digiorno | ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅲ

if that's what you want
cutie ♥

i will take it back but you can't just smear a strawberry on a card
that is cheating

[If Giorno is in his room, has left his door open, and is listening carefully, he will catch a mysterious mmgkk sound. As if someone got a text that embarrassed them deeply, but has no real grounds to fight on.]

I would NOT do that.
Because it'd be a waste of a good strawberry.
And the result wouldn't even be the color I'm thinking of.

[Ah . . . he wins. He's lying on his stomach on the bed, and he kicks his feet in the air a little delightedly. Danny leans over and licks his face.]

okay then eat the strawberry
i'm going to bake you something with strawberry in it
i just decided
i will put the strawberries to proper use while you go on your paint quest

I will eat the strawberry because they're the best fruit and too good to waste on this kind of nonsense.
Anyway: fine, you keep yourself busy with that.
I'll go on a paint quest. I'll be back later this afternoon.

don't be gone too long or i'll miss you ♥～(‘▽^人)

Okay.
I'm going to take my time and be extra thorough so I can stay out as long as I can.

[B Y E

And by that I mean, there's the sound of Fugo first closing his door between their rooms and then the main one in the hall before he darts down the stairs. He's super gone. Giorno will not catch him red in the face over a few stupid hearts over the watches.]

[Giorno doesn't try to catch up. He'll let Fugo flee rather than chase him down--but he's giggling a lot in his room, and he lets himself just sort of be happy for a while, rolling back and forth across the comforter, before he rolls himself down to the kitchen.]

[What he's got in mind doesn't actually take long to make. It doesn't take much effort, either. It's a simple dish of strawberries, balsamic vinegar, and whipped mascarpone, savory and sweet. But it's super cute, and he's pretty pleased with it. He's sitting on a bar stool at the island in the kitchen and kicking his feet while inspecting his mostly-empty pudding cup when he hears the door open and perks up.]

Fugo? Solo Fugo ottiene spuntini.

[Despite his threat, Fugo's not gone for too long; only for a little more than an hour. First to the library, in the hopes of finding a proper color index and, when that fails, over to the hardware store to pour over a display of paint chips. But in the end he's come away triumphantly with a handful of cards in hand, one of which that proves without a doubt that strawberry is so a real color.

He's busy scuffing his shoes on the welcome mat in the front hall, trying to keep from bringing any dirt and debris into the house, when he hears Giorno's voice from the kitchen. So it's to the kitchen he heads towards, taking the foyer stairs two at a time and leaving all of the doors that connect the main hallway to the kitchen (of which there are four, meaning Mista would never come this way) open wide behind him.]

Found you! [He says, as if Giorno were lost to begin with. Like most times when he's pleased, Fugo doesn't quite grin. But his eyes are crinkled in the corners and his gestures are light and energetic, especially the way he drops his paint cards on the counter when he takes a seat on a stool next to Giorno. Instead of immediately going for the snack, he neatly and precisely lines the cards up so Giorno can see the scale of colors. And, very helpfully, points out strawberry between "summer punch" and "casino pink".] See? Told you it was a real color.

Oh, there you are!

[He was already smiling, but once Fugo's in the kitchen with him his smile goes from forty watts to about two hundred. He rests his chin on his hand as Fugo gets settled, then pulls the ""strawberry"" card towards him with two fingers and a skeptical expression.]

. . . You know, it's very cute, but it doesn't really look pink, Fugo.

[It doesn't look pink anymore, actually. It looks very complicated and fabulous and also alive. It crawls up Giorno's forearm as he watches it with interest.]

Not compelling evidence, I have to say.

[Giorno is such a cheater. He's entirely duplicitous. Letting him escape to prove a point that doesn't really matter, plying him with snacks, just to turn his evidence into an admittedly very pretty looking mantis in the end. And the worst part is that he's not really mad about it, because those strawberries look very good, Giorno is smiling, and he really wants to know more about that mantis.]

Transforming my evidence doesn't make me any less right. [His hand snakes out for the glass of strawberries, examining it with interest before he neatly fishes out a bite with a spoon.] What species is that?

[His grin goes a little toothy for a moment. He wins. He wins, and he's distracted Fugo, and this bug is really pretty. He lifts his arm so Fugo can see the way it moves, slowly, like a leaf moving in the wind.]

Idolomantis diabolica. The devil's flower mantis. Do you know what a deimatic display is? Look . . .

[He ducks his head a little, getting closer than the mantis seems to appreciate; it moves quickly into a threatening posture. Heck off.]

[And he does, of course, respectfully.]

They live in Africa. In the rainforests there. Pretty, right?

[Fugo watches, completely distracted from their former argument by the delicate and precise movements of the mantis, a spoonful of strawberry and mascarpone poised in the air.]

[He murmurs, appreciatively:] Sei bella...

