[He doesn't bother replying. Honestly, when he hears his watch go off, he doesn't even look at it. He's done for the night. If he gets another text, it will be from Dio, and that he will respond to.]
[He gets a couple of hours of sleep, three max. When he wakes up, he feels worse than he would have if he'd just stayed up. He checks his watch; Dio still hasn't contacted him, and to soothe his anxiety about that he takes an extra-hot shower, spends more time than usual on his hair. Everything about him is precise curves and lines when he comes down to make coffee, like he's slept for days, been up for hours. His fingers curve around his mug, and he waits, reaching out with life sense to the front door.]
[He slips in around eight, though he'd left Dio near dawn. It was soothing to wander for a while in the empty streets, hands shoved in his pockets, mind working and thoughts whirling. He'd smoked too much, down half a pack in less than three hours, but there are worse ways to cope. Anyone within a ten foot radius will smell what he's been doing, but that's their problem, not his.
Nevertheless, the scent of coffee hits him when he slips in, and though he has a damn good idea of who might be waiting for him, he heads to the kitchen. Best to get this over with now, before anyone else wakes up, before it becomes something that isn't just the two of them. Three of them. Whichever.
Giorno looks immaculate. Not just fresh, but perfect, as though he'd just sat down, as though nothing was wrong. Polnareff knows he looks a damn sight worse, but at least his expression is nearly as neutral. Someone like Giorno might be able to pick up on a few emotions-- fear, grief, exhaustion, and even apathy-- but he tries to keep them all tucked away as he moves to spin a chair and straddle it.]
[It's funny. Life sense tells him about . . . life and death. Health, to some extent, and weakness. Not feelings. So Gold Experience hasn't weakened his natural tendency to read people.]
[Exhaustion is strong, when Polnareff stumbles into the room; that's what he senses first. The rest comes in a slow trickle of observation.]
[He doesn't seem fazed. Actually, he thinks it's a good idea. This conversation will probably be exhausting, and neither of them have slept. Of course, he won't go back to sleep himself. He'll keep busy. He hates the alternate. Stillness is for the old days.]
You can smoke. [A beat.] Do you have questions about our conversation last night? If so, this would be the time to ask them.
[A good start. Does he? Not about the logic of Giorno's argument-- no, he'd laid that out perfectly clearly, and the bits of Polnareff not consumed with bruised pride and hurt appreciate it. Admittedly, said appreciation is a very minor part-- but it's there.
No, it isn't the conversation that has him reeling. But he doesn't know how to articulate you seem like an entirely different person without coming across an idiot. And while he could be an idiot in front of the kid who calls him Papa, he can't ever in front of this man. He won't, rather, because there's only so much grief he can take.
(Now he can see Dio in Giorno. Those cool blue eyes, that clipped tone-- oh, yes, he can easily see Giorno's parentage now).]
Now what?
[Not a question about last night, but a question nonetheless. Polnareff gestures between them, highlighting an invisible thread.]
[How to say this. It isn't that he thinks Giorno is entirely done with him, that their friendship is completely shattered-- but they aren't going to be back to normal in an instant, and Polnareff doesn't know what to do until then.]
You sounded pretty done with me last night. So I guess-- do you want me to stay out of your way for a while?
[That has him looking down at his coffee, not in a desire to avert his gaze (because in this headspace, he would never, ever back down), but because it helps him think. The idea of Polnareff staying out of his way is distasteful. The idea of him being very close is also distasteful. Everything is distasteful right now. He doesn't want anything to do with anyone but Bruno and Dio, and Izabel, but she's gone, and he has to keep reminding himself of that.]
[However, "I'm not sure" is not an acceptable answer. Not for him, not when he is what he is. He must be decisive.]
[There is a significant pause while he thinks. Then:]
I wasn't done with you. But I thought you were wrong, and I thought that you should know why I felt that way; neither of us would gain anything by being dishonest.
So, first and foremost, I think I should apologize. I was unnecessarily harsh and I took your words out of context. It's a touchy subject for all of us, but you all know where you stand. My position is more precarious. I am not a Joestar. You can all tell me I am until you're out of breath, but that doesn't make it so. My . . . acceptability is conditional. I'm expected to toe a certain line. I don't think that any of you even realize that, you know, but it's still true.
Which is fine, and I accept it. I always have. Being worried made me more sensitive about it, however, and I shouldn't have allowed myself to snap in the way that I did. So I'm sorry.
That being said, I don't want you to stay out of my way. I'll probably be scarce for a few days, but not because I don't want to see you. Or Jotaro, who I assume you also spoke to.
[He wonders if it's like this with everyone and Giorno. If he'll say a few words and suddenly everyone gets that one moment, that slight shift and tick in gears that makes understanding so much easier.
This time, it's not a leap of logic so much as an emotional connection. Giorno glances down, and when he meets his gaze again his tone is . . . well. Still removed, yeah, but less so, and it feels like they've taken a step closer to one another. I apologize, and it's like something in Polnareff unwinds. Polnareff relaxes slightly against the chair, his shoulders going down. A slight exhale, then, and he nods in acceptance.
As for the rest . . . well. He can't argue with it, no matter how much he wants to. The world isn't split so evenly between good and bad, despite what he'd like to think. I am not a Joestar, and that means more than just bloodlines. It's a line in the sand between Jonathan and Dio, and Giorno does indeed toe that line.
(He wonders, selfishly, what side Giorno considers his consigliere on. What he thought an older Polnareff would do, when push came to shove).
My acceptability is conditional, and maybe it's harder for him to see, coming in when he did, seeing Jotaro already so accepting of Giorno, no apparent strings attached. Certainly he'd never thought about it before last night.
What you want. Well. That was a little harder to define. I want to understand who you are now and who I'm used to; I want things to be back to normal; I want to be someone you can talk to. ]
[He frowns slightly, not at Polnareff but down at the back of his hand on the table. Then his lips twitch into an uncertain smile.]
Most people where I come from aren't interested in mending. Just bending or breaking, you know? So I'm not sure . . .
[To mend this between us. That means that he is a priority, in Polnareff's eyes. He is the end goal. He has to sit with that for a moment before he can respond.]
It's difficult for me to not . . . to understand. The way you do, the way Jotaro does, the way Kakyoin does. To see . . . what it's like to look at a child and see something to be eliminated. There's too much—
[He breathes in sharply, out slowly.]
Bruno would be upset with me if I thought like that. If I treated a child like a monster. And after he died, I swore to myself to uphold his values unless it was absolutely necessary that I not do so, for the sake of his memory and his spirit. So the closer I brush up against it, that mentality, the more it feels like stepping on nails.
That's not an answer to your question. But I think I . . . have to start from there, to move forward.
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no subject
[He gets a couple of hours of sleep, three max. When he wakes up, he feels worse than he would have if he'd just stayed up. He checks his watch; Dio still hasn't contacted him, and to soothe his anxiety about that he takes an extra-hot shower, spends more time than usual on his hair. Everything about him is precise curves and lines when he comes down to make coffee, like he's slept for days, been up for hours. His fingers curve around his mug, and he waits, reaching out with life sense to the front door.]
[He will feel Polnareff as soon as he comes in.]
no subject
Nevertheless, the scent of coffee hits him when he slips in, and though he has a damn good idea of who might be waiting for him, he heads to the kitchen. Best to get this over with now, before anyone else wakes up, before it becomes something that isn't just the two of them. Three of them. Whichever.
Giorno looks immaculate. Not just fresh, but perfect, as though he'd just sat down, as though nothing was wrong. Polnareff knows he looks a damn sight worse, but at least his expression is nearly as neutral. Someone like Giorno might be able to pick up on a few emotions-- fear, grief, exhaustion, and even apathy-- but he tries to keep them all tucked away as he moves to spin a chair and straddle it.]
no subject
[Exhaustion is strong, when Polnareff stumbles into the room; that's what he senses first. The rest comes in a slow trickle of observation.]
You don't want any coffee?
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[He fiddles with the cigarette pack-- not yet lighting one up, but it's good to have something to occupy this hands.
He meets his gaze. He might normally start the conversation-- but after last night, maybe it's better to let Giorno lead the way.]
no subject
[He doesn't seem fazed. Actually, he thinks it's a good idea. This conversation will probably be exhausting, and neither of them have slept. Of course, he won't go back to sleep himself. He'll keep busy. He hates the alternate. Stillness is for the old days.]
You can smoke. [A beat.] Do you have questions about our conversation last night? If so, this would be the time to ask them.
no subject
No, it isn't the conversation that has him reeling. But he doesn't know how to articulate you seem like an entirely different person without coming across an idiot. And while he could be an idiot in front of the kid who calls him Papa, he can't ever in front of this man. He won't, rather, because there's only so much grief he can take.
(Now he can see Dio in Giorno. Those cool blue eyes, that clipped tone-- oh, yes, he can easily see Giorno's parentage now).]
Now what?
[Not a question about last night, but a question nonetheless. Polnareff gestures between them, highlighting an invisible thread.]
With you and me. What do you want to happen next?
no subject
I'm not sure what you mean by that.
no subject
[How to say this. It isn't that he thinks Giorno is entirely done with him, that their friendship is completely shattered-- but they aren't going to be back to normal in an instant, and Polnareff doesn't know what to do until then.]
You sounded pretty done with me last night. So I guess-- do you want me to stay out of your way for a while?
no subject
[However, "I'm not sure" is not an acceptable answer. Not for him, not when he is what he is. He must be decisive.]
[There is a significant pause while he thinks. Then:]
I wasn't done with you. But I thought you were wrong, and I thought that you should know why I felt that way; neither of us would gain anything by being dishonest.
So, first and foremost, I think I should apologize. I was unnecessarily harsh and I took your words out of context. It's a touchy subject for all of us, but you all know where you stand. My position is more precarious. I am not a Joestar. You can all tell me I am until you're out of breath, but that doesn't make it so. My . . . acceptability is conditional. I'm expected to toe a certain line. I don't think that any of you even realize that, you know, but it's still true.
Which is fine, and I accept it. I always have. Being worried made me more sensitive about it, however, and I shouldn't have allowed myself to snap in the way that I did. So I'm sorry.
That being said, I don't want you to stay out of my way. I'll probably be scarce for a few days, but not because I don't want to see you. Or Jotaro, who I assume you also spoke to.
I'm curious to know what you want.
no subject
This time, it's not a leap of logic so much as an emotional connection. Giorno glances down, and when he meets his gaze again his tone is . . . well. Still removed, yeah, but less so, and it feels like they've taken a step closer to one another. I apologize, and it's like something in Polnareff unwinds. Polnareff relaxes slightly against the chair, his shoulders going down. A slight exhale, then, and he nods in acceptance.
As for the rest . . . well. He can't argue with it, no matter how much he wants to. The world isn't split so evenly between good and bad, despite what he'd like to think. I am not a Joestar, and that means more than just bloodlines. It's a line in the sand between Jonathan and Dio, and Giorno does indeed toe that line.
(He wonders, selfishly, what side Giorno considers his consigliere on. What he thought an older Polnareff would do, when push came to shove).
My acceptability is conditional, and maybe it's harder for him to see, coming in when he did, seeing Jotaro already so accepting of Giorno, no apparent strings attached. Certainly he'd never thought about it before last night.
What you want. Well. That was a little harder to define. I want to understand who you are now and who I'm used to; I want things to be back to normal; I want to be someone you can talk to. ]
To mend this between us.
no subject
[He frowns slightly, not at Polnareff but down at the back of his hand on the table. Then his lips twitch into an uncertain smile.]
Most people where I come from aren't interested in mending. Just bending or breaking, you know? So I'm not sure . . .
[To mend this between us. That means that he is a priority, in Polnareff's eyes. He is the end goal. He has to sit with that for a moment before he can respond.]
It's difficult for me to not . . . to understand. The way you do, the way Jotaro does, the way Kakyoin does. To see . . . what it's like to look at a child and see something to be eliminated. There's too much—
[He breathes in sharply, out slowly.]
Bruno would be upset with me if I thought like that. If I treated a child like a monster. And after he died, I swore to myself to uphold his values unless it was absolutely necessary that I not do so, for the sake of his memory and his spirit. So the closer I brush up against it, that mentality, the more it feels like stepping on nails.
That's not an answer to your question. But I think I . . . have to start from there, to move forward.