digiorno | ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅰ

[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.

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