*** HARMONIA has joined 710.35.155.17 <HARMONIA> Buongiorno, sorry I missed you. <HARMONIA> I'll happily get back to you as soon as I'm done with whatever business I'm on. <HARMONIA> Please leave a message.
[He doesn't answer, and Trish has to consider the fact he may endeavor to evade her forever.
But she can't accept that. If she has to physically haul Giorno by the scruff of his neck into a room and block the door with her body, she will. She doesn't want to, but giving up is similarly unacceptable.
The chance is slim, however, that he will eventually turn up in the garden as asked, because Trish knows he hates to repeat himself. And if she won't bend, he'll be doomed to do just that.
She's settled on a bench for a good majority of those forty-five minutes, bushes neatly bordering this little corner, when Giorno arrives. He's so quiet she doesn't realize he's there at first, flinching just a little at the brightness of his eyes in the waning light.
Her own expression meanwhile can only be described as pensive, and she won't hide it, not in the interest of an open discussion. Trish sits up a little straighter, then, sucking in a quiet breath.]
...I know what you're going to say. Forget it, right?
[He has to know what they're here for. He wouldn't have dragged his roots this long if they were talking about anything else.]
If you're only here to tell me that, I'm going to tell you a simple fact in return: I can't.
[There's more, there's a lot more, but he's already closed off in his posture and affect. She's starting to think this is a mistake, but she watches him with green eyes anyway, waiting.]
. . . You really can't stand to let me speak for myself, can you?
[His tone is light and conversational. His hands come to lock behind his back. This is an excellent indication that he's absolutely furious. He doesn't sit, because he doesn't intend to stay.]
[At the very least, this is a positive step in that he's no longer pretending to be content with things as they are. That being said, he's also finished being quiet. About this, and in general.]
Here's a free tip. If it's very important to you to talk with someone about a topic that you're well aware makes them uncomfortable, don't present ultimatums. Don't make demands. Don't feel the need for everything to go exactly your way, because what's going to happen if you do these things is that you're going to be avoided, lied to, or told off. Please note which option I've chosen.
This is not happening on your terms. You don't get to say here and now, tell me all about why you were such a sad kid. You don't decide that. I was willing to let it be today, but then you told me no, as though this is all about you, and it's not. It's about what you want to know, but it's my life. If you want to talk, if you want to know anything, we're doing this on my terms or not at all. Say no to me again and I'm done.
[There's a deeply entrenched part of Trish that wants to bite back, that wants to lash out with a silver tongue, a part that wants to get up and leave and shut her bedroom door and never come back out.
Because already she's failing.
Though, he can say "oh, I was going to chat today, but you ruined it" and let that press sharp against her throat, but of all the things he says, that's the one she doesn't believe even a little. A month and a half of no talking at all dictates otherwise.
But he's right that it's not about her. He's right, and even if she feels anger and fear and shame well up in her chest like bile, she bites her tongue, and it takes her a moment to realize she's shaking, and she reaches to grip one of her own arms tight as if to steady herself, all while holding his gaze.]
...Okay.
[That's what slips from her lips after a delicate stretch of silence, and it feels weak, but Giorno's made his point. He controls the floor. She won't argue. This entire situation is...new territory for her. Has been.
Because Trish relies on scripts. On observations. But Haruno has been held somewhere she can't see, and therefore could not fathom. She could recognize the pain in Giorno's eyes, but not how deep that pain ran. There's a lot about him she doesn't get, but that meeting made something very clear, and Haruno re-contextualized it.
Giorno...found someone he trusted. Everyone in that room did. And it nearly tore them apart when he was taken away. She didn't think Giorno was like them, though. But...he's just a boy. Just a boy, underneath the xylem and phloem and beautiful flowers.
More than anything, she gets that now. She doesn't understand him well, but she doesn't need to understand Giorno himself to recognize that.
Either way, this is on Giorno's terms, and she watches him and waits for him to continue.]
[She tells him, Okay. He stares, because of course he does, the same look Haruno gave her behind the tension and anger, assessing the threat level presented to him. Haruno, unlike Giorno, didn't make compromises. Instead, he hid until he couldn't, then fought until he was overpowered. Haruno wouldn't do something like this.]
[Frankly, Giorno doesn't want to either. But if she's going to actually try, then so will he. And if she's not, then he'll leave. That's all. He won't be cornered.]
[After a long moment, he breathes in sharply through his teeth and nods. His fingers unclench, hands falling to his side. He doesn't want to do this. He wants to run. He wants to talk to Riley. He's exhausted.]
Tomorrow morning at ten, I'll meet you at my tree. It's not far; I'll give you directions. I'll bring breakfast. Whatever you want to ask me, I'll answer. Is that acceptable?
[Because he can't do it now. Not now. Last time they had a conversation like this, he was far too passive. Now he's angry. He has to find wherever the middle is. Angry won't do.]
[That look returning in a familiar, older face brings a tight knot of tension to Trish's shoulders, and she waits...to be rejected. Haruno was firm about his stance. Haruno learned at some point never to forgive because being disappointed was both painful and a guarantee.
But this is Giorno and not Haruno, and after what feels like a moment that would stretch her so thin she'll tear at the seams, Giorno bends.
She watches him...not relax, but delegate with himself. Perhaps not willingly, but he delegates all the same.
Trish nearly sighs with relief at a second chance, even if this was definitely a strike against her, and who knows how many she has left, but she merely slumps her shoulders.]
Yes. That's...that's good. I'll see you then.
[She's still watching him.
She'll watch him until he's gone, even.
She'll stare at the space where he stood, and wonder just what the hell she'll say so that this doesn't all come crashing down around her head for the third time.]
[He's not good at letting go of hurts. That's sort of a major component of what makes him tick, actually. It isn't until Trish got him thinking about it that he realized that might not always be the best move. Even after he closed himself off from her, he kept thinking about that. It still matters. She's still right. There are a lot more factors to consider than the damage done.]
[For example, this: with a few hours away, space taken and time passed, he remembers that he cares about her, burned as he feels by this whole thing. The point of this, the origin of all of this, was trying to know her better. He just did it wrong. Backwards, or something. He doesn't understand that part. But he knows it's more complicated than anger wants to make it. Nothing about their lives can ever, ever be simple.]
[Except for breakfast. He has control over breakfast and coffee and the time that this will happen, and that's enough to let the rest of it go for now. Food is comforting, his tree is safe, and whatever comes, he can get through it.]
[Sometime in the late evening, he tucks a folded piece of paper with very detailed directions to his tree under her door. Like, stupid detailed. That's all, though, until the appointed time the following morning.]
[By the time she gets where she's going, Giorno's been there for over an hour. The tree is easy to spot and true to the (similarly detailed) description on her directions: broad more than tall, branches wide enough to make a platform that's more than big enough for two people to sit, or one to lie down. Gnarled limbs provide approximate footholds.]
[There's a folding chair set up on the ground underneath the massive purple canopy. Giorno is visible in the branches, lying on his back reading with a hand under his head, braid dangling down at the mercy of gravity. Breakfast is not visible, but there's the smell of fresh pastries somewhere under the florals.]
[When he hears her coming, Giorno flips over, tucking his book in a nondescript crevasse and resting his chin on one hand, the other coming up to silently wave at her.]
Hi. If you want to come up, you can. Or I'll come down.
[Hence the folding chair. He's done his best to be prepared for every eventuality here. Still, he seems remarkably calm, at least for the moment.]
[At this point, Trish is almost ready to toss aside everything she had said the night they fought, they way her confidence has been shattered so thoroughly.
She's not...as tough as she'd like to seem. She's soft, fragile. It's almost like the fog gifted her with fur to advertise that fact, turning her inside out.
Waking up to a piece of paper on her floor is one thing, but unfurling it in the privacy thereof affords her the chance to wrinkle her nose like Giorno left a smelly sock there instead. Goodness, he spared not a single word, didn't he?
Not that she can't appreciate it. It makes him easy to find, and the forest is...beautiful. She's not one for the outdoors, but it's pleasing to some part of her she can't quite name.
She sees the folding chair first, for how incongruent it is, long before she catches Giorno, who kindly moves so he doesn't quite blend in, and she returns his wave weakly. She didn't...sleep well. She hasn't since that week, but this time? Doubly so.
Trish can't help but marvel at the scene he's created, however, a sheer contrast to last night. This seems...inviting. But somehow that just makes her more queasy.]
Mm. I'll come up.
[Because in her estimation, every effort should be made on her part and not his. Which is why this carefully crafted meeting has her nervous, and the smell of pastries makes her realize she brought nothing but herself.
A poor offering to be sure.
She eyes the tree's limbs, and...she feels silly, but she can climb. She can. So she steps forward and hauls herself up, settling on a branch not too far but not too close to him either, flicking her tail out before sitting so she doesn't squish it.
And then she puts her hands on her knees, chewing on her lip before turning her head to look at him.]
...Good morning.
[Those words were almost a question, but she doesn't want to toss a single question at him, not yet.
She wants to say: so, this is where you disappear to?
She wants to say: so, you made breakfast?
But those requires answers, and she's not sure if she's met all his terms just yet.]
[It doesn't occur to him until she's up in the canopy with him, until he sees the discomfort in her expression, that he may have overcorrected.]
[By now, though, he isn't sure how to fix that. He isn't sure there is a way to fix it. And if there is, he doesn't think he has time. There's no more stalling. They both need to be done with that and move on to the meat of this. Whatever she needs to know, she needs to ask, and he needs to tell her.]
[One of the questions, at least, he can easily anticipate. Before she speaks, he sits up, cross-legged, and turns at the waist to pull a medium-sized bag from a higher branch. Out of it he pulls two thermoses, one of which he places in front of Trish and the other in front of himself. They're both full of strong coffee with cream and a small amount of sugar. It didn't occur to him until too late that he's not sure how she takes hers, but he'll correct that at some point. Assuming this doesn't totally tank.]
[Anyway. There's a paper bag of pastries, a mix of savory and sweet, that comes next, neatly sealed with a sticker that says Hyacinth Cafe. They're good, although more northern European in inspiration than he'd prefer. Whatever. Beggars can't be choosers. He places those in the center between them, then dives back into the larger bag until he digs up a couple of plates and napkins. Because it's Trish, and he figured she would want them.]
[All of that set out, he rests his hands on his knees, sighs, and smiles at her. Tired and a little forced, but not nearly as hard as he thought it would be.]
Good morning. Thanks for coming all this way. You're welcome to help yourself. I wasn't really sure what you'd prefer, so . . .
[So he did a moderate amount of the most, as is his way.]
[She shouldn't be surprised, really. Giorno doesn't generally do anything he doesn't want to, and when he does do things, it's with no small amount of flair. Considering this is something he didn't want to do, and the effort presented, they actually match well. It's muted. Picturesque.
Trish is still mystified, though, when she looks at him in time to watch him finish setting out coffee and pastries and plates, methodical from start to finish. Taking in the purple of the canopy too and how it bathes everything in color, the sheer distance and isolation in how it's nestled in the forest, she realizes trying the garden was aiming far too small. Here is a space where Giorno feels at peace, and it's beautiful and it's grand and it's far from people.
It makes sense.
Her eyes chance a peek at his face next, and it's a sharp contrast to last night. He seems far more at peace, even if he's not relaxed. But he's not angry. Not yet.
She shuffles so she's facing him a little more properly, tail sweeping in close to her leg, and there's a moment of deliberation as she looks at the carefully crafted scene in front of her.
Very, very nearly, she almost answers that it doesn't matter, but the memory of how he responded to words like that is stark. Even if she's sure something as small as coffee preferences really shouldn't matter on short notice like this.]
It's fine.
[So she reaches for the thermos, a cute one with a plaid pattern, and takes the cup off the top, before unscrewing the cap and pouring herself a cup. A cup that she lifts tentatively to her lips, glancing up at him once, before taking a sip.
She...blinks rapidly, in her effort not to make a face. It's too bitter, but the caffeine is desperately needed, and she drains the cup entirely of its contents once her tongue adjusts. And then she sets the empty cup down, sitting prim.]
I wasn't expecting this, I'll admit.
[It's...again, a thing she won't say aloud. But it's backwards. She's the one who overstepped, and now he's treating her?
Her gaze briefly explores the canopy curled almost protectively over Giorno, before she looks at Giorno himself, to meet his eyes.]
It's very you. But I know you didn't invite me for a picnic, and I don't want to waste your time. So what I'm going to offer you first and foremost is an apology.
[She gestures loosely.]
I actually owe you a few. But last night in particular I think merits it the most right now.
[Trish dips her head, and this part is easy at least. The hard part will come after, assuming he accepts her words.]
[Not so long ago, Steve introduced him to the concept of having a good day on purpose — making good memories with deliberation, because sometimes waiting for happiness just doesn't cut it. The idea was foreign, but he's falling into it with more ease than expected, for one simple reason.]
[He's always had to make his own happiness. No one else ever made it for him. No one cared about whether he smiled or frowned, no one worked hard to cheer him up when he was down. No one thought too much about whether he was alive or dead, really. The difference with making good memories on purpose is that usually, those good memories should involve someone else. But the basic principle, the idea of carving something beautiful out of nothing whether the world wants you to feel comfort or not . . . oh, he's very familiar.]
[That's why his tree feels like a second home and a second heart. That's why he only invites the people here who he feels deserve it — and Trish, now, because she deserves a chance, because he wants to trust her. This is the place where, even when the entire peninsula is on fire, he feels safest. This is where he makes peaceful memories, at those times when he simply isn't capable of making good ones.]
