-knack in his hand wondering what in the actual hell he was supposed to do with it, among other things. Sometime after that he'd messaged Riley, and somehow that conversation, too, ended in another net gain he wasn't expecting in the form of Giorno's contact info.
Despite her encouragement, he's no less confused as to what etiquette should be followed in the face of a conundrum it's possible zero living people have ever had before. The simplest route would of course be to never say anything to Giorno again and therefore never have to deal with any potential chatter about certain fake memories, but he doesn't want to be the guy who lets that be the reason he avoids someone, or a coward in general.
Around 7 PM on the 16th of Ryslig's fourth month, he finally decides that it's Time. ]
hey
Several days ago, Steve spotted a bug-themed knick-knack in a store, basically entered a fugue state, and walked out of said store with said knick-knack in his hand wondering what in the actual hell he was supposed to do with it, among other things. Sometime after that he'd messaged Riley, and somehow that conversation, too, ended in another net gain he wasn't expecting in the form of Giorno's contact info.
Despite her encouragement, he's no less confused as to what etiquette should be followed in the face of a conundrum it's possible zero living people have ever had before. The simplest route would of course be to never say anything to Giorno again and therefore never have to deal with any potential chatter about certain fake memories, but he doesn't want to be the guy who lets that be the reason he avoids someone, or a coward in general.
Around 7 PM on the 16th of Ryslig's fourth month, he finally decides that it's Time. ]
hey
[Wedged firmly between at least one and a half personal identity crises, Giorno himself has been blissfully free of Steve-related angst since March. In truth, though, that probably would have been the case regardless. There are always bigger fish to fry than interpersonal fish, and while he doesn't know Steve well, it's not like he's a supervillain. Riley likes him. Riley has taste, sometimes.]
[So chances are good that he's not emotionally connected to someone genuinely evil in an alternate universe. All things considered, it wasn't by any means the worst part of that other place, although he could go the rest of his life without talking about the H-word.]
[He doesn't expect anything to change, is the point, because he anticipates that everyone is as capable of quote-unquote compartmentalizing as he is. So he's surprised by the text in general, but also by the content. What . . . is "hey". He stares at it for a lot of seconds.]
yes? hello??? [Is this a code?????]
[So chances are good that he's not emotionally connected to someone genuinely evil in an alternate universe. All things considered, it wasn't by any means the worst part of that other place, although he could go the rest of his life without talking about the H-word.]
[He doesn't expect anything to change, is the point, because he anticipates that everyone is as capable of quote-unquote compartmentalizing as he is. So he's surprised by the text in general, but also by the content. What . . . is "hey". He stares at it for a lot of seconds.]
yes? hello??? [Is this a code?????]
[As promised, the discreet, brown-paper wrapped gift opens to a small collection of wonderfully, colorfully wrapped items. As she gave Jonathan, Giorno also gets a journal. On the inside of the first page, written in Erina's elegant script, reads Ex. Libris Giorno Giovanna.
The second gift is slightly less practical than the first, a set of watercolours and their accompanying brushes. The note with them reads, A gentleman must be well-versed in many things. The last item is actually two: a pair of books on flowers and horticulture in Ryslig, as well as a book on the language of the flowers.
Her birthday card to him is no less outlandish than her Christmas card was. A pair of frogs, with the outside positively festooned in paper lace and paper flowers.
To my dear boy on his birthday,
Many happy returns this year, and should you ever need your mother's aid, do not hesitate.
With love and dearest affection,
Mum
The second gift is slightly less practical than the first, a set of watercolours and their accompanying brushes. The note with them reads, A gentleman must be well-versed in many things. The last item is actually two: a pair of books on flowers and horticulture in Ryslig, as well as a book on the language of the flowers.
Her birthday card to him is no less outlandish than her Christmas card was. A pair of frogs, with the outside positively festooned in paper lace and paper flowers.
To my dear boy on his birthday,
Many happy returns this year, and should you ever need your mother's aid, do not hesitate.
With love and dearest affection,
Mum
[Whatever he was expecting, this is . . . significantly more. It overwhelms him, but not enough to forget his promise: he sends Erina a message stating that he received the package and that he'll write more later.]
[Which he also does, once he's had time to look through the books a little more carefully and consider the watercolors in particular. The signature, too. When he sits down and writes her a brief note (by hand, and to be sent by courier, since that seems to be her preference), it ends up shorter than he expected.]
Mum,
Thank you. I don't know what to say but thank you. I wasn't expecting so much. I hope I can make good use of all of these beautiful things.
I've never tried to paint before. (Or to be a gentleman, if I'm being honest.) Are you good at it? Could you show me?
Love,
Giorno
[Which he also does, once he's had time to look through the books a little more carefully and consider the watercolors in particular. The signature, too. When he sits down and writes her a brief note (by hand, and to be sent by courier, since that seems to be her preference), it ends up shorter than he expected.]
Mum,
Thank you. I don't know what to say but thank you. I wasn't expecting so much. I hope I can make good use of all of these beautiful things.
I've never tried to paint before. (Or to be a gentleman, if I'm being honest.) Are you good at it? Could you show me?
