*** 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.
[They wind up sitting together on the bed, Fugo at the head with his back to the wall and Giorno at the foot so the roots on his back have room to breathe, for lack of anywhere else to really sit. There is only one chair in this compact bedroom, which folds up into the wall when not in use along with the desk, and the small kitchenette takes up the space Fugo might otherwise have dedicated to a reading or sitting area. Already, a neat line of books has taken up residence on his counter.
Fugo's posture is notably odd. He sits with his legs crossed, careful not to stretch out into Giorno's space or draw himself up into a defensive ball, hands resting awkwardly in his lap. He listens quietly, the too-straight set of his shoulders slipping as Giorno sketches the outline of his own thoughts. Each word seems to weigh heavily on him; he even winces, the very tips of his ears pink, at Giorno's choice of very personal to describe the final section of his report.]
[Because it was. No matter what he did, how he chose to frame that moment or how he described their conversation, it was simply impossible for him to slip into the proper detached professionalism he ought to have written from. Because there was nothing truly "professional" about that morning and that conversation, then let me step halfway to you, that he has made the center of his life.]
It doesn't-- ... "bother" isn't the right word.
[Restlessly, helplessly, Fugo twists his fingers in his lap. He doesn't know how to describe what he feels. Giorno Giovanna of November 2001-- who looked at him, saw the truth of his weak and rotten heart, and accepted him anyway-- is a deep well of gravity that has pulled him out of deep space and back into orbit. The Giorno Giovanna who was stolen from his place in Naples and had to make a new life for himself in Ryslig found him lost in the fog and brought him back, although Fugo had done nothing to prove his loyalty. Does he see him? Does he know? Does he understand? He doesn't know. But he can't let the doubt creep in. It goes against everything he promised.]
It's not that it wasn't you, or that you seem different. I feel like I'm still getting to know you. [Depending on how long he stays here ... it won't take long at all for them to have known each other longer in Ryslig than they have in Napoli. It's already like that for Giorno, who only knew him for two days.] And I know ... it wasn't entirely necessary. To tell you all of that.
[He looks up, catching Giorno's gaze with his own. A better word to describe how he feels is that it hurts, to be so far ahead; it's lonely, being the only one who knows. He's no good at trust or faith. But he has to believe Giorno when he says I wanted you back. It doesn't make sense-- but that's Giorno stepping halfway to him, isn't it? Even if he hasn't made that promise yet.]
But I wanted you to know. That promise is-- [everything, his north star, the keystone of the fragile sense of purpose he has only just started to rebuild,] --important to me. I don't want to lose sight of it. So I wanted you to know.
[He can’t put his finger on why, exactly. He isn’t sure. He doesn’t know. But something about watching Fugo explain this, with his gaze darting up and away, his fingers twisting into each other, all of the little ways he tries to squirm away and then forces himself back into the conversation . . .]
[It feels warm. At the same time it hurts. Something like running water over his hands that’s just a smidge too hot. It might burn, but he can’t bring himself to mind.]
[That promise is important to me.]
[Giorno smiles, soft and a little sad. He knows what Fugo means, at least inasmuch as he knows important isn’t a big enough word at all. The scene laid out in the dossier was shared with more than emphasis. It was laced with reverence, like a holy moment — or perhaps, for two people who certainly don’t believe in a god, like a joining of two fates. Important simply isn’t enough to describe it with justice.]
I disagree that it wasn’t necessary, in that case. It’s imperative for me to know something so significant to you, especially if I played a part in it. If I can hold it in the space between us, then I can help you keep it in sight. That’s part of what I’m meant to do for you, Fugo.
[Isn’t that what it means? Isn’t that part of half a step? He’s working on instinct, but he knows himself. Part of half a step is holding onto the difficult, fragile things that the other person’s unsteady hands can’t keep safe in the moment, but being ready at the right time to hand them back.]
[His roots clench slightly, then loosen, like toes wiggling. He looks down at them with faint reproach.]
Part of me is afraid of intruding, somehow. Which doesn’t make sense, but still.