[This isn't for her. Not really. It's not for him, either. This is for them. A token, a good omen, a bit of wishful thinking. As he wraps his fingers around his own warm thermos cup and sips, as he focuses on the heat of coffee on his tongue and down his throat, he anchors himself to this moment. Not to Haruno as he was, at home or in the other place or last week, but to himself, now, and no one else. Just him, and Trish, and trying.]
[Admittedly: he's still surprised. An apology is the last thing he expected. He didn't really know Trish did those. The thermos lowers, his edge-to-edge green eyes fixing on her thoughtfully in the space between her words and his. A few? He's not sure what this conversation is going to entail, if so many apologies are going to happen.]
[Weird. He looks down at his hands, claws tapping on the outside of his plastic lid-cup. That she's not looking at him makes him uncomfortable. But he does nod, after a moment.]
. . . It's all right. You were right. You . . . don't know me. We've hardly spoken, so . . . you can't be expected to know what will upset me. So please don't worry about it.
[His feelings are hurt, that's not in question. He was angry, and he still is, a little. But she was right, too. They don't know each other. They're not friends. She can't know what the wrong thing to do is when all they've done is fumble back and forth until they run into each other in the dark.]
Thank you for listening, in the end. I'm not good at talking about this, but if I'm going to, I want to — do it right.
[Or try to. That's all he can do, he tries to remind himself. It won't go as well as it did with Riley, because Riley's like him. But maybe he can explain it well enough not to make things worse.]
[The fact she's apologizing is exactly why Trish can't look at him. Apologizing is hard, because of how it manifests and how little it really does. In her estimation, the only way to live without regrets is to not make mistakes.
So Trish Una doesn't do apologies. Trish Una doesn't take enough risks to make mistakes.
But the girl before him right now is exhausted and downtrodden after a week where she could barely hold things together. She's not a full monster, a fighter, or a leader. She's just a girl, and that week chanted that fact to her relentlessly. She looked for monsters in the closets, children under beds, and help when she couldn't do those things alone. She tried, and fared poorly. If she's honest, she's fared poorly since the moment she set foot here, different people tugging her along when she lags too far behind.
Bruno would have noticed far easily how her old walls came up almost immediately, because he knew what it looked like when they fell. He would have known how stressed she is. How much she worries somewhere deep inside that she doesn't dare let come out.
Which is an effort made for no one but herself. Selfish, selfish, selfish.
She does raise her eyes to meet his again though, as much as it makes her nervous. A fact she buries under a tight jaw and loosely curled fists that rest on her knees. If he wants to try, to do it right, then she can meet him somewhere between, can't she?]
There's not a moment I don't worry, Giorno.
[It's not something said with any amount of emotion. Just a simple fact.
Her next words come tumbling out. There's no other way she can say them. They'll lay where they fall.]
I noticed, you know. Steve came back. But things between us never got better. I had to think on why that was...but I couldn't come up with a good answer on my own.
[And...]
I was wrong, by the way. We didn't talk back home, not really. Here, however? We did talk. Maybe not in a way that revealed much. I learned little things about you. The problem came when I thought I knew you better than what those things were trying to tell me, because I'd been at your side while flames rose up around us in Italy. I thought, "a person is at their truest in moments like these". But that's not right.
It's the...little things that mattered more. The moments between were the most genuine you could be with me, but I didn't see it for what it was. I was suspicious of it.
[She shrugs weakly.]
I didn't listen to the person standing in front of me because I was thinking about a person back home I didn't know at all.
[She thinks of Steve when she says this. Because...that room full of people? They weren't brought there because Steve is all-powerful and all-encompassing. He was someone made of easy smiles and a goofy sense of humor, and that was more powerful than any Stand in the world.
When she thought about that, thought about Haruno, and the shades of something in his eyes, it makes way too much sense. She doesn't...she can't fathom what world Haruno came from, but she'd be an idiot to have any illusions about him. About Giorno.
She didn't think there was someone to hurt behind those green eyes of his, but there was.]
[He can't help but smile a little at what she says, at the way she says it. It's sad, he knows that, but at the same time it's funny, isn't it? There's not a moment she doesn't worry, she tells him, and all he can think is, Well, we have something in common after all. His persona is very convincing, but he's fragile underneath it. That's a fact he doesn't care to look at too much or for too long, but that doesn't make it any less true. When he starts thinking about something, he doesn't stop — not until his feelings do. Then he's just numb, and nothing.]
[But that's not something she considered. They might be similar in this way, but she isn't Riley. The understanding isn't bone-deep, the way it is with her. That isn't Trish's fault. He wants to believe that. He wants to think it hard enough that everything is fixed, uncomplicated and easy and fixed. That's what he'd do anything for.]
[And yet it's not that simple. And yet even now, sitting across from her and thinking to himself as hard as he can that she's blameless, there's resentment simmering, distrust, suspicion. These are things he can't turn off. When his trust is broken, he doesn't know how to fix it. All of his tools are stolen and slipshod, dug out of dumpsters and glued back together, rust sanded off, poorly calibrated. He wants to try, but trying doesn't always mean fixing, and that's frustrating. It grinds on him, painful, painful, painful.]
[If things could go back to how they were, if he could have never brought the walls down in the first place, if they could have just been superficial friends — part of him wants that.]
[Not all of him, though.]
Some of that is still right, though.
[The smile flickers back, there and gone again, whipped away with the light breeze that catches the hanging petals around them. Honestly, he looks exhausted.]
"A person is at their truest in moments like these" — that's not wrong. That's true of most people. Take Mista, for example.
[Mista, who's gone. Speaking of him is painful, like sticking a knife in his own heart and twisting slowly, counterclockwise in a circle. But he does it anyway, because this is important.]
Mista is at his truest in moments like those. Normally, he's a little boastful, dramatic, he behaves outlandishly . . . but in the worst of those moments, he gave too much of himself, put himself at too much risk for the sake of others' safety. He was frightened and tense, even jumpy, but quick to react when he understood the stakes and who he could trust. No matter how ridiculous he acts normally, he's clever when he needs to be. He's tenacious and stubborn and unwilling to give up, but he still wears his heart on his sleeve and doesn't ever hide his feelings.
I'm not like Mista.
[It's . . . almost funny, how much of an understatement that is. I'm not like Mista. Water can't catch fire. And then what?]
The reason you were thinking about someone back home who wasn't me is because I wanted it to be that way. That was deliberate. The person you had all that faith in, who you counted on knowing because it was all you could rely on, was a construct. Not a lie, exactly, but not a truth, either. The version of myself I felt was most equipped to get where I needed to go, with all the flaws trimmed off. That's why it seemed like a different person entirely that you met here. Essentially, it was.
[With a jerky movement, he shrugs. There's no more elegant way to put it, not and have her understand. She isn't like Riley. She won't hear it if he tells her the way he told Riley — and even now he's trying to figure out some alternative, some kinder, gentler way of putting it, and so far coming up empty.]
[There's still time. He'll come up with something. Something she can swallow, sit with, digest. And with Steve—]
[He doesn't know. He really doesn't.]
It was unfair to expect you to adjust to someone so much more vulnerable than you were expecting. The fact that Steve came back didn't change that. I'm not like Steve, either. It's hard for me to say what I'm feeling. It doesn't seem safe. And you said you were afraid, so . . .
[Mm. With cold fingers, he refills the thermos cup again, watches the steam rising from its surface instead of looking at her face.]
Better neither of us be upset than both. That's what I thought, at the time.
[Trish has wondered what she thought this would accomplish. What she hoped it would accomplish. The thought of them being easy, eventual, casual friends is nice. It's not something she's often had.
She isn't one to settle, but it was a comfortable little microcosm to retreat to when the summer vortex threatened to pull this world apart. If they could go back to that, it would be familiar and disposable. It'd fray at the edges and fall apart again, maybe, but it would be less painful than this. Like clothing often worn, it would fade.
She'd be okay with that.
What she's not okay with here, however, is far more complex, tangled up in other ills. Why should it matter if he hates her? What does it matter if he never speaks to her again? They were never friends, and yet the idea of him pulling away completely...made her heart race painfully and her gut clench with some indescribable sensation.
She's not happy with him, either. She won't ever say it to him, or anyone, but she protects the image people hold of her almost jealously. No one is allowed to perceive her in a way she doesn't want, in a way she doesn't create with her own two hands. So it mystified her that Giorno seemed uncharacteristically amiable, and then Riley mentioned the dream world and that...rankled her. It's all too easy to believe he was swayed by a girl he never met, and summarily disappointed when the real thing wasn't anything like the one he imagined.
But now there's another layer...because Giorno isn't stupid. He's not. He wouldn't be so quick to place his trust in someone he didn't know, right? The single incredible thing she did had no witnesses besides Bruno and Abbacchio, and they were both dead now. Giorno made a gambit, sure, but she doubts he expected they would be attacked again after he sacrificed his arm. It was a fluke. He has no reason to trust her.
It's funny, then, to hear him talk about his projected image. It's what he wanted. It's what he needed them to see. So maybe the misunderstanding here was that he had cast it aside months ago, and she hadn't recognized that it was gone.
The unfathomable thing, however, is that she hurt him. She met Haruno. She knows there's something crawling underneath, something raw, something he doesn't share.
But she doesn't understand why he hadn't done what Haruno had. Haruno didn't trust her either, so he rejected her entirely. It made her...sad, he said as much, he knew that, but he didn't spare her feelings. He protected himself. But Giorno let her get close enough to brush against something that ached, and only then did he shut her out. Which isn't that different, except he accepted her request to talk about it after. Like it bothered him too. Because he decided she...mattered. Where did that come from in someone who thought he himself didn't matter, once upon a time? How could he decide that so easily? That's one of the many things she still hasn't been able to untangle.
God.
Mista would have turned this into a conversation about whether or not Giorno can eat dirt as a nymph five minutes ago. He was a bright spot, a reliable guy, and an absolutely atrocious conversationalist. They sorely need that, don't they?
She'd picked up her thermos again too, listening to him talk about Mista, and she can only think of one good thing to say in response, but really, it's all she needs.]
Oh, that I can understand. There is no one in this universe, now or ever, who will be anything like Guido Mista. I can promise you that.
[Don't be hard on yourself, Giorno. Not everyone can be that hairy, stinky, or frankly incredible. Mista was never one to obfuscate. Mista was Mista. He never left any doubts.
As for the rest, she pours herself another cup of too-strong coffee, but doesn't drink it just yet, setting the thermos aside.
Instead, she watches him, pursing her lips thoughtfully.]
The fact I worry all the time and the fact I told you I felt afraid that night aren't separate phenomena. I could never...think less of you for being more vulnerable. I don't think it's wrong, or something you have to hide. Not that I expect you to share it with me, obviously, but I...
[She grips her cup gently in one hand, smooths some of the fur on her arm with her free hand.
Like her image, her fears that night were about control. She couldn't control the tide of emotions he was experiencing, and she assumed it would only spiral further. But it hadn't.
Another thing she was wrong about.]
I was scared because if something had gone wrong, there'd be nothing I could do for you. Everything is different here, not just you. So it wasn't only this new face of yours I was adjusting to.
[...]
Maybe I shouldn't call it new. Either way, I think we did a horrible job of not making one another upset.
[*pfft in Italian*]
But you never did anything rash, not once. So I was afraid for no reason.
[Even when he's not here, Mista manages to break the ice. The thought, alongside what Trish says, makes him smile, rueful and a little tired, a decent bit lonely. He feels as though he's missing a limb. But that's not what they're here to talk about. It helps, at least, to know that he and Trish will always agree on one thing: that Guido Mista is an impossible-seeming miracle.]
[She can talk about his hairy knuckles all she wants. Giorno knows better.]
. . . I think too much. I thought too much instead of telling you the truth. But to be honest, I've never told anyone this kind of truth without some external catalyst. I don't know if I ever will. There isn't a good way to explain it.
I think what I regret most is—
[Oh. He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. Shakes his head. The whole month — months — all of it was a mess, it hurt, it was a haze, he was present and then he wasn't and then he was. But there were moments when he could have explained one part. If he'd wanted to. If he'd thought.]
I'm good with people, broadly, but I assume too much sometimes and don't know enough other times. Steve has been helping, a little, but I think what happened is I — thought that what I needed your help with was clear. And it wasn't. I don't even know if I could articulate it now. But it wasn't fair to pull you into something like that without explaining, or at least trying to. That it was . . . that I was struggling to focus, to not lose my way, that I didn't know how to—
[Wet collects around the secret corners of his eyes, dangerously lingering on his lashes. He blinks rapidly and drinks some more coffee.]
I would have. Done something rash, I mean, if you hadn't said what you said. When everything happened back at home . . . it was like you said. There wasn't any waiting. This time there was. I needed a plan, something to prepare for, something to do, and there was only waiting, and I don't know if I would have gone out of my way to consciously make something to do with my time in the way I did if you hadn't said something.
Your instincts are good. I know I don't really know you. I know that. But my instincts are good, too. They have to be, you know? You would do anything for us — for me and for Fugo, and Mista too. I didn't see what you did on the plane, but I heard enough afterward. You'd do anything for us, and I'd do the same for you. So I knew you'd see things with clearer eyes than I would, but I didn't explain why, and I wasn't prepared to share what was really happening, to explain why everything seemed so strange to you.