Love,
Giorno
[About two weeks after his second arrival into Ryslig, Fugo pushes a dossier underneath Giorno's door. It's all written out in his mechanically perfect handwriting, because he doesn't trust the security of the network or their laptops. A small note is paperclipped to the front reads as follows:]
Giorno,
Let me know if you need any further clarifications.
- Fugo
[When opened, Giorno will find three very neat and meticulously written documents. The first is a record of Passione's activities, to the best of Fugo's knowledge, between April and October. Rather than a blow-by-blow, it is more of a general summary of Giorno's strategy in dismantling the drug trade. It includes, funnily enough, some rumors that Fugo heard on his own. Apparently, Giorno is known as a "secret gangster prince".
The second is a brief document detailing Fugo's movements from when they parted ways. This includes the route he took first back to Naples, then the more winding and difficult-to-track path to his final hiding place in Milan. There is an address, for the apartment he rented, as well as a list of jobs he took under a number of aliases. The final job he took was as a pianist at a bar.]
[The final document is a mission report, describing how Fugo, alongside two other Passione operatives by the name of Sheila E and Canollo Murolo, took down the former narcotics squad and eliminated a man named Massimo Volpe. Most of it is fairly standard: how he was found and who gave him the mission; a list of locations that were investigated and what was found there; descriptions of encounters with the enemy; profiles on enemy Stand users and their abilities; and a final body and injury count. There's even a brief section about how Purple Haze's ability seemed to change, although Fugo himself doesn't seem to understand it very well yet.
But then, in closing, Fugo takes the time to include a very detailed recount of a conversation he had with Giorno after everything was said and done. He describes the restaurant Giorno had him brought to and how his wounds were healed; the food they ate, the music that was playing on the radio, the photograph Giorno returned to him. And, of course, an account of what they talked about. The vow Fugo made to him.
Half of a step.]
[It's probably a little too much. But, in Fugo's mind, it's better to be too thorough rather than potentially miss something significant.]
Giorno,
Let me know if you need any further clarifications.
- Fugo
[When opened, Giorno will find three very neat and meticulously written documents. The first is a record of Passione's activities, to the best of Fugo's knowledge, between April and October. Rather than a blow-by-blow, it is more of a general summary of Giorno's strategy in dismantling the drug trade. It includes, funnily enough, some rumors that Fugo heard on his own. Apparently, Giorno is known as a "secret gangster prince".
The second is a brief document detailing Fugo's movements from when they parted ways. This includes the route he took first back to Naples, then the more winding and difficult-to-track path to his final hiding place in Milan. There is an address, for the apartment he rented, as well as a list of jobs he took under a number of aliases. The final job he took was as a pianist at a bar.]
[The final document is a mission report, describing how Fugo, alongside two other Passione operatives by the name of Sheila E and Canollo Murolo, took down the former narcotics squad and eliminated a man named Massimo Volpe. Most of it is fairly standard: how he was found and who gave him the mission; a list of locations that were investigated and what was found there; descriptions of encounters with the enemy; profiles on enemy Stand users and their abilities; and a final body and injury count. There's even a brief section about how Purple Haze's ability seemed to change, although Fugo himself doesn't seem to understand it very well yet.
But then, in closing, Fugo takes the time to include a very detailed recount of a conversation he had with Giorno after everything was said and done. He describes the restaurant Giorno had him brought to and how his wounds were healed; the food they ate, the music that was playing on the radio, the photograph Giorno returned to him. And, of course, an account of what they talked about. The vow Fugo made to him.
Half of a step.]
[It's probably a little too much. But, in Fugo's mind, it's better to be too thorough rather than potentially miss something significant.]
[August has been an absolute fucking nightmare so far, but on the plus side, Fugo is here to introduce some wildcard elements from the future.]
[To be entirely honest, Giorno's forgotten that he requested the details of Fugo's experiences in the time between the last time Giorno saw him and the moments before his arrival in Ryslig. The fact that he's waiting for these documents has been wedged firmly in the back of his mind, all the way behind the other imperatives occupying his attention, such as: peering around corners in fear of seeing Diavolo, peering around corners hoping to see someone wearing a sign inscribed with RABBIT MURDERER, going to work and trying not to think about surgery as torture, not talking to Trish, and having nightmares.]
[In short, the dossier takes him by surprise. The detail of it, once he realizes what it is, doesn't surprise him in the least. As much as he struggles to focus on what he's reading, addled by paranoia and exhaustion and distraction, he finds Fugo's written word to be almost identical in tone and sentence structure to his long-ago recital of Pompeii facts. It's fascinating. When Fugo slips into the mindset of reporting, for whatever reason and for whatever occasion, it seems to always sound the same.]
[At least until the final document. The end of the final document, to be precise. The beginning of it already prickles somewhat uncomfortably at the back of his neck; he recognizes the idle fledgling plan he'd been poking at before Ryslig took hold of him, only fleshed out and full of details that feel uncannily familiar even though they aren't exactly his. By the end, though, the way Fugo's described things just feels different. More visceral, more vivid, more . . . well, personal.]
[He rereads the part about the restaurant over and over, hand pressed to his mouth as he leans into it, brow furrowed somewhere between frustration and embarrassment. His ears have long retreated flat against his head.]
