EVENT ★ WINTER WONDERLAND, THE RECKONING

[futurologists]

HAPPY (NONDENOMINATIONAL) HOLIDAYS When recruits arrive back at Oska, they'll find the place already full of other ALASTAIR teams visiting Oska, and the castle and grounds entirely decked out in festive cheer. The castle is draped in purple and white finery, with a light dusting of unmelting snow everywhere -- even inside, somehow. Don't worry, the indoor snow has been enchanted to be strangely warm. Dagny has taken it upon herself to add a little plant life in and around the castle: mistletoe, of course. It can be spotted growing in little sprigs out of chinks in castle walls, around from wooden doorframes, or even sprouting out of other, unrelated trees. You're never really safe from mistletoe. And what would the use of mistletoe be without the enchantment? Dagny has made sure that there are enough variant species of the mistletoe to offer something for everyone. Recruits may find themselves stuck under any manner of mistletoe, trapped until they fulfill the mistletoe geas. The Classic: This is the standard magical mistletoe, that traps people in a lightly shimmering sphere until they exchange a kiss. Any kind of kiss will do, just pucker up! The Papilion: This is similar to the classic, but its berries come in brilliant shades of orange and pink. It will only release its catch after a butterfly kiss. Clinging Merriment: This mistletoe is all wrapped up in itself, and climbs whatever surface it's on in twisting spirals. All it wants from its catch is a hug, but make it a good one! The Lively Stepper: This mistletoe seems to shiver in some unfelt breeze, and if you listen closely enough, there's a gentle chime of bells that fades when you lean away from it again. People stuck under this plant will have to dance together, to whatever music they can find or make. Whispering Mary: This mistletoe comes with deep purple leaves and seems to hide within itself. Only after a secret has been shared from each person trapped under it will it flower open and release them. Evening Gown: This mistletoe is a gaudy display, with brilliant green leaves and splendid white blossoms instead of berries. It will only release its catch after they compliment each other -- and the Evening Gown always knows when it hears a genuine compliment, and accepts no substitutions! Catflowers: Dagny didn't put this kind out, and has named them after the suspected perpetrators. She's been trying to take them down when she finds them, but there might be a few she's missed. This thorny sprig of mistletoe will only release its catch after they've punched each other. Sorry about that. THE WINTER BALL Exciting news, passed from recruit to recruit and team to team: the castle will host a ball soon! It's set to be on the second night of team Audentes's arrival in Oska, and it's going to be a truly extravagant affair. Nothing to wear? No fear! The wardrobes in each recruit's room will open upon an enormous display of fancy clothing in a multitude of styles. Once you've settled on one (and somehow, the wardrobe knows the difference between trying on and settling on), the rest of the outfits vanish the next time it's closed. The festivities start as soon as the sun begins to sink. Music filters through the air, growing louder to guide partygoers through the castle and into the dance hall, which was definitely not a room in existence until today. The music flows from no discernable source, sometimes swirling orchestral pieces, sometimes something with a heavier beat, for a different kind of dancing. The selection is as varied as the ALASTAIR teams tend to be. Listen long enough, and you might even hear something from your own home universe. A large glass flower shimmers in the center of the room, under which various recruits have taken to leaving presents for one another. Be sure to stop by and check the brightly wrapped parcels for your name! Team Audentes in particular gets a special gift. The north side of the room is decorated in an unmistakable Christmas theme, complete with an enormous, glittering tree. The care put into these decorations definitely has a personal touch, it might even outshine the rest of the hall's decor. Each member of the team has a lovingly wrapped box complete with a bow under this tree, and upon opening it will find a small, intricately detailed, never-melting ice sculpture of themselves -- very possibly in a ridiculous pose. Those who were acquainted with former teammate Nicholas St. North will find that their sculpture features two figures: themselves, and North himself. And of course, what party would be complete without the food? The kitchen has really outdone itself with its spread of delicious foods, suited to all appetites