[But . . . that's not all. Of course it isn't. Sharp teeth bite down on the inside of his cheek, thoughtful. His expression is troubled.]
. . . Every time I'm honest with someone, I expect them to walk away. [Except Mista. Never with Mista. But everyone else.] I wait for it, and usually it doesn't happen. But when it does, I think, ah, of course. I should have known. And I don't try anymore, because it hurts.
[Because it hurts.]
[That's all. That's the only reason. Even after all of this time, Giorno is still hiding from danger. The cupboard is just more metaphorical.]
[His shoulders are hunched up around his ears a little when he speaks again, after a moment to breathe.]
Would you . . . mind if I explained? I don't know how to. But I want to try to explain what you saw this past week. I don't want to leave things like that unsaid, not with you.
[Mista has gotten to experience on a literal level what it's like to be Trish Una. She has gotten to endure his hairy knuckles and odor in return, and there's just no coming back from that. Specifically, that she'd gotten fond of those things without realizing, and then it was only natural.
That's just how Mista works! He just happens, and it's wonderful and stupid and brilliant.
As for Giorno...he's always been more subtle until he wasn't. Like a man showing off a card trick, prompting you to watch the cards until there weren't any cards, and his fist was connecting with your jaw. That's what it felt like. A consistent pattern, and yet somehow it was surprising every time.
It's surprising now.
She's been...avoiding making him feel like he has to explain himself. She's the one on trial, not him.
And maybe what he did was wrong to her, but it was...ultimately right to do? If her role was to be a failsafe, then maybe...telling her that would have been a mistake. When she thinks about it, if he'd been frank from the beginning about why he wanted her there...she wonders if she would have been able to do it with the looming pressure. The immediate sense that something was wrong.
It's too hard to say now, but there's a nuance there she didn't consider. But from the sounds of it, Giorno hadn't either. He'd simply been ready to count on her, and it all comes back to why he would think that. But he trusts her. She did something for the gang, and that was enough to earn his trust.
She...
She's a hypocrite, isn't she? Bristling at Giorno for daring to trust her, when she'd trusted him -- from the moment he picked her up in his hearse-car -- to always be prepared. To be the invincible Giorno Giovanna.
But he never was, and then she got to see that for herself. She got to see him, stricken and lost, and he...listened to her. He bucked against her words, but he listened to her.
But he also brought his walls up, because she hurt him too. It's a weird situation then, isn't it? He felt like there was something with merit in her words, but they were words that cut and bled and what was he supposed to do with that?
And she assumed he was sulking, when his cool distance never changed. Haruno demonstrated that same distance, too, but he never risked getting close. Not once.
Because it hurts.
He hid in plain sight as Giorno, but she didn't notice he had been hiding at all until she found Haruno nestled under the piano that day.
His posture is cramped, small, even now. Like he wants to hide all over again.
She studies him for a beat, taking in his words, silent and patient. And then she looks down, taps her nails on the rim of her cup, tracing the lip of it in one smooth motion.]
I wouldn't mind, Giorno. It's why I'm here.
[Trish tips her head up again, her expression kept carefully inscrutable, her eyes taking in the boy before her. This is...Giorno Giovanna. Not the Giorno Giovanna of Passione, but the gentle boy who likes bugs and wants to care so much it aches.]
But I'll only accept it if it's what you really want to do. I can't promise it will fix everything, but...it would be a start, wouldn't it?
[Because he was wrong. They're similar, but they're different enough. And pretending that difference wasn't so big was a mistake on both their parts.]
[This part is easy. Easy to say, and he puts it out there in the space between them like it's something that's been caught in his throat and he needs to expel it before he can truly breathe. It's true: he's hated this. It's been miserable. Those weeks when it felt easy to talk to her were a balm, a relief, as though things were meant to be like that the whole time, as though they were getting a second chance — and this? He's hated every second of it.]
[He just hasn't wanted to hurt. He's so, so tired of hurting. That's no way to live, though, is it? Hiding from everyone? There has to be some give.]
It's what I want to do. It's the only way forward, and forward is where I want to go. I don't want to turn my back on the possibility of knowing you properly just because I don't like people seeing these things. It's worth it.
[That, he's confident in, too. It's something he's known since a few days into knowing her. Even if they never really are friends, she's an important part of his heart. Likewise, it's important not to close his heart off to her. After all of this . . . would he have done it without the push? No. Not yet. But eventually, he thinks so. Because she's part of his heart and his home, which are one and the same. Because it's his job to do right by her, like Bucciarati would have wanted him to.]
[Still: there's a pause. He tucks his chin down against his chest as he stares down at the nearly-empty thermos cup in his hands. His claws click against the plastic, an unconscious mimic of her own motion. Trying to figure out where to start. And when he does, it's stops and starts — and it all starts, as these things usually do, with Riley.]
[Thinking of her in these moments, as though she's walking beside him, squeezing his hand, makes him feel weaker and stronger at the same time. He thinks that's the point, but he isn't sure.]
. . . A few months ago, back at the end of March of this year, something similar to this happened. Not for everyone, but just for me. There was a period of time where we all lived as though we were humans in Ryslig, not monsters. More or less normal lives. But that other reality attached the name Haruno Shiobana to me. So when I came back, I had to answer . . .
[Hm. No.]
I was upset. I was angry. Because his life was really all right, all things considered. He was able to live a more or less normal life, and when that was my name, I . . . he didn't. He was . . .
[Giorno closes his eyes. Thinks back on it. What were the words he said? Pretty pathetic, Riley. Eyes still closed, he shakes his head.]
I don't know how to explain it. That's part of the problem. But Riley . . . in that place, she was happy. Really, really happy. And when she came back, she was still happy about it, and grateful to have had the chance to be part of something normal even if it wasn't real. So she didn't — we didn't understand each other. And we'd been fighting, anyway, sort of, and it was so frustrating, and I was tired of it. So I explained it to her, and she understood, but Riley and I . . .
[Now he does open his eyes, brow furrowed, not looking at Trish but at a space in the distance. Trying to untangle a very messy knot.]
We don't seem that similar. Not on the outside. But we are, really. [Suddenly, a very small smile appears on his lips. He cuts his eyes sideways towards Trish as he pulls his knees up to his chest and puts his cup down, so he can rest his crossed arms atop his knees.] I suppose you saw that better than anyone has this past week. What that means is that I can say things halfway, or in a way that wouldn't make sense to other people, and she usually understands. But if I do that . . .
[He's afraid of hurting Trish. Of scaring her again. He doesn't want to say that, but it's likely clear enough in his hesitation, in the way his gaze shifts down to his crossed arms.]
So I might — if you don't mind. Explain it the best I can in a different way, a more normal way, and then explain it the way I told her, which is the way that it feels to me. I've never done it that way before, though, so it's going to be clumsy.
[Trish takes those first words, breathes them in, lets them filter through her chest, breathing them back out to disperse into the air around them.
Because she agrees. It wasn't enjoyable to be treated coolly, but it was maddening waking up one day and confronting the fact that it wasn't going to end by virtue of time, because it wasn't just a "stupid fight", like she thought. There was an uncharitable part of her assumed that the reason Giorno didn't go exact vengeance like he wanted was because everything hinged on whether or not Steve came back. As was promised, Steve did, and Giorno was okay.
Except he wasn't, not at all.
But more than any pain they've inflicted on one another...he wants to know her. And she wants to know him, too. Part of her still worries that doing so could only mean disappointment...but they don't have to be close, she thinks. Just being allowed to see the part of him he wanted to share, the part he showed off willingly until she pried at it, cracked it...maybe she can't be delicate for him, but she can try to understand. He's giving her that chance.
So she watches him, watches him tuck his chin, watches him search for the words he wants. Trish wishes she could help him, say something to prompt a good starting point, but she knows where this is going even less than he does.
Admittedly she's a little confused too, because Giorno is cutting words from a cloth she can't see, piecing them together and pulling them apart again when they don't quite match the way he wants them to. One time, he was called Haruno like he was the week before, but that Haruno was not miserable. However, Giorno...didn't like that, and told Riley as much, and she understood. She thinks? And he was mad at Riley somewhere in there.
Trish furrows her brows.
It's interesting to know he didn't enjoy that life though. She had the impression whatever he saw then, he liked, because Riley mentioned how he must be so happy to have someone from his home here. That he must be doing...better? Because she was in that reality too, in some way, enough that Riley recalled her being there.
She almost says "if you mean to say you're good at confusing me then yes, you're exactly like Riley" because Riley seemed uncomfortable in her own skin all the time in ways Trish still can't comprehend, can't divine. Giorno seemed to radiate confidence, but then Haruno peeked out of that shell and it became apparent Giorno was so uncomfortable in his old skin he cast it aside almost entirely. Trading black hair for blond. It makes her nervous to see him curl up too, but if it's for his comfort, she won't complain.
He hesitates then, and she tilts her head, puzzled.]
You'll...have to allow me some questions, probably after you're done. I just want to be sure I understand.
[Though...]
It's possible I won't be able to right away. Don't let that discourage you. Sometimes I like to let something settle, think on it then. [she twists her hand, pats the air for emphasis] And then I'll turn it over, think on it again, and so on.
[If she gives herself time to consider the different angles, she can conceptualize it better. Whatever it is he's about to say. She hopes she can, anyway.]
Explain however you like, and we'll figure it out together.
[It's too bad he can't hear what she's thinking. This time, anyway. That's more or less it: he was so uncomfortable in his old skin that he discarded it, whereas Riley kept sewing herself in tighter and tighter. That's what he finds so hard to explain without using words that he knows would make people uncomfortable, and part of him feels the need to move carefully around Trish, to treat her with kid gloves.]
[He's not stupid. She'd kill him for that. So he won't. He can't. It's not fair to either of them.]
[Strangely, he finds himself smiling after what she says next — about not understanding. About needing time. It's very honest, and he appreciates that more than he expected to, perhaps because he didn't expect it at all. He's not used to any of this, but especially not to someone else admitting that the process might be difficult. He doesn't have to be perfect; that's what she's saying to him.]
Thank you. That makes sense. I'll . . . remember to be patient.
[With her, but more challengingly, with himself. If he can possibly manage it.]
[And now, to start. But the question is, how far back. He stares up at the wisteria boughs bending slightly under the weight of their beautiful purple petals. There's so much. Even Riley doesn't know all of it. But Riley never met Jonathan, either.]
[Ah, well.]
The first part is probably the strangest, and I don't understand it entirely myself. My biological father . . . stole someone else's body, more or less. That body belonged to Jonathan, the man you've met twice now. He's also my father in his way, but it's complicated and confusing and honestly a little bit horrible. I can explain that more later, if you want. It's relevant for this conversation because when Gold Experience made itself known to me, my physical appearance began to change. Before, I heavily resembled my mother. Now I more strongly resemble the man who stole Jonathan's body.
[The one he told Mukuro about. The one who never came for him, in the end.]
[And of course, this was the easy part. He runs his thumb over his bottom lip, absent, nervous, before continuing. His voice is suddenly very mechanical when it comes again.]
My mother was Japanese. She met my father in Egypt. As far as I know, he usually killed women he was with, but he didn't kill her, and she came back home pregnant. She had me on her own, even though she didn't want to. There was family pressure, and then she was alone in the end anyway, with a baby she didn't want and a life she did, and she chose the life she wanted.
[He's staring at nothing, somewhere past Trish's left shoulder.]
She — I don't have a lot of memories of her. Coming and going, mostly. She went out and stayed out for days, as far back as I can remember. I would call and call [and cry and cry] for her, but she never came, because she was almost never there. There wasn't food, usually. I did what I could. And it was dirty, but I did what I could. Whenever she came home, she'd usually just ignore me, or put some groceries on the counter on a good day. Stay long enough to tell me she was going out again, not to wait up, and to stop whining, or get out of her way, and so on . . . She was annoyed she had to come back and check on me, because her friends told her to usually, and she wanted to stay out.
[Staring at nothing. Silent for a long, long moment. And then, like reporting the weather:]
If she could have gotten away with it, I think she would have left me there until I died.
I don't really know what happened, but when I was five or so, she met an Italian man and married him. After that she was home even less. He beat me. All the time, for any reason or no reason. He didn't like when I spoke or looked at him. The way I looked at him was wrong, he said. He hit me when he was drunk or sober, when there wasn't enough money and when there was plenty, when he'd had a good day or a bad one . . . because it wasn't about him. It was about me. Regardless of anything else, I was the problem. It was always my fault.
[It's at this point that he recognizes he can't quite feel his own body. This is far greater detail than he ever got into with Riley — because he didn't have to say most of this. Because he said a few words, and she just knew. Because she's Riley. Because their pain mirrors the other's.]
[With shaking hands, he silently unscrews the lid of his thermos again, pauses, then screws it back on. On second thought, he takes hold of the bag of pastries and pulls out a croissant and a napkin. He unfolds the latter on his lap, lays the pastry down on it, and pulls off a piece, which he places on his dry tongue. And chews.]
[Stay here. Not done yet.]
. . . I was very obviously not Italian, and I could only speak a few words. My classmates didn't like that. They hit me, too, and ruined what few things I had. You know, the things children do to each other. That's just how it was, the whole thing. It didn't seem possible for anything to ever change. The problem was me, you see, so there was no future where anything was different, let alone better.
[It's only now that he starts to look more present. That was the hardest part. The rest of it — that's part of Giorno's life, not Haruno's. This is where Haruno started to die.]
[He picks off another piece of croissant and puts it in his mouth.]
