digiorno | ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅰ

[At some point, a basket comes to rest at the door that serves as the entrance to a trio of rooms on the second floor of the Joestar Mansion. There are no names attached, but given the marigolds and yarrow woven around the handle, and how it practically overflows with chocolates and pastries and other sweet comfort foods, there's little question who it came from and who it's for.

But that's not all there is. Underneath all the food is a layer of trinkets and baubles: a chain, gold, the links too heavy and bulky to serve well as a necklace; a sharp, angular pair of sunglasses; a pendant, fashioned in the image of the sun; a ladybug charm, matching the one on the second watch he carries; a zipper, metallic and shiny atop a few leafs of classical sheet music; a small toy airplane that fits in the palm of a hand.

And underneath all that, is a fired bullet, warped from impact, dug out from the wall of the shooting gallery and attached to a small metal ring, through which a silver chain that is fit to be a necklace is threaded.]

[He's in his room, of course, where he's been more lately, especially after talking to Jotaro. When he opens the door and sees the basket . . . well, of course he knows who it's from. For a moment he just stares down at it; then he retreats back into the room and opens it on Mista's bed.]

[It's another half an hour or so before he moves again, tidying up everything and putting it away. The food goes into the bottom of a cabinet in his room, the mirror of Dio's, the place where he keeps the non-perishable things. The chain, glasses, and sheet music go on his highest shelf; everything else goes into his pockets, except for the necklace, which he winds around his fingers.]

[Stupid and sentimental and frustrating, since he knows he's going to keep every single thing.]

Would you like a cup of tea, Miss Holly?

[Her fingers twitch nervously around the pocket watch when she finally receives a response. Using text has it's benefits, to be sure, but it's hard to tell how well-received or not her attempt at a more silent show of support had been in that simple question.

She supposes if it had been entirely negative, she wouldn't be receiving any response at all, so.]

I would very much, if you're offering.

Of course. What kind would you like?

Hm, I think today feels like a black tea day. Something flavorful against all the snow and cold outside.

Should I meet you downstairs?

That would be lovely. I'll put it on now.

I'll be there in a moment.

[And, in a moment's time, she's in the kitchen once again, this time making sure to announce her presence early.]

Need any help?

[He doesn't, obviously. Not with the tea, at least.]

[The chain's around his neck now, the bullet tucked under his shirt. He smiles at her, and it's definitely genuine, even if tired.]

I'm fine, thank you. It's almost done steeping. Do you take anything in it?

[A smile's in the eyes, not the mouth, she remembers her father telling her after she had huffed and puffed over him playing his stupid trick on her again. And she sees the glint at Giorno's collar, looks him in the eyes, and... relaxes, just a bit.]

A bit of sugar, please.

[Because of course.]

Sugar it is.

[And he pours her tea, bringing it over to the kitchen table the same way he did that first night, pulls out the chair for her and sits down on the other side. His own tea is black, for once; he just wants to taste something strong right now.]

Will you sit with me?

Have I ever said no?

[With that light answer, she takes the offered seat. The tea is taken more slowly; she breathes its aroma, savoring it, then breathes out ripples to cool it before taking her first sip, and if Giorno knows her well enough to figure she's putting on this little show to give him time and space to put his thoughts together, well. She doesn't pretend to be opaque.

She'll wait for him, this time.]

[She's a good person. That's part of what makes her hard to understand, because she's a good person and he simply doesn't believe in those. But he has to admit that the other part of what makes her hard to comprehend is that he refuses to see her as a person first and a mother second. It's always - mother, then person. And that isn't fair or right, is it? She's Holly Kujo, then everything else.]

[He wraps his hands around the cup and closes his eyes, breathes it in, takes a sip that's a little too hot. He's glad for it. It's grounding, in its own way. When he opens his eyes, there's bared grief in them, explicit pain.]

I feel awful. Because Abbacchio is going back to being dead, and Mista is just going back. I'm . . . grieving disproportionately. Isn't that a ridiculous thing to be worried about?