and palates. From gently steaming roasted bird to strangely colored foreign piles of tiny quivering spheres, there's something for everyone. Including the alcoholics among us: the punch is delicately spiked with that incredibly strong drink of Nalawi, which leaves a pleasantly fruity aftertaste and an immediate alcoholic burn. (Any children partaking will find that their cups have somehow filtered out any alcohol and are strangely juice-only.) ICE MAZE Outside the castle, the courtyard has been transformed. Giant shimmering ice walls have sprung up seemingly overnight, forming endless, winding pathways: an ice maze. Stepping into this beautiful, gleaming maze immediately cuts off all sound from the castle life around, so loud just a moment ago. Inside the maze is only the crunch of light snow underfoot, the sound of one's own breathing, and the echoes that bounce faintly here and there. Throughout the maze one might find bits of warm, inviting clothing. A pair of bright red mittens, a puffy coat that fits perfectly to the wearer, a scarf woven in brightly colored, warm wool. If a maze-goer chooses to ignore and walk past this clothing, they might find that something begins to follow them. It starts as just an unsettling feeling, but put off accepting the clothing for long enough and it may turn into lurking shadows in the corner of an eye, a black shape that's there in one second and vanished in the next. A faint yowl may float down a corridor, vaguely feline if only it weren't so deep. Whatever that came from must have been large. Accepting and wearing just one of the offered clothing chases away this unwanted visitor immediately, and in just five minutes more the ice maze will finally bring you out the other side. Don't take any of its gifts, though, and the maze may just lead you to meet the Yuletide Cat instead. (Which just so happens to be Cherenkov and Crowley sharing a giant cat costume. Don't laugh, they worked hard on it.) THE VILLAGE Far outside the castle, the village has been brought back to warm, glowing life. Or at least, that seems to be the case. Team Hearthstone was recently on a mission to recover an item called the Time Catch, and has used it to temporarily, visually turn time back to a time when the village of Oska was populated and lively. Humanoid villagers, all in various shades of purple and blue, hurry to and fro, talking and laughing in a language that goes untranslated by the magitek jewelry. They don't react to any of the recruits, though, and trying to touch any of them will have your hands passing straight through them. Even the restored village around them is just an illusion. One can walk straight into one of the villager's houses and find the warmth of the fire and aroma of the roasted fowl to be completely believable -- but trying to take a seat at the set table will send you crashing straight to the ground to sit in the illusion-covered rubble. THE SQUIDGE PARK After the festivities wind down, you may want to visit the newest addition to the Oska grounds -- the brand new squidge park. After Audentes's success in its mission on Zeta-12, ALASTAIR has been gifted with a clutch of squidge eggs to look after. Audentes need not worry about the squidges in their absence; there will always be someone in Oska to make sure the jelly-like aliens are being nurtured properly. The squidge park is located off the greenhouses in the courtyard; it's an enclosure containing many artificial habitats so the squidges may interact with different environments to help them grow. Right now, they are just eggs, but with enough love and care, they may "hatch" (read: their amorphous blob selves will grow limbs and enter the larval stage) before Audentes even ships out again. OOC NOTES Blind date assignments for those working to complete the Lonely Hearts Club bounty can be found here. ICly, the match-ups are publicly posted in the ballroom for all to see. The other ALASTAIR teams present consist of everything from humanoids to strange creatures; feel free to handwave them in your threads! The only stipulation is that transferred characters (ex. those who have dropped) are not present. The party lasts for one night, and the following day the rest of the teams will pack up and leave Oska to Audentes. The ghostly village-that-isn't will revert back to ruins at this point, as well. However, all other winter amenities will remain for the holidays! Following the party, characters can expect to be in Oska for several more weeks, with the next mission starting in late January. A more detailed calendar for next month will be up soon! Questions about this log, Oska, or the game in general should be directed to the FAQ. You may submit mission ideas or player plots at any time.