The first person who ever cared about me was a mafioso . . . whose life I saved when I was young. I don't even know his name. But things began to look different after that. I didn't get hit anymore. People were nicer to me. I came to realize, though, that the reason for that wasn't because of me, but because of that man. He made sure that I was safe. The kindness was fake. I didn't trust it again after that. And I didn't ever have a friend until I met Mista, and I didn't try to be his friend. He's . . . just Mista, as you know. There's no escaping it.
[There's a pause. His hand comes up to rest over his chest; after a moment, he massages his breastbone with his knuckles. There's tightness under his ribs, the pain of loss and confusion and grief.]
I still don't understand how people like Mista and Steve exist. Which is ridiculous on the surface. They're not that much alike. But people who are open, who trust people by default as opposed to the other way around, who are basically good at heart — I find that hard to believe in. It's like some story. It's not real.
[Which is why they're so important to him. Which is why Steve is important to all of them. He doesn't know, not for sure, except for Riley, but — he'd put money on that being the case for almost everyone who was in that room.]
[Genuine goodness seems so improbable when all you've known is being starved of it.]
[Trish is a liar, but she can see the merit in admitting she's simply not equipped to parse this as quickly as someone...more like Giorno would.
No, she's not equipped at all, and that becomes rapidly apparent as he talks. She fills her thermos cup with more coffee, sipping slowly and quietly as she drinks his words in tandem with the bitter brew, her brows furrowing because of the acrid taste and the sheer incredulity that hits her.
Because...she doesn't expect him to get this detailed, first of all. This can only mean he doesn't want there to be room for a single misunderstanding, and once again, in his Giorno way, he might be overcorrecting. But she's not about to interrupt him.
She's not going to remotely pretend she understands how someone could steal a person's body, or father a child, or why he was in Egypt? Wasn't Jonathan...English? And this means...Giorno isn't Italian at all. In every possible, conceivable way, then, he had discarded Haruno.
With all this in mind, though, she supposes she can somewhat relate to an absent father. It's honestly a wonder for them both that their fathers never killed their mothers. And yet, that's where their paths immediately diverge, because not once did Trish ever feel unwanted. She complained about all the baby pictures Donatella put up, complained when Donatella kissed her on each cheek again and again and again, because her love was effusive. Always guaranteed.
The fact she's gone leaves a deep chasm in her heart, one Trish doesn't ever talk about, but Giorno's mother...didn't care for him at all, so there is no chasm for her to leave. Rather, Giorno is like a void, a blank space where love should have been, but where only misery was left instead, spiraling into that void endlessly.
I would call and call for her, but she never came, because she was almost never there.
If she could have gotten away with it, I think she would have left me there until I died.
These sentences in particular have Trish gripping her cup tight, her eyes narrow. Because it's...way too easy to see it in her mind's eye now, after seeing Haruno. The talk of his stepfather earns a wince, a bit lip, as Trish chances a glance across the bough at Giorno, and she remembers Haruno so small and skittish and mistrustful, how he leaned from her when she got too close. How he could never, ever trust someone bigger than him, because even if she had no reason to hurt him, in his mind...she didn't need one. She would because she could, and that was it.
Giorno wasn't ever given a chance by anyone in his life until...until crossing paths with a goddamn gangster. It's no wonder he couldn't trust anyone, in that faraway look of his, in the one she's been on the other side of for days and days and days. She's...just like anyone else who has let him down. It's no wonder Haruno shut her out too.
If something is fundamentally broken in Giorno, then she's been too ignorant to see it. Too proud to think someone she admired could be so human underneath the front he put up.
And I didn't ever have a friend until I met Mista, and I didn't try to be his friend.
Giorno waited his whole life for someone like Mista. For someone like Steve.
It's...no wonder he fell apart. He had just found people who cared unconditionally where he had never, ever had that, and to have them taken so suddenly ripped bits and pieces of himself off with them, hadn't it? He didn't have that foundation to keep standing on his own. He had nothing but the void underneath when the people holding him up let go by virtue of being stolen away.
This is...so much, and Trish is quiet for a stretch. Obviously, people like Steve and Mista exist. They're rare, but they do exist. But that's patronizing to assert when Giorno waited fifteen years for people like them. When he never expected people like them to exist at all.
But Giorno was still...kind. Giorno himself still believed in goodness and demonstrated it and that is another thing Trish can't fathom. There's no possible way she could've survived what he had. None. The fact he came out the other side of all that, to sit in front of her now, a boy buried under leaves with a pastry in his lap and a heart that leaps out at the barest affection, a heart that cares so much about the people around him...he's incredible, isn't he?]
...I thought the same. But I feel there's a common thread, and it may be simpler than either of us would think. Steve and Mista aren't alike. They're not like Bucciarati. They're not like Narancia, Abbacchio, Fugo, or you.
[She sets her cup down, so she can rest her hands on her knees with her fingers loosely curled.]
But you're all good people. Regardless of where you came from, or who you were before, or what awful thing clings to you even on your best day...your hearts are always in the right place. I...don't think I would have persisted as long as you did. How could anyone, if they didn't believe in good so fervently that they made it real in a world scarce of it? Why would you or I or anyone at all bother with people, or helping them, when they hadn't ever shown us the same?
[She swallows.]
What I'm saying is...I don't think it's only about trust. It's about doing what you believe is right. I admire everyone who is capable of adhering to that. I admire it in you, Giorno.
[Is this putting words in his mouth? She hopes not, she really doesn't. Maybe she's selfish, navigating this from a perspective so wholly different from his.]
I can't pretend to understand how deeply your pain runs, but I don't...want to add to it. You were worried about my feelings that night, and I didn't...you shouldn't have. I should have worried about you, and not what I thought you'd do. I can see that now.
[She's sorry. She's sorry, she's so sorry, and she trembles but doesn't look away.
Because she...they weren't friends, but any decent person would have seen what was happening. Trish thought Giorno's buffers were gone when Steve was killed, but he trusted her. She could have...]
[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.]
[It's strange to her too, to let these things fall so easily from her lips. It's almost like something in her has been punctured, and every single good and awful thing she's ever felt has come pouring out, unrelenting.
Guilt, fear, admiration, happiness, anger.
And by her definition...it can't apply to her because she's plagued by doubt. How can someone who questions themselves at every turn claim to stand by their righteousness wholeheartedly?
They can't. She can't.
Giorno was plagued by many things, by doubt in people, but doubt in himself? Doubt in what he believes? If he is plagued by such, she can't see it. But she can't comprehend how that could ever be the case.
Giorno and Bucciarati are the same in that regard. Bucciarati never once hesitated to do what his heart dictated. She can't imagine how else he could have stood firm against an entire organization, not as a single man with a small group of foundlings at his side. A shred of doubt would have been catastrophic.
She doesn't miss the shift in Giorno's expression, or how he sits, or how he's looking at her, all tight and wound up and then loose again as he wrings the tension out himself, and unconsciously...she smooths out the slope of her shoulders, breathes deep, wills herself to stop quivering. He can't...he shouldn't need to worry about her. That's not what she wants, that's not what she deserves. Not from him.
This entire conversation is happening because she's being selfish, and he's allowing it. So if he can be vulnerable with her despite that, if he can talk about something he desperately hates to talk about, she can attempt the courtesy of not wilting like a disobedient flower in front of a nymph of all creatures.
Yeah, he's right. She doesn't like being vulnerable either. That's part of it too, although she mysteriously doesn't confirm or deny his statement.
She shakes her head.]
I was being unfair myself. I still am. With that in mind, I don't want to start over, not entirely. This is...it's important. It's being said because it needed to be said. It's shards of the pieces you're talking about, and I want it to be part of whatever comes after today. Even if those bits and pieces stick out awkwardly all over...it'll be ours, won't it?
[Want, want, want.
But she has to be clear. If he can forgive her so easily...it feels weird to hold that forgiveness, tucked close to her chest, but it makes her...happy. A little queasy too, because part of her thinks she could shatter it for good if she's not careful. If she can't be half the person he sees her as.
But it made her happy to see him that day on the beach, when she thought about it. The last time she saw him, that fateful day back in Rome, he sent her away, and she understood why...but he's wanted to know her.
For some godforsaken reason, the don of Passione wants to build something with a girl who doesn't have anything to offer but herself.
What an odd thing they're going to build together. What an odd, silly thing. But being friends with him was always going to be absurd, wasn't it? She's wondered what it would be like, because they both...want to know one another. They've let their walls down in fits and starts, misunderstood each other. Obstinate bastards both.
She doesn't smile, exactly, but her shoulders are shaking again, this time with the barest laughter.]
You know, Giorno. You've told me all this, and yet I still don't know what your favorite color is.
[God.
Unbelievable.]
I'm starting to think we're terrible at this.
Edited (writing at 4am was a mistake I keep finding typos HRGH) 2021-10-13 19:03 (UTC)
[Trish doesn’t smile anywhere in this process, but slowly, Giorno begins to. It’s a fits-and-starts sort of smile, one that takes a long time to fully bloom. There’s a growth spurt when she starts talking about shards, and what they’re talking about in this moment being an important component of where they will go from here.]
[He nods. Yes. He agrees with that. The scars on bones from breaks are significant to their strength in the future. His own concerns about imperfection and invulnerability — and hers, it seems, although precise confirmation isn’t forthcoming and honestly doesn't need to be — are what caused this whole mess. They can both stand to wear the scars they’ve inflicted on the space between them while they heal. Someday, they’ll be so faint as to be unnoticeable.]
[His lips turn down slightly at the corners when he sees her shoulders shaking, then up again when he realizes she’s laughing. When he smiles, his eyes turn up at the corners; sometimes even when he isn’t smiling with his mouth, when he’s trying to pretend he’s not smiling at all, his eyes betray him. They’re doing it right now.]
[They really don’t know the first thing about each other. But it’s like Trish said. I would do anything for him. Absolutely anything.]
[It goes both ways.]
Oh. Without question. We’re very terrible at this.
[Mouth twitching, he gives in and grins at her, huffing out a breath that sounds suspiciously like laughter.]
Would you believe me if I said green? And to be fair, you haven’t told me yours either. My favorite food is chocolate pudding. My favorite musician is Prince. I read biology textbooks for fun, and I’m not very good at math. I’ve read Les Miserables cover to cover five times. My hair is something I saw on a Thierry Mugler model from 1992.
Is that somewhere to start? A few building blocks, at least. I think it’s going to be messy by default, if all of that is part of it.
[Somehow, Giorno finds it in him to smile. Somehow, Giorno found it in him to give her another chance. Somehow, she wanted that. When they go home, they'll be strangers all over again, but until then...
Until then...
They're allowed to make mistakes. They're allowed to be awkward, and weird, and a little stupid. She hasn't ever allowed that from herself, but these boys seemed determined to drag it out of her. She should resent this, yet there's not a single part of her that does, and a much larger part that's happy to indulge this.
Her smile is nearly imperceptible, but Giorno seems amused despite himself, and seeing him grin after all this is...she brings a hand to her chest. Suddenly, it feels full. It's an odd feeling, like she might burst at the seams. She huffs hard enough to displace her bangs, then, leaning back as she listens.]
Unfortunately for the both of us, we'll have to settle for messy.
[Absolutely tragic. She doesn't seem bothered by this a bit!]
I do think you underestimate how much you like biology. Of everything, even I could have told you that.
[Your biology nerdery is no secret, Giovanna.
The green of her eyes is obscured by her lashes, briefly, as she looks down at the wood of the tree, absorbing the other tidbits. The things that matter, the things that exist in the little spaces between the grand and intimidating qualities of Passione's new don.]
...But I will commit the rest to memory. To make this fair, by the way, my favorite color is actually orange. I'll admit I'm surprised to hear you're not good at math, but I am. We can cover for each other. After all, I'm horrific at natural sciences.
[And she looks up at him again, rubbing at the fur on the back of one hand. She thinks about Maya at the dollhouse, and how she said Giorno was right about her, without having any way to know...and it's odd, the trust they hold. Potentially a fraught thing, but this...if anything, she wants to prove him right every time she can.]
I'll sing for you one day too. But I won't say when. If I share too much, I'll be all out of surprises.
[It wouldn't do to dump everything and inevitably bore him, now would it?]
[The feeling, at the very least, is mutual. He can't put his finger on why, but he wants to do his best by her. The idea of not doing so makes him desperately disappointed in himself. After everything, she deserves the best of him. By default, all other factors unconsidered, she deserves the best of him for herself. He'd build the world for her and tear it down again. She's important.]
[Part of him doesn't know why. The rest of him knows it's obvious. They've both been so, so lonely. He saw her loneliness and her facade and wanted to live in between them. That's why it felt so natural when she first arrived, why he didn't even consider what he was doing wrong.]
[And of course she'll always surprise him. His lips quirk up, surprised.]
Orange.
[Really not that far from gold, all things considered. Just a different kind of vibrance. And singing—]
I can't sing at all. I didn't know you . . .
[Could. But of course he wouldn't. She wouldn't just share that with a bunch of kidnappers. That she's telling him now makes his chest feel tight. In an unconscious echo of her movement, he lifts his hand to rub at the space just over his heart. What does she sing? What sort of timbre is her voice when she sings, and is it different from how it sounds now?]
[His expression is just stupidly, achingly fond.]
