epidemiology | ( open ) once upon a time there was a poor child

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( open ) once upon a time there was a poor child

CHARACTERS: Giorno Giovanna (

digiorno ) & OPEN.
DATES: April 2 - 8; April 9 - 16 will be added on the 9th.
WARNINGS: Possible mentions of child abuse and neglect, canon-typical violence, depression/PTSD.
SUMMARY: "April is the cruellest month, breeding / Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing / Memory and desire, stirring / Dull roots with spring rain."

april 2 - 8.

[He regrets missing the murder of Dr. Percy. On a rational level, he understands his skills were of most use elsewhere. I heal, he tells himself; I help.]

[But as the days creep by, the doubts that always whisper start screaming. If you're some kind of healer, why do you fuck up when it matters most? Why do you let people die for you? Don't lie to yourself. It's so ugly. If you're going to be a monster, at least be a pretty one. At least be honest: if it weren't for you--]

[Slowly but surely, he escalates. A tendency to laugh a little too loud and too shrill one day is, twenty-four hours later, a perfect rictus. A sweetheart smile, blindingly flirtatious as he pulls up out of nowhere, sunglasses perched atop his curls as he throws the brakes on a stunning red Ferrari. Sharp teeth:] Need a ride? I have nowhere to be.

[The fifth of April finds him bloody-knuckled, the heel of his boot pressed against the windpipe of a would-be mugger, prone and beaten beyond recognition. The mugger's prospective victim is running the other way, terrified--though of whom, it's hard to say. Giorno shifts his weight, icy-eyed, ready to bear down on the mugger's throat.]

[On the sixth, he's nowhere to be found. Not unless you know where he's staying and someone's willing to let you in. Then you'll find him in bed, blankly disheveled, wide awake but elsewhere. He looks like someone smaller than himself.]

[On the seventh and eighth, his anxious hands keep busy. He isn't doing his job, he knows, but this is how he keeps it together: rifling through the knocked-over displays of department and discount stores for something to do. His fingers loop in the straps of a stolen pair of sandals, long since replaced on his feet by something sharp-heeled and thin in the toes. He stands in the clearance section of an abandoned Walmart, pursing his lips with a look of exhausted resignation at a palm-sized model of a biplane.]

[Eventually, he drops the sandals, picks up the plane, and walks out with it clutched so tightly in his hand that it cuts his palm. The gun on his hip is honestly only so much comfort.]

april 9 - 16.

[It is admittedly very difficult to retain as much upset in the opulence of Centrum Coloniam that he had in ravaged Woodhurst. It's beautiful here. But then again: it was beautiful in Napoli. More beautiful, even. Being home in Napoli didn't keep him from feeling awful.]

[Still, he makes a valiant effort. With a little less of his ordinary gusto and verve, perhaps, but he does try, and mostly he pulls off acting like himself. He spends most of his time in the middle of things. The middle of things is what keeps him feeling normal; if people are paying attention to him, if he's able to function as the ringmaster, he can keep his mind off of things. So, he acts--which is nothing new.]

[It's in the grooming district that he feels most comfortable, so, even though he doesn't feel particularly deserving of pampering, he pampers himself. Any friend or even close acquaintance who's reluctant to go to the hot springs alone will be dragged along in his wake; he's as comfortable spending the entire day there doing nothing as he is flicking water at his companion in an effort to needle them into a playful waterfight. Though he's leery of massage, he's happy to spend hours wandering around in the shops, where he takes great delight in finding items that he personally feels will suit the people around him. Best watch out or he'll come up behind you, loop his arm in yours, and press some garment or jewelry or something to your chest--]

Go on, try it on. It'll make me happy.

[--because never let it be said he's above some good old-fashioned emotional manipulation.]

[On the sixteenth, though, he can't keep up the everything-is-fine face, so he just. Doesn't. Drops it on the ground, stomps on it, and leaves it behind. He visits the ground outside the city instead, without telling anyone because he wants so badly to just not be for a while, spends the day walking along through the meadows and at the edges of the woods. He moves like a shadow, unwilling to be seen and entirely unremarkable, nothing like who he tries to be the other 364 days of the year.]

