[He listens, of course, harder than he thinks he's ever listened to anyone. For Trish, he's trying as hard as he can. All of this is difficult, but what makes this truly strange is the kindness she's showing him. That, and the fact that he can tell it really isn't kindness at all. Trish doesn't engage in platitudes. That's another way they're similar. She's telling the truth. These are all things she truly believes.]
[She believes that Giorno is like Steve is like Mista is like Narancia Abbacchio Bucciarati Fugo — good. Basically good. Someone she can believe in, someone she can trust. From the bottom of her heart, Trish thinks of them all in same way. Because they stand by what they believe is right, she admires them.]
[But she doesn't include her own name in that.]
[And is it really so simple? Couldn't she be included by that definition? And is it really the same when it comes to Mista, who acts on impulse and whose impulse is always in others' best interests? Or Steve, who pushes himself steadily forward for the sake of making sure everyone around him is safe?]
[He thinks for a moment of clarifying. He knows Steve and Mista aren't the same, not like that. Not identical. But there's something that makes people heroic. No matter how mundane and ordinary they might be, there's something about them that transcends the normal petty limits of humanity, a willingness to do good for the sake of it alone. It's a simplicity. What he meant, at the center of it all, was that he didn't believe in heroes until he met them.]
[But he doesn't say it. It's irrelevant. And embarrassing.]
[What's relevant is the way she's looking at him, the way she's trembling, the way her shoulders hunch up around her ears. His expression softens, so gentle it aches. As worried as he was about having this conversation, he desperately wants to comfort her. She might kill him if he tries, though.]
[Instead . . . instead, he doesn't hide the way he gnaws his lip as he looks at her, or the way his brows pinch in worry. He doesn't pretend to be cool and collected about this. He looks at her, and he thinks, and he doesn't hide that he's thinking. And he doesn't reach out, because he's not sure it's all right. But he thinks about it.]
. . . I think I expected too much of you because of how much I admire you. Or, maybe not too much, but I expected you to understand without me needing to explain. Because I didn't want to. Because I hate talking about it. I hate it, you know? I don't like talking about the things that make me vulnerable. And I thought . . . I've never seen you act very vulnerable, either, so it must be the same for you. But that's where I stopped thinking. And when you didn't understand, I got upset, even though that wasn't fair.
[Slowly, he unfolds, tucking his feet back under him, forcing himself to relax. His vines wrap around his wrists, squeeze, let go again. A gentle reminder, although of what he doesn't know.]
Can we just . . . start over? I don't think you deserve to hold guilt over that. Maybe neither of us do. We both got hurt, but neither of us realized we were holding knives. It's—
[Ah. He smiles, somewhat weakly.]
They tell me you can make mistakes without breaking something irreparably. Nothing's really broken, is it? And we have all the pieces still. We have more pieces than we started with. We can do better this time.
[And even if this fragile thing cracks again, he doesn't believe it will break. They can make repairs. They can try again, stronger and wiser. She's a thousand times worth the effort of figuring out how to do this right.]
no subject
[He listens, of course, harder than he thinks he's ever listened to anyone. For Trish, he's trying as hard as he can. All of this is difficult, but what makes this truly strange is the kindness she's showing him. That, and the fact that he can tell it really isn't kindness at all. Trish doesn't engage in platitudes. That's another way they're similar. She's telling the truth. These are all things she truly believes.]
[She believes that Giorno is like Steve is like Mista is like Narancia Abbacchio Bucciarati Fugo — good. Basically good. Someone she can believe in, someone she can trust. From the bottom of her heart, Trish thinks of them all in same way. Because they stand by what they believe is right, she admires them.]
[But she doesn't include her own name in that.]
[And is it really so simple? Couldn't she be included by that definition? And is it really the same when it comes to Mista, who acts on impulse and whose impulse is always in others' best interests? Or Steve, who pushes himself steadily forward for the sake of making sure everyone around him is safe?]
[He thinks for a moment of clarifying. He knows Steve and Mista aren't the same, not like that. Not identical. But there's something that makes people heroic. No matter how mundane and ordinary they might be, there's something about them that transcends the normal petty limits of humanity, a willingness to do good for the sake of it alone. It's a simplicity. What he meant, at the center of it all, was that he didn't believe in heroes until he met them.]
[But he doesn't say it. It's irrelevant. And embarrassing.]
[What's relevant is the way she's looking at him, the way she's trembling, the way her shoulders hunch up around her ears. His expression softens, so gentle it aches. As worried as he was about having this conversation, he desperately wants to comfort her. She might kill him if he tries, though.]
[Instead . . . instead, he doesn't hide the way he gnaws his lip as he looks at her, or the way his brows pinch in worry. He doesn't pretend to be cool and collected about this. He looks at her, and he thinks, and he doesn't hide that he's thinking. And he doesn't reach out, because he's not sure it's all right. But he thinks about it.]
. . . I think I expected too much of you because of how much I admire you. Or, maybe not too much, but I expected you to understand without me needing to explain. Because I didn't want to. Because I hate talking about it. I hate it, you know? I don't like talking about the things that make me vulnerable. And I thought . . . I've never seen you act very vulnerable, either, so it must be the same for you. But that's where I stopped thinking. And when you didn't understand, I got upset, even though that wasn't fair.
[Slowly, he unfolds, tucking his feet back under him, forcing himself to relax. His vines wrap around his wrists, squeeze, let go again. A gentle reminder, although of what he doesn't know.]
Can we just . . . start over? I don't think you deserve to hold guilt over that. Maybe neither of us do. We both got hurt, but neither of us realized we were holding knives. It's—
[Ah. He smiles, somewhat weakly.]
They tell me you can make mistakes without breaking something irreparably. Nothing's really broken, is it? And we have all the pieces still. We have more pieces than we started with. We can do better this time.
[And even if this fragile thing cracks again, he doesn't believe it will break. They can make repairs. They can try again, stronger and wiser. She's a thousand times worth the effort of figuring out how to do this right.]