[And now he hesitates, because this question is . . . it’s dangerous. It’s so, so dangerous, and he probably shouldn’t ask, but at the same time he has to. If he’s going to keep Fugo steady like he wants to, like he needs to, the question needs to be asked. So, glancing up briefly in an unconscious mirror of Fugo’s own inconsistent glances, he murmurs,] I want to understand. So if you’d rather not, that’s all right, but I . . . would like to know what it felt like. So I can be sure that I understood what I read.
[The words fall out of his mouth, a numb and thoughtless echo, before he has a chance to catch himself.]
[Sheila E once said that Giorno was like a mirror. That whatever you saw in him was just a reflection of yourself. In this moment, when his head jerks up, surprised by the question, and inadvertently catches Giorno's gaze, he sees someone both certain in his decision but worried how it might play out. The roots of Giorno's feet twist together, a knot that unties itself before it draws up too tight. There's something like a smile around the corners of his mouth, although it's slipped away in the face of what he has asked.
To answer this is to be seen. To be known. To be understood, in a way that he can't take back. Any ugliness that he has managed to bury and hide from Giorno up to this point will be unearthed and brought into the light.]
[Fugo takes a breath. He holds it in his chest until it burns, then exhales. He is very pale and his pupils are wide, making his eyes seem darker than they actually are. But, when he speaks, his voice low and only a little shaky, he doesn't look away from Giorno's face.]
That morning, I expected to die. Instead, you offered me another chance and a place at your side. All I had to do was walk forward a single step and take your hand.
But I couldn't. Even though you were so close, I couldn't reach you. I just couldn't picture myself as a part of your Passione. It felt too late. That I was no good. That everything worthwhile about me was all used up a long time ago and poison was the only thing left.
Even so, you... [Here, he needs to swallow and take another breath. It hurts. All of this, it's so ugly. It's so selfish, so unfair, when he was the one to survive and so many of the others didn't. But Giorno wants to know. He wants to understand.] You saw all of that in me. And you stepped halfway to me any-- [He hesitates, catching himself, before haltingly rephrasing.] Because I couldn't move forward.
I don't... know how to describe how that felt.
[In that moment, everything he thought he knew and understood shattered and fell to pieces. It was a relief. It was devastating. The light Giorno gave him, after living in the dark for so long, was blinding. The only option was to move forward, one miserable step at a time. But not alone, anymore. Not alone, ever again.]
[That morning, Fugo tells him, he expected to die.]
[It injures him, even as he knows how devastatingly practical a thought it is. That was part of the conceit, he understands now from the dossier. The stakes had to be high, or Fugo wouldn't play. He quite simply wouldn't believe it. Because Fugo believed himself used up and no good, the only way he could even begin to conceptualize himself as a part of Passione again, the only way he could see himself coming home, was by proving himself with the greatest stakes.]
[That's the ouroboros, isn't it? Because Fugo believes himself to be nothing, he distrusts kindness. Because he rejects kindness, he rarely receives it, and then only despite himself. A self-fulfilling prophecy. But something about this plan let Giorno in through a back door, let him be kind and welcoming and full of love without Fugo running from it.]
[By the time Fugo finishes speaking, he's closed his eyes. He nods in acknowledgment of the break in the conversation. Fugo doesn't know how to describe this. That's fine. That's all right. This . . . is helping. He's surprised how much.]
When I finished reading, I went back to read it again.
[Blinking slowly, he opens his eyes. It takes a moment for him to focus on Fugo again, the Fugo of the world in front of him rather than the one in that secondhand memory, broken on his knees. They look much the same, in a great many ways.]
And as I read it the second time, and . . . the third time, and so on . . . I tried to understand the feeling behind it. What I must have been feeling in that moment. And it was . . .
[The fingers of one hand curl tightly. He brings them to rest over his chest, knuckles resting light against the pale green of his skin.]
Painful. It hurt. Seeing you in front of me in so much pain, so unable to see yourself moving forward— [No. That's not quite right. He clears his throat, corrects himself:] You think yourself so unworthy. So useless. I think I . . . must have felt so much hurt for you, Fugo.
[When he smiles, it's fragile, brittle as thin ice fresh-frozen. His fingers loosen, coming to rub absently at the edge of his collarbone.]
You weren't so different in Pompeii, you know. Maybe you just held it in better. But you jumped at the chance to suffer for us . . . like you thought that was the best you could do. I remember what that felt like. And I remember . . .
[Yakitori. That was in the notes, too.]
[Ah, well . . . what's he to do? Lying, here and now, would be so futile. Such a waste. He doesn't want to waste this. That other version of him wanted to trust Fugo, too. He knows that now.]
Feeling like poison . . . there's no way to imagine a better future from that place. Not alone. I could never, ever leave you there alone.
[There is a strange and painful freedom in being seen. As difficult as it was to say, now that the truth has crawled out of the pit inside of him-- now that it's been made real with his own voice, in his own words-- he feels pulled apart. And so much lighter, now that it's between the two of them instead of buried deep inside of himself.
A not so insignificant part of him is afraid. But he doesn't look away from Giorno. Not anymore. Fugo, who has instinctively pulled himself tight, his back ramrod straight against the cool wall of his bedroom, watches Giorno digest the information he has been presented. How it sinks in. How it fits in with other things Giorno knows about him. He can see the sharp shape of Giorno's knuckles underneath the thin skin of his hands, before he relaxes his fist to draw circles over his chest with his fingertips; the tapestry of his veins, fine and dark, winding up his wrist and throat. Giorno looks like as if he, too, is in pain. Giorno looks relieved, even as they both slip underneath black ice.]
[Fugo watches. He doesn't interrupt. How could he? This, what they're talking about, is too important to not drink in every word. Even if it doesn't make sense. (Because that's just how it is, is the correction that ought to be made. I'm a stupid investment, a bad hand to stake your bets on.) Even when it startles him, enough that his eyes go wide and he forgets to breathe for a moment. (Because better me than you, was the simple truth, even when he didn't have an idea what Giorno's stand might be. I'm not strong, I'm a liability.) Even when it hurts, because what he sees mirrored back is an all-too-familiar pain. An aimless, frustrated sadness.
Somehow, a long time ago or maybe not that long ago at all, in another world, Giorno found the strength to drag himself out of his own grave. Someone reached out to him, half of a step, and gave him something to hang on to. He, too, understands the pain of pointlessly existing in an empty, painful present with no hope for the future.]
Thank you. For-- not leaving me there.
[Fugo doesn't cry. Not this time. He has a better handle on himself. Instead, he takes a deep and shuddering breath. He allows his mask to slip, for just a moment, so Giorno can have a look. He is so tired. He hurts so much. But he is here. He is present. He can feel all his fingers and all his toes. He won't let the nothing, the hollow emptiness in his heart, swallow up his time.]
Back there, in the restaurant, you showed me a future that I could not see. I chose to believe in that future. To believe in you.
[And in the promise Giorno made to him. Half of a step. And in the promise he, in turn, made to Giorno. He brings one hand, stiff and jerky, to rest over his own heart. Slowly, like the tide coming in, his expression shifts. He's still so tired, still carries so much pain. But there is a light in his eyes. Hope. In this moment, Fugo bleeds sincerity.]
[Sometimes all it takes is the tiniest push, a small but consistent reminder that someone in this world thinks you're worth the barest bit of decency. Sometimes that keeps a broken child going long enough that he finds a way to rebuild himself anew.]
[Sometimes that isn't enough. Sometimes it's harder. It takes longer, and more. Sometimes, learning to believe in a future is an almost-insurmountable task, because of how many times the future has been crushed to dust in front of a child's eyes. How much has been lost, and how often he's been told he deserves this pain and more. How many times he's been abandoned. What is the difference between a child who had nothing and gained everything, and a child who had one thing and lost it over and over and over? A matter of minutiae, of nuance, not of worth or resilience.]
[Fugo is so worthy, and he always has been. Distant as he is from the version of himself who brought that light of hope to Fugo's eyes, Giorno finds pride welling up within him along with stubborn tears. It was some other self, but he's on a collision course for that version of Giorno, and he always has been. Fugo has been his priority since the day he set eyes on him. Since that very first moment.]
