*** 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.
[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.
[Such a thing as too much at once. Do what feels right.]
[Hm. A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth as he watches her fold her arms over her chest. Protect herself. But not too much. She's still here. She's still looking at him, still listening, still talking. She hasn't left, or pushed him away.]
[They're okay. They really are.]
. . . Thank you. For being willing to pull me back.
[It means a lot. More than he thinks he can articulate. Maybe someday, if she helps, if she stays around long enough, he'll learn how. Although the thought flees his head almost immediately, expression shifting to one of distress.]
You didn't sleep?
[Shocked Pikachu. But that's not what he wanted!!!]
Do you want to go home? I didn't mean to drag this out when you were tired. Why didn't you tell me? [HE THOUGHT YOU WERE JUST CRANKY WHEN YOU SHOWED UP WOMAN]
[She'd be a damn fool not to protect herself in some small way. Even if Pericolo saw right through her, she kept up her charade of impenetrable disdain all the way to San Giorgio Maggiore. She can keep up a little bluster to tinge her elbows with in the presence of Don Giovanna. He'll need the reminder, although so far he's doing well with respecting her space.
Once again, though, it's distressing to be thanked when all she wants is a chance to start at zero and go from there. She thinks of Fugo, and how blessedly uncomplicated interacting with him is. Though, maybe it's because he seems disinterested more than half the time, which she can handle just fine. It's expected. It's normal. That, and he's easy to read. Giorno is much harder. Much, much harder.
Trish doesn't think on that too deeply, though, not when Giorno is radiating distress in her direction. She blinks, slow, like she'd forgotten she even mentioned it. It sort of just...slipped out.
But she remembers not to say "sleep wasn't as important as making sure we understood one another", because she knows that will go over about as well as anything. So her mouth opens in a little 'o', and she has to contend with three questions at once. Whoof.
Okay. Okay.]
...I wanted to make sure you were okay before I went home. It's not like I have any obligations after this.
[A true statement! She is your pink freeloader, Giovanna. She could sleep all day and who would stop her? Anyways, she continues:]
I would be poor company if all I did when I showed up was let you know how soon I wanted to leave.
[Not to mention shitty praxis when she came here to apologize? What do you want from her, sir!!]
[To be fair, he's Reira's pink freeloader. Well, he does work, but still — he's sort of a freeloader. They're all freeloaders in Reira's hobbit hole.]
[He's clearly uncomfortable with what she's saying, and he equally clearly understands it. She's right, he knows it, but . . . it seems wrong somehow, being the cause of her physical discomfort along with everything else. This really shouldn't happen again. That is, it shouldn't escalate to this point again. This is just more proof of that. They can't be losing sleep over each other.]
. . . You're right. I'm sorry, then. For making you that upset.
[He holds up a hand.]
I won't say anything else about it! But you can't stop me from apologizing.
[Tucking the bag of pastries under his arm and clutching the thermos to his chest, he scoots to the edge of the little bowl that the tree's branches make and holds out his hand to her.]
Come on. Let's go home. You can rest, and the next time we talk it can be about something more pleasant. [A beat.] So, literally anything else.
[She wishes she could banish his discomfort. She doesn't realize it could be easier if she let him do what he wanted in regards to her, but her pride dictates she can't lean on him so hard.
Being a good and reliable friend, to her, means standing on her own two feet more often than not. And really, being sorely tired from lack of sleep is nothing compared to what he's been through. She can weather it easily, if it's for him.
So he's correct to assume she's about to argue, her mouth opening and closing when he raises his hand, air escaping her nostrils in a huff.
Fine, fine. He really doesn't need to apologize, but he's determined to do it and at this point, she's tired of arguing.]
You're awfully stubborn.
[Pot, meet kettle, etc.
Still, she seems the least tense she's been so far as she climbs to meet him, considers his hand, and whether or not she should take it. But she gets the feeling...it's what he wants. And she's listened, and let him indulge her, so for once, doesn't he deserve the same?