It's okay if you don't want to share everything. But I don't want to keep anything from you anymore. I'm going to try not to. I think that's . . . that feels right. I trust you. I want you to know me. Sometimes I won't get things right, or I might not even realize something is important, and I'm sorry for that, but I promise you I'll try. And I'll listen. I'll keep getting better at this. It's — I want to be my best, for you. You know?
[Part of her desire to do right by him is to...give him a reason to want anything for her at all. It's a part of her that simply can't accept that she alone could be important to anyone. The one person who cared for her unconditionally is dead and gone.
More than that, it's what this is all about, isn't it? Who were they as people outside of that week? Are they capable of being friends without that linchpin? She wants them to be. They never would have met without that week though, so tossing it out entirely is not possible. And she shouldn't. It wasn't the full picture, but it showed them at their lowest and ostensibly highest points. They were all good people when it counted, she thinks. That's why the trust has persisted here.
Orange is...a color always associated with day. Sunrise and sunset. Orange was Donatella Una's favorite color too.
As for what he says, she wonders. Maya told her that Giorno said she could sing, but it's entirely reasonable to assume the dreamworld – a place that could create fake lives and relationships – had shown him something like that. It's admittedly another thing that makes her worry about the degree of separation. That he liked the girl from there so much that the girl in front of him could only disappoint. It wouldn't be the first time she didn't meet expectations.
But she doesn't say any of that, because any words she'd had catch in her throat at his expression. It's weird, isn't it? How someone who holds the microcosm of Italy in the palm of his hand could look at her like that. It's never not going to be weird.
Helplessly, she crosses her arms. It's not done abruptly, nor with hunched shoulders, but still. Listen: if you don't keep up at least one defense, Giorno Giovanna will walk right in, and then it's over for you. The look on her face can only be described as some blend of pleasantly bemused and "really?".]
That's not what I meant, exactly. But if I were to delegate, I'd say...only share what you feel. There's such a thing as too much at once, and that goes for both of us. So do what feels right, and I'll do the same.
[She lifts her chin.]
That's all I can ask for right now. I won't beg for any more than you're willing to give me.
[And...]
You know well enough already I'll nip your heels if you overstep.
[Which...hopefully he understands that he can and should stop her when she gets to be too much. They're both a lot, aren't they?
This is hard. Words are hard. She drums her fingers in the crook of one arm.]
What I'm really trying to say is...well, let's not worry about it anymore. Not today. Tomorrow we can start over like we promised, and I won't be running on two hours of sleep.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
i realized i didnt put a date on this but u know what. thunderdome is always
But she can't accept that. If she has to physically haul Giorno by the scruff of his neck into a room and block the door with her body, she will. She doesn't want to, but giving up is similarly unacceptable.
The chance is slim, however, that he will eventually turn up in the garden as asked, because Trish knows he hates to repeat himself. And if she won't bend, he'll be doomed to do just that.
She's settled on a bench for a good majority of those forty-five minutes, bushes neatly bordering this little corner, when Giorno arrives. He's so quiet she doesn't realize he's there at first, flinching just a little at the brightness of his eyes in the waning light.
Her own expression meanwhile can only be described as pensive, and she won't hide it, not in the interest of an open discussion. Trish sits up a little straighter, then, sucking in a quiet breath.]
...I know what you're going to say. Forget it, right?
[He has to know what they're here for. He wouldn't have dragged his roots this long if they were talking about anything else.]
If you're only here to tell me that, I'm going to tell you a simple fact in return: I can't.
[There's more, there's a lot more, but he's already closed off in his posture and affect. She's starting to think this is a mistake, but she watches him with green eyes anyway, waiting.]
thunderdome is ALWAYS
[His tone is light and conversational. His hands come to lock behind his back. This is an excellent indication that he's absolutely furious. He doesn't sit, because he doesn't intend to stay.]
[At the very least, this is a positive step in that he's no longer pretending to be content with things as they are. That being said, he's also finished being quiet. About this, and in general.]
Here's a free tip. If it's very important to you to talk with someone about a topic that you're well aware makes them uncomfortable, don't present ultimatums. Don't make demands. Don't feel the need for everything to go exactly your way, because what's going to happen if you do these things is that you're going to be avoided, lied to, or told off. Please note which option I've chosen.
This is not happening on your terms. You don't get to say here and now, tell me all about why you were such a sad kid. You don't decide that. I was willing to let it be today, but then you told me no, as though this is all about you, and it's not. It's about what you want to know, but it's my life. If you want to talk, if you want to know anything, we're doing this on my terms or not at all. Say no to me again and I'm done.
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Because already she's failing.
Though, he can say "oh, I was going to chat today, but you ruined it" and let that press sharp against her throat, but of all the things he says, that's the one she doesn't believe even a little. A month and a half of no talking at all dictates otherwise.
But he's right that it's not about her. He's right, and even if she feels anger and fear and shame well up in her chest like bile, she bites her tongue, and it takes her a moment to realize she's shaking, and she reaches to grip one of her own arms tight as if to steady herself, all while holding his gaze.]
...Okay.
[That's what slips from her lips after a delicate stretch of silence, and it feels weak, but Giorno's made his point. He controls the floor. She won't argue. This entire situation is...new territory for her. Has been.
Because Trish relies on scripts. On observations. But Haruno has been held somewhere she can't see, and therefore could not fathom. She could recognize the pain in Giorno's eyes, but not how deep that pain ran. There's a lot about him she doesn't get, but that meeting made something very clear, and Haruno re-contextualized it.
Giorno...found someone he trusted. Everyone in that room did. And it nearly tore them apart when he was taken away. She didn't think Giorno was like them, though. But...he's just a boy. Just a boy, underneath the xylem and phloem and beautiful flowers.
More than anything, she gets that now. She doesn't understand him well, but she doesn't need to understand Giorno himself to recognize that.
Either way, this is on Giorno's terms, and she watches him and waits for him to continue.]
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[Frankly, Giorno doesn't want to either. But if she's going to actually try, then so will he. And if she's not, then he'll leave. That's all. He won't be cornered.]
[After a long moment, he breathes in sharply through his teeth and nods. His fingers unclench, hands falling to his side. He doesn't want to do this. He wants to run. He wants to talk to Riley. He's exhausted.]
Tomorrow morning at ten, I'll meet you at my tree. It's not far; I'll give you directions. I'll bring breakfast. Whatever you want to ask me, I'll answer. Is that acceptable?
[Because he can't do it now. Not now. Last time they had a conversation like this, he was far too passive. Now he's angry. He has to find wherever the middle is. Angry won't do.]
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But this is Giorno and not Haruno, and after what feels like a moment that would stretch her so thin she'll tear at the seams, Giorno bends.
She watches him...not relax, but delegate with himself. Perhaps not willingly, but he delegates all the same.
Trish nearly sighs with relief at a second chance, even if this was definitely a strike against her, and who knows how many she has left, but she merely slumps her shoulders.]
Yes. That's...that's good. I'll see you then.
[She's still watching him.
She'll watch him until he's gone, even.
She'll stare at the space where he stood, and wonder just what the hell she'll say so that this doesn't all come crashing down around her head for the third time.]
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[For example, this: with a few hours away, space taken and time passed, he remembers that he cares about her, burned as he feels by this whole thing. The point of this, the origin of all of this, was trying to know her better. He just did it wrong. Backwards, or something. He doesn't understand that part. But he knows it's more complicated than anger wants to make it. Nothing about their lives can ever, ever be simple.]
[Except for breakfast. He has control over breakfast and coffee and the time that this will happen, and that's enough to let the rest of it go for now. Food is comforting, his tree is safe, and whatever comes, he can get through it.]
[Sometime in the late evening, he tucks a folded piece of paper with very detailed directions to his tree under her door. Like, stupid detailed. That's all, though, until the appointed time the following morning.]
[By the time she gets where she's going, Giorno's been there for over an hour. The tree is easy to spot and true to the (similarly detailed) description on her directions: broad more than tall, branches wide enough to make a platform that's more than big enough for two people to sit, or one to lie down. Gnarled limbs provide approximate footholds.]
[There's a folding chair set up on the ground underneath the massive purple canopy. Giorno is visible in the branches, lying on his back reading with a hand under his head, braid dangling down at the mercy of gravity. Breakfast is not visible, but there's the smell of fresh pastries somewhere under the florals.]
[When he hears her coming, Giorno flips over, tucking his book in a nondescript crevasse and resting his chin on one hand, the other coming up to silently wave at her.]
Hi. If you want to come up, you can. Or I'll come down.
[Hence the folding chair. He's done his best to be prepared for every eventuality here. Still, he seems remarkably calm, at least for the moment.]
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She's not...as tough as she'd like to seem. She's soft, fragile. It's almost like the fog gifted her with fur to advertise that fact, turning her inside out.
Waking up to a piece of paper on her floor is one thing, but unfurling it in the privacy thereof affords her the chance to wrinkle her nose like Giorno left a smelly sock there instead. Goodness, he spared not a single word, didn't he?
Not that she can't appreciate it. It makes him easy to find, and the forest is...beautiful. She's not one for the outdoors, but it's pleasing to some part of her she can't quite name.
She sees the folding chair first, for how incongruent it is, long before she catches Giorno, who kindly moves so he doesn't quite blend in, and she returns his wave weakly. She didn't...sleep well. She hasn't since that week, but this time? Doubly so.
Trish can't help but marvel at the scene he's created, however, a sheer contrast to last night. This seems...inviting. But somehow that just makes her more queasy.]
Mm. I'll come up.
[Because in her estimation, every effort should be made on her part and not his. Which is why this carefully crafted meeting has her nervous, and the smell of pastries makes her realize she brought nothing but herself.
A poor offering to be sure.
She eyes the tree's limbs, and...she feels silly, but she can climb. She can. So she steps forward and hauls herself up, settling on a branch not too far but not too close to him either, flicking her tail out before sitting so she doesn't squish it.
And then she puts her hands on her knees, chewing on her lip before turning her head to look at him.]
...Good morning.
[Those words were almost a question, but she doesn't want to toss a single question at him, not yet.
She wants to say: so, this is where you disappear to?
She wants to say: so, you made breakfast?
But those requires answers, and she's not sure if she's met all his terms just yet.]
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[By now, though, he isn't sure how to fix that. He isn't sure there is a way to fix it. And if there is, he doesn't think he has time. There's no more stalling. They both need to be done with that and move on to the meat of this. Whatever she needs to know, she needs to ask, and he needs to tell her.]
[One of the questions, at least, he can easily anticipate. Before she speaks, he sits up, cross-legged, and turns at the waist to pull a medium-sized bag from a higher branch. Out of it he pulls two thermoses, one of which he places in front of Trish and the other in front of himself. They're both full of strong coffee with cream and a small amount of sugar. It didn't occur to him until too late that he's not sure how she takes hers, but he'll correct that at some point. Assuming this doesn't totally tank.]
[Anyway. There's a paper bag of pastries, a mix of savory and sweet, that comes next, neatly sealed with a sticker that says Hyacinth Cafe. They're good, although more northern European in inspiration than he'd prefer. Whatever. Beggars can't be choosers. He places those in the center between them, then dives back into the larger bag until he digs up a couple of plates and napkins. Because it's Trish, and he figured she would want them.]
[All of that set out, he rests his hands on his knees, sighs, and smiles at her. Tired and a little forced, but not nearly as hard as he thought it would be.]
Good morning. Thanks for coming all this way. You're welcome to help yourself. I wasn't really sure what you'd prefer, so . . .
[So he did a moderate amount of the most, as is his way.]
what a beautiful Duwang
Trish is still mystified, though, when she looks at him in time to watch him finish setting out coffee and pastries and plates, methodical from start to finish. Taking in the purple of the canopy too and how it bathes everything in color, the sheer distance and isolation in how it's nestled in the forest, she realizes trying the garden was aiming far too small. Here is a space where Giorno feels at peace, and it's beautiful and it's grand and it's far from people.
It makes sense.
Her eyes chance a peek at his face next, and it's a sharp contrast to last night. He seems far more at peace, even if he's not relaxed. But he's not angry. Not yet.
She shuffles so she's facing him a little more properly, tail sweeping in close to her leg, and there's a moment of deliberation as she looks at the carefully crafted scene in front of her.
Very, very nearly, she almost answers that it doesn't matter, but the memory of how he responded to words like that is stark. Even if she's sure something as small as coffee preferences really shouldn't matter on short notice like this.]
It's fine.
[So she reaches for the thermos, a cute one with a plaid pattern, and takes the cup off the top, before unscrewing the cap and pouring herself a cup. A cup that she lifts tentatively to her lips, glancing up at him once, before taking a sip.
She...blinks rapidly, in her effort not to make a face. It's too bitter, but the caffeine is desperately needed, and she drains the cup entirely of its contents once her tongue adjusts. And then she sets the empty cup down, sitting prim.]
I wasn't expecting this, I'll admit.
[It's...again, a thing she won't say aloud. But it's backwards. She's the one who overstepped, and now he's treating her?
Her gaze briefly explores the canopy curled almost protectively over Giorno, before she looks at Giorno himself, to meet his eyes.]
It's very you. But I know you didn't invite me for a picnic, and I don't want to waste your time. So what I'm going to offer you first and foremost is an apology.
[She gestures loosely.]
I actually owe you a few. But last night in particular I think merits it the most right now.
[Trish dips her head, and this part is easy at least. The hard part will come after, assuming he accepts her words.]
I'm sorry for the way I acted.
duwang.........
