digiorno | ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅲ

[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.

[Oh, Giogio.]

[Fugo looks at him and ... aches. He can see it: the phantom pain of a lost limb lingering on in Giorno. A pain that never leaves him, not really, and only seems to get worse as time goes on. Mista should be here. That's just a fact. It's something he's known since he got here. It hasn't changed. But before now, he could only guess at the depth and breadth of Giorno's pain; now, he knows for certain that there's not a unit of measurement that could assign an accurate value to it.]

[Before anything else, Fugo lightly reaches to the crown of Giorno's head; holds his hand out to the mantis that is still standing, beautiful and vigilant, among his curls. When it lightly walks onto his knuckles, he carefully brings it down to the table. And then he rests one hand over Giorno's, fingers gently tracing little circles onto Giorno's white, painfully tight knuckles.]

I miss him. [What he misses is difficult to define. He misses Mista of the present, Giorno's missing right hand. But he also misses Mista of the past, who wasn't afraid to put his arm around his shoulders and made him watch movies and cajoled him into being his wingman on the beach.

He misses Mista, their friend.]

Edited 2016-11-28 07:44 (UTC)

[It isn't fair. It isn't fair, the way Fugo takes the time to ensure the safety of the mantis before he moves any further. Giorno doesn't even have to look at him to know that he's not doing it to protect himself--that he's doing it because he knows Giorno wouldn't want the thing hurt. In this moment, as his tears start to fall, as he knows there's no going back from this, as he watches the mantis creep across the table through his swimming vision, he hates himself for being so obvious.]

[He hates himself for a lot of reasons. He feels like his heart is being torn into pieces with loving Fugo so much and missing home and wanting to be here but also not, wanting Mista and Trish and the Polnareff he knows but the Polnareff here, too, and Fugo exactly as he is but Fugo bigger and brighter and happier, Jotaro and Kakyoin and Italia under his thumb. He loves too much, and it makes him too vulnerable, too broken, too lonely--wasn't it better when he didn't love anyone? Wasn't that smarter?]

[Except then Fugo's hand is on his, his fingers long and spidery and soft and soothing. Spiders have eight legs--four and four--but they are also lucky. He is so tired of seeing Mista everywhere he goes. He never cried. He was only angry. He never cried, because crying hurts too much, but now, with Fugo's hand over his, now--]

[He breaks. A choked sob comes out of nowhere, visibly startling him until he realizes where it's coming from (from him, bursting out of his throat like a death rattle); then his face is crumpling in shame, and there's no going back, is there, there's no recovering from being so broken.]

I miss him, [he whispers hoarsely, before supporting himself becomes too much and too awful and too lonely. One hand scrabbles against Fugo's fingers, the other against the fabric of his shirt; he's breathless and shaking, ugly sobs juddering out of him that he's still trying to smother. His hands are shaking.] I miss him! Fugo--

[It's a plea, all agony. Help me.]

[Giorno is reaching for him, desperately, frantically, as if he's the last solid thing in an ocean of sadness. He's hurting so much-- he's been hurting, trying to carry his grief and loneliness to a place where only he has to be hurt by it. It's only by chance that Fugo has opened that door to let it all out in the open air.

Fugo doesn't hesitate. Not in taking Giorno's hand, making it so there isn't even a millimeter of air between their palms and locking their fingers together, or in moving forward to catch him before he even starts to fall. He briefly stands, holding up Giorno's weight on his narrow shoulder while he hooks his stool with his foot to draw it as close he can-- a little too close, even, because he ends up resting his feet on one of the bottom rungs of Giorno's stool when he sits down again. But it's fine, really. This way he can use his whole body to create a circle of space around Giorno; the space is small, but safe. Safe to be in and safe to cry in.]

I know. [In a perfect world, maybe, he would be able to keep his voice entirely steady. But Ruby City is far from perfect. For all the good things about it, there are certain facts that make it completely awful. And one of those facts is that Mista is not be here when he should be. Even though things aren't the same, probably won't ever be the same again, his absence is painful for Fugo too. He can't bring Mista here. He can't find a way to bring Giorno home, where they belong-- let alone scooping out all the good parts of Ruby City to bring back with them.

But in this imperfect world, where Fugo's voice wavers with an echo of Girono's grief and unhappiness, at least neither of them have to bear up under it alone. I know doesn't just mean that he knows that Giorno hurts: I know means I understand and if you cannot stand, let me hold you up.]

Where is he?

[It's not a fair question to ask. He knows that, he knows even as he asks it, and another sob racks his body at the unfairness of it, at how merciless and selfish he can be in the midst of his own pain. Even now, knowing how much Fugo is hurting, too, Giorno doesn't stop and pull himself together, push his hurt away in favor of keeping Fugo's in the foreground. He hates himself for it, but right now there's nothing else he can do.]

[Where is he--and at the very least he doesn't ask it again, just crumples until his face is pressed against Fugo's shoulder, his shoulders shaking. It hurts him, it does, so so so much, the way he feels tears streaking down his cheeks and making a mess of his face and Fugo's shirt. It isn't fair; he doesn't want to look like this, he doesn't want to be like this. Especially not for Fugo, who needs--something better.]

[Except all he is is Giorno, really, anymore.]

I need him . . . [His voice is small and desperate now, thick with tears.] Where is he? Why--why can't I keep him here?