[Every few hours, he encounters something new and interesting: a group of foxes, a herd of deer, a lone bear across an empty clearing, a flock of birds. Every time he stops, watches them from a cautious, respectful distance. Every time, he allows Gold Experience out, to rest with arms draped over his shoulders, and every time, he chooses to ignore him.]

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[Sai just happened to be passing through. "Passing through", of course, now that the main thrust of the mission is over and there is only clean-up remaining until their return to Oska, means that he's been rooftop hopping and occasionally lurking around observing the town as it attempts to pull itself back together.

Normally, if he came across Giorno, he would not interfere in his business. His is not so gentle a heart like Naruto's, which objects in principle to someone else's pain. But the thing is--he knows what Giorno is capable of, too. He knows Giorno could kill a man without laying a finger on them. He knows he could do it quickly and efficiently and not leave a trace.

So to see him with his bloody knuckles, the man on the ground beaten halfway to a pulp, Giorno's boot on his neck .... Sai doesn't truly understand anger, not yet, but what he does understand is patterns, and Giorno's behavior is off. The wrongness of it is jarring, as if Naruto had suddenly refused a bowl of ramen.

He hops down from the roof he was lurking on top of, though he's careful not to startle the other by touching down in front of him. Instead, he walks in from the mouth of the alley, steps intentionally audible. He doesn't dare touch Giorno, but his voice is soft when he speaks--almost gentle, as far as Sai knows how to be gentle.]

That is enough, perhaps.

Edited 2017-04-07 20:52 (UTC)

[ Ramir hasn't been around much. While she was still conscious she kept herself mostly locked up in her room with Sigma, and then when even that became too dangerous, Koltira paid a brief visit to the apartment. From then on the room was largely silent, with only Sigma coming and going from it. The day Ramir finally reemerged was when the hunt for Dr Percy was officially underway, and she joined in with a grim vengeance. Then came sleeping for 18 hours of the day, for the next little while.

But she's finally starting to make a comeback to the world of the living, so come the sixth, she's at Giorno's door with a smoothie in one hand, another clutched between arm and side, and a hand up to introduce herself with her usual loud, invasive pounding knock. ]

Hey! Are you dead?

[He didn't want to get up today.]

[If Fugo were more honest with himself, this is a fairly common state of affairs. He's usually just much more efficient at convincing himself that he has to. In Milano, it was simpler. If he didn't get out of bed, he couldn't work. The math simply didn't work out: he couldn't afford to spend work hours lying on his back, staring at the cracks in the ceiling of his apartment and mentally picking himself apart seam by seam. In Napoli, it was easier. The work that's waiting for him felt so important, so right. The first right thing in such a long time.

(He wonders how disappointed Buccellati would be in him for thinking that. What makes their Napoli more or less important than Woodhurst? Isn't their work here just as grand? Save Woodhurst, save this world. Prevent the collapse of this universe.)

But, today. Here, in this place. Nestled in the crook of Giorno's arm, surrounded by warmth and comfort he certainly did not deserve, Fugo found that his usual litany of excuses just seemed-- pointless. Exhausting. He simply could not convince his limbs to move, even though he could tell by the light coming in through the boards on the windows that it was morning and he knew he wasn't going to sleep.

In the end, it was something incredibly stupid that convinced him to start the involved process of convincing Giorno to let him go and out into the rest of the world: the thought that he really should return that book on virology he stole from that Bristol woman's house. Even when it turned out to be a dead end, there just hasn't been the time to return it to the library. And, really, there are better things he could be doing with his time. But after breakfast and coffee, Fugo grimly tugged his hoodie on, tucked the book underneath his elbow, pushed a pair of sunglasses over his eyes, and pulled up some Hendrix and just let. Everything on the discography roll as he made the trip on foot, filling his head up with music instead of his own shitty, staticy thoughts.]

[When Giorno rolls up in his flashy, stolen car that Fugo has no idea where he even found in this shithole of a town, Fugo is sitting on the empty curb in front of the library, staring at mostly nothing. His arms are balanced on top of his bony knees, with his hands tight around his elbows; the book in question is nowhere to be seen, so he must have put it in the return book slot. That makes logical sense. Where else would he have put it? The whole point in coming out here was to return the book. He's not paying her late fees, though, she can sort that out on her own.

Usually when Giorno flirts with him, Fugo can't seem to do anything but fuss a little. Try to wiggle out of it. Today he just blinks, takes a too long moment to think about it, and then shrugs.]

Yeah. Sure. [Somewhere along the way, Fugo pulled his hood over his head and pushed his sunglasses up to a spot where they aren't doing much good by providing shade for the top of his fluffy bangs. He stands up and, rather stiffly, rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck, before sliding into the passenger seat next to Giorno. He's been sitting and staring for a long time.]

Edited 2017-04-10 14:49 (UTC)

[ She's not fussy about clothes. These are of far superior quality than any Wanda has ever seen in her life. This whole place is so squeaky clean and peaceful there is a part of her mind constantly looking for where the illusion is. She spends a lot of time looking up, wondering. ]

[ She starts when he's so close, so quietly; she'd been lost in thought considering the cut of a few tops. She offers him a very forced smile because it's what people do. ]

I was hoping to find something other than red.

[ It's a good choice, the colour contrasts with her jewellery. ]

[The business of shopping isn't the reason why Joseph's in the abandoned Walmart. It's a little hard, after all, to shop when there aren't any employees or any exchange of money happening right now. But he's also not particularly interested in less traditional ways of shopping either. He wouldn't. He wasn't raised like that.]

[But he's also a little bored, and walking around a store this big occupies his time a little. There's no harm in him messing with some of the toys either while he's in there as long as he doesn't take it outside of the store. Or at least he doesn't think there is.]

[So when he spots Giorno staring forlornly at something in his hand that he can't quite see yet, he rings the bicycle's bell before bringing the bike to a stop on the other side of the bin from Giorno with a grin that's probably not appropriate, but 100% reflexive. He rests an arm on the bin and leans on it a little, not needing to hop off his bike seat to do so. He raised the seat as high as it could go, and it's still a little too low, but hey.]

[(Also if you were wondering, there are streamers on his handlebars. Thanks for noticing.)]

Long time no see. How's your friend doing?

[Fugo looks beautiful when Giorno pulls up. He also looks on the verge of death. Outside of himself entirely. Not that Giorno knows how to identify the vacancy behind his eyes as he perches there on the stoop, but there's something about it that's blisteringly familiar, like watching a video of yourself dropping feetfirst into a teeming shark tank.]

[But he gets in the car. That's a relief. It's a huge relief, because he wants Fugo close today. All days, but today--it's just getting bigger and bigger, worse and worse, the fear, the paranoia, the constant gasping need to look over his shoulder and make sure everything-is-the-same, everything-is-okay. Okay-ish.]

[The same, that's a place to start.]

[Fugo is the same. Fugo has all his limbs. Fugo is a wreck. Fugo is in the car, and Giorno is abruptly, fiercely glad to see him, so glad he could cry. He leans over and slides his sunglasses onto Fugo's nose, pushes them up until they set nicely on the bridge, and then runs his fingers through Fugo's hair, lingering wistfully at the closeness. There's a tangle at the nape of his neck; Giorno works it out.]

Hello, carino.

[Reluctantly, he pulls away. And then he peels the fuck out. If he's not going to be close, he's going to be moving; if he's not going to feel one thing, he's sure as hell going to be feeling another. Wind in his hair and the thrum of the engine is a fair substitute for the desire to wind his way around another person and stay there.]

[There's something wrong with Giorno, whose bright and toothy smile is impossible to look away from and unspeakably painful to linger on. He looks perfect. That's wrong, too, in a way that's more difficult to pin down. But there isn't a hair out of place on Giorno's head; the polish on all ten of his nails is smooth and glossy, the lines drawn around his eyelids unwavering and sharp.

When Giorno reaches for him, Fugo leans across the dash to meet him. Closes his eyes while Giorno makes sure his sunglasses are properly settled on his face again, then tilts his chin to one side to give him better access to the nape of his neck. In the moment when the tangle is undone, when Giorno doesn't even have the flimsiest of excuses to be this close, Fugo opens his eyes again and looks at him. Giorno's hair is, of course, as perfect as the rest of him. His rolls and plait of hair are firmly pinned and tied, face expertly framed by feathery curls around his ears. As blue as they are, Giorno's eyes remind him of black holes.]

