[That morning, Fugo tells him, he expected to die.]
[It injures him, even as he knows how devastatingly practical a thought it is. That was part of the conceit, he understands now from the dossier. The stakes had to be high, or Fugo wouldn't play. He quite simply wouldn't believe it. Because Fugo believed himself used up and no good, the only way he could even begin to conceptualize himself as a part of Passione again, the only way he could see himself coming home, was by proving himself with the greatest stakes.]
[That's the ouroboros, isn't it? Because Fugo believes himself to be nothing, he distrusts kindness. Because he rejects kindness, he rarely receives it, and then only despite himself. A self-fulfilling prophecy. But something about this plan let Giorno in through a back door, let him be kind and welcoming and full of love without Fugo running from it.]
[By the time Fugo finishes speaking, he's closed his eyes. He nods in acknowledgment of the break in the conversation. Fugo doesn't know how to describe this. That's fine. That's all right. This . . . is helping. He's surprised how much.]
When I finished reading, I went back to read it again.
[Blinking slowly, he opens his eyes. It takes a moment for him to focus on Fugo again, the Fugo of the world in front of him rather than the one in that secondhand memory, broken on his knees. They look much the same, in a great many ways.]
And as I read it the second time, and . . . the third time, and so on . . . I tried to understand the feeling behind it. What I must have been feeling in that moment. And it was . . .
[The fingers of one hand curl tightly. He brings them to rest over his chest, knuckles resting light against the pale green of his skin.]
Painful. It hurt. Seeing you in front of me in so much pain, so unable to see yourself moving forward— [No. That's not quite right. He clears his throat, corrects himself:] You think yourself so unworthy. So useless. I think I . . . must have felt so much hurt for you, Fugo.
[When he smiles, it's fragile, brittle as thin ice fresh-frozen. His fingers loosen, coming to rub absently at the edge of his collarbone.]
You weren't so different in Pompeii, you know. Maybe you just held it in better. But you jumped at the chance to suffer for us . . . like you thought that was the best you could do. I remember what that felt like. And I remember . . .
[Yakitori. That was in the notes, too.]
[Ah, well . . . what's he to do? Lying, here and now, would be so futile. Such a waste. He doesn't want to waste this. That other version of him wanted to trust Fugo, too. He knows that now.]
Feeling like poison . . . there's no way to imagine a better future from that place. Not alone. I could never, ever leave you there alone.
no subject
[It injures him, even as he knows how devastatingly practical a thought it is. That was part of the conceit, he understands now from the dossier. The stakes had to be high, or Fugo wouldn't play. He quite simply wouldn't believe it. Because Fugo believed himself used up and no good, the only way he could even begin to conceptualize himself as a part of Passione again, the only way he could see himself coming home, was by proving himself with the greatest stakes.]
[That's the ouroboros, isn't it? Because Fugo believes himself to be nothing, he distrusts kindness. Because he rejects kindness, he rarely receives it, and then only despite himself. A self-fulfilling prophecy. But something about this plan let Giorno in through a back door, let him be kind and welcoming and full of love without Fugo running from it.]
[By the time Fugo finishes speaking, he's closed his eyes. He nods in acknowledgment of the break in the conversation. Fugo doesn't know how to describe this. That's fine. That's all right. This . . . is helping. He's surprised how much.]
When I finished reading, I went back to read it again.
[Blinking slowly, he opens his eyes. It takes a moment for him to focus on Fugo again, the Fugo of the world in front of him rather than the one in that secondhand memory, broken on his knees. They look much the same, in a great many ways.]
And as I read it the second time, and . . . the third time, and so on . . . I tried to understand the feeling behind it. What I must have been feeling in that moment. And it was . . .
[The fingers of one hand curl tightly. He brings them to rest over his chest, knuckles resting light against the pale green of his skin.]
Painful. It hurt. Seeing you in front of me in so much pain, so unable to see yourself moving forward— [No. That's not quite right. He clears his throat, corrects himself:] You think yourself so unworthy. So useless. I think I . . . must have felt so much hurt for you, Fugo.
[When he smiles, it's fragile, brittle as thin ice fresh-frozen. His fingers loosen, coming to rub absently at the edge of his collarbone.]
You weren't so different in Pompeii, you know. Maybe you just held it in better. But you jumped at the chance to suffer for us . . . like you thought that was the best you could do. I remember what that felt like. And I remember . . .
[Yakitori. That was in the notes, too.]
[Ah, well . . . what's he to do? Lying, here and now, would be so futile. Such a waste. He doesn't want to waste this. That other version of him wanted to trust Fugo, too. He knows that now.]
Feeling like poison . . . there's no way to imagine a better future from that place. Not alone. I could never, ever leave you there alone.