[Ah, right. The dessert. Fugo takes his bite while he both puts the name and the facts Giorno has presented him with to memory and calls up the definition of deimatic display. He doesn't recite it immediately, instead taking time to make a second appreciative noise about the strawberries. They're very, very good.]

Deimatic display: any pattern of threatening or startling behavior. In this case, the subject is making itself seem larger and is displaying warning coloration.

[Fugo thinks the mantis is pretty. Fugo knows what a deimatic display is. Fugo likes his strawberries. Giorno is pretty sure that Fugo is happy.]

[It's really nice. He watches the mantis slowly calm down and shift back to its normal posture, then start crawling up towards his elbow again.]

I like that you know things like that. It's nice to be able to talk to someone about it and not have to explain everything. Even Jotaro mostly just knows about ocean things, and other people--I don't know! I love so many people, but I just want to talk about bugs sometimes and not fencing or romantic comedies.

[As far as moments go, Fugo is pretty content to be living in this one. He gets to eat strawberries and watch a pretty insect carefully climb up Giorno's arm. And razz a little on Polnareff and Mista, which should be a national sport.]

Without Mista around to explain them for me, I think I know more about bugs than I do about romantic comedies and fencing combined. [He shrugs.] We all have our specialties.

Bugs are a better specialty than either of those things, [he insists firmly as the mantis perches uncertainly on his shoulder.] The real world doesn't work like that, you know? I like things I can understand and--

[Control, was the next thing, but he closes his mouth and frowns briefly because he's not supposed to be doing that so much anymore. What's terrifying is that he's finding himself being all right at it, acclimating to it, and what if he's never able to go back?]

[Besides which, it's not true. Sometimes the real world does work like that. It did once here, even though it was just for a couple of days.]

[He fidgets a little, wrinkles his nose.]

I watched Pretty Woman about a million times anyway. After. I wanted to understand.

[Ah. That's right. Giorno would get it. Or, well-- not get it, in this case. Fugo idly moves his spoon around the glass, fishing out another bite of his snack.]

Do you? [He takes his bite and then, after a moment of reflection around marscapone, adds on:] Understand it now. Or better. Even with Mista giving his own director's commentary on it, I'm not sure I do.

[He makes a thoughtful, contemplative noise. The mantis crawls across the back of his neck, which makes him shiver a little, and then he holds his hand out and wags it back and forth. So-so.]

I understand what it's going for, I think. The idea that everything will all work out and that there's a happy ending that leaves everyone satisfied and everything okay. And I understand why Mista likes that kind of thing, because he's a good person and he wants to believe in good things.

I wish I understood it like he does--or believe in it, I suppose, because a part of him really does think . . . that kind of thing happens. And I like that about him. But I don't really believe in it. There's no such thing as an ending, much less a happy one.

[A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, just briefly.]

Well. But that's why he's an important person to have around, because he doesn't think like we do. It's a good balance, even if I don't think he's right. And it's cute when he gets all excited about it.

[While Giorno talks, Fugo absently gathers his paint chip cards. He taps them into a neat, organized stack before pushing them out of the way so he can settle on the table; then he sits with his elbow perched in his chin, content just to listen to Giorno share his thoughts about the movie, the genre at large, and Mista. And he finds them to be entirely reasonable.]

That's just Mista for you. How did he put it? [He fishes another bite out while he thinks. As the turn of phrase comes to him, he gestures grandly with a spoonful of strawberries.] Ah, that's it. He's a super lucky, mega-nice guy born under a blessed star.

[Fugo chuckles to himself. Funny how, looking back on it, that afternoon doesn't seem as awful as it had been at the time. It had been pretty terrifying to live through-- but with a little distance, he can see through some of Mista's posturing. That dramatic fuck.]

I know he just said it to sound cool but it's all true, you know? He's a good person to be around.

[He doesn't think things will ever really be right between them again; not like they were before. But he misses Mista in the same sort of way he misses the rest of Napoli: Mista just should be here, just like he and Giorno should be there. It's bullshit that both of those facts have been flouted.]

Ugh.

[Giorno wrinkles his nose.]

Of course he said that . . . and meant it.

[He hates that that's cute. It's so cute, though, and he wrinkles his nose up further, feeling a little fussy and lonely in a very specific way. His sulkiness is somewhat ruined by the mantis crawling up over the top of his head.]

He's so stupid. [Stupid jerk Mista who isn't here.] People like him aren't supposed to be real. It's annoying. That's why he likes those movies, is because he's just as obnoxiously improbable as they are.

[Is Giorno's sulk magnified or ruined by the mantis that's delicately scaling his curls? Considering that he wants to laugh, probably the latter. But Fugo's a good friend. He likes Giorno, even though he cheats at arguments to get his way. So he keeps his chuckles locked up in his chest and distracts himself with eating some more of his strawberries.]