Buon giorno, Giogio. [And then they pull apart. Fugo settles into his seat and closes his eyes again to the bright morning light; his sunglasses help, but he still has a headache. He doesn't bother to pull his seatbelt, let alone Giorno nag him about his. The engine revs and then roars as Giorno floors it. He sits and listens to the car and to the chilly wind as it blows in and out through the open windows.] I've finished my errand. What's on the agenda for today?

[There's something wrong with him, too. He feels less like a person and more like an outline of himself: the edge pieces of the puzzle of Pannacotta Fugo, with a big gaping hole in the middle where the rest of him has fallen out.]

["Off" is a good way to put it. Everything about Giorno is off right now. He feels outside of his own body, elsewhere, like someone else. It doesn't feel good, but it feels better than the alternative.]

[That's why it's so jarring to hear Sai's voice. There's a part of him that recognizes that voice, knows that Sai is a friend--Sai is my friend--but at one and the same time, he has no idea who that is. Friends happen to someone else. He promised himself he wouldn't make those anymore.]

[Footsteps. That voice. He turns with eyes that don't see right away and look through Sai before looking at him. A moment; then he adjusts, at least part of the way.]

He's not dead yet.

[It's a joke. The only way to know is from the cruel uptick at the corner of Giorno's mouth, and the fact that, although his ankle twitches, he doesn't bear down any further.]

[He hasn't known Giorno long enough to be attuned to his patterns of humor, unfortunately. Nor has he been exposed to humor itself as a construct to be able to easily make that deduction.

He takes Giorno at face value, instead. Which leads him to ask:]

Why not?

[It's not a moral question, of course, though it may appear that way to an outside observer. Sai doesn't particularly care what Giorno does to this person, anymore than an ordinary person would care about a rat cornered by a hawk. Maybe even less, really.

But what he does want to know is far more literal than that. Why isn't he dead? If Giorno planned to kill him, he would be. He already knows the other boy need not lay a finger on a man for torture, either. So why? What is his goal, here?]

Edited (wrong icon) 2017-04-25 10:16 (UTC)

[He winces at the sound of the knock. It's . . . really loud. Ramir is so loud. And normally he doesn't mind it, but--]

[You've been worried about her, he reminds himself, and flops over on his other side under the covers, peering out at the door. Don't be awful and pretend she's not there.]

. . . Don't think so, [he mutters.] You can come in.

[ And she does, nearly as soon as the words are spoken. She'd probably have come in with or without them. She bumps the door open with a hip all ready to stride in like she owns the place — but has the decency to pause when she sees how sad this scene is. ]

Damn, look at you. You'd think you were the one turning into a zombie. [ The stride forward is back on again, and she holds out one of the smoothies. His favorite flavor, naturally. ]

[He wouldn't have been offended if she hadn't smiled. It'd be more honest than--well, than what most people would do or say. Few are actually pleased to have someone offer them spontaneous advice.]

No red?

[He looks quizzically at what he's chosen, which is in fact red. Then he hums, puts it back on the rack, and tries to pull her by the elbow over to a different area of the store.]

Purple, maybe?

[His head jerks up at the sound of the bike's bell. Somehow, amidst all of this, it's the most topsy-turvy nauseating thing he's ever seen, this giant man riding a bike down the Walmart's aisles with streamers fluttering from the handlebars. It's so improbable. But then, he probably doesn't seem any better. He's playing with children's toys.]

What?

[For a long sick second, he thinks your friend means Narancia. But how could Joseph know? And then he remembers: no, it's Fugo. He's talking about Fugo.]

Oh. Um. [Fine. Worse. Awful. None of your business. He rubs his temple with two fingers.] About . . . the same. I suppose. It's not like anyone's sleeping right now.

Whatever the fuck we want.

[It's a stupid answer. A childish and ultimately meaningless answer. But it's the answer he wants to give. Whatever the fuck we want, he says, and though his tone is gentle, the way he thinks it is much more vicious. No one is taking today away from me, he snarls at everyone and everything, everywhere. It's mine. Mine, mine. He's mine. This car is mine. This moment is mine, and you can't have it. Don't take anything else away from me.]