[That rawness is hard to look at. And it's harder still to fight the instinctual urge to rise from her chair, close the distance and soothe away the pain with gentle words and soft touches. But she looks, and she fights, and tries to find peace in the knowledge that at least he's not swallowing it down, keeping it locked up behind tightly pursed lips and clenching fingers.]

... You know what I think about grief. There's nothing 'disproportionate' about what you feel, in my opinion.

[Abbachio was a shadow she barely got to know, but Mista... Giorno spoke so passionately about Mista, and not a word of it was exaggeration, she knew. Those days above the coffee shop gave her plenty of evidence.

Idly, her fingers meet around her cup, the ones of her right spinning the modest band on her left.]

What makes you think it's ridiculous?

[Nothing disproportionate . . . that doesn't feel right to him. It grates at something inside. Everything must be perfect, measured to the gram - everything, from violence to pleasure to grief. Nothing can be haphazard. He can't be anything but flawless.]

[He presses his lips tight shut, an unconscious mirror of her own expression, and tries to figure it out - the precise way of saying this so that it's just right. Another piece of perfection.]

Because this isn't what normal people do. Normal people just feel what they feel, and that's that.

[But he's not normal. He never has been, and he certainly isn't now.]

[Sighing, he pinches the bridge of his nose.]

Sometimes - loving people is such an uphill struggle . . . even if you know why, or can guess why, sometimes it hurts almost too much to bear. And then some things are easy, and it seems - cowardly, maybe, to miss the easy things, the effortlessly perfect things most of all.

I don't know. I really don't. I'm just talking, I don't know what I'm saying at all, sorry.

[It's true, what he says. She's very much aware of her status as the benchmark for 'normal' in this house, and it will be a cold day in hell before Holly Kujo doesn't listen to her heart before anything or anyone else. And it hurts to think that no matter how much she might love these boys, no matter how much she might care, the difference in their experiences will likely always stand as a gulf between them. She can see the other shore, but she can't cross it, not on her own.

But this...]

It's okay. I'm happy to be a sounding board if that's what you need.

[This is a piece of driftwood washing up on her beach, something that, perhaps one day, she can use to make a raft.]

But I think I understand. You told me he keeps you yourself, but to do that, he has to know who "yourself" is, maybe even better than you do. And not having that understanding... it's like a melody without its harmony. The piece can still work with a strong beat and support, and it might even sound good, especially to ears that aren't trained for that sort of thing. But it'll still feel a little hollow, or off balance.

[Her expression relaxes as she speaks, some of that melancholy in her eyes transformed into nostalgic wistfulness. One can get the sense she's thought about this quite a bit.]

Does that sound about right?

[His mouth is pinched, listening to her speak, watching her relax, sink into a pain that she knows well. She's right, of course she is, but that's not what bothers him. Really, it's a relief to have someone see him.]

[It's just that she's hurting. And why wouldn't she be? He curses himself under his breath in the next moment, scowling down at his fists clenched in his lap. This is why he doesn't feel things where other people can see; it only ends in unnecessary pain. Of course she's hurting, the same hurt he has but protracted over months, years maybe, far too long, and he's the one moping like a child.]

Yes, but . . . I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. I should be behaving better than this.

[His immediate reaction surprises her - the frown, the muffled curse, all of it shocking that bittersweet smile off her face. This isn't what she intended.]

You don't need to apologize. I wouldn't have done anything, if I didn't want to try to help.

[Try being the operative word. A piece of driftwood is still a piece of driftwood until it gets whittled down into something seaworthy.]

... Even if you were "behaving better," I wouldn't be able to stop myself from worrying. Because I know how that loneliness feels, and it must be all the more intense for you, with what you've gone through together. [And without the buffers of age, or communication...] So, what I'm trying to say is... if you want to talk about it, I'm offering time and an open ear.

But if not, that's okay too. The offer will be on the table no matter what.

ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅰ

package;

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject