*** 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.
[No, she says, and Giorno smiles. It's a much simpler smile than he usually wears, a clear and easy expression containing no mischief, only happiness. It's not even bittersweet. Thinking about Mista, as much as he misses him, always makes him happy.]
[He flips all the way to the beginning of the album. Then he turns it toward Max again, lets her take it from his hands to look. The first photo in the album depicts five people in front of a yacht. Most of them, Max will recognize. Abbacchio is there, his long legs barely fitting in the frame. Fugo, looking uncomfortable and out of place. Narancia, face just beginning to scrunch up to make a face at the camera. There are two new faces. One, dark-haired and sharp-eyed, wears an impeccable white-and-black suit and regards everyone else in frame with a certain protective exasperation. The second stranger is the only one smiling — laughing, actually, or on the way to it, eyes half-closed with whatever mirth has taken him in the moment. Sun-warmed and wide-shouldered, he brightens the photo with his presence.]
[In the space just above his head, Giorno taps his claw very gently.]
This is Mista. From back home, of course. If you flip forward one, you'll see a more recent photo.
[And it's true. The second picture is clearly from Ryslig, but Mista's just as distinctly himself as a naga and a human. The two of them stand shoulder to shoulder, clearly at some kind of formal event if their suits (toned down for Giorno and Mista both), but their body language is anything but formal: Mista's arm is slung around Giorno's shoulder, and Giorno's tucked himself close against Mista's side, laughing at some long-lost joke. Neither of them are looking at the camera.]
. . . He's my very first friend. He decided he was going to be my friend, even though he was the only one who trusted me at first. He's kind and good and does what he can to take care of the people around him. Once, someone hurt him so badly I was scared they'd killed him, and I beat that man to death. He's the first person I ever knew who I realized . . . if he wasn't there anymore, it felt like I'd die, too. You know? I didn't know what that felt like before.
[He's quiet for a moment, just sitting with it. Thinking about it. It's been so long since Mista's been gone, longer by far than he knew him in the first place. It still hurts. It hurts a lot.]
He arrived here when I did. A few months later, he— [A huff of laughter.] So stupid. There was this . . . stupid — it was the first time I had to kill someone. It was a bad month. But there was a seasonal drink at Nai'a Nights, a chocolate thing that I liked a lot, and he got me a bunch of the mix for it on Valentine's Day. In a big glass shaped like a heart, because he's a sap. And a bunch of little — here.
[He gets up, goes over to his shelf, and grabs something small. Whatever she's expecting, it's probably not what he ultimately drops into her hand before sitting down on the edge of the bed and letting his wings relax behind him: a teeny-tiny plastic frog figurine covered in pink and red glitter.]
Then some terrible things happened, and sometime after that, I told him that I loved him. . . . And then he disappeared, and he hasn't come back. And none of that's changed. I do very much still love him.
[Tail twitching gently at the end like a curious cat's, he regards Max.]
Do you feel differently about me, about my value as a person or a partner, than you did five minutes ago?
cw: depression, mild past suicidal ideation, ST4 spoilers
[ Once, Max wandered through Trish's memories, like they were bread crumbs to the girl herself. There, she saw both the unfamiliar men. While the first left a rather sour kneejerk impression on her, the latter she hadn't had enough exposure to to know anything but his face—and clothing. Privately, now that she's able to really study the group, Max thinks that El would take to their clothes like a house on fire. That's what she liked, when she was allowed to decide that, bright and outrageous and loud, patterns of all kinds.
It's a nice thought. It'd be nicer if there were any way for them to meet outside of...here.
After she's done examining the photo album, as Giorno begins explaining who this person is, Max's legs start to whine at her and she quickly but...subtly finds a place to sit. Whatever chair's available, or she'll tuck herself on the floor, legs out so they can rest.
And she listens. Max knows her fiery attitude and habit of speaking her mind comes with the certain expectation that she won't, sometimes. But she doesn't interject, doesn't do anything but listen and run her fingers through her hair in lieu of a brush. (Hasn't washed it in a bit; mostly it's been up and out of her face, easier to appear like she's fucking fine that way, but since she ran right here...)
Anyway. The point is, she's a surprisingly good listener. Though her lips purse when Giorno casually mentions beating a man to death—she's not going to judge, he ran in more dangerous circles than she did, obviously.
...Er. Mostly. More... Max doesn't know, she just knows they aren't the same, the mafia with their Stands and the whole business with the Upside Down. She just takes it in and accepts it. She just listens to if he wasn't there anymore, it felt like I'd die, too and it makes her hyperaware of the feeling of her hair under her pawpads, of how tight her jaw is, of waking up gasping in the Roane Hill cemetery, of her desperate confessions at the Flatwoods golf course, of Lucas screaming her name as she struggled to breathe, of Basil dropping dead in front of her.