Comments

une

[digiorno]

[Giorno is a self-aware enough person that he realizes this is a ridiculous way to reconcile with someone.]

[Fugo is sweeping. He's sweeping up the enchanted snow, with sharp precision and a pinched, irritated look on his face. It seems like a futile endeavor. Fugo seems fueled solely by his own irritation, ready to sag to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut any moment. The wrong angle of broom-push and he will collapse, falling to his knees in the white powdery nonsense, unable or unwilling to get up.]

[The last time Giorno saw him, he was staring bleary-eyed at the blinking cursor on the screen. None of this makes sense, Giogio, he'd said, and Giorno doesn't even remember what he said in return. Something silly.]

[It's just as silly that, when he sees Fugo now, his first thought is: oh, he must have gotten tired of untangling the finances for today. It takes him a long, long few moments to reconcile the dissonance between what he's thinking (what he wants to be real) and what he's actually seeing.]

[And then it's there, surging, that rising, viciously possessive urge. There are ghosts in the village. He has to make sure Fugo is not a ghost. Fugo had to be real, he has to--]

Fugo!

[He's running. He doesn't mean to be, but all of a sudden he is. It's not long to run, but it's not dignified, it's not the image he wants to present--only this, somehow, is more important than dignity.]

[His fingers dig into Fugo's shoulders, probably too hard. He can't help it, though. Touch tells him what sight didn't: that this is Fugo. That he is real, and here.]

[Jin was right, he thinks dully, relief shooting through him like pins and needles. His eyes sting. Is this better or worse? A little better. It has to be.]

[unholey]

[Fugo picked this room out of all the others he found because it is at the end of the hall. It's the same as the rest: small, cramped, and dark. But he feels a little better (not safer) with one less direction to worry about and account for. Right now, he's not looking directly at the open end of the hallway; he won't turn his back to it, but he does keep it in his peripheral to better track movement and anyone who might approach him.

He sees Giorno out of the corner of his eye, his blonde curls a golden halo in his peripheral vision, and hears him, too; the click of his heels on the floor. It's all so familiar that he doesn't want to look, because he's already tired of seeing maybe-Mistas and maybe-Trishes and turning around to spot a stranger in the end. He needs to stop. He needs to come to terms with the idea that he's alone, again, until he can earn his way back home. He is determined not to look at this maybe-Giorno because he has-- better things to do than stew in his own unhappiness. Things like sweeping up this stupid, awful snow in front of the windowless room he's not going to do much sleeping in.]

[Except this isn't a maybe-Girono at all. It is Giorno, calling out to him, running up to him, catching his shoulders with both hands. It's all very surprising. Or startling? There's a clattering sound and-- oh, that's the broom. He dropped the broom. Then: pain, ten spots of it, from Giorno's fingertips digging into his shoulders. Fugo stares at him, plainly too surprised for his own thoughts to catch up to him.]

Giogio? [This isn't where he belongs, but Giorno. Giorno shouldn't be here. Giorno belongs in Napoli, not in a castle with never-melting snow cluttering up the hallways. That's just a fact.]

[digiorno]

[Here he is. Here--he is, and Fugo is real. He can feel him under his fingers. He can feel the ambient reality of his pulse in the air between them, can smell the dustiness of old books on his clothes, can see the bags under his eyes.]

[And he has no idea what to do next.]

[He's glad. He thinks he shouldn't be. He thinks it's got to be a very selfish thing to be glad about. This isn't home--it isn't Napoli, it certainly isn't Passione. He wanted to bring Fugo home to that place and that famiglia so he could learn how to smile again. This place isn't safe--not for anyone, and especially not for Fugo, still so tired and scared and numb.]

[But on the other hand . . . Giorno brought Fugo back for himself, didn't he? The nasty voices whispering doubt in the back of his mind for six months were never really lying, just relying on too narrow an interpretation of his motivations. He wanted Fugo back. He wanted Bruno's family as close to complete as it could be. He wanted Fugo--that's all. He just wanted him.]

[He wanted to be--the opposite of alone.]

[He doesn't even hear the broom clatter to the floor. He's smiling, but his lips shake. There's a ball of tension in his chest that he doesn't know whether to hold onto or let go of. Is it the kind of bomb he can smother with his body, or will it destroy them both regardless?]

Oh. Fugo.

[Even he can hear how helpless and small he sounds. Not like Don Giovanna ought to at all. His lashes are wet. His grip loosens, one hand coming up to cup his cheek.]

Hi. I really, really missed you.

[unholey]

[One by one, his thoughts start to filter properly through his shock and line up in neat facts. Giorno is here. This shouldn't be true, because Giorno isn't the sort of person unlucky enough to fall through holes in reality and get himself lost in another universe, but it's still a fact. Giorno is here and he isn't alone. This is the point in his thought process where his expression of shock and suspicion begins to crack; underneath it is one of plain, ragged relief.

His next thought is that Giorno is ... it's not that he's not behaving like himself. It's that he's not behaving like the self Fugo usually sees, the self Giorno takes so much effort to put together in the morning and present to the world at large. He's seen glimpses of this smaller Giorno before, during the long car ride home to Napoli; leaning over his shoulder to frown tiredly at the spreadsheets he's been staring at for too long; or late at night, perched worriedly on the edge of his bed. But he's never seen Giorno like this so wholly, so clearly and without filter. Giorno isn't holding so tightly to his shoulders anymore, because he needs one hand to reach up to touch his face. (Why?) Giorno is smiling with his mouth, but not with his eyes. His eyelashes are wet.

Fugo thinks he might be crying. And that's very unsettling, because he's never seen Giorno cry and he can't connect what he's seeing in front of him with any understandable reason why.]