[He's always had to make his own happiness. No one else ever made it for him. No one cared about whether he smiled or frowned, no one worked hard to cheer him up when he was down. No one thought too much about whether he was alive or dead, really. The difference with making good memories on purpose is that usually, those good memories should involve someone else. But the basic principle, the idea of carving something beautiful out of nothing whether the world wants you to feel comfort or not . . . oh, he's very familiar.]
[That's why his tree feels like a second home and a second heart. That's why he only invites the people here who he feels deserve it — and Trish, now, because she deserves a chance, because he wants to trust her. This is the place where, even when the entire peninsula is on fire, he feels safest. This is where he makes peaceful memories, at those times when he simply isn't capable of making good ones.]
[This isn't for her. Not really. It's not for him, either. This is for them. A token, a good omen, a bit of wishful thinking. As he wraps his fingers around his own warm thermos cup and sips, as he focuses on the heat of coffee on his tongue and down his throat, he anchors himself to this moment. Not to Haruno as he was, at home or in the other place or last week, but to himself, now, and no one else. Just him, and Trish, and trying.]
[Admittedly: he's still surprised. An apology is the last thing he expected. He didn't really know Trish did those. The thermos lowers, his edge-to-edge green eyes fixing on her thoughtfully in the space between her words and his. A few? He's not sure what this conversation is going to entail, if so many apologies are going to happen.]
[Weird. He looks down at his hands, claws tapping on the outside of his plastic lid-cup. That she's not looking at him makes him uncomfortable. But he does nod, after a moment.]
. . . It's all right. You were right. You . . . don't know me. We've hardly spoken, so . . . you can't be expected to know what will upset me. So please don't worry about it.
[His feelings are hurt, that's not in question. He was angry, and he still is, a little. But she was right, too. They don't know each other. They're not friends. She can't know what the wrong thing to do is when all they've done is fumble back and forth until they run into each other in the dark.]
Thank you for listening, in the end. I'm not good at talking about this, but if I'm going to, I want to — do it right.
[Or try to. That's all he can do, he tries to remind himself. It won't go as well as it did with Riley, because Riley's like him. But maybe he can explain it well enough not to make things worse.]
*CHEW*
So Trish Una doesn't do apologies. Trish Una doesn't take enough risks to make mistakes.
But the girl before him right now is exhausted and downtrodden after a week where she could barely hold things together. She's not a full monster, a fighter, or a leader. She's just a girl, and that week chanted that fact to her relentlessly. She looked for monsters in the closets, children under beds, and help when she couldn't do those things alone. She tried, and fared poorly. If she's honest, she's fared poorly since the moment she set foot here, different people tugging her along when she lags too far behind.
Bruno would have noticed far easily how her old walls came up almost immediately, because he knew what it looked like when they fell. He would have known how stressed she is. How much she worries somewhere deep inside that she doesn't dare let come out.
Which is an effort made for no one but herself. Selfish, selfish, selfish.
She does raise her eyes to meet his again though, as much as it makes her nervous. A fact she buries under a tight jaw and loosely curled fists that rest on her knees. If he wants to try, to do it right, then she can meet him somewhere between, can't she?]
There's not a moment I don't worry, Giorno.
[It's not something said with any amount of emotion. Just a simple fact.
Her next words come tumbling out. There's no other way she can say them. They'll lay where they fall.]
I noticed, you know. Steve came back. But things between us never got better. I had to think on why that was...but I couldn't come up with a good answer on my own.
[And...]
I was wrong, by the way. We didn't talk back home, not really. Here, however? We did talk. Maybe not in a way that revealed much. I learned little things about you. The problem came when I thought I knew you better than what those things were trying to tell me, because I'd been at your side while flames rose up around us in Italy. I thought, "a person is at their truest in moments like these". But that's not right.
It's the...little things that mattered more. The moments between were the most genuine you could be with me, but I didn't see it for what it was. I was suspicious of it.
[She shrugs weakly.]
I didn't listen to the person standing in front of me because I was thinking about a person back home I didn't know at all.
[She thinks of Steve when she says this. Because...that room full of people? They weren't brought there because Steve is all-powerful and all-encompassing. He was someone made of easy smiles and a goofy sense of humor, and that was more powerful than any Stand in the world.
When she thought about that, thought about Haruno, and the shades of something in his eyes, it makes way too much sense. She doesn't...she can't fathom what world Haruno came from, but she'd be an idiot to have any illusions about him. About Giorno.
She didn't think there was someone to hurt behind those green eyes of his, but there was.]
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[But that's not something she considered. They might be similar in this way, but she isn't Riley. The understanding isn't bone-deep, the way it is with her. That isn't Trish's fault. He wants to believe that. He wants to think it hard enough that everything is fixed, uncomplicated and easy and fixed. That's what he'd do anything for.]
[And yet it's not that simple. And yet even now, sitting across from her and thinking to himself as hard as he can that she's blameless, there's resentment simmering, distrust, suspicion. These are things he can't turn off. When his trust is broken, he doesn't know how to fix it. All of his tools are stolen and slipshod, dug out of dumpsters and glued back together, rust sanded off, poorly calibrated. He wants to try, but trying doesn't always mean fixing, and that's frustrating. It grinds on him, painful, painful, painful.]
[If things could go back to how they were, if he could have never brought the walls down in the first place, if they could have just been superficial friends — part of him wants that.]
[Not all of him, though.]
Some of that is still right, though.
[The smile flickers back, there and gone again, whipped away with the light breeze that catches the hanging petals around them. Honestly, he looks exhausted.]
"A person is at their truest in moments like these" — that's not wrong. That's true of most people. Take Mista, for example.
[Mista, who's gone. Speaking of him is painful, like sticking a knife in his own heart and twisting slowly, counterclockwise in a circle. But he does it anyway, because this is important.]
Mista is at his truest in moments like those. Normally, he's a little boastful, dramatic, he behaves outlandishly . . . but in the worst of those moments, he gave too much of himself, put himself at too much risk for the sake of others' safety. He was frightened and tense, even jumpy, but quick to react when he understood the stakes and who he could trust. No matter how ridiculous he acts normally, he's clever when he needs to be. He's tenacious and stubborn and unwilling to give up, but he still wears his heart on his sleeve and doesn't ever hide his feelings.
I'm not like Mista.
[It's . . . almost funny, how much of an understatement that is. I'm not like Mista. Water can't catch fire. And then what?]
The reason you were thinking about someone back home who wasn't me is because I wanted it to be that way. That was deliberate. The person you had all that faith in, who you counted on knowing because it was all you could rely on, was a construct. Not a lie, exactly, but not a truth, either. The version of myself I felt was most equipped to get where I needed to go, with all the flaws trimmed off. That's why it seemed like a different person entirely that you met here. Essentially, it was.
[With a jerky movement, he shrugs. There's no more elegant way to put it, not and have her understand. She isn't like Riley. She won't hear it if he tells her the way he told Riley — and even now he's trying to figure out some alternative, some kinder, gentler way of putting it, and so far coming up empty.]
[There's still time. He'll come up with something. Something she can swallow, sit with, digest. And with Steve—]
[He doesn't know. He really doesn't.]
It was unfair to expect you to adjust to someone so much more vulnerable than you were expecting. The fact that Steve came back didn't change that. I'm not like Steve, either. It's hard for me to say what I'm feeling. It doesn't seem safe. And you said you were afraid, so . . .
[Mm. With cold fingers, he refills the thermos cup again, watches the steam rising from its surface instead of looking at her face.]
Better neither of us be upset than both. That's what I thought, at the time.
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She isn't one to settle, but it was a comfortable little microcosm to retreat to when the summer vortex threatened to pull this world apart. If they could go back to that, it would be familiar and disposable. It'd fray at the edges and fall apart again, maybe, but it would be less painful than this. Like clothing often worn, it would fade.
She'd be okay with that.
What she's not okay with here, however, is far more complex, tangled up in other ills. Why should it matter if he hates her? What does it matter if he never speaks to her again? They were never friends, and yet the idea of him pulling away completely...made her heart race painfully and her gut clench with some indescribable sensation.
She's not happy with him, either. She won't ever say it to him, or anyone, but she protects the image people hold of her almost jealously. No one is allowed to perceive her in a way she doesn't want, in a way she doesn't create with her own two hands. So it mystified her that Giorno seemed uncharacteristically amiable, and then Riley mentioned the dream world and that...rankled her. It's all too easy to believe he was swayed by a girl he never met, and summarily disappointed when the real thing wasn't anything like the one he imagined.
But now there's another layer...because Giorno isn't stupid. He's not. He wouldn't be so quick to place his trust in someone he didn't know, right? The single incredible thing she did had no witnesses besides Bruno and Abbacchio, and they were both dead now. Giorno made a gambit, sure, but she doubts he expected they would be attacked again after he sacrificed his arm. It was a fluke. He has no reason to trust her.
It's funny, then, to hear him talk about his projected image. It's what he wanted. It's what he needed them to see. So maybe the misunderstanding here was that he had cast it aside months ago, and she hadn't recognized that it was gone.
The unfathomable thing, however, is that she hurt him. She met Haruno. She knows there's something crawling underneath, something raw, something he doesn't share.
But she doesn't understand why he hadn't done what Haruno had. Haruno didn't trust her either, so he rejected her entirely. It made her...sad, he said as much, he knew that, but he didn't spare her feelings. He protected himself. But Giorno let her get close enough to brush against something that ached, and only then did he shut her out. Which isn't that different, except he accepted her request to talk about it after. Like it bothered him too. Because he decided she...mattered. Where did that come from in someone who thought he himself didn't matter, once upon a time? How could he decide that so easily? That's one of the many things she still hasn't been able to untangle.
God.
Mista would have turned this into a conversation about whether or not Giorno can eat dirt as a nymph five minutes ago. He was a bright spot, a reliable guy, and an absolutely atrocious conversationalist. They sorely need that, don't they?
She'd picked up her thermos again too, listening to him talk about Mista, and she can only think of one good thing to say in response, but really, it's all she needs.]
Oh, that I can understand. There is no one in this universe, now or ever, who will be anything like Guido Mista. I can promise you that.
[Don't be hard on yourself, Giorno. Not everyone can be that hairy, stinky, or frankly incredible. Mista was never one to obfuscate. Mista was Mista. He never left any doubts.
As for the rest, she pours herself another cup of too-strong coffee, but doesn't drink it just yet, setting the thermos aside.
Instead, she watches him, pursing her lips thoughtfully.]
The fact I worry all the time and the fact I told you I felt afraid that night aren't separate phenomena. I could never...think less of you for being more vulnerable. I don't think it's wrong, or something you have to hide. Not that I expect you to share it with me, obviously, but I...
[She grips her cup gently in one hand, smooths some of the fur on her arm with her free hand.
Like her image, her fears that night were about control. She couldn't control the tide of emotions he was experiencing, and she assumed it would only spiral further. But it hadn't.
Another thing she was wrong about.]
I was scared because if something had gone wrong, there'd be nothing I could do for you. Everything is different here, not just you. So it wasn't only this new face of yours I was adjusting to.
[...]
Maybe I shouldn't call it new. Either way, I think we did a horrible job of not making one another upset.
[*pfft in Italian*]
But you never did anything rash, not once. So I was afraid for no reason.
no subject
[She can talk about his hairy knuckles all she wants. Giorno knows better.]
. . . I think too much. I thought too much instead of telling you the truth. But to be honest, I've never told anyone this kind of truth without some external catalyst. I don't know if I ever will. There isn't a good way to explain it.
I think what I regret most is—
[Oh. He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. Shakes his head. The whole month — months — all of it was a mess, it hurt, it was a haze, he was present and then he wasn't and then he was. But there were moments when he could have explained one part. If he'd wanted to. If he'd thought.]
I'm good with people, broadly, but I assume too much sometimes and don't know enough other times. Steve has been helping, a little, but I think what happened is I — thought that what I needed your help with was clear. And it wasn't. I don't even know if I could articulate it now. But it wasn't fair to pull you into something like that without explaining, or at least trying to. That it was . . . that I was struggling to focus, to not lose my way, that I didn't know how to—
[Wet collects around the secret corners of his eyes, dangerously lingering on his lashes. He blinks rapidly and drinks some more coffee.]
I would have. Done something rash, I mean, if you hadn't said what you said. When everything happened back at home . . . it was like you said. There wasn't any waiting. This time there was. I needed a plan, something to prepare for, something to do, and there was only waiting, and I don't know if I would have gone out of my way to consciously make something to do with my time in the way I did if you hadn't said something.
Your instincts are good. I know I don't really know you. I know that. But my instincts are good, too. They have to be, you know? You would do anything for us — for me and for Fugo, and Mista too. I didn't see what you did on the plane, but I heard enough afterward. You'd do anything for us, and I'd do the same for you. So I knew you'd see things with clearer eyes than I would, but I didn't explain why, and I wasn't prepared to share what was really happening, to explain why everything seemed so strange to you.
[But . . . that's not all. Of course it isn't. Sharp teeth bite down on the inside of his cheek, thoughtful. His expression is troubled.]
. . . Every time I'm honest with someone, I expect them to walk away. [Except Mista. Never with Mista. But everyone else.] I wait for it, and usually it doesn't happen. But when it does, I think, ah, of course. I should have known. And I don't try anymore, because it hurts.
[Because it hurts.]
[That's all. That's the only reason. Even after all of this time, Giorno is still hiding from danger. The cupboard is just more metaphorical.]
[His shoulders are hunched up around his ears a little when he speaks again, after a moment to breathe.]
