[He can’t put his finger on why, exactly. He isn’t sure. He doesn’t know. But something about watching Fugo explain this, with his gaze darting up and away, his fingers twisting into each other, all of the little ways he tries to squirm away and then forces himself back into the conversation . . .]
[It feels warm. At the same time it hurts. Something like running water over his hands that’s just a smidge too hot. It might burn, but he can’t bring himself to mind.]
[That promise is important to me.]
[Giorno smiles, soft and a little sad. He knows what Fugo means, at least inasmuch as he knows important isn’t a big enough word at all. The scene laid out in the dossier was shared with more than emphasis. It was laced with reverence, like a holy moment — or perhaps, for two people who certainly don’t believe in a god, like a joining of two fates. Important simply isn’t enough to describe it with justice.]
I disagree that it wasn’t necessary, in that case. It’s imperative for me to know something so significant to you, especially if I played a part in it. If I can hold it in the space between us, then I can help you keep it in sight. That’s part of what I’m meant to do for you, Fugo.
[Isn’t that what it means? Isn’t that part of half a step? He’s working on instinct, but he knows himself. Part of half a step is holding onto the difficult, fragile things that the other person’s unsteady hands can’t keep safe in the moment, but being ready at the right time to hand them back.]
[His roots clench slightly, then loosen, like toes wiggling. He looks down at them with faint reproach.]
Part of me is afraid of intruding, somehow. Which doesn’t make sense, but still.
[And now he hesitates, because this question is . . . it’s dangerous. It’s so, so dangerous, and he probably shouldn’t ask, but at the same time he has to. If he’s going to keep Fugo steady like he wants to, like he needs to, the question needs to be asked. So, glancing up briefly in an unconscious mirror of Fugo’s own inconsistent glances, he murmurs,] I want to understand. So if you’d rather not, that’s all right, but I . . . would like to know what it felt like. So I can be sure that I understood what I read.
no subject
[It feels warm. At the same time it hurts. Something like running water over his hands that’s just a smidge too hot. It might burn, but he can’t bring himself to mind.]
[That promise is important to me.]
[Giorno smiles, soft and a little sad. He knows what Fugo means, at least inasmuch as he knows important isn’t a big enough word at all. The scene laid out in the dossier was shared with more than emphasis. It was laced with reverence, like a holy moment — or perhaps, for two people who certainly don’t believe in a god, like a joining of two fates. Important simply isn’t enough to describe it with justice.]
I disagree that it wasn’t necessary, in that case. It’s imperative for me to know something so significant to you, especially if I played a part in it. If I can hold it in the space between us, then I can help you keep it in sight. That’s part of what I’m meant to do for you, Fugo.
[Isn’t that what it means? Isn’t that part of half a step? He’s working on instinct, but he knows himself. Part of half a step is holding onto the difficult, fragile things that the other person’s unsteady hands can’t keep safe in the moment, but being ready at the right time to hand them back.]
[His roots clench slightly, then loosen, like toes wiggling. He looks down at them with faint reproach.]
Part of me is afraid of intruding, somehow. Which doesn’t make sense, but still.
[And now he hesitates, because this question is . . . it’s dangerous. It’s so, so dangerous, and he probably shouldn’t ask, but at the same time he has to. If he’s going to keep Fugo steady like he wants to, like he needs to, the question needs to be asked. So, glancing up briefly in an unconscious mirror of Fugo’s own inconsistent glances, he murmurs,] I want to understand. So if you’d rather not, that’s all right, but I . . . would like to know what it felt like. So I can be sure that I understood what I read.