Of sitting in front of Billy's grave and admitting part of her died too on July 4th, 1985, in Starcourt Mall.
It's a strange concoction of feelings, and it's there in an instant, sitting and stewing in her while Giorno thinks and reflects. She can't dwell in it for too long, because she thinks it might swallow her, as it is wont to do when she gets lost in the mess that is her emotions. Instead, she focuses on his words. Ryslig, arriving together, the first time I had to kill someone. It's all a jumble for Giorno too, it sounds like, as he's recounting the bad and the good, what this Mista did to cheer him up, and...
...What she's expecting, by then. Giorno barely has to say that he told Mista he loved him, because it shines through in the way he speaks. Not even the exact words, but the tone of them. I told him I love him is the least surprising way this could've gone, only after—and then he disappeared, and he hasn't come back—
Because of course that's how this ends. Before she can get bogged down in the thoughts, the wonders of if it's worth it to try being happy despite it all in a place so freaking impermanent— He asks her a question, and it's funny, because as much as she could see the shape of this story, where it was leading, she could not anticipate that obvious question.
The surprise shows on Max's face, her ears curling up and forward, her eyes widening slightly. ]
What? That- [ She's shaking her head before she can process, because sometimes Max just acts without thinking, when she opens her mouth and what spills out is: ] No. No, that's-
You clearly think the world of him. And... And of Steve.
[ It feels like she's deflating. Like an old balloon. ]
[She's welcome to take his seat at the desk. He's not even thinking about it, truthfully, although usually he'd be much more attentive to the needs of the people around him. It's a combination of his current form and how preoccupied he is at the moment with this — all of this, the most complicated parts of his heart and his mind. So he stays standing, thinking, looking down at the album in his hands now. There's nothing in particular he's looking for as he slowly flips through the pages. There are so many, later: once Steve gets his camera, once Steve gives it to him in turn. When he reaches one of the photos of that very first Halloween, sadness expands from him like smoke rolling across the floor, choking, smothering, obfuscating.]
[He keeps breathing.]
So . . . now you know exactly what I see when I look at you.
[It looks like it's addressed to Steve, canid with two fake heads stuck to his shoulders, more than Max for a moment; then he looks up at her, and no one else in the world exists for a moment.]
[She feels love for two people. Her heart is big enough and warm enough for that. That's what he knows now, and that's all that it means.]
It would be easier if we, collectively, as people, were simpler. If our feelings were simpler, it would be easier for others to manage and understand us. So there are expectations, and we're expected to conform to them. There's a sharp line between friendship and love. You can only love one person at a time. If you don't adhere to these expectations, you've done something wrong.
[He shakes his head. A few pages later in the album, his mouth thins out into a tired smile at a photo of Steve on stage at Libeccio, singing his heart out. His birthday. He sets the album down on the bed, open, so Max can see if she wants to, but she doesn't have to.]
People are never simple. Love is so complicated and so different in every single instance, and I think that many people find that terrifying, but I would be more afraid of it, I think, if it was simple and followed rules.
[It's a wild thing, uncontrolled and unpredictable. That reassures him. He doesn't have control over his feelings, and he never will. There's something about that that allows him to let go of his fear and feel genuine peace. His heart will do . . . whatever it does.]
I love Fugo. I love Trish, even if it's . . . not how it should be right now. And it's not just me. We have the opportunity to be more honest with ourselves here. There was a girl here . . . she disappeared. I didn't know her well, but Steve did. He cared about her very much. I don't know everything about what happened with Nancy, but I don't have to. Just looking at him when he talks about her, it's obvious how he feels about her.
And the expectation is that I should be jealous because — what? He loves someone who isn't me? Because that will make his feelings for me smaller? That doesn't make sense. That wouldn't have counted as love in the first place, if it could be so easily destroyed.
[He quiets for a moment, looking down at his hands. When he continues, his expression and his voice are both somewhat distant.]
What you've explained to me tells me that, although you might have a hard time communicating and trusting others, you are capable of caring for more than one person with your whole heart and soul. Somehow, we all get convinced that that's a bad thing. I think it's beautiful. I think it's an incredible and powerful thing.
[ When Giorno speaks, Max really does think it's directed to the picture. That he has gotten lost in his own memories, and...really, can she blame him? No. Not one bit. This silly question has unexpectedly sparked a conversation where he is bearing his heart to her when he needs not. When he could just easily tell her to deal with it on her own, but...
But no. He's talking to her. He wouldn't do that. What Max has learned, especially in the last few month or so— Giorno would not do that. Not turn her away regarding matters of the heart.
Even if so much of what he's saying seems too big for her. Her hooves clack together as she fiddles, as she thinks about the many times she's thought Lucas would be better off with someone else, or how she'd jump to conclusions over something innocent, him mentioning another girl and Max, terrified of becoming her mother, threatened breaking up with him. That's...usually what those were, really; desperate overcorrection from a girl who had convinced herself she knew everything about how not to do relationships, and therefore did the opposite.
