[Giorno gives a small wave of his hand; it was Gold Experience who wanted it. Sort of, anyway. He wanted to say something, this sudden and inexplicable urge to push an idea across the divide of communication. The idea for writing it down was Giorno's, but the rest . . .]
[Anyway: Gold Experience takes both pen and paper in hand and sits down on the floor all the way, cross-legged, putting the paper on the floor in front of him and leaning over to write. His penmanship is terrible, wide and blocky and childish, but extremely precise, the pen bearing down hard on the paper. When he's done, he hands the paper up to Carlos expectantly.]
[It takes Carlos a minute after he takes the paper to fully process what's transpired: he looks from Gold Experience to the paper to the plants and back to the paper, but after a short period of quiet thought, a thoroughly excited grin spreads across his face.]
You...he did it, Giorno!
[He crouches back down to be at eye (eye? he's still not sure if those are eyes) level with the Stand, delicately handing the paper back. Instead of, say, being an incredibly fragile object teetering on the edge of a shelf, he's now an incredibly fragile object vibrating at speeds too high to be detected by the human senses.
He's excited. Pretty excited.]
Does he do this--does he write often? Do you write often, Gold Experience?
[Giorno is . . . just sort of standing there. His hand has migrated into a loose fist propped under his chin as he gazes at Gold Experience with the look of a parent whose child has just sprouted extra limbs. His Stand glances back at him for approval and, once it's acquired, turns back to Carlos and shakes his head.]
He's never done it before, [he clarifies.] I didn't actually know he could. Maybe he knows because I do? And his hands are very dextrous, but . . .
[It's sort of disconcerting, to have that come out of nowhere. Is this how Jotaro feels all the time?]
[And then there's also:]
He . . . hm. He wants to know if all of the words are right. I think.
Well, I figured that he had the capacity to, but not the willingness or knowledge of exactly how to go about it! That's why, you know, I figured it would be kinda easy to show him how to text and all. But...
[He lapses back into a contemplative silence, glancing over at the paper. For a moment, his brow furrows, and he awkwardly stands to cast a worried look at Giorno.]
If you're...messing with me, you can stop now, okay? I'm not--that's not a judgement of you personally, I just...you know. I like to be in on things as opposed to not, when it comes down to it. But if you're not just doing this, there's an "e" in "prune" that he left off, can you tell him that?
[Briefly, there's a glimpse of a different Carlos, one that's not inclined to take people at their face value. While he's certainly out of the lethargic part of the mood shift, something still remains--something that's been fooled one too many times.]
[The instinct, again, is to become indignant. Offended. To say he would never and that's not fair. But the thing is that it sort of is, in its way, because that's the kind of thing he does. Sometimes on purpose, sometimes not, but he does, because . . . he wants the best for the people who are his, whether or not it's truthful.]
[He can't fault Carlos for having good instincts.]
[So he swallows down the hurt and just shakes his head instead.]
I've always known he had some level of independent . . . thought, or perspective. But it was never so pronounced at home. Not until he saw Star Platinum, and I don't know if he's just imitating or not, but.
[But Star never wrote anything down. He drew and texted and had cards, but not this.]
[Giorno fiddles with the end of his braid, brow furrowed.]
I think I treat other people's Stands . . . differently than I do him . . . and maybe that's why, because he never had a reason to think anyone was interested in listening, so.
So maybe you should tell him yourself. Since he can understand.
[There's a moment more of wariness before he eases back into smiling gently at Gold Experience. Now that he knows there's someone in there listening, it makes his one-sided conversations a bit less aimless.]
Well, he's very smart. You're very smart. And only one spelling mistake, too! Very, very smart.
[Oh, you bet he's going to spoil the Stand rotten.]
Do you not talk to him often, Giorno? I guess it's like any being in your care: you have to listen to it. Like dogs, or children, or angels. That's what I've heard, anyways--and it does make sense. I bet he's rather lonely.
[He says this very matter-of-factly, before edging back towards a more sympathetic tone.]
[It's odd. Well — to start with it's odd. There's a rush of emotion, and he's not sure . . . he thinks it might be because before Gold Experience didn't think anyone was listening, and now he knows someone is. Maybe that's it. But either way it's as though some block has been removed, some clog in the pipes, and—]
[It hurts. It's surprising at first, and just that, the strength with which Gold Experience pinballs from one thing to the next, uncertain and unregulated: disbelief that praise is being directed his way; delight in the next moment so bright it burns under Giorno's skin; a guilty metaphysical flex at in your care because Gold Experience knows, of course he does, he knows what he is and he knows what Giorno would rather he was, he's very, very smart.]