[He lets Fugo speak his peace, lets it resonate; then he reaches for Fugo's hand with both of his own and lifts it to his lips. The kiss he lays on Fugo's knuckles is unapologetic, devoted, and faithful. It's all reciprocity.]
[And if he's a little flushed and a bit teary when he lifts his head again, maybe Fugo will just notice it, like he notices everything, and choose not to comment.]
As long as I live, I'll believe in you in turn. Every second of every day.
[Not much of a hardship. He's believed since that first moment, too.]
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no subject
Fugo's posture is notably odd. He sits with his legs crossed, careful not to stretch out into Giorno's space or draw himself up into a defensive ball, hands resting awkwardly in his lap. He listens quietly, the too-straight set of his shoulders slipping as Giorno sketches the outline of his own thoughts. Each word seems to weigh heavily on him; he even winces, the very tips of his ears pink, at Giorno's choice of very personal to describe the final section of his report.]
[Because it was. No matter what he did, how he chose to frame that moment or how he described their conversation, it was simply impossible for him to slip into the proper detached professionalism he ought to have written from. Because there was nothing truly "professional" about that morning and that conversation, then let me step halfway to you, that he has made the center of his life.]
It doesn't-- ... "bother" isn't the right word.
[Restlessly, helplessly, Fugo twists his fingers in his lap. He doesn't know how to describe what he feels. Giorno Giovanna of November 2001-- who looked at him, saw the truth of his weak and rotten heart, and accepted him anyway-- is a deep well of gravity that has pulled him out of deep space and back into orbit. The Giorno Giovanna who was stolen from his place in Naples and had to make a new life for himself in Ryslig found him lost in the fog and brought him back, although Fugo had done nothing to prove his loyalty. Does he see him? Does he know? Does he understand? He doesn't know. But he can't let the doubt creep in. It goes against everything he promised.]
It's not that it wasn't you, or that you seem different. I feel like I'm still getting to know you. [Depending on how long he stays here ... it won't take long at all for them to have known each other longer in Ryslig than they have in Napoli. It's already like that for Giorno, who only knew him for two days.] And I know ... it wasn't entirely necessary. To tell you all of that.
[He looks up, catching Giorno's gaze with his own. A better word to describe how he feels is that it hurts, to be so far ahead; it's lonely, being the only one who knows. He's no good at trust or faith. But he has to believe Giorno when he says I wanted you back. It doesn't make sense-- but that's Giorno stepping halfway to him, isn't it? Even if he hasn't made that promise yet.]
But I wanted you to know. That promise is-- [everything, his north star, the keystone of the fragile sense of purpose he has only just started to rebuild,] --important to me. I don't want to lose sight of it. So I wanted you to know.
[To understand, maybe. If he's lucky.]
no subject
[It feels warm. At the same time it hurts. Something like running water over his hands that’s just a smidge too hot. It might burn, but he can’t bring himself to mind.]
[That promise is important to me.]
[Giorno smiles, soft and a little sad. He knows what Fugo means, at least inasmuch as he knows important isn’t a big enough word at all. The scene laid out in the dossier was shared with more than emphasis. It was laced with reverence, like a holy moment — or perhaps, for two people who certainly don’t believe in a god, like a joining of two fates. Important simply isn’t enough to describe it with justice.]
I disagree that it wasn’t necessary, in that case. It’s imperative for me to know something so significant to you, especially if I played a part in it. If I can hold it in the space between us, then I can help you keep it in sight. That’s part of what I’m meant to do for you, Fugo.
[Isn’t that what it means? Isn’t that part of half a step? He’s working on instinct, but he knows himself. Part of half a step is holding onto the difficult, fragile things that the other person’s unsteady hands can’t keep safe in the moment, but being ready at the right time to hand them back.]
[His roots clench slightly, then loosen, like toes wiggling. He looks down at them with faint reproach.]
Part of me is afraid of intruding, somehow. Which doesn’t make sense, but still.
