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RYSLIG INBOX
WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, GUIDO MISTA. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 018.07.154.55 *** RICOCHET has joined 018.07.154.55 <RICOCHET> oh shit this thing works <RICOCHET> sweet <RICOCHET> uhhhh leave me a message i guess <RICOCHET> pretty sure that's what this is supposed to be for | ||||
april 3.
[When he wakes up, he knows that it's true. Because more times than not, when he wakes from a nightmare, Mista is there already, called by some uncanny sense or simple intuition or just the sound of troubled sleep. No matter how humiliated or ashamed he feels, Mista just gives him a tired grin and pushes his hair out of his face, talks to him until he falls asleep again.]
[A week into March, the nightmares still haven't let up. One night, it's him who shows up in Mista's room instead of the other way around. He crawls in next to Mista without asking and is just . . . accepted, like there was never any question.]
[He likes waking up with the warmth of Mista beside him. The nightmares aren't gone entirely, but they're less frequent and easier to shake off. Even in the morning, Mista smiles a lot.]
[He's going to have to think about it eventually. The things Mista brought him. The gifts, the flowers, the coupons. He can't bear to be away from them even overnight, so he tucks one of the glittery ladybugs into his pocket just so he can touch it and know it's close. As the days skip past, he's more and more distracted every time he remembers it's there, every time he remembers the gesture, sweet and clumsy and imperfect and so, so personal. The kind of thing only Mista would get for only him. Just them.]
[And he does think about it. He does. And he's almost ready to do something about it, when the world twists sideways all over again.]
[This time isn't as bad, except in the ways that it's worse. When he returns to himself, Giorno is out of sorts in an entirely different way, feeling untethered to his body, drifting, lost. Making eye contact with the people who matter is hard, so he largely avoids it. But with Mista it feels . . . a little silly. He still keeps his distance for a while, but the longer it goes on, the harder it is to ignore the nagging voice in the back of his mind that tells him he's being ridiculous. That Mista of all people won't care. That they've gone through so, so much worse together. That even there in that other universe they found each other, by coincidence more than by fate, but they were swept into each other's path all the same. And Mista still smiled at him just like usual.]
[Knowing he's being ridiculous doesn't mean it's easy for him to let go. But Mista is the person he trusts more than anyone else, ever. So even if it isn't easy, he still does it.]
[When Mista wakes up on the third, Giorno is gone, earlier than he usually would be. On the pillow he would usually be occupying is a small sprig of flowers (wisteria twined around two mauve roses), a small white box containing precisely arranged chocolates, and a sealed envelope. Inside of the envelope is a letter, which reads:]
Mista,
Have you ever heard of White Day? I don't think it's made it to Italia yet. In some places, White Day takes place one month after Valentine's Day and is an opportunity for people who have received valentines to respond in kind. I don't know much more about it than that, but it seemed like an opportunity I couldn't let pass, considering everything that's happened recently. Then Ryslig decided for me, so . . . sorry. Your present is late. In fairness to me, I wasn't myself.
February was miserable, but I can pinpoint the best moments of it easily. Those moments after I opened the gifts you left me and realized what you'd done for me were the happiest for me — since we arrived here, I'm positive. It was briefly very difficult to understand why you'd do that and then very easy. You care so much about me that sometimes it feels like you must be mistaking me for someone else. But in that moment, I knew that couldn't be the case, because there was no one else in any universe that gift could be for but me.
No one has ever done anything like that for me. Just because they cared about me. But you did. You do.
I started writing this with intention, and now I feel I've lost my way a bit. I want to respond, but I'm worried about saying the wrong thing. I want to stay and watch you read this, but I think I might run away instead. Please forgive me. I feel a bit bad, as this isn't nearly as creative or personalized as your gift was, but I thought . . . is this romantic? Waking up to chocolates and flowers? I don't really know if I've done it right. I hope you'll let me know.
I'm sorry. I don't know how to talk about this. I think the clearest way I can put it is: what I felt from the gift you gave me, I feel for you in return. I hope I understood correctly. I hope that everything we went through hasn't changed your mind. You are my heart.
—Giorno
P.S. If you're not angry with me, I can tell you what the flowers mean. And about the rest of it. The things that happened in the other Bavan.
no subject
He was starting to get used to it, sleeping next to him and letting his end of his tail coil gently around an ankle or a wrist to keep him close. It was for that reason that he found himself disappointed when he woke up alone on the morning of April 3rd, a feeling that only lasted for those first bleary moments of wakefulness that occurred before his eyes fell on the gifts that had been left for him. The letter had made him cry, something that stemmed from joy and a strange wave of relief rather than sorrow.
Somehow he'd known where to find him, a feeling that he'd followed until he'd proven himself right. He wasn't sure how to approach, whether to wait until Giorno turned to him or if he should just say something first. He'd brought the flowers with him, staring down at them as he gathered his thoughts and more importantly his words. He didn't know what he wanted to say, he didn't know how to make it clear how touched he was and how deeply he felt...
Finally he cleared his throat, a splash of colour on his face as he clutched the flowers to his chest. His own security blanket. ]
...what do the flowers mean?
no subject
[Well, it was like night and day. His expression had been peaceful before, but when he saw Mista approaching, his smile lit up like the sun. He beamed, pleased and just slightly embarrassed to see that Mista had brought his flowers with him. That he hadn’t wanted to leave them behind. It was . . . sweet. More than sweet. It was a very Mista thing to do.]
[Ah. At least he was ready to answer this question, had even invited it, even if it’s also a little embarrassing. Biting his lip slightly, he quirked a grin up at Mista before answering.]
That color of rose means love at first sight. And wisteria means enduring love.
[Just a little embarrassing. But he means both. Patting the ground beside him in the crevice between two of his tree’s roots, he tips his chin up at Mista expectantly.]
Come sit with me?