[And then: Are you lonely, Gold Experience?]
[Which hurts the worst. Not because it surprises him, but because it's so familiar. It settles into the grooves of pain in the back of his mind and the depths of his bones, because yes, oh yes, Gold Experience is lonely. And Giorno is lonely, with scars of loneliness on the inside of every nerve, but Gold Experience is a walking wound, open and oozing.]
[His Stand, shining, unblinking, shy and lonely, stares up at Carlos and nods, transfixed. And Giorno closes his eyes and shudders in the waves of pain, the thick isolation like treacle in the back of his throat, and covers his mouth with a shaking hand.]
[It takes him a moment, and even when words come through his fingers, they're uncharacteristically rough and bitter and flat.]
[For a moment, he's still smiling, not truly processing the greater meaning of such a simple gesture. It's just another problem to be solved: Gold Experience is lonely, so Gold Experience needs company. Carlos's plants are dying, so Carlos needs help in the lab. A is having difficulties, so b should be executed to solve them. It's all very simple, really, until Giorno breaks his focus.]
[Oh.]
[Of course, the emotional transference is to be expected. He knows that Stands and their users weren't easily separated, in every meaning of the phrase, and that the Stand is the manifestation of the soul. These were scientific facts, and he knows them to be true. Processing this into a more practical setting, however, is something he's always struggled with--if a does something in theory, then b does something in the real world. Whatever. His grasp on real world mechanics is tenuous enough, but this is something important.]
[Carlos jerks his head up to look at Giorno, very slowly standing once more. He's just me. The implications there are both obvious and earth-shattering simultaneously, and it takes him a moment to consider his options.]
...Are you lonely, Giorno?
[He knows the answer, but it seems polite to confirm. Rational, even. Alarmingly quickly, his grasp on the situation is faltering, and he refuses to let another person wilt in his care. He's not going to have another Kevin, another Jackie Fierro, another goddamn Apache Tracker, if he can help it. But for now, it's just waiting for something to click, waiting for the prominent feeling of nausea to subside.]
[His posture is ramrod-straight as his hand falls to his side again, as he hooks his thumbs in his pockets. It's fine, this is fine. Everything's fine. He even managed to bite back don't be silly, since he doesn't want to patronize Carlos, who's about the farthest thing from silly in his life right now. He wants to treat Carlos well always, to shower love and appreciation upon him like he deserves.]
[Because no one ever did for him, not until Bruno. So it's important. It's vital. He has to make sure that doesn't ever happen again. No one should ever be sad and lonely again, and if they do, that means he's failed.]
[He gives a smile, quick and flickering, like a light switch being turned on and off in rapid succession.]
It would be silly to be lonely when there are people all around, don't you think?
[Carlos is not quite as good at restraining himself, so what comes out first is:]
Don't lie to me.
[Though, if his moderately horrified facial expression is anything to go by, there's a sense of immediate regret about saying it. He's already backpedaling, tripping over words that he isn't sure mean anything in even the most facetious of manners. He almost looks afraid--not of Giorno, necessarily, but of a proverbial punishment hanging over his head.]
--Sorry, that was...mm. That was uncalled for, I'm sorry.
[Eventually, he slows down enough to elaborate more beyond frantic apologies and takebacks, eyes still flickering from Gold Experience to Giorno.]
I'm...okay, I meant it, though? Please don't lie to me? I can tell you're lonely--it's...pardon me, but it's not really hard to tell, you know? Or...maybe you don't know, I guess. But you are lonely, and you can be lonely in a world of billions of people, and even lonelier in a world of less than fifty. Sometimes you like talking to people because you--
[He's biting down hard on the inside of his cheek, frustrated and uncertain. It doesn't seem, logically, like he's done anything wrong by lying. But it feels like he has. Lying to Carlos feels as wrong as killing someone, wronger — like hurting something helpless. Not that Carlos is helpless, but the way Carlos cares for him is so . . . strange and unhurtful, impossible to understand, that it ought to be protected.]
[So he shouldn't lie to Carlos. He shouldn't. The inside of his cheek hurts. He's really sad.]
No, you're right. I shouldn't lie to you. I just . . . do, usually. Lie. To everyone. Unless they ask, and even then . . .
[He gives a brittle smile.]
I don't want anyone to know? That I'm sad. I don't want anyone to know because if I'm lonely then people will try to take care of me and I don't, I can't, I don't know . . . how to let that happen. It doesn't feel good. It sc— I don't like it, Carlos, I don't.
That's...a reasonable thing, I think. To not want anyone to know. Even if it isn't, I know what you mean, so that counts for something?