[He lets his head loll a bit sideways, glancing at Fugo through his lashes. Fugo's hair is whipping around his head. He wants to take his hands off the wheel and run them through it.]

I just don't want to think today, Fugo. Will you help me be distracted?

[The question--stops him. It had been meant as a joke, but Sai's question is valid. Perfectly valid. Yes.]

[Why isn't he dead? Does Giorno want him dead? Yes, absolutely. Could Giorno kill him without lifting a finger? Without question. So why?]

[He knows the answer. He didn't have to pause, really; he knows his own anger too well. For a long moment, he hangs his head, observing out of the corner of his eye the smear of blood on his knuckles, the struggling twitch of the man's throat under the sole of his shoe.]

Because, [he says hoarsely,] I want to feel him die under my hands. I want to feel him suffer.

[I'm angry, he thinks, and remembers the last time he was this angry.]

Yeah . . .

[His expression doesn't shift much. His grin dims and weakens just a little, and there's something just a touch distant in his eyes for a few seconds as he looks down in the toy bin, but he doesn't abandon the look or let it go entirely. Still, the way he says yeah is far more mature and serious than he's been around Giorno yet. It's a tone that belies the boyish and carefree attitude he carries with him everywhere he goes. He's not often very sensitive to others, or at least he does a good job of making it seem that way most of the time, but sometimes he matches to get it at least a little.]

Well, at least he's lucky enough to have someone like you around to look after him. [His grin brightens again just not quite to the same degree as it was before.] You were hauling ass to keep up with me.

["They seem like good friends" - Joseph Joestar, 2017.]

[Giorno's expression--well, it shifts. It's hard to describe how, though. It's not a flush, and it's not a blanch; he's not upset to hear this, although he feels called out in a confused way, because it's not like he has anything to hide. He makes it a point not to have anything to hide, in case it's found.]

[Also, it's objectively true. Everything Joseph is saying is true. Maybe it's just that it's weird, hearing something so close to complimentary from someone he was very close to murdering not long ago.]

Don't act like it's so strange. Everyone has to have someone to look out for them. And I'd've caught up sooner if your stupid legs weren't so long.

[Joseph laughs in his typical raucous way. He's nowhere near going to dispute that people ought to have someone looking out for them when it's only been fairly recently he felt like he fucked that up in a way that can never be taken back.]

I guess it's not your fault you're not as well-versed in the old Joestar technique, but you did pretty good for a short guy and a first-timer. [Joseph sighs, satisfied with that good laugh, like the pair of them are old friends.] Tell your friend I hope he's feeling better soon, yeah?

I think I'm not.

[Honestly it's up in the air at this point. The fact that he's answering her question so blandly, with no apparent indication that he understands she's mostly joking, is a pretty telling testament to how checked out he is. Also the way he squints at the smoothie before uncertainly taking it.]

What's this?

[ Once upon a time she wouldn't have been either. But there's something startlingly comforting about someone just telling her what to do when she's all alone, in a strange new world. It absolves her of the necessity of making her own choices with regards to something she never gave that much thought to. ]

[ And he's sincere.]

I like it. Is there a pair of shoes around?

The what.

[What the hell is that. That's stupid. That sounds made up. There's no way there's a whole Joestar technique. God, he hates this whole stupid family.]

Why don't you tell him yourself? [Wait, that's not what he meant to say. He meant to be a different sort of defiant. This isn't working at all.]

[He doesn't bother with elaborating on the Joestar technique. No doubt it will have its day to shine again, and then maybe Giorno will get it.]

I'd like to be able to, [Joseph admits readily. If he could tell Fugo himself, that'd mean Fugo is feeling better.] But he's probably not going to be up for a lot of visitors for a while from the way he looked, so he'll just have to hear it through you for now.

[By the time Giorno starts peeking at him, Fugo has settled into a posture that's almost relaxed--for him. Or at least creates the illusion of it. He's leaning on the elbow of his right arm, which is propped onto the passenger side door; his face is turned away to stare out the window, though he's not looking at anything in particular. His left hand rests loosely in his lap. He's very still.]