She'll take his hand, then, and it's the first time she's felt the texture of another monster's skin under her palm. Decidedly not human, and her own hand is adorned in soft white fur on the back. Less human every day.
She can't help but snort at his comment either, adding:]
Yes, anything else would be more pleasant. But this was...good. You know? It was good to listen to you again.
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[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.]
no subject
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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[Hm. A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth as he watches her fold her arms over her chest. Protect herself. But not too much. She's still here. She's still looking at him, still listening, still talking. She hasn't left, or pushed him away.]
[They're okay. They really are.]
. . . Thank you. For being willing to pull me back.
[It means a lot. More than he thinks he can articulate. Maybe someday, if she helps, if she stays around long enough, he'll learn how. Although the thought flees his head almost immediately, expression shifting to one of distress.]
You didn't sleep?
[Shocked Pikachu. But that's not what he wanted!!!]
Do you want to go home? I didn't mean to drag this out when you were tired. Why didn't you tell me? [HE THOUGHT YOU WERE JUST CRANKY WHEN YOU SHOWED UP WOMAN]
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Once again, though, it's distressing to be thanked when all she wants is a chance to start at zero and go from there. She thinks of Fugo, and how blessedly uncomplicated interacting with him is. Though, maybe it's because he seems disinterested more than half the time, which she can handle just fine. It's expected. It's normal. That, and he's easy to read. Giorno is much harder. Much, much harder.
Trish doesn't think on that too deeply, though, not when Giorno is radiating distress in her direction. She blinks, slow, like she'd forgotten she even mentioned it. It sort of just...slipped out.
But she remembers not to say "sleep wasn't as important as making sure we understood one another", because she knows that will go over about as well as anything. So her mouth opens in a little 'o', and she has to contend with three questions at once. Whoof.
Okay. Okay.]
...I wanted to make sure you were okay before I went home. It's not like I have any obligations after this.
[A true statement! She is your pink freeloader, Giovanna. She could sleep all day and who would stop her? Anyways, she continues:]
I would be poor company if all I did when I showed up was let you know how soon I wanted to leave.
[Not to mention shitty praxis when she came here to apologize? What do you want from her, sir!!]
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[He's clearly uncomfortable with what she's saying, and he equally clearly understands it. She's right, he knows it, but . . . it seems wrong somehow, being the cause of her physical discomfort along with everything else. This really shouldn't happen again. That is, it shouldn't escalate to this point again. This is just more proof of that. They can't be losing sleep over each other.]
. . . You're right. I'm sorry, then. For making you that upset.
[He holds up a hand.]
I won't say anything else about it! But you can't stop me from apologizing.
[Tucking the bag of pastries under his arm and clutching the thermos to his chest, he scoots to the edge of the little bowl that the tree's branches make and holds out his hand to her.]
Come on. Let's go home. You can rest, and the next time we talk it can be about something more pleasant. [A beat.] So, literally anything else.
reiras hobbit hole...
Being a good and reliable friend, to her, means standing on her own two feet more often than not. And really, being sorely tired from lack of sleep is nothing compared to what he's been through. She can weather it easily, if it's for him.
So he's correct to assume she's about to argue, her mouth opening and closing when he raises his hand, air escaping her nostrils in a huff.
Fine, fine. He really doesn't need to apologize, but he's determined to do it and at this point, she's tired of arguing.]
You're awfully stubborn.
[Pot, meet kettle, etc.
Still, she seems the least tense she's been so far as she climbs to meet him, considers his hand, and whether or not she should take it. But she gets the feeling...it's what he wants. And she's listened, and let him indulge her, so for once, doesn't he deserve the same?
She'll take his hand, then, and it's the first time she's felt the texture of another monster's skin under her palm. Decidedly not human, and her own hand is adorned in soft white fur on the back. Less human every day.
She can't help but snort at his comment either, adding:]
Yes, anything else would be more pleasant. But this was...good. You know? It was good to listen to you again.