He is. [This is a statement of fact, but a fond one.] Every time I think I have him figured out, he finds a new way to surprise me. Although I suppose part of that is just-- [He shrugs.] Getting used to Mista again.

[Six months, as it turns out, is a long time to be away from the friends who were your family, not talking to much of anybody. So perhaps a more accurate way of putting it would be getting used to people who weren't strangers again.]

He's a lot to handle sometimes. For me, I mean. Better now, but . . .

[He shrugs a little, glancing upwards as the mantis peers down over the edge of his rolls.]

I was pretty afraid of all three of you, that first day. You were loud. So I understand.

[He thinks he does, anyway--and gives Fugo a slightly worried look, because he remembers what he went through, and that wasn't after any sort of betrayal, even.]

He hasn't been awful to you, has he?

[Fugo nods, sympathetic and sheepish in equal measures. There had been a lot of yelling, stabbing, and-- well, all things considered an excessive amount of urine. He still can't believe Leone Abbacchio was, at that moment in time, an actual adult supposedly in charge of the three of them while Bruno was running errands.]

Mista? Oh, no. Nothing like that. It's just been-- [Fugo shifts his weight restlessly on the stool. He doesn't want to worry Giorno; neither does he want to lie.] We talk sometimes. But things aren't the same between us anymore. [He quickly adds:] And I don't expect them to be, after what I did. Honestly, I'm just glad that he and Trish are okay with me being there at all.

[So that's a yes. Well--sort of a yes. Giorno considers it a yes, even though rationally he knows that Mista and Fugo have never had the kind of relationship he and Mista have. Had. Have? Have. He frowns a little, quickly and sharply, fighting off a sudden swell of emotion. Homesickness and longing and frustration. He knows he can't make people get along, but he wants to. All the people he loves should love each other.]

. . . He cares about you, you know. So much.

[Uncertainly, he pushes his hair behind his ear.]

He's just hurt. But it's not always going to be like that. I know him. I--not as well as you do. I know I don't know him that well, but I . . .

We all want you back. We all care about you. And Passione is your home, always.

[Fugo's gaze slowly drops to the table. He would like to say I know he does. But when it comes down to it, really, he doesn't. He knows that Mista has accepted his presence in Passione. He knows that Mista doesn't doubt his work. But there's a wavering, mirage-like distance between them. How big is it? How far away are they? Is it possible to cross? Is trying even the right thing to do? He doesn't know. Just thinking about it hurts. And he's so tired of hurting the people he cares about.]

I don't think I could ever know him even half as well as you do, Giogio. [His expression twists, distantly, into the shape of a smile, wistful and fond for a time that's half a year gone. He traces a surprisingly steady spiral on the surface of the table, slowly expanding from a tight point in the center.] I don't expect things to be easy. And I don't think they should be the same. He's treated me very fairly, considering everything.

[Love, as Fugo has come to understand it, between family or friends or lovers is like a line. There are startpoints and endpoints. It's directly correlated to behavior and choices and the ability to perform. Fugo can draw a line from the time Mista brought home some old Clint Eastwood film just days after he'd come to live with them to the morning of April 2: graph out his friendship with Mista, with all of its highs and lows.]

I'm very glad to be home, no matter what. [He looks up at Giorno, sick at heart but still stumbling forward, half-step by half-step.] And I-- ... don't think he would have helped you or been waiting for you to bring me back if he didn't want me to be there.

[He can tell that much, at least. He can see that Mista respects Giorno's opinion and his decisions. He knows that Mista doesn't doubt the work he does or even his loyalty to the cause. It's the everything else that's up in the air right now, both of them uncertain who should move to catch the first falling point of what used to be their friendship.]

[I don't think I could ever know him even half as well as you do. Despite himself, Giorno flushes a little. It's not--it isn't, he knows, that's not what Fugo meant, but he's guilty all over suddenly. It feels like he's stolen Mista from someone who was his friend for years, and . . . and he doesn't even have him anymore, so what's the point?]

[Without thinking about it, he brings his fingers up to his mouth. Once he realizes, he balls them quickly into a fist, but he can't--he can't not miss Mista. He misses him so much it squeezes his heart so hard that it feels like all the good in him is being wrung out.]

[What he wants to say is Io lo amo, ti amo, but that's ridiculous, and anyway he can't. He digs half-moons into his palm with his nails and manages a shaky smile.]

I . . . care about you both. So much. And I--I don't want to tell you what to feel. But. Fugo, I.

[Oh. And . . . and he's crying a little. Just very small tears, and they're perched on his lashes instead of falling, but they're there. Did he ever cry, before? When Mista left, did he cry or did he lock himself in anger.]

I'm sad, [he says, as firmly as he can,] that we can't all be together. That's all.

ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅲ

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

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)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)