[He's...well, when it comes down to it, he's unsure of how to deal with this kind of situation. There's a lot of moving parts that he doesn't quite understand--the concept of Stands, Gold Experience specifically, and, well, feelings in general. He's an empathetic person, and he wants so badly to understand why this situation has gone to hell so spectacularly, but his limits are many, especially in the interpersonal area.
He's far from cold, but it takes him a few moments of thought to begin to form an adequate response.]
It's normal to pretend that everything is fine, I think, but not good. I don't...want to patronize you, or whatever it is you're afraid of me doing, but I want to help you in any way I can, alright? You--you probably don't want to talk to me, I think, but that option is open. Just...I don't want you feeling this bad, alright?
[The quiet, the pause, doesn't bother him. It gives him a few seconds to calm his breathing, which is getting close to hyperventilating now; he can calm down a bit and cover his mouth with his hand until the trembling slows. And the pause means something else, too: that Carlos is thinking before he speaks, which means that his words mean a lot and are important. That helps Giorno calm down enough to think about them, too.]
I'm not afraid of you doing anything. I just don't want anyone to know that I'm weak.
[He hesitates, bites his lip. Gold Experience settles back on the floor, watching him with a tight expression.]
I'm not afraid of . . . other people acting some way. I just hate the way I act, and I don't want to be like that, so I just don't want anyone to know . . . I don't know, maybe that doesn't make sense, I'm sorry.
You really think it's bad? To act like things are okay. Doesn't it make things easier for people, to not have to worry?
You're not weak for feeling like this. Nobody is; that'd just be ridiculous--it just means that you feel things in the capacity that most people do, maybe more. It's okay and normal to feel lonely, trust me. Everyone does.
[Quietly, he reaches over to tap Giorno's hand, looking more serious...well, than he ever really has.]
It's not bad, per se, but if you're in a bad situation and nobody knows, then it's hard to get out of that kind of hole. Pretending that everything is fine doesn't solve any problems, especially if you convince yourself that you're fine. There's not much to be gained from that. And, well--this sounds kind of ridiculous, but it is true: people don't appreciate being lied to, and they can and will find out, like I did.
[Carlos frowns, almost imperceptible and still very significant. He thinks of a desert. He thinks of a mountain. He thinks of a Smiling God, and he does not smile. Again, he touches Giorno's hand, letting his own hand stay there.]
Don't keep bad things from your loved ones, or they'll just worry more.
[It's funny. Giorno is quite used to touch now, even if he's still more comfortable when he's the one to initiate it. Carlos touching him is startling, though, simply because it's never happened before. He remembers months and months and months ago, when he reached out excitedly and grabbed Carlos's arm, and Carlos flinched, shied away. How every time he does something that upsets him, he makes a note never to do it again, never ever, because upsetting Carlos is the worst thing in the world.]
[But Carlos taps his hand, and then rests his own over top of it. Giorno looks up at him with wide eyes, uncertain and searching but not afraid. He's never afraid of Carlos, because Carlos is afraid of too many things, and he doesn't need one more person added to that.]
[For a few moments he's quiet, just thinking. Turning all these words and opinions over in his head, trying to make them make sense. Then, gradually, he nods. Although it must be qualified.]
I think . . . if it was me and someone was upset and they didn't tell me, I'd hate it. No, I know I would. So I don't think it's ridiculous. I just don't think I'm good at being honest.
Do you think it's okay if I—
[God, he hates this. But—]
Do you think it's okay if I try, and I mess up sometimes? I want to do it right. But if it's not right right away, is that bad?
Well, practice makes perfect. Just try and train yourself out of smaller things--for instance, if someone asks you how you're doing, very casually, try and come up with something other than "good". It's tricky, but it pays off in the long run.
[He deliberately keeps his voice low, as if there's someone else who might be listening in--and, to him, perhaps there is. He registers Gold Experience as a part of Giorno, but there's really no shaking his initial impression that there's another person in the room, despite there only being two people. Maybe it's just his Night Vale paranoia, but whatever the case, he intends this to be for Giorno and Giorno alone.
His frown deepens, and he grabs Giorno's hand a bit tighter.]
As long as you're trying, I think it's fine to mess up. Nothing comes instantly, and this isn't an exception, you know? Some things are just hard to learn, period, especially when it's something significant. But, um...
[Carlos trails off, looking away. This is too familiar a conversation to be having, about niceness and redemption and honesty, that it actually makes him physically nauseous. Giorno isn't Kevin, but the parallels remain solid in his mind, and his jaw clenches.]