[And now he hesitates, because this question is . . . it’s dangerous. It’s so, so dangerous, and he probably shouldn’t ask, but at the same time he has to. If he’s going to keep Fugo steady like he wants to, like he needs to, the question needs to be asked. So, glancing up briefly in an unconscious mirror of Fugo’s own inconsistent glances, he murmurs,] I want to understand. So if you’d rather not, that’s all right, but I . . . would like to know what it felt like. So I can be sure that I understood what I read.
no subject
[The words fall out of his mouth, a numb and thoughtless echo, before he has a chance to catch himself.]
[Sheila E once said that Giorno was like a mirror. That whatever you saw in him was just a reflection of yourself. In this moment, when his head jerks up, surprised by the question, and inadvertently catches Giorno's gaze, he sees someone both certain in his decision but worried how it might play out. The roots of Giorno's feet twist together, a knot that unties itself before it draws up too tight. There's something like a smile around the corners of his mouth, although it's slipped away in the face of what he has asked.
To answer this is to be seen. To be known. To be understood, in a way that he can't take back. Any ugliness that he has managed to bury and hide from Giorno up to this point will be unearthed and brought into the light.]
[Fugo takes a breath. He holds it in his chest until it burns, then exhales. He is very pale and his pupils are wide, making his eyes seem darker than they actually are. But, when he speaks, his voice low and only a little shaky, he doesn't look away from Giorno's face.]
That morning, I expected to die. Instead, you offered me another chance and a place at your side. All I had to do was walk forward a single step and take your hand.
But I couldn't. Even though you were so close, I couldn't reach you. I just couldn't picture myself as a part of your Passione. It felt too late. That I was no good. That everything worthwhile about me was all used up a long time ago and poison was the only thing left.
Even so, you... [Here, he needs to swallow and take another breath. It hurts. All of this, it's so ugly. It's so selfish, so unfair, when he was the one to survive and so many of the others didn't. But Giorno wants to know. He wants to understand.] You saw all of that in me. And you stepped halfway to me any-- [He hesitates, catching himself, before haltingly rephrasing.] Because I couldn't move forward.
I don't... know how to describe how that felt.
[In that moment, everything he thought he knew and understood shattered and fell to pieces. It was a relief. It was devastating. The light Giorno gave him, after living in the dark for so long, was blinding. The only option was to move forward, one miserable step at a time. But not alone, anymore. Not alone, ever again.]
no subject
[It injures him, even as he knows how devastatingly practical a thought it is. That was part of the conceit, he understands now from the dossier. The stakes had to be high, or Fugo wouldn't play. He quite simply wouldn't believe it. Because Fugo believed himself used up and no good, the only way he could even begin to conceptualize himself as a part of Passione again, the only way he could see himself coming home, was by proving himself with the greatest stakes.]
[That's the ouroboros, isn't it? Because Fugo believes himself to be nothing, he distrusts kindness. Because he rejects kindness, he rarely receives it, and then only despite himself. A self-fulfilling prophecy. But something about this plan let Giorno in through a back door, let him be kind and welcoming and full of love without Fugo running from it.]
[By the time Fugo finishes speaking, he's closed his eyes. He nods in acknowledgment of the break in the conversation. Fugo doesn't know how to describe this. That's fine. That's all right. This . . . is helping. He's surprised how much.]
When I finished reading, I went back to read it again.
[Blinking slowly, he opens his eyes. It takes a moment for him to focus on Fugo again, the Fugo of the world in front of him rather than the one in that secondhand memory, broken on his knees. They look much the same, in a great many ways.]
And as I read it the second time, and . . . the third time, and so on . . . I tried to understand the feeling behind it. What I must have been feeling in that moment. And it was . . .
[The fingers of one hand curl tightly. He brings them to rest over his chest, knuckles resting light against the pale green of his skin.]
Painful. It hurt. Seeing you in front of me in so much pain, so unable to see yourself moving forward— [No. That's not quite right. He clears his throat, corrects himself:] You think yourself so unworthy. So useless. I think I . . . must have felt so much hurt for you, Fugo.
[When he smiles, it's fragile, brittle as thin ice fresh-frozen. His fingers loosen, coming to rub absently at the edge of his collarbone.]