[He doesn't know what to do with this. The worst part is that he isn't even surprised. He's really not.]
[He keeps rereading it.]
[It's several hours later when he knocks on Fugo's door, although of course it's ajar. The sound is uncharacteristically timid, for which he curses himself immediately. He still has absolutely no plan. There's not a fantastic way to plan for this, and after a solid hour of attempting, he just gave up.]
Fugo? Do you have a moment?
[To be entirely honest, Giorno's forgotten that he requested the details of Fugo's experiences in the time between the last time Giorno saw him and the moments before his arrival in Ryslig. The fact that he's waiting for these documents has been wedged firmly in the back of his mind, all the way behind the other imperatives occupying his attention, such as: peering around corners in fear of seeing Diavolo, peering around corners hoping to see someone wearing a sign inscribed with RABBIT MURDERER, going to work and trying not to think about surgery as torture, not talking to Trish, and having nightmares.]
[In short, the dossier takes him by surprise. The detail of it, once he realizes what it is, doesn't surprise him in the least. As much as he struggles to focus on what he's reading, addled by paranoia and exhaustion and distraction, he finds Fugo's written word to be almost identical in tone and sentence structure to his long-ago recital of Pompeii facts. It's fascinating. When Fugo slips into the mindset of reporting, for whatever reason and for whatever occasion, it seems to always sound the same.]
[At least until the final document. The end of the final document, to be precise. The beginning of it already prickles somewhat uncomfortably at the back of his neck; he recognizes the idle fledgling plan he'd been poking at before Ryslig took hold of him, only fleshed out and full of details that feel uncannily familiar even though they aren't exactly his. By the end, though, the way Fugo's described things just feels different. More visceral, more vivid, more . . . well, personal.]
[He rereads the part about the restaurant over and over, hand pressed to his mouth as he leans into it, brow furrowed somewhere between frustration and embarrassment. His ears have long retreated flat against his head.]
[He doesn't know what to do with this. The worst part is that he isn't even surprised. He's really not.]
[He keeps rereading it.]
[It's several hours later when he knocks on Fugo's door, although of course it's ajar. The sound is uncharacteristically timid, for which he curses himself immediately. He still has absolutely no plan. There's not a fantastic way to plan for this, and after a solid hour of attempting, he just gave up.]
Fugo? Do you have a moment?
Hey, Giorno. Can we talk?
In person would be best. I've got an hour with no appointments now, if you're available. Just come to my office when you can.
In person would be best. I've got an hour with no appointments now, if you're available. Just come to my office when you can.
giorno
how much do you know about lions ?
[He has to shift Tybolt around for a moment to hit shift and get that question mark.]
specifically lion cubs
how much do you know about lions ?
[He has to shift Tybolt around for a moment to hit shift and get that question mark.]
specifically lion cubs
[It was nice to think that when everyone came back to their proper selves, everything would be normal again. But that's not how it is.
People...remembered.
Trish had to contend with that fact for a few days. She had to lie there in her room and think back on everything she did that week, every word she said, but there's only one person who flits and flees just outside periphery of her senses in every memory, and still does so in person. Someone who said so much with so few words.
Giorno perhaps has no interest in discussing it. Certainly, what happened in the past may not be relevant now, but...that simply can't be true, not this time. Not with him.
When Trish closes her eyes, she still sees that little boy, looking so hopeless.
So many nights ago -- how many was it, now? -- she wanted to be understood.
Let's say you're me.
Again, and again, and again. That's what she said.
Her tail curls around her when she thinks...not once, other than the barest understanding of Giorno's loss then, not once did she try to understand where he was coming from. It seemed like pure catastrophe and pure ego enmeshed in twining roots that met and held tight until they made someone resembling Giorno Giovanna.
The Giorno Giovanna of here, and the one of Italy. They're separate, but not separated. They make a whole, don't they?
He was wrong, too. They are very different people. If they weren't, she would have understood him better, wouldn't she? Haruno would not have looked at her the way he did that day in the piano room. It was too familiar in a face she'd only just met.
But I'm not okay, Trish. I'm sorry that doesn't fit the image you have of me, but I'm just not, and after all of this I won't sit in front of you and pretend that I am.
Is it a difference they can reconcile? That's what she wonders, and if Giorno and her are to forever exist as parallel entities, never meeting, that's fine. But she'll only accept that if she fails one more time.
Three chances and that's it, right?]
Giorno.
We need to talk. I'll be in the garden.
People...remembered.
Trish had to contend with that fact for a few days. She had to lie there in her room and think back on everything she did that week, every word she said, but there's only one person who flits and flees just outside periphery of her senses in every memory, and still does so in person. Someone who said so much with so few words.
Giorno perhaps has no interest in discussing it. Certainly, what happened in the past may not be relevant now, but...that simply can't be true, not this time. Not with him.
When Trish closes her eyes, she still sees that little boy, looking so hopeless.
So many nights ago -- how many was it, now? -- she wanted to be understood.
Let's say you're me.
Again, and again, and again. That's what she said.