Would you . . . mind if I explained? I don't know how to. But I want to try to explain what you saw this past week. I don't want to leave things like that unsaid, not with you.
no subject
That's just how Mista works! He just happens, and it's wonderful and stupid and brilliant.
As for Giorno...he's always been more subtle until he wasn't. Like a man showing off a card trick, prompting you to watch the cards until there weren't any cards, and his fist was connecting with your jaw. That's what it felt like. A consistent pattern, and yet somehow it was surprising every time.
It's surprising now.
She's been...avoiding making him feel like he has to explain himself. She's the one on trial, not him.
And maybe what he did was wrong to her, but it was...ultimately right to do? If her role was to be a failsafe, then maybe...telling her that would have been a mistake. When she thinks about it, if he'd been frank from the beginning about why he wanted her there...she wonders if she would have been able to do it with the looming pressure. The immediate sense that something was wrong.
It's too hard to say now, but there's a nuance there she didn't consider. But from the sounds of it, Giorno hadn't either. He'd simply been ready to count on her, and it all comes back to why he would think that. But he trusts her. She did something for the gang, and that was enough to earn his trust.
She...
She's a hypocrite, isn't she? Bristling at Giorno for daring to trust her, when she'd trusted him -- from the moment he picked her up in his hearse-car -- to always be prepared. To be the invincible Giorno Giovanna.
But he never was, and then she got to see that for herself. She got to see him, stricken and lost, and he...listened to her. He bucked against her words, but he listened to her.
But he also brought his walls up, because she hurt him too. It's a weird situation then, isn't it? He felt like there was something with merit in her words, but they were words that cut and bled and what was he supposed to do with that?
And she assumed he was sulking, when his cool distance never changed. Haruno demonstrated that same distance, too, but he never risked getting close. Not once.
Because it hurts.
He hid in plain sight as Giorno, but she didn't notice he had been hiding at all until she found Haruno nestled under the piano that day.
His posture is cramped, small, even now. Like he wants to hide all over again.
She studies him for a beat, taking in his words, silent and patient. And then she looks down, taps her nails on the rim of her cup, tracing the lip of it in one smooth motion.]
I wouldn't mind, Giorno. It's why I'm here.
[Trish tips her head up again, her expression kept carefully inscrutable, her eyes taking in the boy before her. This is...Giorno Giovanna. Not the Giorno Giovanna of Passione, but the gentle boy who likes bugs and wants to care so much it aches.]
But I'll only accept it if it's what you really want to do. I can't promise it will fix everything, but...it would be a start, wouldn't it?
[Because he was wrong. They're similar, but they're different enough. And pretending that difference wasn't so big was a mistake on both their parts.]
no subject
[This part is easy. Easy to say, and he puts it out there in the space between them like it's something that's been caught in his throat and he needs to expel it before he can truly breathe. It's true: he's hated this. It's been miserable. Those weeks when it felt easy to talk to her were a balm, a relief, as though things were meant to be like that the whole time, as though they were getting a second chance — and this? He's hated every second of it.]
[He just hasn't wanted to hurt. He's so, so tired of hurting. That's no way to live, though, is it? Hiding from everyone? There has to be some give.]
It's what I want to do. It's the only way forward, and forward is where I want to go. I don't want to turn my back on the possibility of knowing you properly just because I don't like people seeing these things. It's worth it.
[That, he's confident in, too. It's something he's known since a few days into knowing her. Even if they never really are friends, she's an important part of his heart. Likewise, it's important not to close his heart off to her. After all of this . . . would he have done it without the push? No. Not yet. But eventually, he thinks so. Because she's part of his heart and his home, which are one and the same. Because it's his job to do right by her, like Bucciarati would have wanted him to.]
[Still: there's a pause. He tucks his chin down against his chest as he stares down at the nearly-empty thermos cup in his hands. His claws click against the plastic, an unconscious mimic of her own motion. Trying to figure out where to start. And when he does, it's stops and starts — and it all starts, as these things usually do, with Riley.]
[Thinking of her in these moments, as though she's walking beside him, squeezing his hand, makes him feel weaker and stronger at the same time. He thinks that's the point, but he isn't sure.]
. . . A few months ago, back at the end of March of this year, something similar to this happened. Not for everyone, but just for me. There was a period of time where we all lived as though we were humans in Ryslig, not monsters. More or less normal lives. But that other reality attached the name Haruno Shiobana to me. So when I came back, I had to answer . . .
[Hm. No.]
I was upset. I was angry. Because his life was really all right, all things considered. He was able to live a more or less normal life, and when that was my name, I . . . he didn't. He was . . .
[Giorno closes his eyes. Thinks back on it. What were the words he said? Pretty pathetic, Riley. Eyes still closed, he shakes his head.]
I don't know how to explain it. That's part of the problem. But Riley . . . in that place, she was happy. Really, really happy. And when she came back, she was still happy about it, and grateful to have had the chance to be part of something normal even if it wasn't real. So she didn't — we didn't understand each other. And we'd been fighting, anyway, sort of, and it was so frustrating, and I was tired of it. So I explained it to her, and she understood, but Riley and I . . .
[Now he does open his eyes, brow furrowed, not looking at Trish but at a space in the distance. Trying to untangle a very messy knot.]
We don't seem that similar. Not on the outside. But we are, really. [Suddenly, a very small smile appears on his lips. He cuts his eyes sideways towards Trish as he pulls his knees up to his chest and puts his cup down, so he can rest his crossed arms atop his knees.] I suppose you saw that better than anyone has this past week. What that means is that I can say things halfway, or in a way that wouldn't make sense to other people, and she usually understands. But if I do that . . .
[He's afraid of hurting Trish. Of scaring her again. He doesn't want to say that, but it's likely clear enough in his hesitation, in the way his gaze shifts down to his crossed arms.]
So I might — if you don't mind. Explain it the best I can in a different way, a more normal way, and then explain it the way I told her, which is the way that it feels to me. I've never done it that way before, though, so it's going to be clumsy.
im so fucked up thank you
Because she agrees. It wasn't enjoyable to be treated coolly, but it was maddening waking up one day and confronting the fact that it wasn't going to end by virtue of time, because it wasn't just a "stupid fight", like she thought. There was an uncharitable part of her assumed that the reason Giorno didn't go exact vengeance like he wanted was because everything hinged on whether or not Steve came back. As was promised, Steve did, and Giorno was okay.
Except he wasn't, not at all.
But more than any pain they've inflicted on one another...he wants to know her. And she wants to know him, too. Part of her still worries that doing so could only mean disappointment...but they don't have to be close, she thinks. Just being allowed to see the part of him he wanted to share, the part he showed off willingly until she pried at it, cracked it...maybe she can't be delicate for him, but she can try to understand. He's giving her that chance.
So she watches him, watches him tuck his chin, watches him search for the words he wants. Trish wishes she could help him, say something to prompt a good starting point, but she knows where this is going even less than he does.
Admittedly she's a little confused too, because Giorno is cutting words from a cloth she can't see, piecing them together and pulling them apart again when they don't quite match the way he wants them to. One time, he was called Haruno like he was the week before, but that Haruno was not miserable. However, Giorno...didn't like that, and told Riley as much, and she understood. She thinks? And he was mad at Riley somewhere in there.
Trish furrows her brows.
It's interesting to know he didn't enjoy that life though. She had the impression whatever he saw then, he liked, because Riley mentioned how he must be so happy to have someone from his home here. That he must be doing...better? Because she was in that reality too, in some way, enough that Riley recalled her being there.
She almost says "if you mean to say you're good at confusing me then yes, you're exactly like Riley" because Riley seemed uncomfortable in her own skin all the time in ways Trish still can't comprehend, can't divine. Giorno seemed to radiate confidence, but then Haruno peeked out of that shell and it became apparent Giorno was so uncomfortable in his old skin he cast it aside almost entirely. Trading black hair for blond. It makes her nervous to see him curl up too, but if it's for his comfort, she won't complain.
He hesitates then, and she tilts her head, puzzled.]
You'll...have to allow me some questions, probably after you're done. I just want to be sure I understand.
[Though...]
It's possible I won't be able to right away. Don't let that discourage you. Sometimes I like to let something settle, think on it then. [she twists her hand, pats the air for emphasis] And then I'll turn it over, think on it again, and so on.
[If she gives herself time to consider the different angles, she can conceptualize it better. Whatever it is he's about to say. She hopes she can, anyway.]
Explain however you like, and we'll figure it out together.
cw childhood neglect + physical/emotional abuse, racism/xenophobia, dissociation/derealization
[He's not stupid. She'd kill him for that. So he won't. He can't. It's not fair to either of them.]
[Strangely, he finds himself smiling after what she says next — about not understanding. About needing time. It's very honest, and he appreciates that more than he expected to, perhaps because he didn't expect it at all. He's not used to any of this, but especially not to someone else admitting that the process might be difficult. He doesn't have to be perfect; that's what she's saying to him.]
Thank you. That makes sense. I'll . . . remember to be patient.
[With her, but more challengingly, with himself. If he can possibly manage it.]
[And now, to start. But the question is, how far back. He stares up at the wisteria boughs bending slightly under the weight of their beautiful purple petals. There's so much. Even Riley doesn't know all of it. But Riley never met Jonathan, either.]
[Ah, well.]
The first part is probably the strangest, and I don't understand it entirely myself. My biological father . . . stole someone else's body, more or less. That body belonged to Jonathan, the man you've met twice now. He's also my father in his way, but it's complicated and confusing and honestly a little bit horrible. I can explain that more later, if you want. It's relevant for this conversation because when Gold Experience made itself known to me, my physical appearance began to change. Before, I heavily resembled my mother. Now I more strongly resemble the man who stole Jonathan's body.
[The one he told Mukuro about. The one who never came for him, in the end.]
[And of course, this was the easy part. He runs his thumb over his bottom lip, absent, nervous, before continuing. His voice is suddenly very mechanical when it comes again.]
My mother was Japanese. She met my father in Egypt. As far as I know, he usually killed women he was with, but he didn't kill her, and she came back home pregnant. She had me on her own, even though she didn't want to. There was family pressure, and then she was alone in the end anyway, with a baby she didn't want and a life she did, and she chose the life she wanted.
[He's staring at nothing, somewhere past Trish's left shoulder.]
She — I don't have a lot of memories of her. Coming and going, mostly. She went out and stayed out for days, as far back as I can remember. I would call and call [and cry and cry] for her, but she never came, because she was almost never there. There wasn't food, usually. I did what I could. And it was dirty, but I did what I could. Whenever she came home, she'd usually just ignore me, or put some groceries on the counter on a good day. Stay long enough to tell me she was going out again, not to wait up, and to stop whining, or get out of her way, and so on . . . She was annoyed she had to come back and check on me, because her friends told her to usually, and she wanted to stay out.
[Staring at nothing. Silent for a long, long moment. And then, like reporting the weather:]
If she could have gotten away with it, I think she would have left me there until I died.
I don't really know what happened, but when I was five or so, she met an Italian man and married him. After that she was home even less. He beat me. All the time, for any reason or no reason. He didn't like when I spoke or looked at him. The way I looked at him was wrong, he said. He hit me when he was drunk or sober, when there wasn't enough money and when there was plenty, when he'd had a good day or a bad one . . . because it wasn't about him. It was about me. Regardless of anything else, I was the problem. It was always my fault.
[It's at this point that he recognizes he can't quite feel his own body. This is far greater detail than he ever got into with Riley — because he didn't have to say most of this. Because he said a few words, and she just knew. Because she's Riley. Because their pain mirrors the other's.]
[With shaking hands, he silently unscrews the lid of his thermos again, pauses, then screws it back on. On second thought, he takes hold of the bag of pastries and pulls out a croissant and a napkin. He unfolds the latter on his lap, lays the pastry down on it, and pulls off a piece, which he places on his dry tongue. And chews.]
[Stay here. Not done yet.]
. . . I was very obviously not Italian, and I could only speak a few words. My classmates didn't like that. They hit me, too, and ruined what few things I had. You know, the things children do to each other. That's just how it was, the whole thing. It didn't seem possible for anything to ever change. The problem was me, you see, so there was no future where anything was different, let alone better.
[It's only now that he starts to look more present. That was the hardest part. The rest of it — that's part of Giorno's life, not Haruno's. This is where Haruno started to die.]
[He picks off another piece of croissant and puts it in his mouth.]
The first person who ever cared about me was a mafioso . . . whose life I saved when I was young. I don't even know his name. But things began to look different after that. I didn't get hit anymore. People were nicer to me. I came to realize, though, that the reason for that wasn't because of me, but because of that man. He made sure that I was safe. The kindness was fake. I didn't trust it again after that. And I didn't ever have a friend until I met Mista, and I didn't try to be his friend. He's . . . just Mista, as you know. There's no escaping it.
[There's a pause. His hand comes up to rest over his chest; after a moment, he massages his breastbone with his knuckles. There's tightness under his ribs, the pain of loss and confusion and grief.]
I still don't understand how people like Mista and Steve exist. Which is ridiculous on the surface. They're not that much alike. But people who are open, who trust people by default as opposed to the other way around, who are basically good at heart — I find that hard to believe in. It's like some story. It's not real.
[Which is why they're so important to him. Which is why Steve is important to all of them. He doesn't know, not for sure, except for Riley, but — he'd put money on that being the case for almost everyone who was in that room.]
[Genuine goodness seems so improbable when all you've known is being starved of it.]