You weren't so different in Pompeii, you know. Maybe you just held it in better. But you jumped at the chance to suffer for us . . . like you thought that was the best you could do. I remember what that felt like. And I remember . . .
[Yakitori. That was in the notes, too.]
[Ah, well . . . what's he to do? Lying, here and now, would be so futile. Such a waste. He doesn't want to waste this. That other version of him wanted to trust Fugo, too. He knows that now.]
Feeling like poison . . . there's no way to imagine a better future from that place. Not alone. I could never, ever leave you there alone.
no subject
A not so insignificant part of him is afraid. But he doesn't look away from Giorno. Not anymore. Fugo, who has instinctively pulled himself tight, his back ramrod straight against the cool wall of his bedroom, watches Giorno digest the information he has been presented. How it sinks in. How it fits in with other things Giorno knows about him. He can see the sharp shape of Giorno's knuckles underneath the thin skin of his hands, before he relaxes his fist to draw circles over his chest with his fingertips; the tapestry of his veins, fine and dark, winding up his wrist and throat. Giorno looks like as if he, too, is in pain. Giorno looks relieved, even as they both slip underneath black ice.]
[Fugo watches. He doesn't interrupt. How could he? This, what they're talking about, is too important to not drink in every word. Even if it doesn't make sense. (Because that's just how it is, is the correction that ought to be made. I'm a stupid investment, a bad hand to stake your bets on.) Even when it startles him, enough that his eyes go wide and he forgets to breathe for a moment. (Because better me than you, was the simple truth, even when he didn't have an idea what Giorno's stand might be. I'm not strong, I'm a liability.) Even when it hurts, because what he sees mirrored back is an all-too-familiar pain. An aimless, frustrated sadness.
Somehow, a long time ago or maybe not that long ago at all, in another world, Giorno found the strength to drag himself out of his own grave. Someone reached out to him, half of a step, and gave him something to hang on to. He, too, understands the pain of pointlessly existing in an empty, painful present with no hope for the future.]
Thank you. For-- not leaving me there.
[Fugo doesn't cry. Not this time. He has a better handle on himself. Instead, he takes a deep and shuddering breath. He allows his mask to slip, for just a moment, so Giorno can have a look. He is so tired. He hurts so much. But he is here. He is present. He can feel all his fingers and all his toes. He won't let the nothing, the hollow emptiness in his heart, swallow up his time.]
Back there, in the restaurant, you showed me a future that I could not see. I chose to believe in that future. To believe in you.
[And in the promise Giorno made to him. Half of a step. And in the promise he, in turn, made to Giorno. He brings one hand, stiff and jerky, to rest over his own heart. Slowly, like the tide coming in, his expression shifts. He's still so tired, still carries so much pain. But there is a light in his eyes. Hope. In this moment, Fugo bleeds sincerity.]
As long as I live, I serve your dream.
[Body, heart, and soul. I am yours.
That vow is his everything.]
no subject
[Sometimes that isn't enough. Sometimes it's harder. It takes longer, and more. Sometimes, learning to believe in a future is an almost-insurmountable task, because of how many times the future has been crushed to dust in front of a child's eyes. How much has been lost, and how often he's been told he deserves this pain and more. How many times he's been abandoned. What is the difference between a child who had nothing and gained everything, and a child who had one thing and lost it over and over and over? A matter of minutiae, of nuance, not of worth or resilience.]
[Fugo is so worthy, and he always has been. Distant as he is from the version of himself who brought that light of hope to Fugo's eyes, Giorno finds pride welling up within him along with stubborn tears. It was some other self, but he's on a collision course for that version of Giorno, and he always has been. Fugo has been his priority since the day he set eyes on him. Since that very first moment.]
[He lets Fugo speak his peace, lets it resonate; then he reaches for Fugo's hand with both of his own and lifts it to his lips. The kiss he lays on Fugo's knuckles is unapologetic, devoted, and faithful. It's all reciprocity.]
[And if he's a little flushed and a bit teary when he lifts his head again, maybe Fugo will just notice it, like he notices everything, and choose not to comment.]
As long as I live, I'll believe in you in turn. Every second of every day.
[Not much of a hardship. He's believed since that first moment, too.]