Whatever the fuck we want, huh. [He falls quiet and thinks, before offering:] Quarantine still has us locked in, but there are plenty of back roads to tear up.

[He doesn't catch his slip of the tongue; locked in rather than locked down. He's still thinking of other things they might do. Is that junk yard still abandoned? He gets the feeling that Giorno is more of a window breaking than seed sowing sort of mood. Fugo's not sure what sort of mood he's in.]

Oh, I think there must be a few. What kinds of shoes do you like?

[What he means is, does she like comfortable shoes or fancy ones, but if she's got a particular type of shoe she favors he'll do his utmost to find it for her. A bit odd that on a cat planet there are so many shoes, but--well, he won't think about it.]

[On the way to what he hopes is the shoe area, he snags a purple top off of a rack they're passing, just because it catches his eye. Maybe it's the right kind of purple, just by happenstance.]

[You have to calm down, Giorno tells himself. He's acting ridiculous because he's paranoid, because he's exhausted, because he's sad, but all Joseph is going to see is erratic behavior. Something to question. He's already proven himself to be too perceptive.]

[So Giorno presses his lips together, wraps his fingers tightly around the car, and forces himself to smile.]

I'll tell him, then. I can't imagine he likes you very much, after you picked him up and ran away with him, but-- [Sighs. This is the worst.] I appreciate that you looked out for him that way.

Well, if he's feeling up to not liking me, I'd say that's a good thing. [He says this with a grin strong enough that it makes his voice sound like it's right on the edge of a laugh.] No need to thank me thought. Anyone else would have done the same thing in my position.

[And he means that quite genuinely. It's not that he has a naive perspective of the world where everyone is kind and does good even when it's hard to do good, but rather he wants to believe the good that exists in most everyone would win against a reluctance to helping.]

[ Well, at least he took it at all. She helps herself to a seat on the edge of the bed, eyes watchful on Giorno from over the lid of her own smoothie. ]

Smoothie. It's this great thing, they take fruit and yogurt and a buncha sugar, and ... fuck, probably some other stuff. Great invention from planet Earth. You'll love it.

[Locked in, Fugo says, and it's not the first time. Giorno wonders. What does that mean? What's the significance of it? How can he get Fugo to tell him? It doesn't occur to him to simply ask.]

Back roads . . .

[He sighs a bit, not petulant but under his breath and simply sad.]

They're not home. But they'll do. Back roads it is, then.

[Once he figures out how to get off the main drags. It shouldn't take long. He knows how to escape notice.]

I want to feel nature. Living things. Not death. No more dying.

Oh. No, I mean--

[Hm. She probably knows what he means. She's probably being sarcastic. Or not? It's hard to know sometimes, with Ramir.]

[Cautiously, he takes a sip (which is very good) and watches her, and thinks of what to say, how to word it better.]

What's the occasion . . . that's what I mean.

[That's a good point. He hadn't thought about it like that, but if Fugo's strong enough to be cantankerous rather than silently moody, it's a very good sign. A smile flits at the corners of his lips before he aggressively shuts it down. Joseph Joestar is not allowed to make him laugh. It's positively forbidden.]

I don't think they would have. And--honestly I'd rather thank you. It means a lot to me that Fugo gets taken care of. [A beat.] Even if he's being whisked away by a giant for his own good.

[It doesn't last long before the kid's got his dour expression again, but there's a flicker of a smile and Joseph thinks maybe Giorno's starting to slowly warm up to him. Not that Joseph understands why it's taking this long in the first place -- he almost never does when that's the case and it's less arrogance and belief in the thought that everyone should like him and that he doesn't always think everything perfectly through -- but it's good to see a subtle change.]

It pissed you off at the time, [Joseph says with a chuckle like it's a long-standing inside joke,] so I guess I'll accept the thanks.

There's some sort of wooded area within the quarantined area, I think. [Without even thinking about it, the fingers of his right hand curl towards his mouth; Fugo nibbles on his fingertips while he thinks.] Some animals potentially infected with the virus infected were released around there a few months ago.