Hello. I missed you too. [Even after the word comes out of his mouth, it feels and sounds stupid because it's so tired and lost. And because, honestly, he hasn't been gone from Napoli for long. He's a little ashamed of himself by how easily it was for him to step back into the listless, grey feeling that had smothered his time in Milano.] I didn't think you would be here.

[digiorno]

[He's so . . . disconnected. It makes Giorno ache. Fugo is so sad, and so tired, and so pained, but that pain is so, so far away. He wants to fix it, but this isn't the kind of hurt he can heal automatically. Everything would be so much easier if he could.]

I didn't think you would be, either.

[He blinks a little to clear his blurry vision, but he didn't realize his eyelashes were as wet as they are. A tear falls, lands on his cheek--and there's the barest moment between touchdown and him lowering his eyes so his (wet) lashes hide the evidence until he can furiously wipe it away. He lifts his head sulky and irritated but without tears on his cheeks, at least. And at least the expression is more genuine than the smile was, a moment ago.]

I'm sorry. [One hand still on Fugo's cheek, the other falls from his shoulder to take his hand and squeeze lightly.] It's been a strange little while. Would you mind terribly if we went and talked in my room? It's warmer in there. Or somewhere else, if you'd like.

[He will die before he lets Kaz Brekker see him cry. And Giorno Giovanna will never die.]

[unholey]

[What's a stranger sight, Fugo wonders: spots of tears on Giorno's lashes now, or the sight of him bent over and shuddering but not crying as his vaccine destroyed the virus he carried in his own flesh to the world inside the mirror in the ruins of Pompeii? He's not sure. Both strike him as very strange and a little unsettling. The moment passes quickly. Giorno ducks his head and pushes away his tears in a gesture that's painfully familiar. There's no sign of them anymore, save for smudgey mascara in the corner of one eye.

Fugo's line of sight drops to their hands, where Giorno has caught a hold of one of them. I didn't think you would be, either. Does that mean he's alone? No, that can't be. If Giorno is here then Mista is sure to follow. How long has he been here? Absentmindedly, his fingers close around Giorno's hand.]

I'm sorry too. [For what, he's not quite sure. Not being where he's supposed to be, mostly-- although it's hard to tell in this moment if that's back in Napoli, or here with Giorno.] I wouldn't mind. Your room is fine. I have some things in there, but the door is locked right now. I can get them later.

[He's just going to ... assume that Giorno will have him relocate to a room closer to where he is. Which he's more than fine with.]

[digiorno]

[Close, but no cigar. That's the sensible option, probably, but: no. Fugo's fingers close around Giorno's hand, and his jaw clenches a little; he's cemented in his decision that he will not allow there to be an opportunity for Fugo to get lost again. No, he will stay right by Giorno's side come hell or high water.]

[He doesn't try to smile again. Not yet, anyway. It'll be too hard, and it won't work. Maybe once they're alone--which reminds him. As he starts tugging Fugo down the hall by the hand, he looks over his shoulder at him, his gaze piercing.]

Have you eaten or slept since you got here?

[unholey]

[Giorno tugs him along and Fugo follows without question or resistance. He leaves the half-cleaned up snow and the broom on the floor and most of his possessions (shoes and his suit; his earrings are still hooked in his lobes and aren't going anywhere anytime soon) behind without a second thought. Giorno wants to talk to him in the privacy of a space that is ostensibly his. The rest of it can wait.]

I've eaten, a little. [As in: he found the kitchen and there was a bowl of fruit close enough to the door for him to grab some apples and dart out before all the food smells got to him.] And I've laid down.

[For a little while. What he didn't do was sleep. He was too nervy for that. But he did try, which he thinks counts for something. Maybe.]

Mostly I've just been trying to get my bearings.

[digiorno]

[His gaze stays trained on Fugo for a long few seconds, ice-blue and piercing, to see if he's lying. Or telling half-truths, rather. There's a difference between lying and lying. Eventually, he seems to determine that this is true enough and faces forward again, slowing enough that he can pull Fugo a little closer to even with his stride. He wants to be able to see him and touch him, both, or else he might go away again. Or Giorno might.]

Right. I have some crackers in my room. You'll eat some of those.

[Not you can if you're hungry, but you will. Similarly:]

And you'll sit and rest. You look exhausted, you don't need to be cleaning up the halls. It's just down here--next floor, down these stairs.

[Factors tick by in his mind: air circulation, how likely it is that Fugo will actually eat, what will happen if Kaz gets wind of what Fugo can do--but in the meantime, fussing helps. Helps him, anyway.]