Her tail curls around her when she thinks...not once, other than the barest understanding of Giorno's loss then, not once did she try to understand where he was coming from. It seemed like pure catastrophe and pure ego enmeshed in twining roots that met and held tight until they made someone resembling Giorno Giovanna.
The Giorno Giovanna of here, and the one of Italy. They're separate, but not separated. They make a whole, don't they?
He was wrong, too. They are very different people. If they weren't, she would have understood him better, wouldn't she? Haruno would not have looked at her the way he did that day in the piano room. It was too familiar in a face she'd only just met.
But I'm not okay, Trish. I'm sorry that doesn't fit the image you have of me, but I'm just not, and after all of this I won't sit in front of you and pretend that I am.
Is it a difference they can reconcile? That's what she wonders, and if Giorno and her are to forever exist as parallel entities, never meeting, that's fine. But she'll only accept that if she fails one more time.
Three chances and that's it, right?]
Giorno.
We need to talk. I'll be in the garden.
[When everything returns to normal, Giorno feels like shit.]
[There are some ways that this isn't entirely bad. He doesn't have to carry the strange resentment of his other self's wonderful alternate life, like before. He doesn't have to tell Riley, because she already knows. Most people seem content to not talk about it much. He . . . will have to talk to Steve, but there's a part of him that, despite all misgivings, knows that that's long overdue.]
[All the same, he hates it. He hates feeling exposed. He hates everything about what transpired and everything his younger self said. Most of all, he hates that Trish saw. If there was one person who shouldn't have, it's her.]
[But he's learned by now that there's no return to sender on the gifts Ryslig sends. Once it's out, it's out. So he's long since decided to send Trish an apology card or something and never speak of it again, when she decides to take initiative.]
[It's perhaps not the best opening move. He waits forty-five minutes before he responds out of sheer pique, which is also not great.]
i'm out of the house at the moment. is there another time or place that would be convenient to you?
[Don't tell him what to do, Una.]
[There are some ways that this isn't entirely bad. He doesn't have to carry the strange resentment of his other self's wonderful alternate life, like before. He doesn't have to tell Riley, because she already knows. Most people seem content to not talk about it much. He . . . will have to talk to Steve, but there's a part of him that, despite all misgivings, knows that that's long overdue.]
[All the same, he hates it. He hates feeling exposed. He hates everything about what transpired and everything his younger self said. Most of all, he hates that Trish saw. If there was one person who shouldn't have, it's her.]
[But he's learned by now that there's no return to sender on the gifts Ryslig sends. Once it's out, it's out. So he's long since decided to send Trish an apology card or something and never speak of it again, when she decides to take initiative.]
[It's perhaps not the best opening move. He waits forty-five minutes before he responds out of sheer pique, which is also not great.]
i'm out of the house at the moment. is there another time or place that would be convenient to you?
[Don't tell him what to do, Una.]
i realized i didnt put a date on this but u know what. thunderdome is always
figlia_morbida
- 2021-09-26 07:27 (UTC) - Expand[After having gotten a meet up with Giorno coordinated— look at them, making plans like real friends— at a time Souda can actually walk around freely, Souda's bright and excited to see his flowery pal. The visit, they both know, is more of a drop-off; Giorno accompanying Souda on his leisurely walk from the arcade and garage to wherever Makoto happens to be working that day as it coincides with the walk for Giorno back to his own place. It's a walk they've made before, and it's one Souda always looks forward to when he's anticipating it.
This time Souda isn't even aiming to talk about the last month's craziness; as much as he anticipates weird things will happen in Ryslig, bizzare time-regression stuff wasn't really on his list of expectations. But when he catches sight of Giorno, Souda is struck with a thought.
He'd known little Haruno seemed familiar, but he'd previously connected the budding boy with the Haruno he'd met in that other Ryslig (a Ryslig that Souda knows full well others reject, but the friendships he'd made there— they were too real to him to forget) and no one else. Giorno's flowers are recognisable though, the way they bloom from his skin and crown his head like a halo.
Souda's look of surprise upon seeing Giorno very quickly turns into a smile, however, scaley mouth pulling back past those crocodilian teeth.]
Well look at that, we meet again.
[He wastes no time striding up to his friend and gently shoving his shoulder with scaled knuckles.]
This time Souda isn't even aiming to talk about the last month's craziness; as much as he anticipates weird things will happen in Ryslig, bizzare time-regression stuff wasn't really on his list of expectations. But when he catches sight of Giorno, Souda is struck with a thought.
He'd known little Haruno seemed familiar, but he'd previously connected the budding boy with the Haruno he'd met in that other Ryslig (a Ryslig that Souda knows full well others reject, but the friendships he'd made there— they were too real to him to forget) and no one else. Giorno's flowers are recognisable though, the way they bloom from his skin and crown his head like a halo.
Souda's look of surprise upon seeing Giorno very quickly turns into a smile, however, scaley mouth pulling back past those crocodilian teeth.]
Well look at that, we meet again.
[He wastes no time striding up to his friend and gently shoving his shoulder with scaled knuckles.]
[Souda's observant enough that it's not that surprising he connects the dots. Truthfully, Giorno assumes he already has. It's just . . . Souda's so reluctant to talk about himself, he also assumes he's not interested in bringing up other people's business. Maybe that's too much assumption.]