What this manifests as is visible uncertainty, not about Giorno's words, but about herself. About her ability to ever be a good girlfriend. ]
...Okay, uh... This is sort of a lot to take in.
[ Max wants to sound nonchalant. But she really can't, instead looking all of her fifteen years—awkward, doubtful, insecure. ]
I don't- I don't know, I don't feel...incredible, or powerful...but, what you're saying doesn't sound...wrong, I...
[ Hands through her hair, in lieu of a comb, claws occasionally catching on a strand. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Before Giorno abruptly changes the subject.
Max's lips remain pursed. ]
...No? Who's that?
no subject
[He flips all the way to the beginning of the album. Then he turns it toward Max again, lets her take it from his hands to look. The first photo in the album depicts five people in front of a yacht. Most of them, Max will recognize. Abbacchio is there, his long legs barely fitting in the frame. Fugo, looking uncomfortable and out of place. Narancia, face just beginning to scrunch up to make a face at the camera. There are two new faces. One, dark-haired and sharp-eyed, wears an impeccable white-and-black suit and regards everyone else in frame with a certain protective exasperation. The second stranger is the only one smiling — laughing, actually, or on the way to it, eyes half-closed with whatever mirth has taken him in the moment. Sun-warmed and wide-shouldered, he brightens the photo with his presence.]
[In the space just above his head, Giorno taps his claw very gently.]
This is Mista. From back home, of course. If you flip forward one, you'll see a more recent photo.
[And it's true. The second picture is clearly from Ryslig, but Mista's just as distinctly himself as a naga and a human. The two of them stand shoulder to shoulder, clearly at some kind of formal event if their suits (toned down for Giorno and Mista both), but their body language is anything but formal: Mista's arm is slung around Giorno's shoulder, and Giorno's tucked himself close against Mista's side, laughing at some long-lost joke. Neither of them are looking at the camera.]
. . . He's my very first friend. He decided he was going to be my friend, even though he was the only one who trusted me at first. He's kind and good and does what he can to take care of the people around him. Once, someone hurt him so badly I was scared they'd killed him, and I beat that man to death. He's the first person I ever knew who I realized . . . if he wasn't there anymore, it felt like I'd die, too. You know? I didn't know what that felt like before.
[He's quiet for a moment, just sitting with it. Thinking about it. It's been so long since Mista's been gone, longer by far than he knew him in the first place. It still hurts. It hurts a lot.]
He arrived here when I did. A few months later, he— [A huff of laughter.] So stupid. There was this . . . stupid — it was the first time I had to kill someone. It was a bad month. But there was a seasonal drink at Nai'a Nights, a chocolate thing that I liked a lot, and he got me a bunch of the mix for it on Valentine's Day. In a big glass shaped like a heart, because he's a sap. And a bunch of little — here.
[He gets up, goes over to his shelf, and grabs something small. Whatever she's expecting, it's probably not what he ultimately drops into her hand before sitting down on the edge of the bed and letting his wings relax behind him: a teeny-tiny plastic frog figurine covered in pink and red glitter.]
Then some terrible things happened, and sometime after that, I told him that I loved him. . . . And then he disappeared, and he hasn't come back. And none of that's changed. I do very much still love him.
[Tail twitching gently at the end like a curious cat's, he regards Max.]
Do you feel differently about me, about my value as a person or a partner, than you did five minutes ago?
cw: depression, mild past suicidal ideation, ST4 spoilers
It's a nice thought. It'd be nicer if there were any way for them to meet outside of...here.
After she's done examining the photo album, as Giorno begins explaining who this person is, Max's legs start to whine at her and she quickly but...subtly finds a place to sit. Whatever chair's available, or she'll tuck herself on the floor, legs out so they can rest.
And she listens. Max knows her fiery attitude and habit of speaking her mind comes with the certain expectation that she won't, sometimes. But she doesn't interject, doesn't do anything but listen and run her fingers through her hair in lieu of a brush. (Hasn't washed it in a bit; mostly it's been up and out of her face, easier to appear like she's fucking fine that way, but since she ran right here...)
Anyway. The point is, she's a surprisingly good listener. Though her lips purse when Giorno casually mentions beating a man to death—she's not going to judge, he ran in more dangerous circles than she did, obviously.
...Er. Mostly. More... Max doesn't know, she just knows they aren't the same, the mafia with their Stands and the whole business with the Upside Down. She just takes it in and accepts it. She just listens to if he wasn't there anymore, it felt like I'd die, too and it makes her hyperaware of the feeling of her hair under her pawpads, of how tight her jaw is, of waking up gasping in the Roane Hill cemetery, of her desperate confessions at the Flatwoods golf course, of Lucas screaming her name as she struggled to breathe, of Basil dropping dead in front of her.