[unholey]

[You will eat, you will sit, you will rest. Fugo doesn't really want to do any of these things, but he can tell by Giorno's tone of voice and choice of words that it's not an offer.]

I wasn't planning on cleaning every hall, or even all of that one. [Fugo frowns irritably, the first honest flicker of emotion on his face.] Just that corner. I can't stand messes like that.

[He doesn't deny feeling exhausted. Because he is, unfortunately, and his senses are buzzing with it.]

[digiorno]

[Ah. It feels--bad, immediately, to have irritated Fugo. Even though Giorno knows it's irrational, it snags on his heart like a fishhook. He doesn't turn, but he does squeeze Fugo's hand gently. Forgive me, he says without saying anything, and turns left at the bottom of the stairs.]

I know you don't. Most of the place is tidier. At least on a concrete level; on a metaphysical level, not so much, perhaps.

[He will have to find something for Fugo to organize, he thinks, or they might both go crazy.]

[He pushes his door open with his hip, tugs Fugo inside, and closes it behind them--or, at least, leans the door on the jamb. Then he turns to look at Fugo again, searching him in the different lighting to see if he's changed in any way. If the illusion has revealed itself. But no. It's still Fugo.]

[He smiles, a little crookedly, and pushes Fugo as gently as he can manage toward the bed.]

Here. Sit. Please.

[unholey]

[For the last little way, Fugo finds his line of sight caught on his hand in Giorno's; his hand is warm, his grip secure. It'd oddly comforting, for a gesture an unnecessary gesture. Fugo would follow Giorno anywhere. He's not sure what to say, though, in response to Giorno's comment. That's nice? The metaphysical implications of the kitchen and library give him headache? In the end, he keeps those thoughts to himself.]

It's fine. I'm assuming it's seasonal. [He doesn't appreciate it, but indoor snow sounds like something foolish people who think snow is a vital part of winter would like. Then it's into the little room they go and, rather than watching Giorno nudge the door closed, Fugo keeps his eyes on the vanity. Ah. There is the familiar scatter of Giorno's hairpins. This is his space, no doubt about it. When Giorno looks at him there is, briefly, a softer set to his eyebrows-- although when Fugo catches Giorno examining his face again, it shifts to a questioning look. What is it?]

[Giorno smiles then and, this time, it feels a little warmer. Fugo follows the nudge on his back and gingerly takes a seat on the edge of the bed, distantly worried about rustling the covers.]

Thanks. [That's. What he should say, right? In response to being offered a seat. Or so he hopes. Instead of folding his hands together, he restlessly drums his fingers on his knees.]

[digiorno]

[He seems so distant, Giorno thinks--and then makes himself stop thinking about it. No, better to rustle around in the hiding space under the vanity to find the box of crackers. His fingers twitch over towards the corner where he keeps the pudding cups, then he pulls himself back and makes his way over to the bed.]

[When he sits, it's close enough that he can lean over and put the box of crackers on the bedside table nearer to Fugo. It's close enough that he can bump Fugo's knee with his own, then take his hand again (more for his own benefit than Fugo's, if he's being honest, which he won't).]

I'm glad you're really here. I--did I say that already?

[He feels sort of crazed.]

Please eat something. We can talk while you're eating, if you want.

[unholey]

[Well ... okay, then, his brief window of having access to both of his hands is closed now. That's just his life. He needs to come to terms with it.]

No, you aren't repeating yourself. [He's not sure if that's a rhetorical question or not, but in the case that it's not he can share his recollections. Briefly, he looks pensive and a little worried. Giorno didn't say it, but he did say it with the way he reached out and touched Fugo's face, those flecks of tears, and how he hasn't let go of his hand for longer than sixty seconds. Instead of saying I know, Fugo reflects it back at him:] I'm ... very relieved to see you, Giogio. I thought I was on my own.

[Even though he's doesn't feel particularly hungry, Fugo knows himself well enough that he's probably just clamped down on his appetite because of nerves. And he knows Giorno well enough that he won't start talking until Fugo's eaten something. So. Crackers it is.]

I'll have some crackers. You can start briefing me now, I'll pay attention. [H... m. After retrieving the box (which Giorno had originally hidden in a very odd place) Fugo blinks down at it, briefly stymied. Crackers are usually easy to open, but he's only got one hand. The other is gone forever, probably. ... well, one step at a time. He wedges the box between his knees and neatly slides one finger underneath the top tab to pop it up from the rest of the box.]