[Something's wrong. He can't tell what it is, or why, but Carlos is upset. That much is easy. And it presents a problem, which is: Carlos wants him to be honest, but Carlos is upset and shouldn't be. Even if it's just that Carlos anticipated a much calmer conversation than this when he invited Giorno and Gold Experience over, his discomfort should be respected and accounted for in Giorno's actions. That's common sense, to him. But navigating the two together without contradicting himself, he isn't sure how to do that.]
[It takes him too long, probably. He spends the intervening time staring furiously at the floor between their feet, frowning until it looks like it might hurt his face. But finally he figures something out and looks up at Carlos with a stubbornly set jaw.]
I'm not trying to get out of doing what you're suggesting. I want to. But I don't want to make you uncomfortable. So I think it might be a good idea to — to say this is enough trying for today, and start again tomorrow. So we can both have a break.
[Carlos doesn't say a word while Giorno stays quiet, ever-conscious of the need for thinking time in his own right. There's something too grave about him, his entire demeanor, but that effect is broken by the slight bouncing of his left leg, evidently some kind of nervous tic that he can't quite shake. It worsens as the silence grows on, his anxiety apparent.]
I think that's a good idea, yeah. Whatever you feel like you need to do.
[He doesn't try and deny the statement that he is uncomfortable, because it seems contradictory to do so in the wake of a conversation about honesty. He is uncomfortable, but that isn't Giorno's fault, and it makes everything so much more difficult to work through. He starts to say something, something like I'm sorry, but he's been told far too many times that apologies are simply excuses, and so he keeps his mouth shut, even as his thoughts continue to a rapid crescendo.
Before he really knows it--as synapses fire from a to b and his impulses act without his will--he's got Giorno in a very awkward hug, more of the product of a need for comfort as opposed to a need to comfort. It's all sharp edges (when was the last time he did this?), but there's a surprising force to it, regardless of whether or not he notices.]
[One moment he's standing alone, in the middle of a laboratory floor. The next moment he's caught up in a hug, in Carlos's arms, and his heart breaks. Not in a bad way — more in the way that sometimes you have to re-break a bone to set it properly, if it's healed over wrong. It hurts, god, it hurts so much, he can feel the pain lancing through every part of him, but it feels better, too. It feels—]
[It feels honest.]
[It's an awkward hug. It is, he won't lie, but it feels safe, which is the only thing that matters. Carlos is all sharp edges and brittle lines, but he smells like laundry detergent and something chemical, and he's holding on tight like he doesn't want to ever let go. Of him. Carlos, an important and worthy person, doesn't want to let go of him, Giorno, who is just somebody. Not his child, maybe not even his friend. Just some kid who makes him uncomfortable a lot of the time, who doesn't know how to be normal.]
[Giorno's fingers clench in the back of that perfect lab coat. He doesn't mean them to, but they do. And once he's held on tight, he finds he can't let go, either. Can't stop himself from crying, not once his heart has been well and truly broken, even though it will ruin the pristine white front of Carlos's coat to get tears on it. He cries anyway. It's good to be honest, and so he cries honestly, his body racked with shuddering sobs as he holds on (awkwardly, with sharp edges, and forcefully, because he needs to not be alone right now and so does Carlos).]
[He didn't quite expect Giorno to hug him back so readily--but if he were to be honest with himself, he wasn't sure what he expected besides a nebulous opposite of everything happening currently. Giorno is like Kevin in the way that everyone is like everyone else: a bit self-centered, a bit rude, a bit cruel, when it comes down to it. In this way, he is like Kevin, but he is also not like Kevin in the sense that Giorno tries harder than anyone Carlos has ever met. There's so much energy and strength that most adults don't have, but Giorno carries himself with grace and tenacity, like the world only ever should look at him and nothing else.
Maybe the world does.
But then he starts crying, and it's painful to hear and see and feel, because Giorno hasn't really ever been that vulnerable before, in his mind. It's like seeing a mountain crumble, if mountains existed, like the total falling apart that everyone experiences at some point, but it seems so strange on Giorno. Maybe the world shouldn't look at him too long--but not like a child shouldn't look at the sun; it's more like the way a child shouldn't look at violence. Giorno crying is violent, and Carlos is proud and worried all at once.
He doesn't know what to say other than repeated whispers of it's alright, so he just holds Giorno a little tighter, waiting for the storm to pass. He's crying himself, though it's not like he truly notices, because he never notices anything important like that. It's alright, he says, again and again, but he means it more than ever.]
[Somewhere in the back of his chaotic and tired mind, Giorno is trying to figure out how it is that he came to deserve someone like Carlos in his life. Someone like Carlos who, as unpredictable and uncertain as he can be at times, nevertheless reaches out to someone like Giorno. Just some boy. Just someone. Just--himself, who isn't good enough at all.]