[Mista is not here. And that's it: that's the single worst thing about Ruby City. There's something standing between the magnetic force that pulls Mista and Giorno together. Something that can't be fought against, can't be reasoned with, can't be bought or paid off. It isn't fair. It isn't right.]

You're going to see him again. [It's so frustrating. He wants to be able to give Giorno a concrete answer. A proper solution. He wants to go at it with a proper plan of attack, work out exactly what needs to be done to bring Mista here and not whatever crack of space and time he's fallen into. But he can't, because this is a problem with no practical solution.

It's not a matter of reasoning it out; if that were possible, Giorno would have done it already. It's not a matter of strength, either; if it were, Giorno would have long since defeated what stood between them. The most he can do, the best comfort he can offer, is an unwavering faith that there will come a day where this will no longer be. His arm cinches tight around Giorno's shoulders and his fingers clutch tightly around Giorno's hand.

Fugo doesn't believe in God. But he believes in Guido Mista, whose place is at Giorno's right hand. Maybe it won't be today, maybe it won't be tomorrow, maybe it won't be for months or years--but Fugo chooses to believe, irrationally and illogically, that the strength of their bond will eventually and inevitably bring them together again.]

[It . . . helps. It does. It doesn't help a lot; it doesn't make him feel safe, or hopeful, or anything close to good, this reassurance that someday the bottomless feeling of loss will end. What it does, instead, is fill a tiny portion of the emptiness with something. Anything. Giorno doesn't even know what it is, and in a way, what it is doesn't matter. As long as it's presence rather than absence, that's what matters.]

[Mista isn't here. Giorno is not alone, but Mista isn't here. And there's a part of him that knows, sickeningly, that he has spent more time away from Mista now than he ever knew him in person.]

[To someone else, that would matter. To someone normal, that would be unsettling. Maybe it would make them question that connection, that bond. But Giorno never will. Mista belongs to his heart. Mista is his heart--and his right hand, and his breath, and his light. There will never be a day in his life that he is not in love with Guido Mista.]

[At least, he thinks, as his breathing slows to normal and his fingers clench and unclench in Fugo's shirt, he's not alone with that, anymore.]

. . . 'm sorry.

[His voice is thick, muffled, weak. He sniffs a little, ashamed, and buries his face further, just for another couple of moments, before he has to face the world and be brave again.]

It's not fair . . . not when I know you miss him to. I just don't-- [A shudder wracks him, makes his whole body shake before stilling again. A sob, but he's killed it successfully.] Nobody understands the same way. That you do. But I'm still sorry.

[Giorno's tears don't last for long. He cries, but only for a little while. Only until he can choke and swallow down his misery without gagging on it. Fugo wishes he'd let himself cry a little longer; let himself grieve for the person whose loss he feels so painfully. But he does cry, enough that Fugo's shirtfront is damp with tears. And that's important, he thinks. That Giorno can let go and express a little bit of his pain.

While Giorno was crying, Fugo only held him. He made a space between his arms, crafted a shelter with his whole body. But he didn't try to comfort or soothe Giorno; nothing that might help him with smothering his own sadness. The comfort comes now after he's cried, in soothing circles on his back and Fugo resting his cheek on the top of Giorno's head. A stray hairpin from Giorno's victory rolls pokes him in the throat, but he doesn't pay it any attention. He holds him, breathing in slow and steadily out, as close as he can to his own heartbeat.]

Grief isn't fair. It just is. [It's just heavy. Heavy, cold, and exhausting. A burden whose weight is impossible to judge until it slips from his fingers and cracks the earth underneath his feet and he has to bend down, back cracking, to pick it up again.] I'd rather miss him together with you than any of the alternatives.

If I hadn't cried on you, your shirt would still be nicely pressed.

[This is his argument. It made sense in his head, back before he actually let all of the words fall out of his mouth. Now, listening to it ring in the infinitesimal space between them, it sounds idiotic. If he was burning with shame before, he's a fireball now.]

[He makes a noise of disgust--at himself, always at himself--and wipes at his eyes. He's determined not to cry anymore. He's determined to wipe the flecks of mascara off of his face before he lifts his head. He doesn't want to be like this in front of Fugo, or in front of anyone.]

Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say. I just hate this. I hate crying. I hate crying in front of people most of all.

I get so angry with him sometimes. That's stupid, too. Everything's so--fucking stupid, Fugo.

[Fugo doesn't laugh. But he does make a noise that comes close to humor: a knowing, almost self-deprecating huff.]

I said something like that to Buccellati when I first got here. So I guess we're both prone to saying stupid things after we cry. [After folding in on himself and crying onto Bruno's shoulder, he had wept like a little child. But instead of being angry about the state of his suit, or reprimanding him for making a scene in the middle of the street, Bruno brushed away the last of his tears with his thumb and told him it's fine.] But, for the record. I don't really care about this shirt. You matter much more.

[Unlike Bruno, Fugo doesn't try to reassure Giorno that it's okay. Because he hates crying too and the way it leaves him feeling empty and scraped out on the inside after. Several sources tell him that crying is supposedly cathartic, but it never feels that way. It always just feels awful and pointless.]

I hate how still it is here. [He's so tired of just being. He itches to move forward, but Ruby City has him pinned and fastened in one place.] It's stupid and exhausting.

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