[digiorno]

[Oh, good. Fugo has accepted his fate. That's reassuring, at least; even if his priorities are wrong and misaligned in other ways, at least he knows to trust Giorno. That's for the best. There's a lot of information to exchange, and Fugo will have to trust him wholeheartedly.]

[It was stupid, probably, to expect anything but that. Again, his expression softens.]

I know you will.

[Fugo always pays such careful attention. The two of them are the same that way. He squeezes Fugo's hand again and starts . . . where he has to start, really. With a sigh, and the basic, incomprehensible truth.]

It's just the two of us. No one else. Polnareff was here, but then he . . . went to another team.

[Allegedly. Giorno's brow furrows, discontented with this reasoning, but--he doesn't have anything else to work with, so this is the explanation he's got for the moment.]

Mista was never here.

[unholey]

[Fugo isn't looking at Giorno when he first shares these two pieces of vital and incomprehensible information with him. They slide into his ears like French, a foreign language he hasn't studied or practiced since before university; he needs a moment to mentally translate the words and process what they mean. The idea that Polnareff, Giorno's left hand and consigliere, would just leave him for another team is so patently untrue it's laughable. Mista not being with Giorno is akin to hearing that Newton's laws of motion are a sham. It just doesn't make sense. None of it makes any sense at all.]

What. [Fugo blinks down at the sleeve of crackers he's fished out of the box, which is now lying in the palm of his hand. His fingers are twitching against the plastic. It's making a crackling sound; he thinks to himself that he needs to be careful not to hold too tightly, otherwise he's going to crush the crackers in his hand before he even finishes opening them. He looks up at Giorno, his expression thin, pale, and far more pained than he knows.] Mista isn't here?

cw child abuse mention, accidental self-injury

[digiorno]

No. Mista isn't here.

[And for the first time since Polnareff left--the first time since he arrived here, really--Giorno opens the lid of the tiny box in his chest where he stores his anger. Just a little bit. Less than an inch. Less than a centimeter. Just enough to vent some of the pressure.]

[He never would, if someone he trusted wasn't here. He never would, if he didn't know that Fugo trusted him unquestioningly in return. He never would, if he wasn't certain that Fugo could defend himself if he needed to. Because there is nothing Giorno fears more in the world than his own anger.]

[And loneliness.]

[He exhales slowly, looks at their joined hands. Lets himself think about it. How Mista is not here. How Polnareff is not here, how Trish is not here, how Mista is not here. How people here want him to trust them, just like that, without any sort of power over them, as though it's normal to simply believe in the best of someone. How there are too many civilians here who want something from him that he cannot provide. How he can't measure up to what Bruno wants him to be, because he is only three-quarters of a person at the very best, and the other fractions of his whole aren't here--how he's more himself now, with the boy who is here holding his hand, but not properly complete.]

[How he doesn't understand these people at all.]

[He looks at it. The ugly thing, the vicious bitter petty jealous monster-thing that is his anger. He looks at it, stares at it, unblinking, and his shoulders start to shake.]

I arrived here alone, [he murmurs, his voice soft and peaceful, the voice he uses before he steps on a man's throat;] and then there was Polnareff, and then there wasn't. There was never Mista. I don't get to have Mista here.

[He talks with his lips pulled back, in what might seem like a smile to the unobservant. His eye teeth are sharp, his lips wet in the fury that he's reigning in at the same time he lets it see this tiny, tiny moment of daylight. His wrist flexes like he wants to tighten his fingers around Fugo's, but--he thinks better of it. He's got only so much control. He will squeeze too tight, if he does that. He will hurt Fugo, if he does that. He must never, ever hurt Fugo. He's already hurt Fugo too much by existing, by not being careful enough, by caring too much.]

[Instead, he curls the fingers of his free hand into a tight fist and digs his nails into his palm. Almost immediately, he breaks the skin; blood pools under his nails, but it doesn't hurt much, so he just hides it. Better this than let Fugo worry, or hurt.]

[I don't get to have Mista here, he repeats to himself in the privacy of his own head, because he's sure that if he spoke aloud his voice would come out too shrill, too brittle, too much like his father's. Which one, he doesn't know. It could be either, couldn't it? His fathers with their anger, one with the belt and one with jaws sharp enough to shatter bone, with a stolen body and a monster's laugh. He fears them both, he fears both of them in their anger, he fears his own anger most of all--the part of himself that can beat a man to death for so many reasons but chief among them because he was in the way of so much anger. The part of himself who looks at people and covets, who looks at people and considers their uses, who looks at people and wants to devour them, one way or another, for anger or jealousy or boredom--the part of him who looks at Kaz Brekker and snarls, undeserving, and wants to ruin, who looks at Jesper Fahey and insists, mine, and wants to steal, who will never be what Bruno Buccellati wanted him to be, who looks at Fugo and is sure he will fail--]

[Giorno laughs. But it's not a laugh. But it is: teeth still showing, lips pulled back, one hand in a tight bloody fist while the other cradles Fugo's gently. He laughs, shrill and brittle and ugly, and his shoulders shake again, and for a moment after the laugh dies he doesn't remember how to breathe.]