CWs for days
No, she's not equipped at all, and that becomes rapidly apparent as he talks. She fills her thermos cup with more coffee, sipping slowly and quietly as she drinks his words in tandem with the bitter brew, her brows furrowing because of the acrid taste and the sheer incredulity that hits her.
Because...she doesn't expect him to get this detailed, first of all. This can only mean he doesn't want there to be room for a single misunderstanding, and once again, in his Giorno way, he might be overcorrecting. But she's not about to interrupt him.
She's not going to remotely pretend she understands how someone could steal a person's body, or father a child, or why he was in Egypt? Wasn't Jonathan...English? And this means...Giorno isn't Italian at all. In every possible, conceivable way, then, he had discarded Haruno.
With all this in mind, though, she supposes she can somewhat relate to an absent father. It's honestly a wonder for them both that their fathers never killed their mothers. And yet, that's where their paths immediately diverge, because not once did Trish ever feel unwanted. She complained about all the baby pictures Donatella put up, complained when Donatella kissed her on each cheek again and again and again, because her love was effusive. Always guaranteed.
The fact she's gone leaves a deep chasm in her heart, one Trish doesn't ever talk about, but Giorno's mother...didn't care for him at all, so there is no chasm for her to leave. Rather, Giorno is like a void, a blank space where love should have been, but where only misery was left instead, spiraling into that void endlessly.
I would call and call for her, but she never came, because she was almost never there.
If she could have gotten away with it, I think she would have left me there until I died.
These sentences in particular have Trish gripping her cup tight, her eyes narrow. Because it's...way too easy to see it in her mind's eye now, after seeing Haruno. The talk of his stepfather earns a wince, a bit lip, as Trish chances a glance across the bough at Giorno, and she remembers Haruno so small and skittish and mistrustful, how he leaned from her when she got too close. How he could never, ever trust someone bigger than him, because even if she had no reason to hurt him, in his mind...she didn't need one. She would because she could, and that was it.
Giorno wasn't ever given a chance by anyone in his life until...until crossing paths with a goddamn gangster. It's no wonder he couldn't trust anyone, in that faraway look of his, in the one she's been on the other side of for days and days and days. She's...just like anyone else who has let him down. It's no wonder Haruno shut her out too.
If something is fundamentally broken in Giorno, then she's been too ignorant to see it. Too proud to think someone she admired could be so human underneath the front he put up.
And I didn't ever have a friend until I met Mista, and I didn't try to be his friend.
Giorno waited his whole life for someone like Mista. For someone like Steve.
It's...no wonder he fell apart. He had just found people who cared unconditionally where he had never, ever had that, and to have them taken so suddenly ripped bits and pieces of himself off with them, hadn't it? He didn't have that foundation to keep standing on his own. He had nothing but the void underneath when the people holding him up let go by virtue of being stolen away.
This is...so much, and Trish is quiet for a stretch. Obviously, people like Steve and Mista exist. They're rare, but they do exist. But that's patronizing to assert when Giorno waited fifteen years for people like them. When he never expected people like them to exist at all.
But Giorno was still...kind. Giorno himself still believed in goodness and demonstrated it and that is another thing Trish can't fathom. There's no possible way she could've survived what he had. None. The fact he came out the other side of all that, to sit in front of her now, a boy buried under leaves with a pastry in his lap and a heart that leaps out at the barest affection, a heart that cares so much about the people around him...he's incredible, isn't he?]
...I thought the same. But I feel there's a common thread, and it may be simpler than either of us would think. Steve and Mista aren't alike. They're not like Bucciarati. They're not like Narancia, Abbacchio, Fugo, or you.
[She sets her cup down, so she can rest her hands on her knees with her fingers loosely curled.]
But you're all good people. Regardless of where you came from, or who you were before, or what awful thing clings to you even on your best day...your hearts are always in the right place. I...don't think I would have persisted as long as you did. How could anyone, if they didn't believe in good so fervently that they made it real in a world scarce of it? Why would you or I or anyone at all bother with people, or helping them, when they hadn't ever shown us the same?
[She swallows.]
What I'm saying is...I don't think it's only about trust. It's about doing what you believe is right. I admire everyone who is capable of adhering to that. I admire it in you, Giorno.
[Is this putting words in his mouth? She hopes not, she really doesn't. Maybe she's selfish, navigating this from a perspective so wholly different from his.]
I can't pretend to understand how deeply your pain runs, but I don't...want to add to it. You were worried about my feelings that night, and I didn't...you shouldn't have. I should have worried about you, and not what I thought you'd do. I can see that now.
[She's sorry. She's sorry, she's so sorry, and she trembles but doesn't look away.
Because she...they weren't friends, but any decent person would have seen what was happening. Trish thought Giorno's buffers were gone when Steve was killed, but he trusted her. She could have...]
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.]
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Guilt, fear, admiration, happiness, anger.
And by her definition...it can't apply to her because she's plagued by doubt. How can someone who questions themselves at every turn claim to stand by their righteousness wholeheartedly?
They can't. She can't.
Giorno was plagued by many things, by doubt in people, but doubt in himself? Doubt in what he believes? If he is plagued by such, she can't see it. But she can't comprehend how that could ever be the case.
Giorno and Bucciarati are the same in that regard. Bucciarati never once hesitated to do what his heart dictated. She can't imagine how else he could have stood firm against an entire organization, not as a single man with a small group of foundlings at his side. A shred of doubt would have been catastrophic.
She doesn't miss the shift in Giorno's expression, or how he sits, or how he's looking at her, all tight and wound up and then loose again as he wrings the tension out himself, and unconsciously...she smooths out the slope of her shoulders, breathes deep, wills herself to stop quivering. He can't...he shouldn't need to worry about her. That's not what she wants, that's not what she deserves. Not from him.
This entire conversation is happening because she's being selfish, and he's allowing it. So if he can be vulnerable with her despite that, if he can talk about something he desperately hates to talk about, she can attempt the courtesy of not wilting like a disobedient flower in front of a nymph of all creatures.
Yeah, he's right. She doesn't like being vulnerable either. That's part of it too, although she mysteriously doesn't confirm or deny his statement.
She shakes her head.]
I was being unfair myself. I still am. With that in mind, I don't want to start over, not entirely. This is...it's important. It's being said because it needed to be said. It's shards of the pieces you're talking about, and I want it to be part of whatever comes after today. Even if those bits and pieces stick out awkwardly all over...it'll be ours, won't it?
[Want, want, want.
But she has to be clear. If he can forgive her so easily...it feels weird to hold that forgiveness, tucked close to her chest, but it makes her...happy. A little queasy too, because part of her thinks she could shatter it for good if she's not careful. If she can't be half the person he sees her as.
But it made her happy to see him that day on the beach, when she thought about it. The last time she saw him, that fateful day back in Rome, he sent her away, and she understood why...but he's wanted to know her.
For some godforsaken reason, the don of Passione wants to build something with a girl who doesn't have anything to offer but herself.
What an odd thing they're going to build together. What an odd, silly thing. But being friends with him was always going to be absurd, wasn't it? She's wondered what it would be like, because they both...want to know one another. They've let their walls down in fits and starts, misunderstood each other. Obstinate bastards both.
She doesn't smile, exactly, but her shoulders are shaking again, this time with the barest laughter.]
You know, Giorno. You've told me all this, and yet I still don't know what your favorite color is.
[God.
Unbelievable.]
I'm starting to think we're terrible at this.
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[He nods. Yes. He agrees with that. The scars on bones from breaks are significant to their strength in the future. His own concerns about imperfection and invulnerability — and hers, it seems, although precise confirmation isn’t forthcoming and honestly doesn't need to be — are what caused this whole mess. They can both stand to wear the scars they’ve inflicted on the space between them while they heal. Someday, they’ll be so faint as to be unnoticeable.]
[His lips turn down slightly at the corners when he sees her shoulders shaking, then up again when he realizes she’s laughing. When he smiles, his eyes turn up at the corners; sometimes even when he isn’t smiling with his mouth, when he’s trying to pretend he’s not smiling at all, his eyes betray him. They’re doing it right now.]
[They really don’t know the first thing about each other. But it’s like Trish said. I would do anything for him. Absolutely anything.]
[It goes both ways.]
Oh. Without question. We’re very terrible at this.
[Mouth twitching, he gives in and grins at her, huffing out a breath that sounds suspiciously like laughter.]
Would you believe me if I said green? And to be fair, you haven’t told me yours either. My favorite food is chocolate pudding. My favorite musician is Prince. I read biology textbooks for fun, and I’m not very good at math. I’ve read Les Miserables cover to cover five times. My hair is something I saw on a Thierry Mugler model from 1992.
Is that somewhere to start? A few building blocks, at least. I think it’s going to be messy by default, if all of that is part of it.
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Until then...
They're allowed to make mistakes. They're allowed to be awkward, and weird, and a little stupid. She hasn't ever allowed that from herself, but these boys seemed determined to drag it out of her. She should resent this, yet there's not a single part of her that does, and a much larger part that's happy to indulge this.
Her smile is nearly imperceptible, but Giorno seems amused despite himself, and seeing him grin after all this is...she brings a hand to her chest. Suddenly, it feels full. It's an odd feeling, like she might burst at the seams. She huffs hard enough to displace her bangs, then, leaning back as she listens.]
Unfortunately for the both of us, we'll have to settle for messy.
[Absolutely tragic. She doesn't seem bothered by this a bit!]
I do think you underestimate how much you like biology. Of everything, even I could have told you that.
[Your biology nerdery is no secret, Giovanna.
The green of her eyes is obscured by her lashes, briefly, as she looks down at the wood of the tree, absorbing the other tidbits. The things that matter, the things that exist in the little spaces between the grand and intimidating qualities of Passione's new don.]
...But I will commit the rest to memory. To make this fair, by the way, my favorite color is actually orange. I'll admit I'm surprised to hear you're not good at math, but I am. We can cover for each other. After all, I'm horrific at natural sciences.
[And she looks up at him again, rubbing at the fur on the back of one hand. She thinks about Maya at the dollhouse, and how she said Giorno was right about her, without having any way to know...and it's odd, the trust they hold. Potentially a fraught thing, but this...if anything, she wants to prove him right every time she can.]
I'll sing for you one day too. But I won't say when. If I share too much, I'll be all out of surprises.
[It wouldn't do to dump everything and inevitably bore him, now would it?]
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[Part of him doesn't know why. The rest of him knows it's obvious. They've both been so, so lonely. He saw her loneliness and her facade and wanted to live in between them. That's why it felt so natural when she first arrived, why he didn't even consider what he was doing wrong.]
[And of course she'll always surprise him. His lips quirk up, surprised.]
Orange.
[Really not that far from gold, all things considered. Just a different kind of vibrance. And singing—]
I can't sing at all. I didn't know you . . .
[Could. But of course he wouldn't. She wouldn't just share that with a bunch of kidnappers. That she's telling him now makes his chest feel tight. In an unconscious echo of her movement, he lifts his hand to rub at the space just over his heart. What does she sing? What sort of timbre is her voice when she sings, and is it different from how it sounds now?]
[His expression is just stupidly, achingly fond.]
It's okay if you don't want to share everything. But I don't want to keep anything from you anymore. I'm going to try not to. I think that's . . . that feels right. I trust you. I want you to know me. Sometimes I won't get things right, or I might not even realize something is important, and I'm sorry for that, but I promise you I'll try. And I'll listen. I'll keep getting better at this. It's — I want to be my best, for you. You know?
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More than that, it's what this is all about, isn't it? Who were they as people outside of that week? Are they capable of being friends without that linchpin? She wants them to be. They never would have met without that week though, so tossing it out entirely is not possible. And she shouldn't. It wasn't the full picture, but it showed them at their lowest and ostensibly highest points. They were all good people when it counted, she thinks. That's why the trust has persisted here.
Orange is...a color always associated with day. Sunrise and sunset. Orange was Donatella Una's favorite color too.
As for what he says, she wonders. Maya told her that Giorno said she could sing, but it's entirely reasonable to assume the dreamworld – a place that could create fake lives and relationships – had shown him something like that. It's admittedly another thing that makes her worry about the degree of separation. That he liked the girl from there so much that the girl in front of him could only disappoint. It wouldn't be the first time she didn't meet expectations.
But she doesn't say any of that, because any words she'd had catch in her throat at his expression. It's weird, isn't it? How someone who holds the microcosm of Italy in the palm of his hand could look at her like that. It's never not going to be weird.
Helplessly, she crosses her arms. It's not done abruptly, nor with hunched shoulders, but still. Listen: if you don't keep up at least one defense, Giorno Giovanna will walk right in, and then it's over for you. The look on her face can only be described as some blend of pleasantly bemused and "really?".]
That's not what I meant, exactly. But if I were to delegate, I'd say...only share what you feel. There's such a thing as too much at once, and that goes for both of us. So do what feels right, and I'll do the same.
[She lifts her chin.]
That's all I can ask for right now. I won't beg for any more than you're willing to give me.
[And...]
You know well enough already I'll nip your heels if you overstep.
[Which...hopefully he understands that he can and should stop her when she gets to be too much. They're both a lot, aren't they?
This is hard. Words are hard. She drums her fingers in the crook of one arm.]
What I'm really trying to say is...well, let's not worry about it anymore. Not today. Tomorrow we can start over like we promised, and I won't be running on two hours of sleep.
[Punctuated, inelegantly, by a yawn.]
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reiras hobbit hole...