[But they've never talked about it. Perhaps they never will. He doesn't even consider that the reason Souda looks at him like that is because of what's just happened. In fact, he looks down at himself like maybe he's dropped food on himself or something.]
Um?
[Oh, he's being shoved. He wobbles briefly, then peers at Souda and gives a puzzled smile.]
We did plan to, you know. Do I have something on my face?
[Which, like his flowers, is very recognizable. It's Haruno's face — both of theirs, although the younger boy most recently seen didn't look nearly as healthy as Giorno does now, or as Haruno did in that other world.]
[But they've never talked about it. Perhaps they never will. He doesn't even consider that the reason Souda looks at him like that is because of what's just happened. In fact, he looks down at himself like maybe he's dropped food on himself or something.]
Um?
[Oh, he's being shoved. He wobbles briefly, then peers at Souda and gives a puzzled smile.]
We did plan to, you know. Do I have something on my face?
[Which, like his flowers, is very recognizable. It's Haruno's face — both of theirs, although the younger boy most recently seen didn't look nearly as healthy as Giorno does now, or as Haruno did in that other world.]
[ Cont. ]
i wouldn't want to make anyone worry
[ He's done enough of that. ]
mukuro's out here hoofing it au naturale and the bug situation doesn't seem to faze her
though now that i've said that i don't think i've ever heard her complain about a single thing before
i think i can also officially add this to the list of things riley's had an easier time surviving than prom
i said it's not fun, but it is relaxing, at least
[ To say nothing of the tension of things left unspoken between himself and a certain nervous redhead; his body still feels looser now than it does walking down any sidewalk in the city. ]
my house used to be surrounded by woods like this
i wouldn't want to make anyone worry
[ He's done enough of that. ]
mukuro's out here hoofing it au naturale and the bug situation doesn't seem to faze her
though now that i've said that i don't think i've ever heard her complain about a single thing before
i think i can also officially add this to the list of things riley's had an easier time surviving than prom
i said it's not fun, but it is relaxing, at least
[ To say nothing of the tension of things left unspoken between himself and a certain nervous redhead; his body still feels looser now than it does walking down any sidewalk in the city. ]
my house used to be surrounded by woods like this
[Thinking about Mukuro is weird. He hasn't been, on purpose. But this is . . . well. Almost a little funny? Someone like that probably wouldn't complain.]
she seems very focused. most likely she doesn't even notice.
[And also she's been conditioned to just deal, but. Tomato, tomahto.]
i can't really imagine living somewhere that rural, but it sounds pretty at least. and peaceful. which is a contrast
is everything okay? with riley
[She's doing the Riley thing lately.]
she seems very focused. most likely she doesn't even notice.
[And also she's been conditioned to just deal, but. Tomato, tomahto.]
i can't really imagine living somewhere that rural, but it sounds pretty at least. and peaceful. which is a contrast
is everything okay? with riley
[She's doing the Riley thing lately.]
The healing power you mentioned. How does it work, exactly?
What I mean is, what can it do?
What I mean is, what can it do?
[ Giorno wants to talk.
Steve agrees, so long as he doesn't mind that he's dealing with some unexpected changes right now. He also asks for a couple hours to freshen up first, what with his whole week long stint in the woods. He doesn't specify that during those hours he intends on visiting a clothing shop that caters to monsters, where he makes one of the tailors there very happy. It helps him feel a little more like himself, but doesn't change how incredibly aware he is of how broad his shoulders are, how far he has to duck down in order to make it through doorways, how even the cars passing in the lanes beyond the curb somehow seem to be too small.
At least for the first time in over a month he's not imagining monsters in the city's shadows, too busy thinking about the one in his denim jacket.
The last stipulation included in his response was that they should meet outside, for no particular reason than that it's nice out. Steve stuffs himself in the back of the van and finds someone available to drop him off, at which point he makes his way up to the grassy heights of the hill that makes up the house Giorno resides within, his big body treading carefully so he doesn't accidentally punch a padded foot through one of the skylights.
That mindfulness doesn't last once he spots Giorno after what's been over seven days. All bets are off as he drops down onto all fours and bounds toward him despite all of the effort he's put into looking less like a dog, his tail kicking up a storm behind him. He reaches the nymph in mere seconds, big tongue lolling out to swipe up the side of his face.
Then, he pulls back, claps a hand over his muzzle, and stares in horror at the thick swathe of man-dog drool leading all the way up into Giorno's hairline. ]
Oh, god—
Steve agrees, so long as he doesn't mind that he's dealing with some unexpected changes right now. He also asks for a couple hours to freshen up first, what with his whole week long stint in the woods. He doesn't specify that during those hours he intends on visiting a clothing shop that caters to monsters, where he makes one of the tailors there very happy. It helps him feel a little more like himself, but doesn't change how incredibly aware he is of how broad his shoulders are, how far he has to duck down in order to make it through doorways, how even the cars passing in the lanes beyond the curb somehow seem to be too small.
At least for the first time in over a month he's not imagining monsters in the city's shadows, too busy thinking about the one in his denim jacket.