Of sitting in front of Billy's grave and admitting part of her died too on July 4th, 1985, in Starcourt Mall.
It's a strange concoction of feelings, and it's there in an instant, sitting and stewing in her while Giorno thinks and reflects. She can't dwell in it for too long, because she thinks it might swallow her, as it is wont to do when she gets lost in the mess that is her emotions. Instead, she focuses on his words. Ryslig, arriving together, the first time I had to kill someone. It's all a jumble for Giorno too, it sounds like, as he's recounting the bad and the good, what this Mista did to cheer him up, and...
...What she's expecting, by then. Giorno barely has to say that he told Mista he loved him, because it shines through in the way he speaks. Not even the exact words, but the tone of them. I told him I love him is the least surprising way this could've gone, only after—and then he disappeared, and he hasn't come back—
Because of course that's how this ends. Before she can get bogged down in the thoughts, the wonders of if it's worth it to try being happy despite it all in a place so freaking impermanent— He asks her a question, and it's funny, because as much as she could see the shape of this story, where it was leading, she could not anticipate that obvious question.
The surprise shows on Max's face, her ears curling up and forward, her eyes widening slightly. ]
What? That- [ She's shaking her head before she can process, because sometimes Max just acts without thinking, when she opens her mouth and what spills out is: ] No. No, that's-
You clearly think the world of him. And... And of Steve.
[ It feels like she's deflating. Like an old balloon. ]
no subject
[He keeps breathing.]
So . . . now you know exactly what I see when I look at you.
[It looks like it's addressed to Steve, canid with two fake heads stuck to his shoulders, more than Max for a moment; then he looks up at her, and no one else in the world exists for a moment.]
[She feels love for two people. Her heart is big enough and warm enough for that. That's what he knows now, and that's all that it means.]
It would be easier if we, collectively, as people, were simpler. If our feelings were simpler, it would be easier for others to manage and understand us. So there are expectations, and we're expected to conform to them. There's a sharp line between friendship and love. You can only love one person at a time. If you don't adhere to these expectations, you've done something wrong.
[He shakes his head. A few pages later in the album, his mouth thins out into a tired smile at a photo of Steve on stage at Libeccio, singing his heart out. His birthday. He sets the album down on the bed, open, so Max can see if she wants to, but she doesn't have to.]
People are never simple. Love is so complicated and so different in every single instance, and I think that many people find that terrifying, but I would be more afraid of it, I think, if it was simple and followed rules.
[It's a wild thing, uncontrolled and unpredictable. That reassures him. He doesn't have control over his feelings, and he never will. There's something about that that allows him to let go of his fear and feel genuine peace. His heart will do . . . whatever it does.]
I love Fugo. I love Trish, even if it's . . . not how it should be right now. And it's not just me. We have the opportunity to be more honest with ourselves here. There was a girl here . . . she disappeared. I didn't know her well, but Steve did. He cared about her very much. I don't know everything about what happened with Nancy, but I don't have to. Just looking at him when he talks about her, it's obvious how he feels about her.
And the expectation is that I should be jealous because — what? He loves someone who isn't me? Because that will make his feelings for me smaller? That doesn't make sense. That wouldn't have counted as love in the first place, if it could be so easily destroyed.
[He quiets for a moment, looking down at his hands. When he continues, his expression and his voice are both somewhat distant.]
What you've explained to me tells me that, although you might have a hard time communicating and trusting others, you are capable of caring for more than one person with your whole heart and soul. Somehow, we all get convinced that that's a bad thing. I think it's beautiful. I think it's an incredible and powerful thing.
no subject
But no. He's talking to her. He wouldn't do that. What Max has learned, especially in the last few month or so— Giorno would not do that. Not turn her away regarding matters of the heart.
Even if so much of what he's saying seems too big for her. Her hooves clack together as she fiddles, as she thinks about the many times she's thought Lucas would be better off with someone else, or how she'd jump to conclusions over something innocent, him mentioning another girl and Max, terrified of becoming her mother, threatened breaking up with him. That's...usually what those were, really; desperate overcorrection from a girl who had convinced herself she knew everything about how not to do relationships, and therefore did the opposite.
What this manifests as is visible uncertainty, not about Giorno's words, but about herself. About her ability to ever be a good girlfriend. ]
...Okay, uh... This is sort of a lot to take in.
[ Max wants to sound nonchalant. But she really can't, instead looking all of her fifteen years—awkward, doubtful, insecure. ]
I don't- I don't know, I don't feel...incredible, or powerful...but, what you're saying doesn't sound...wrong, I...
[ Hands through her hair, in lieu of a comb, claws occasionally catching on a strand. ]
...I'm not sure...what I'm supposed to do now.