[It's all right, Carlos says, and Giorno doesn't think it is. But he can suspend his disbelief, at least here and for the moment. It's different than if Polnareff said it. Polnareff comforts mindlessly, because he's made of comfort. For Carlos, comfort is an effort, which means he wouldn't do it if he didn't mean it. If he didn't really believe it.]
[It's not all right. But Giorno believes that Carlos believes it is, and that's how he manages to slow his tears: by believing that. They slow to a trickle as he presses his face to Carlos's shoulder, a wave of shame washing over him as he realizes how weak he's been. Recognizing his own weakness makes him feel weaker; he sags and does his best to take up as little space as possible at the same time as he really doesn't want to move at all.]
I'm sorry.
[It's quiet, his voice a little shaky. Maybe a lot shaky. He hates this. But he doesn't want to be alone right now.]
Scientifically speaking--I'm, I'm messing up your coat.
[And there really isn't: at his core, Carlos is not a liar; it's unnatural to him to even consider lying about anything as important as whatever this is. Maybe it's not alright, exactly, but he percieves himself as telling the truth, and therefore can't be held accountable for any possible lies inherent in the repeated statement. It's all very simple to him, and all simple problems have simple answers.
...Then again, though, what does he know about simplicity? He may not be a liar, but he knows very personally that nothing is quite as black-and-white as that. There are forces at work in Giorno's life that are far more complicated and insidious than any Smiling God, and Carlos understands his lack of understanding about any of them. No, this is not a simple problem, and he does not have a simple role in solving it, by any means. Maybe it's not even his place to solve it: perhaps he's meddling again.
Quietly, he tightens his grip, barely even processing what's being said to him, lost in thought and memory as he so often finds himself. Lost in general, really: he cannot be a scientist in this situation. This is not a simple scientific problem, and treating it like it is will only lead to more things breaking, for better or for worse, and that's not something that he wants. Carlos doesn't have experience with whatever he's doing, but it feels natural, like he's seen it before.
You will not change, or fix, or do anything at all to my little girl.
He exhales sharply, offering the slightest laugh--more of a suggestion of registered humor than anything, but it is sincere. He is not a liar.]
These are made to get dirty. I can scientifically guarantee I've had worse things on it than Italian teenager snot.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[Anyway: Gold Experience takes both pen and paper in hand and sits down on the floor all the way, cross-legged, putting the paper on the floor in front of him and leaning over to write. His penmanship is terrible, wide and blocky and childish, but extremely precise, the pen bearing down hard on the paper. When he's done, he hands the paper up to Carlos expectantly.]
SUN
TEMP
SOIL
PRUN
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You...he did it, Giorno!
[He crouches back down to be at eye (eye? he's still not sure if those are eyes) level with the Stand, delicately handing the paper back. Instead of, say, being an incredibly fragile object teetering on the edge of a shelf, he's now an incredibly fragile object vibrating at speeds too high to be detected by the human senses.
He's excited. Pretty excited.]
Does he do this--does he write often? Do you write often, Gold Experience?
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[Giorno is . . . just sort of standing there. His hand has migrated into a loose fist propped under his chin as he gazes at Gold Experience with the look of a parent whose child has just sprouted extra limbs. His Stand glances back at him for approval and, once it's acquired, turns back to Carlos and shakes his head.]
He's never done it before, [he clarifies.] I didn't actually know he could. Maybe he knows because I do? And his hands are very dextrous, but . . .
[It's sort of disconcerting, to have that come out of nowhere. Is this how Jotaro feels all the time?]
[And then there's also:]
He . . . hm. He wants to know if all of the words are right. I think.
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[He lapses back into a contemplative silence, glancing over at the paper. For a moment, his brow furrows, and he awkwardly stands to cast a worried look at Giorno.]
If you're...messing with me, you can stop now, okay? I'm not--that's not a judgement of you personally, I just...you know. I like to be in on things as opposed to not, when it comes down to it. But if you're not just doing this, there's an "e" in "prune" that he left off, can you tell him that?
[Briefly, there's a glimpse of a different Carlos, one that's not inclined to take people at their face value. While he's certainly out of the lethargic part of the mood shift, something still remains--something that's been fooled one too many times.]
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[He can't fault Carlos for having good instincts.]
[So he swallows down the hurt and just shakes his head instead.]
I've always known he had some level of independent . . . thought, or perspective. But it was never so pronounced at home. Not until he saw Star Platinum, and I don't know if he's just imitating or not, but.
[But Star never wrote anything down. He drew and texted and had cards, but not this.]
[Giorno fiddles with the end of his braid, brow furrowed.]
I think I treat other people's Stands . . . differently than I do him . . . and maybe that's why, because he never had a reason to think anyone was interested in listening, so.
So maybe you should tell him yourself. Since he can understand.
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Well, he's very smart. You're very smart. And only one spelling mistake, too! Very, very smart.
[Oh, you bet he's going to spoil the Stand rotten.]
Do you not talk to him often, Giorno? I guess it's like any being in your care: you have to listen to it. Like dogs, or children, or angels. That's what I've heard, anyways--and it does make sense. I bet he's rather lonely.
[He says this very matter-of-factly, before edging back towards a more sympathetic tone.]
Are you lonely, Gold Experience?
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[It hurts. It's surprising at first, and just that, the strength with which Gold Experience pinballs from one thing to the next, uncertain and unregulated: disbelief that praise is being directed his way; delight in the next moment so bright it burns under Giorno's skin; a guilty metaphysical flex at in your care because Gold Experience knows, of course he does, he knows what he is and he knows what Giorno would rather he was, he's very, very smart.]
[And then: Are you lonely, Gold Experience?]
[Which hurts the worst. Not because it surprises him, but because it's so familiar. It settles into the grooves of pain in the back of his mind and the depths of his bones, because yes, oh yes, Gold Experience is lonely. And Giorno is lonely, with scars of loneliness on the inside of every nerve, but Gold Experience is a walking wound, open and oozing.]
[His Stand, shining, unblinking, shy and lonely, stares up at Carlos and nods, transfixed. And Giorno closes his eyes and shudders in the waves of pain, the thick isolation like treacle in the back of his throat, and covers his mouth with a shaking hand.]
[It takes him a moment, and even when words come through his fingers, they're uncharacteristically rough and bitter and flat.]
He's not in my care. He's just me.
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[Oh.]
[Of course, the emotional transference is to be expected. He knows that Stands and their users weren't easily separated, in every meaning of the phrase, and that the Stand is the manifestation of the soul. These were scientific facts, and he knows them to be true. Processing this into a more practical setting, however, is something he's always struggled with--if a does something in theory, then b does something in the real world. Whatever. His grasp on real world mechanics is tenuous enough, but this is something important.]
[Carlos jerks his head up to look at Giorno, very slowly standing once more. He's just me. The implications there are both obvious and earth-shattering simultaneously, and it takes him a moment to consider his options.]
...Are you lonely, Giorno?
[He knows the answer, but it seems polite to confirm. Rational, even. Alarmingly quickly, his grasp on the situation is faltering, and he refuses to let another person wilt in his care. He's not going to have another Kevin, another Jackie Fierro, another goddamn Apache Tracker, if he can help it. But for now, it's just waiting for something to click, waiting for the prominent feeling of nausea to subside.]
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[His posture is ramrod-straight as his hand falls to his side again, as he hooks his thumbs in his pockets. It's fine, this is fine. Everything's fine. He even managed to bite back don't be silly, since he doesn't want to patronize Carlos, who's about the farthest thing from silly in his life right now. He wants to treat Carlos well always, to shower love and appreciation upon him like he deserves.]
[Because no one ever did for him, not until Bruno. So it's important. It's vital. He has to make sure that doesn't ever happen again. No one should ever be sad and lonely again, and if they do, that means he's failed.]
[He gives a smile, quick and flickering, like a light switch being turned on and off in rapid succession.]
It would be silly to be lonely when there are people all around, don't you think?
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Don't lie to me.
[Though, if his moderately horrified facial expression is anything to go by, there's a sense of immediate regret about saying it. He's already backpedaling, tripping over words that he isn't sure mean anything in even the most facetious of manners. He almost looks afraid--not of Giorno, necessarily, but of a proverbial punishment hanging over his head.]
--Sorry, that was...mm. That was uncalled for, I'm sorry.
[Eventually, he slows down enough to elaborate more beyond frantic apologies and takebacks, eyes still flickering from Gold Experience to Giorno.]
I'm...okay, I meant it, though? Please don't lie to me? I can tell you're lonely--it's...pardon me, but it's not really hard to tell, you know? Or...maybe you don't know, I guess. But you are lonely, and you can be lonely in a world of billions of people, and even lonelier in a world of less than fifty. Sometimes you like talking to people because you--
[He pauses to avoid an inevitable voice crack.]
Because you feel lonely. It's just science.
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[He's biting down hard on the inside of his cheek, frustrated and uncertain. It doesn't seem, logically, like he's done anything wrong by lying. But it feels like he has. Lying to Carlos feels as wrong as killing someone, wronger — like hurting something helpless. Not that Carlos is helpless, but the way Carlos cares for him is so . . . strange and unhurtful, impossible to understand, that it ought to be protected.]