The last stipulation included in his response was that they should meet outside, for no particular reason than that it's nice out. Steve stuffs himself in the back of the van and finds someone available to drop him off, at which point he makes his way up to the grassy heights of the hill that makes up the house Giorno resides within, his big body treading carefully so he doesn't accidentally punch a padded foot through one of the skylights.
That mindfulness doesn't last once he spots Giorno after what's been over seven days. All bets are off as he drops down onto all fours and bounds toward him despite all of the effort he's put into looking less like a dog, his tail kicking up a storm behind him. He reaches the nymph in mere seconds, big tongue lolling out to swipe up the side of his face.
Then, he pulls back, claps a hand over his muzzle, and stares in horror at the thick swathe of man-dog drool leading all the way up into Giorno's hairline. ]
Oh, god—
Edited 2021-10-08 20:30 (UTC)
[In the hours before they meet up, Giorno is preoccupied. Not so much by the topic he wants to discuss, although that's very much on his list of worries, but by the consideration of whether he should ask Steve why the fuck he's a dog now. Is it even worth it? he wonders. Is Steve just cycling through all the monsters for fun? Did he want to be a werewolf as some kind of hilarious Halloween joke? Is there logic to it at all?]
[It doesn't occur to him that this is a Mana prank, although it should. He's just about decided to not even bother asking when all of a sudden there's the drumming of paws behind him, which — is probably Steve? — and he turns just in time for half of his face to be joyously drenched. In spit.]
[Recovering from this takes a while, to say the least.]
[Immediately he freezes, staring at the offending party with wide eyes like he's being shouted at in a foreign language — which, in a way, is kind of accurate. Although he's less concerned with seeming unflappable around Steve than he is around most people, this is kind of a lot. Some of the hair around his ear is sticking up at odd angles, tangled up with spit and messily defying gravity. What does he do about this? All of the werewolves he's met are — look, he's never been licked on the face before, there's not a social script for this.]
[After a long, confused moment, Giorno unfreezes, lifts one arm, pulls his sleeve down over his hand, and carefully wipes off his face. Once dry, he then tries to pat down his hair more or less into order; when that fails, he tucks it behind his ear where he doesn't have to worry about it.]
[This whole time, he's staring. By the end of the process, he's still not completely sure what to say. Tapping his chin, he ponders, before ultimately settling on:]
I'm happy to see you too . . . ?
[Is that right? He has no idea what all of that could possibly have meant if not.]
[It doesn't occur to him that this is a Mana prank, although it should. He's just about decided to not even bother asking when all of a sudden there's the drumming of paws behind him, which — is probably Steve? — and he turns just in time for half of his face to be joyously drenched. In spit.]
[Recovering from this takes a while, to say the least.]
[Immediately he freezes, staring at the offending party with wide eyes like he's being shouted at in a foreign language — which, in a way, is kind of accurate. Although he's less concerned with seeming unflappable around Steve than he is around most people, this is kind of a lot. Some of the hair around his ear is sticking up at odd angles, tangled up with spit and messily defying gravity. What does he do about this? All of the werewolves he's met are — look, he's never been licked on the face before, there's not a social script for this.]
[After a long, confused moment, Giorno unfreezes, lifts one arm, pulls his sleeve down over his hand, and carefully wipes off his face. Once dry, he then tries to pat down his hair more or less into order; when that fails, he tucks it behind his ear where he doesn't have to worry about it.]
[This whole time, he's staring. By the end of the process, he's still not completely sure what to say. Tapping his chin, he ponders, before ultimately settling on:]
I'm happy to see you too . . . ?
[Is that right? He has no idea what all of that could possibly have meant if not.]
cw child neglect/abuse, internalized racism, food shortage
digiorno
- 2021-11-15 18:18 (UTC) - Expand[When you can't bring your spiritual devotional materials with you to another home, you just have to make do with what you can make up. That seems to be the philosophy Maya has been living by in all her years at Ryslig, doubly so with the creation of the Shrine at lake Dala.
The mysterious bone-and-coral arrangement hangs mounted to a tree in the thicket by the lake, not immediately imposing or noticeable. But when Maya is there, she places coral and pearls and incense or other burnt offerings, and in lieu of bells or her phone playing the integral tones for mediating, the mermaid is able to sing the tones herself. She knows it's enough to make the shrine's presence known— but perhaps that isn't always a bad thing.
And besides, if anyone approaches, her voice will help her identify anyone approaching before they get too close.
So Maya sits confidently before her shrine, where a recently-made drawing of Mia and Pearl together is set, in meditation. She doesn't always sing, but this time she has taken to it, her voice carrying along the plumes of incense in long, solid, clear notes. Pearls lay in her lap, the offering of her own emotion to her new god.
She isn't expecting the scent of her incense to be on Giorno's path between Bavan and the Hill House— perhaps it's simply fate. Should the sound and smell catch Giorno's attention, he won't have much trouble finding Maya and the shark-bone shrine amongst the lake's trees.]
The mysterious bone-and-coral arrangement hangs mounted to a tree in the thicket by the lake, not immediately imposing or noticeable. But when Maya is there, she places coral and pearls and incense or other burnt offerings, and in lieu of bells or her phone playing the integral tones for mediating, the mermaid is able to sing the tones herself. She knows it's enough to make the shrine's presence known— but perhaps that isn't always a bad thing.