It still pisses me off.

[But Fugo's alive, so whatever. He sighs, crosses his arms over his chest.]

You're in a good mood for what's practically the apocalypse here. Even if we're averting it.

We'll go there, then.

[He really doesn't want to come across sick animals. It might break his heart. But maybe it's worth the risk, too, to touch life for a while.]

Will you walk with me? When we get there--wherever we're going. I want to get out of the car. I want you with me. Will you stay with me?

[Joseph's smile fades to make room for the surprise for the comment, making it clear that he can't quite fathom why he should be anything other than in a good mood.]

But it's not the apocalypse.

[Which should count as something good, something worth smiling over. Getting bogged down by everything bad that's happened or might have happened... Well, maybe for some people that's how they are, but that's just not Joseph's way. He'd rather press on and focus on the fact that this world isn't going to get much worse. At least not for the reasons it could've gone completely bad.]

[Fugo shifts and turns to look at Giorno. The tint of the sunglasses he's wearing mutes Giorno's profile, a little.]

Yes. Always, Giogio.

[For anyone else, it would be too serious of a response. But it's Giorno. And he promised. However awful they are on their own, it's better that they're together.]

. . . I don't understand you at all.

[It's not angry, or even frustrated, so much as it's just--defeated. He wants to understand. It feels so important, so crucial, and he can't do it.]

[His fingers tighten around the plane in his hand.]

[For his own part, Joseph would understand anger and frustration a lot better than just plain confusion because he's used to people getting put out with how carefree he appears to be. They end up thinking he never takes anything seriously because of it and that's when tempers start flaring. But not right now. Giorno just seems confused.]

Bad things are going to happen no matter what, but that doesn't mean good things are less good because of the bad. You ask me, the good deserves just as much attention and energy as the bad gets.

[There's that moment when he can feel Fugo's eyes on him. When he can see him out of the corner of his eye shifting to look. It gets under his skin in a way, a good way, to have someone look at him the way Fugo looks at him in moments like these. And sometimes it's worrying. It's the sort of thing, he thinks, that his father would feel: a bottomless satisfaction in devotion.]

[But there's more than that, too. He thinks--he hopes. Getting close to anyone is playing with fire, let alone someone who's his subordinate. But Fugo is important to him. Fugo makes him feel capable at the same time he feels vulnerable, soft at the same time as he's rough around the edges. He wants to push the world away from Fugo, to bristle at it every time it gets too close.]

[Every time Fugo looks at him, he can feel it. This time, he glances to the side and meets Fugo's eyes in return, and it's--overwhelming, but good.]

Thank you, Fugo.

[It's almost too soft to be heard over the engine. He coaxes a little more speed out of the engine, and they speed towards their destination. Somewhere along the way, in a moment of impulse, Giorno reaches out to rest his arm over the back of Fugo's seat. Bracing himself, he thinks. If the shape of the seat and the placement of his hand gives him the opportunity to play with the hair at the nape of Fugo's neck, then--that's a happy coincidence. That's all.]

[I didn't ask you, Giorno thinks, not a little sullenly. Except he did, and anyway--it's not like Joseph's done anything wrong. He's just happy when Giorno isn't. It feels a little cruel to be nasty to him just because . . .]

[Well. Because he's happy. Because he's a Joestar, and a little bit frightening as a result, because his grandson will kill Giorno's father, because he would likely kill Giorno if he knew the truth, because he's happy and Giorno isn't.]

[How exhausting. Giorno shrugs, giving up.]

If you say so. I suppose you think I'm a pessimist, if I find the good hard to see right now.

No, [Joseph says with a small shake of his head.] I think you're someone who almost lost his best friend.

[It's hard to think straight after something like that let alone immediately see anything good because grief's a funny thing like that. It makes the world's colors bleed and fade, and for a while, it's all you can fixate on. Hell, the only reason it stops being the only thing on your mind is because life keeps moving forward with or without you, and it's only nature to not want to be left behind. But that doesn't mean it really goes anywhere, or that it doesn't take sucker punches at you when you least expect it like it's trying really hard to right now.]