[And then--he does. He inhales, slow and careful, and his shoulders curl forward, self-conscious.]

I can't, [he whispers,] explain it. But that's how it is.

[With utmost care, he closes the box.]

[unholey]

[Fugo looks at Giorno and he sees an alphabet of pain and anger, harsh letters written in dark ink all over his body. There it is, hidden in the white of his teeth and the twitch of his wrist; suffocated in the softness of his syllables and drowned in the hollowness of his smile; and fettered and tied in his shoulders, locked up in a fist clenched so tightly that his knuckles look like they're trying to tear out of his skin. Most people would look at Giorno's face and see a smile, listen to his voice and hear laughter. But Fugo doesn't just know that alphabet: he's fluent in the language of fury, because that's what the arrow pulled out of him to shape Purple Haze. There's only a tiny crack to see through, but because of it Fugo can see something very ugly and very dangerous.

Seeing all of this feels uncannily similar to knocking back a shot of espresso, chasing away the grit of a sleepless night away from his eyes with the bitter taste and the tingle of caffeine. He pushes his hand through the mental static and fog that's built up in him since he woke up in an unfamiliar room and a flat voice gave him a well-practiced speech about how there's been a mistake and stumbles forward. He blinks, eyes adjusting to the light in the room; his pupils contract a little to compensate, while his mind snaps back to a faster track of thought.

Giorno is in pain. He can't think about what Buccellati or what Mista would do to ease it: neither of them are here and he's too cold to mimic them besides. He can't be Giorno's right hand, predicting his movements and what he needs before he knows what that is. He can't be Giorno's compass either, because his own has been so warped and bent out of shape. All he can do is be himself, observant and cautious and too smart for his own good.]

[His hand, the one that's slowly warmed under Giorno's palm, twists and turns until it's at the proper angle. He then pushes his fingers through the gaps between Giorno's and folds them over his knuckles. This way, their hands are locked together. It's not the sort of contact that can be easily broken. He sets the sleeve of crackers down on his lap--(an important detail; he doesn't set them aside or discard them, he puts them down for a time because this is more important)--so he can rest his other hand, a little cold still, over their clasped ones. And rather than putting distance between himself and Giorno, Fugo shifts closer to him on the bed; enough that, if not for their hands between then, they would be sitting shoulder-to-shoulder.

There are unnatural forces at work here, ones that are keeping Mista from Giorno and have pulled Polnareff to a place neither of them can reach. He can't in good faith promise that he's not going anywhere. If Mista can't get through, if Polnareff was pulled away, what chance does someone like him have? The best he can do is this wordless reassurance: that if anyone wants to take him away they'd have to tear him from Giorno's grasp and ruin his hands, which his grandfather once said were the most valuable parts of his body. Fugo can't help but bite his nails. But he's always taken great care with his hands and his wrists and his fingers, because a not so small part of him knows that if he broke them he could never be valuable again.]

You don't have to, Giorno. [Fugo looks at Giorno and doesn't flinch, doesn't blink, doesn't shy away from the ugliness he sees.] I understand.

[digiorno]

[It's not a lot of movement, all things considered. But it makes a big difference. To Giorno, who has always paid attention to the little things, who has trained his eye to see nuance, this is as significant a declaration in its way as the one in the restaurant. It isn't in words--body, heart, soul--but it's the same meaning.]

[Fingers twine with his, and some of the tension goes out of Giorno's shoulders. A hand placed over his, and the rest drains away, leaving him limp and exhausted, a puppet with his strings cut.]

[Fugo understands.]

[Slowly, Giorno exhales. Slowly, he allows himself to lose his balance, to lean over sideways and rest his forehead against Fugo's perfect pointy shoulder. His eyes close, just for a moment or two.]

Thank you, [he murmurs.] I'm so glad.

[He feels--not good. But so much better. Like he hasn't been breathing for weeks and just hasn't realized it; now that he is, his lungs are aching, there are pins and needles in his fingers and toes. It hurts, but it's better.]