[So he shouldn't lie to Carlos. He shouldn't. The inside of his cheek hurts. He's really sad.]
No, you're right. I shouldn't lie to you. I just . . . do, usually. Lie. To everyone. Unless they ask, and even then . . .
[He gives a brittle smile.]
I don't want anyone to know? That I'm sad. I don't want anyone to know because if I'm lonely then people will try to take care of me and I don't, I can't, I don't know . . . how to let that happen. It doesn't feel good. It sc— I don't like it, Carlos, I don't.
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[He's...well, when it comes down to it, he's unsure of how to deal with this kind of situation. There's a lot of moving parts that he doesn't quite understand--the concept of Stands, Gold Experience specifically, and, well, feelings in general. He's an empathetic person, and he wants so badly to understand why this situation has gone to hell so spectacularly, but his limits are many, especially in the interpersonal area.
He's far from cold, but it takes him a few moments of thought to begin to form an adequate response.]
It's normal to pretend that everything is fine, I think, but not good. I don't...want to patronize you, or whatever it is you're afraid of me doing, but I want to help you in any way I can, alright? You--you probably don't want to talk to me, I think, but that option is open. Just...I don't want you feeling this bad, alright?
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I'm not afraid of you doing anything. I just don't want anyone to know that I'm weak.
[He hesitates, bites his lip. Gold Experience settles back on the floor, watching him with a tight expression.]
I'm not afraid of . . . other people acting some way. I just hate the way I act, and I don't want to be like that, so I just don't want anyone to know . . . I don't know, maybe that doesn't make sense, I'm sorry.
You really think it's bad? To act like things are okay. Doesn't it make things easier for people, to not have to worry?
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[Quietly, he reaches over to tap Giorno's hand, looking more serious...well, than he ever really has.]
It's not bad, per se, but if you're in a bad situation and nobody knows, then it's hard to get out of that kind of hole. Pretending that everything is fine doesn't solve any problems, especially if you convince yourself that you're fine. There's not much to be gained from that. And, well--this sounds kind of ridiculous, but it is true: people don't appreciate being lied to, and they can and will find out, like I did.
[Carlos frowns, almost imperceptible and still very significant. He thinks of a desert. He thinks of a mountain. He thinks of a Smiling God, and he does not smile. Again, he touches Giorno's hand, letting his own hand stay there.]
Don't keep bad things from your loved ones, or they'll just worry more.
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[But Carlos taps his hand, and then rests his own over top of it. Giorno looks up at him with wide eyes, uncertain and searching but not afraid. He's never afraid of Carlos, because Carlos is afraid of too many things, and he doesn't need one more person added to that.]
[For a few moments he's quiet, just thinking. Turning all these words and opinions over in his head, trying to make them make sense. Then, gradually, he nods. Although it must be qualified.]
I think . . . if it was me and someone was upset and they didn't tell me, I'd hate it. No, I know I would. So I don't think it's ridiculous. I just don't think I'm good at being honest.
Do you think it's okay if I—
[God, he hates this. But—]
Do you think it's okay if I try, and I mess up sometimes? I want to do it right. But if it's not right right away, is that bad?
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[He deliberately keeps his voice low, as if there's someone else who might be listening in--and, to him, perhaps there is. He registers Gold Experience as a part of Giorno, but there's really no shaking his initial impression that there's another person in the room, despite there only being two people. Maybe it's just his Night Vale paranoia, but whatever the case, he intends this to be for Giorno and Giorno alone.
His frown deepens, and he grabs Giorno's hand a bit tighter.]
As long as you're trying, I think it's fine to mess up. Nothing comes instantly, and this isn't an exception, you know? Some things are just hard to learn, period, especially when it's something significant. But, um...
[Carlos trails off, looking away. This is too familiar a conversation to be having, about niceness and redemption and honesty, that it actually makes him physically nauseous. Giorno isn't Kevin, but the parallels remain solid in his mind, and his jaw clenches.]
Just try.
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[It takes him too long, probably. He spends the intervening time staring furiously at the floor between their feet, frowning until it looks like it might hurt his face. But finally he figures something out and looks up at Carlos with a stubbornly set jaw.]
I'm not trying to get out of doing what you're suggesting. I want to. But I don't want to make you uncomfortable. So I think it might be a good idea to — to say this is enough trying for today, and start again tomorrow. So we can both have a break.
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I think that's a good idea, yeah. Whatever you feel like you need to do.