[And that's the way grief is. It doesn't really matter if the loss is like it is for Joseph or almost was like it is for Giorno. It works its way not under your skin, but into it once its been put in your mind. The only real difference is that there's no what if dancing around in Joseph's head. He already knows it. But for Giorno? That'll hang around for a while, and it'll skew his perspective.]

[As unflinchingly optimistic as Joseph is and tries to me, he doesn't begrudge Giorno that. He nods a little at Giorno.]

I'd be the same way if it was me. But you watch, a month or so from now, [he says, really starting to grin again,] you'll have a different perspective again, and I bet you'll see things a little closer to the way I do.

[Giorno's . . . just silent for a while. His lips press tight shut for a few moments, his brows drawn together in scrutiny.]

[There's no way to know for sure if Joseph is being genuine. But honestly, at this point, Giorno's too exhausted to think about doubting him anymore. Not today. Not right now. He just can't do it.]

[Instead, he holds out his hand and unfolds his fingers to reveal the plane nesting on his palm.]

My friend, [he says--friend, as though there was just one,] died a year ago this month. This reminded me of him.

[He doesn't bother explaining anything else. He wouldn't know the words to explain it anyway.]

[Joseph's smile fades again out of respect for Giorno's loss. As much as Joseph can be dense and oblivious to the feelings of others, he's nowhere near that dense or that oblivious that he doesn't know better than to keep smiling in the wake of such a statement. He looks at the plane in Giorno's hand, nodding a little in understanding that's quite honestly limited. Death's still barely more than idea to Joseph even now, but it's still only natural to try and find or hold onto things that keep some part of that person alive. Something that makes the memories come a little easier for better or for worse.]

You gonna keep it then?

[He doesn't ask any questions about why an airplane or who the friend was. If there's really ever a time to be intrusive with Giorno, now's not that time.]

. . . Yes.

[Something about that simple understanding and respect makes Giorno's throat close up a little. The respect especially--he's used to having to fight for it. But Joseph hasn't made him fight. It's just . . . given, for free. Like it's his right.]

[He keeps calm. But he won't forget this. He knows that if Dio were here, that respect would not come for free. It doesn't kill his curiosity, but it does bring some solemnity down on him. There's a weight to this knowledge: that, with so few honorable people in the world in any case, his father may have brought torment upon one of the rare lineages that possessed it.]

Can I tell you his name?

[It comes out suddenly, a little too loudly. Impulsive. This time, though, it's not just instinct. He's learned something about Joseph today, something that's chipped away at his doubt and suspicion.]

There aren't many people who know it. Who are still alive. If there was one more person, I--would appreciate it. And I think he'd like you.

[Joseph held no expectations of where the conversation would go. It seemed just as likely that it'd fall to silence after Giorno answered his question, and then one of them (most likely Joseph) would have to find some way to disentangle them from the conversation and leave Giorno to some privacy with his grief. So, the question comes as a bit of a surprise when it bursts through the silence. Joseph raises his eyebrows a little, but his expression otherwise doesn't change before he nods.]

Sure.

[Even though it will just be a name to Joseph, a name of someone Giorno associates with airplanes, he'll commit it to memory if it'll help Giorno some.]

. . . Thank you.

[There was a moment after he asked that he felt silly. As though maybe Joseph would think he was silly, too. But Joseph isn't laughing at him or dismissing the idea.]

[Joseph is kind. Giorno doesn't really understand it, but he's starting to mind it less.]

It's Narancia. Narancia Ghirga. [He puts two fingers on the wings of the plane in his palm, tipping it back and forth as though it's flying through a heavy wind.] He had dark hair and dark eyes, and he loved margherita pizza, and he wanted to go back to school.

. . . I didn't ask if I could tell you those other things. I'm sorry. I hope it's all right.

[Joseph shakes his head with a noise that doesn't come close to forming actual words, but it's meant to say enough to let Giorno know that it's all right. It's his loss to share no matter how much or little that ends up being.]

As long as it's alright with you, [he follows up with, just in case it wasn't clear.] I can remember that stuff, too.

[Joseph moves himself on the bike a little further forward with a foot before rocking back.]

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( open ) once upon a time there was a poor child

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asfjkdv sorry I missed this

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it's ok!!!!!

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