digiorno | ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅲ

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.

Oh. You . . . did? You don't?

[I do? But Giorno doesn't ask it. It seems insulting, somehow, to doubt that--and anyway, he doesn't really. He trusts Fugo to always tell him the truth.]

[Instead of doubting, he decides to curl his fingers in the front of Fugo's shirt and nod slightly. Just a little bit.]

I'm . . . glad we're the same in all these ways. Even though I don't want you to hurt the way I hurt. I want . . . to not be alone. Is that terrible?

I did, because I was worried. And I don't, because clothes are whatever. [His hold around Giorno's shoulders briefly tightens.] You're the opposite of that.

[When it comes down to it, Fugo doesn't really care what he wears. He likes bright colors and offending the sensibilities of the general population, but would stop if someone important enough told him to.]

I don't think so. I don't want you to hurt either, but... [This is so selfish of him to think, but it's true.] It's a relief not to be alone with it.

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