[He doesn't try and deny the statement that he is uncomfortable, because it seems contradictory to do so in the wake of a conversation about honesty. He is uncomfortable, but that isn't Giorno's fault, and it makes everything so much more difficult to work through. He starts to say something, something like I'm sorry, but he's been told far too many times that apologies are simply excuses, and so he keeps his mouth shut, even as his thoughts continue to a rapid crescendo.
Before he really knows it--as synapses fire from a to b and his impulses act without his will--he's got Giorno in a very awkward hug, more of the product of a need for comfort as opposed to a need to comfort. It's all sharp edges (when was the last time he did this?), but there's a surprising force to it, regardless of whether or not he notices.]
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[It feels honest.]
[It's an awkward hug. It is, he won't lie, but it feels safe, which is the only thing that matters. Carlos is all sharp edges and brittle lines, but he smells like laundry detergent and something chemical, and he's holding on tight like he doesn't want to ever let go. Of him. Carlos, an important and worthy person, doesn't want to let go of him, Giorno, who is just somebody. Not his child, maybe not even his friend. Just some kid who makes him uncomfortable a lot of the time, who doesn't know how to be normal.]
[Giorno's fingers clench in the back of that perfect lab coat. He doesn't mean them to, but they do. And once he's held on tight, he finds he can't let go, either. Can't stop himself from crying, not once his heart has been well and truly broken, even though it will ruin the pristine white front of Carlos's coat to get tears on it. He cries anyway. It's good to be honest, and so he cries honestly, his body racked with shuddering sobs as he holds on (awkwardly, with sharp edges, and forcefully, because he needs to not be alone right now and so does Carlos).]
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Maybe the world does.
But then he starts crying, and it's painful to hear and see and feel, because Giorno hasn't really ever been that vulnerable before, in his mind. It's like seeing a mountain crumble, if mountains existed, like the total falling apart that everyone experiences at some point, but it seems so strange on Giorno. Maybe the world shouldn't look at him too long--but not like a child shouldn't look at the sun; it's more like the way a child shouldn't look at violence. Giorno crying is violent, and Carlos is proud and worried all at once.
He doesn't know what to say other than repeated whispers of it's alright, so he just holds Giorno a little tighter, waiting for the storm to pass. He's crying himself, though it's not like he truly notices, because he never notices anything important like that. It's alright, he says, again and again, but he means it more than ever.]
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[It's all right, Carlos says, and Giorno doesn't think it is. But he can suspend his disbelief, at least here and for the moment. It's different than if Polnareff said it. Polnareff comforts mindlessly, because he's made of comfort. For Carlos, comfort is an effort, which means he wouldn't do it if he didn't mean it. If he didn't really believe it.]
[It's not all right. But Giorno believes that Carlos believes it is, and that's how he manages to slow his tears: by believing that. They slow to a trickle as he presses his face to Carlos's shoulder, a wave of shame washing over him as he realizes how weak he's been. Recognizing his own weakness makes him feel weaker; he sags and does his best to take up as little space as possible at the same time as he really doesn't want to move at all.]
I'm sorry.
[It's quiet, his voice a little shaky. Maybe a lot shaky. He hates this. But he doesn't want to be alone right now.]
Scientifically speaking--I'm, I'm messing up your coat.
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[And there really isn't: at his core, Carlos is not a liar; it's unnatural to him to even consider lying about anything as important as whatever this is. Maybe it's not alright, exactly, but he percieves himself as telling the truth, and therefore can't be held accountable for any possible lies inherent in the repeated statement. It's all very simple to him, and all simple problems have simple answers.
...Then again, though, what does he know about simplicity? He may not be a liar, but he knows very personally that nothing is quite as black-and-white as that. There are forces at work in Giorno's life that are far more complicated and insidious than any Smiling God, and Carlos understands his lack of understanding about any of them. No, this is not a simple problem, and he does not have a simple role in solving it, by any means. Maybe it's not even his place to solve it: perhaps he's meddling again.
Quietly, he tightens his grip, barely even processing what's being said to him, lost in thought and memory as he so often finds himself. Lost in general, really: he cannot be a scientist in this situation. This is not a simple scientific problem, and treating it like it is will only lead to more things breaking, for better or for worse, and that's not something that he wants. Carlos doesn't have experience with whatever he's doing, but it feels natural, like he's seen it before.
You will not change, or fix, or do anything at all to my little girl.
He exhales sharply, offering the slightest laugh--more of a suggestion of registered humor than anything, but it is sincere. He is not a liar.]
These are made to get dirty. I can scientifically guarantee I've had worse things on it than Italian teenager snot.
[There's more of an actual laugh, now.]