And besides, if anyone approaches, her voice will help her identify anyone approaching before they get too close.
So Maya sits confidently before her shrine, where a recently-made drawing of Mia and Pearl together is set, in meditation. She doesn't always sing, but this time she has taken to it, her voice carrying along the plumes of incense in long, solid, clear notes. Pearls lay in her lap, the offering of her own emotion to her new god.
She isn't expecting the scent of her incense to be on Giorno's path between Bavan and the Hill House— perhaps it's simply fate. Should the sound and smell catch Giorno's attention, he won't have much trouble finding Maya and the shark-bone shrine amongst the lake's trees.]
[He almost avoids her.]
[Perhaps it would be better if he did. Maybe that better judgment is exactly what he’s choosing to ignore, after that hesitant moment when he catches the scent of incense and the sound of her voice. He wants to flee, because whatever she’s doing smacks of ceremony, and he’s got no desire for another confrontation, or indeed to talk about this subject at all, with anyone, right now.]
[But the idea of running from any topic brings obstinacy to the forefront of his emotional palette. Before he can even form the conscious thought, he turns toward the sound of singing.]
[It doesn’t take long at all for him to regret it. The little shrine Maya has set up, once he finds it, confirms the spark of fear that was lit at that scent and fans it into . . . something more complicated. Disappointment makes up a decent portion of that new, expanded, complex emotion. Though his steps slow to a stop at a respectful distance, his gaze locks on the shrine after briefly glancing over those pearls.]
[He looks crushed. More than anything, he looks hopeless. But he doesn’t say a word.]
[Perhaps it would be better if he did. Maybe that better judgment is exactly what he’s choosing to ignore, after that hesitant moment when he catches the scent of incense and the sound of her voice. He wants to flee, because whatever she’s doing smacks of ceremony, and he’s got no desire for another confrontation, or indeed to talk about this subject at all, with anyone, right now.]
[But the idea of running from any topic brings obstinacy to the forefront of his emotional palette. Before he can even form the conscious thought, he turns toward the sound of singing.]
[It doesn’t take long at all for him to regret it. The little shrine Maya has set up, once he finds it, confirms the spark of fear that was lit at that scent and fans it into . . . something more complicated. Disappointment makes up a decent portion of that new, expanded, complex emotion. Though his steps slow to a stop at a respectful distance, his gaze locks on the shrine after briefly glancing over those pearls.]
[He looks crushed. More than anything, he looks hopeless. But he doesn’t say a word.]
Edited 2021-11-04 23:12 (UTC)
[After sorting out things with Makoto and Elias and Mukuro and generally having calmed down, Souda finds himself missing hanging out with the boys- even if one of the boys had some challenges for him last time. Souda hasn't had the chance to really think on what Giorno's said after all that's happened, but he doesn't want to pass up hanging out with his dear friend.
So on an evening he just happens to see Giorno out in Bavan while he's flying, Souda meets up with him, descending from the sky with much more practiced precision than months ago.]
Oooi. What's up?
[He calls to hold his friend up, lifting a claw in greeting.]
Where you headed?
So on an evening he just happens to see Giorno out in Bavan while he's flying, Souda meets up with him, descending from the sky with much more practiced precision than months ago.]
Oooi. What's up?
[He calls to hold his friend up, lifting a claw in greeting.]
Where you headed?
[It's been a while since he's seen Souda. Then again, it's been a while since he's seen anyone, really. The second half of the month has been throwing himself into projects — the clinic, the orphanage, Poundmates, trying to get Tsukikage's affairs sorted out — and generally avoiding people. Some more deliberately than others.]
[Souda, for example, he hasn't been purposefully ignoring, although he's been thoughtful about things. He has questions. They're not urgent. Certainly not bothersome enough that he reacts any differently than normal to Souda's presence. No, he turns his face up to watch him land with a warm smile, raising a hand in greeting.]
Souda. Hi.
Nowhere in particular. I was going to head to the conbini before going home. It's . . . [Wait, what time is it, exactly? He looks blank for a second.] I think I meant to be home a while ago, actually. Reira's going to tell me off. So I'll get her something, too.
Want to walk with me?
[Souda, for example, he hasn't been purposefully ignoring, although he's been thoughtful about things. He has questions. They're not urgent. Certainly not bothersome enough that he reacts any differently than normal to Souda's presence. No, he turns his face up to watch him land with a warm smile, raising a hand in greeting.]
Souda. Hi.
Nowhere in particular. I was going to head to the conbini before going home. It's . . . [Wait, what time is it, exactly? He looks blank for a second.] I think I meant to be home a while ago, actually. Reira's going to tell me off. So I'll get her something, too.
Want to walk with me?
sorry im so fucking late i thought i tagged this ????????????? unbelievable
digiorno
- 2021-12-20 08:28 (UTC) - Expand[ Even if Fugo hadn't told her where to find Giorno, Riley knew. If he's not at Hill House, he's at his tree. His safe space, beautiful and loving. That's how it works, it's like the sky for her. Riley knew, because she knows— thought she knew Giorno, the things he liked and feared, the things he dreamed and hated. The person he is, the way he supports and loves.