[His fingers flex around Fugo's, after he's held his moment close and then set it free. The box is still closed, but it's breathed, too. It's better--it's all right, for now. He breathes in, and out, and looks up at Fugo again.]

I didn't mean to put all of that on you, first thing. But thank you for sharing it with me. You still remember, don't you?

[There's so much to remember. That they share in grief. That it's all right to take half steps, quarter steps, as long as they meet in the middle. That Fugo belongs to him. He means all of these things. Do you remember who you are to me?]

[unholey]

[Fugo will never forget that afternoon. Everything about that conversation has been burned into his memory. Fingers of light straining through the cracks in the curtains, the crackly lyrics of a classic song filtering into his ears--(te voglio bene assai, ma tanto tanto bene sai)--light glinting off of the enamel of a red and black ladybug pin, the smell of garlic and onion and oil. And Giorno's hand outstretched over the table to him.]

If you can't take a step forward, I'll step halfway to you. [Fugo meets Giorno's eyes without flinching. When he speaks, he isn't just repeating Giorno's words back at him: he's confirming the promises they made to each other.] If grief anchors your feet, then let me share it. [He presses his palm over their clasped hands, as if to place a seal next to his words.] I am yours, Giogio. Always.

[digiorno]

[Ah.]

[He closes his eyes. Yes. He remembers . . . once upon a time, he was able to feel safe. Not for long--just a few days, really, of safety before everything fell down around his ears. But it felt something like this. Like if he slips, someone will be there to catch him.]

[He closes his eyes, and he smiles. And then he opens them again, and his smile is just for Fugo, even as he presses the sluggishly-bleeding palm of his other hand to the underside of his thigh, to staunch the bleeding.]

You are mine always, Fugo. Te voglio bene assai.

Where would you like to start, then? I assume you know a great deal already, hm? Because you pay attention.

[unholey]

[You are mine always, Giorno reaffirms and, if only by a hair, some of the tension seeps out of Fugo's shoulders. No matter what they do or where they go, these things will always be true. He doesn't want to let go of Giorno's hand, but he said he'd eat so he needs to get back to that. His fingers tighten around Giorno's knuckles one last time before he pulls away, reaching again for the crackers.]

Reality, apparently, isn't as stable as we assumed it to be. [He picks up the crackers and, after a moment of thought, holds the sleeve up to his mouth and uses a combination of fingers and his teeth to open it.] I fell through a hole to this castle, Oska, which is maintained and the headquarters of ALASTAIR, who fancy themselves timeline repairmen but can't be assed to figure out and solve the problem of people stumbling from reality to this one. The team we're currently part of is called Audentes and they're here between missions.

[digiorno]

[Oh, no. Fugo let go of his hand. Well--he did tell him to eat, but. Hm.]

[Giorno considers this change and eventually chooses to address it by scooting a little bit closer, so that their knees are touching. The actual meat of what Fugo's saying is, of course, entirely correct and funny in a muted way due to being very rude. It makes Giorno smile.]

That's right. Mm, you're lucky in a way, you have a chance to get acclimated to all of these . . . people . . . before you have to put on your timeline repairman hat.

[He sighs a little.]

Have you met anyone yet? Or just me. [He sort of wants it to just be him.]

[unholey]

I haven't really talked to anyone, if that's what you mean. [Fugo sets down the now-open sleeve of crackers back down on his lap and fishes out his first actual saltine. He squints tiredly at it; there's nothing appetizing about it, but he knows, logically, that he needs to eat to keep going.] I've been focused on exploring the grounds and creating a mental map of the area. I put this stupid uniform on because it's cold and I didn't want to stand out.

[Resigned, he pushes the cracker into his mouth. It's not good, but it's not bad either. If he eats more of them, his stomach will probably remind him that it's been hours since he ate the fruit he grabbed from the kitchen.]

[digiorno]

[Giorno bumps Fugo's knee with his own, encouragingly. Good job. Keep eating crackers. He's very happy about this development, and follows up the knee nudge with a smile. A+ pudding.]

I have some embroidery thread, if you want it. [For the suit.] No holes, though.

[A moment's pause, then. He has to focus. Priorities--of course he knows what the priorities are. He should probably heal his hand, he thinks. But first:]

I'll make up a dossier for you. I have one in my head. The first thing you need to know, though, is: there are a lot of civilians here, and a lot of people like us.

There's a boy named Kaz Brekker who dresses all in black. Black gloves, too. Highly touch-averse to the point of hypervigilance. Old injury in his leg. He's got no powers, as far as I know. But he's the most dangerous person here, besides the two of us.