Maybe she still knows those things. Maybe she's just not a person allowed to receive that anymore.
Really, though, she hoped not to do this here. It's his tree. His place. That feels like a breach of privacy, worse than going to Hill House. It's also the place her secrets were forcefully dragged from her. Standing here once more, it feels like the specters of her family still cling to her back, limbs melting into her. Even if they're physically gone, they're always with her in a way—their dismissive attitude and cruel actions, turning her to the person that stands here today. She bitterly wonders, did they ensure no matter where she is that she'd be alone, too broken to be loved?
She sucks in a breath in the early night. The days are getting shorter, and her eyesight isn't meant for the dark. It's hard for her to see up into the tree. Giorno...should be there, though. And...it's not like she's going to be here for long. A last goodbye is all this should be. ]
Giorno? [ His name on her lips feels wrong. She says it holding back every ounce of fear in her. Won't let her voice crack, won't let herself cry. That's not what this is about. ]
Are...you here? I... There's something I'd like to... Something we need to talk about.
Maybe she still knows those things. Maybe she's just not a person allowed to receive that anymore.
Really, though, she hoped not to do this here. It's his tree. His place. That feels like a breach of privacy, worse than going to Hill House. It's also the place her secrets were forcefully dragged from her. Standing here once more, it feels like the specters of her family still cling to her back, limbs melting into her. Even if they're physically gone, they're always with her in a way—their dismissive attitude and cruel actions, turning her to the person that stands here today. She bitterly wonders, did they ensure no matter where she is that she'd be alone, too broken to be loved?
She sucks in a breath in the early night. The days are getting shorter, and her eyesight isn't meant for the dark. It's hard for her to see up into the tree. Giorno...should be there, though. And...it's not like she's going to be here for long. A last goodbye is all this should be. ]
Giorno? [ His name on her lips feels wrong. She says it holding back every ounce of fear in her. Won't let her voice crack, won't let herself cry. That's not what this is about. ]
Are...you here? I... There's something I'd like to... Something we need to talk about.
[It's unlikely, no matter how difficult to read he can sometimes be, that Fugo gave absolutely nothing away during this interaction. The newest arrival has sent shockwaves through the whole house, so at the very least he must have seemed uneasy. If Riley noticed. There's no guarantee that she did.]
[But if she did, it might perhaps explain why there's such a delay in responding. For a few moments after she speaks, there's the winter equivalent of crickets: the barely-audible squeaking of a tiny bat, clinging carefully to the trunk of the tree just under a low branch. Then the squeaking settles into a mumbling sort of displeasure, before something at around head-height makes a noise like snap! and Giorno reforms in the cradle of the tree, sneezing several times in uncomfortable pique.]
[Needless to say, he looks like absolute hell. Dead on his feet. Or just, you know, dead, considering. His ears, massive and intricately ridged, press back against his skull as red eyes peer down at her through the dim light.]
Riley?
[God, he's so tired. Does being dead always make you this tired? What is she doing here? Can't they do this when he's less fucking tired?]
[Ugh, whatever. He waves a hand, rolling over onto his back to stare at the canopy of his tree.]
Fine. Just come up, would you?
[But if she did, it might perhaps explain why there's such a delay in responding. For a few moments after she speaks, there's the winter equivalent of crickets: the barely-audible squeaking of a tiny bat, clinging carefully to the trunk of the tree just under a low branch. Then the squeaking settles into a mumbling sort of displeasure, before something at around head-height makes a noise like snap! and Giorno reforms in the cradle of the tree, sneezing several times in uncomfortable pique.]
[Needless to say, he looks like absolute hell. Dead on his feet. Or just, you know, dead, considering. His ears, massive and intricately ridged, press back against his skull as red eyes peer down at her through the dim light.]
Riley?
[God, he's so tired. Does being dead always make you this tired? What is she doing here? Can't they do this when he's less fucking tired?]
[Ugh, whatever. He waves a hand, rolling over onto his back to stare at the canopy of his tree.]
Fine. Just come up, would you?
Edited 2021-12-06 06:03 (UTC)
cw child abuse/neglect, systemic child neglect, homelessness
digiorno
- 2021-12-07 07:11 (UTC) - ExpandHo ho ho! Merry freaking Christmas!
Your Secret Santa recipient this year is Simon Jarrett (whose username on the network is a mess of symbols I don't know how to type, you'll know when you see it). Please buy, make, or otherwise procure him a nice gift before December 26! You can give this directly, or label it clearly and drop it off at Crowe Clinic C/O Hawkeye Pierce.
Remember: Saint Nick is watching, and he knows where you live!
Happy Holidays, etcetera, and so forth,
Santa Claus
Your Secret Santa recipient this year is Simon Jarrett (whose username on the network is a mess of symbols I don't know how to type, you'll know when you see it). Please buy, make, or otherwise procure him a nice gift before December 26! You can give this directly, or label it clearly and drop it off at Crowe Clinic C/O Hawkeye Pierce.
Remember: Saint Nick is watching, and he knows where you live!
Happy Holidays, etcetera, and so forth,
Santa Claus
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