Senza Fine, part IX and end (OH GEEZ)
Aug. 14th, 2007 11:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
petroniaFINALLY. XD I've been working toward this scene since last October. Suggest reading the whole thing from beginning to end, actually, or said end is liable not to make sense. It's only, what, 16,250 words? A novelette. Ahahahaha.
I'll probably need to edit the last bit tomorrow, if only because I had no idea Mista was going to do that. I MEAN.
[ Parts I-IV. ]
[ Parts V-VII. ]
[ Part VIII. ]
IX.
Volume 39 of Pink Dark Boy ended on a cliffhanger.
Mista eyed the last double-page spread with a growing sense of despondency. He flipped back, reread the preceding chapter, then flipped forward and read the teaser pages. Volume 40 was supposed to have been out in Japan two weeks ago, by the date. He was going to have to owe Koichi a favour.
The entranceway of the building was dark and cramped, with just enough space for Mista's folding chair between the front door and the foot of the staircase. The concierge had shuffled off half an hour ago, apparently satisfied that he wasn't out to burgle the premises; she'd left a door open somewhere, so that he could hear the clatter of pots and pans coming from the back, and sporadic running water.
When he glanced outside he had to squint against the light. The sky beyond the neighbouring edifices was an arc of blue, scattered with clouds like tufts of white down. A sea breeze had risen to cool the air.
The street was deserted. He let the door swing shut and turned back to the beginning of the tankoubon.
The front jacket flap featured a doodle of Kishibe Rohan by himself, lounging on a recamier and langourously brandishing a fountain pen. The blurb beneath read:
There was the sound of a motor scooter; it was getting louder, engine revving as it ascended the steep incline of the street. Mista could hear it round the corner. He closed the tankoubon, got up and stepped outside.
Fugo puttered into the courtyard on a baby blue Lambretta that might have been new at the time of his grandmother's wedding. He braked when he saw Mista, and put one foot on the ground. The engine hiccupped and cut.
"Hey," Mista said, raising his free hand.
Fugo didn't smile back. Nor did he look surprised. He wore a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, open at the neck. A square messenger bag was slung over his shoulder. He looked a little thinner than when Mista had last seen him, and a good deal more tanned. His hair was bleached flaxen by the sun. It was a good look on him; it brought out the blue of his eyes.
"So," he said, "I guess you're alive."
"I guess I am," said Mista. Fugo just looked at him, until Mista started to wonder what he saw that was different. After a moment he got off the scooter and started to half-wheel, half-carry it into the shed by the gate.
"I hear Giorno Giovanna takes care of Naples these days," he said. "You working under him now?"
"Something like that," said Mista. "Yeah, I guess I am. It's not so bad."
"Business as usual, huh?"
"Pretty much," said Mista. "How about you?"
He took a few steps closer, then stopped. Fugo had set his scooter down inside the shed and turned around, grasping either side of the open door. His grip was somewhere between casual support and a readiness to tear the jambs off the frame bare-handed.
"I've heard all sorts of rumours," he said. "Even that Passione has a new boss now, but no one knows who he really is. Is that one false?"
Mista swallowed. "No," he said.
"What happened to Buccellati?"
This was the hard part, and inevitable. "We lost him," Mista said. "The old Boss, he – you know what he was like. You felt it back there in Venice. We fought him and won, in the end. Giorno took him out. But we lost Buccellati."
He stopped short, knowing he had to go on. But Fugo was already looking away.
"What about Abbacchio?" he said, very softly. "Narancia?"
"We—"
He'd known this was coming as well. Had thought it through, even, and figured the easiest way out was to take the hit – he'd never raised Fugo's stakes, none of them ever had except for that moron Narancia, not with Purple Haze theoretically in potentia – but sheer limbic instinct of self-preservation brought his arms up when Fugo moved.
It wasn't nearly fast enough.
The back of his head hit the ground, and a second white star of pain burst behind his eyes. Then Fugo landed on his chest with both knees. The air whooshed out of Mista's lungs and he couldn't breathe in to replace it. He twisted and flailed, avoided the follow-up punch by sheer providence, but got jabbed again before he managed to block his face.
"He didn't know any better," Fugo was saying, low and hoarse with fury. "He didn't know any fucking better. He would've stepped off a cliff if Buccellati said jump. You would've too, huh? Every last one of you. Fucking lemmings without two brain cells to rub together. Where's Buccellati now? Where's he now? That moralistic fucking idiot. All of you too fucking stupid – to—"
His voice wavered and broke.
Mista waited until he could breathe again. Eventually the rushing in his ears subsided, and he peered over his forearms. Fugo still had his fist pulled back, clenched tight so that his arm visibly trembled, but he didn't seem inclined to do anything with it. His knuckles were scraped raw from missing Mista's nose and hitting the concrete. His face was very white.
He wasn't crying. Mista wondered if he was supposed to hit back, to tell Fugo it was his fault for walking away, that maybe Narancia would've made it if someone had been there to watch his back. If the point was to hurt Fugo for what they both knew. Raise the stakes this time, punch him hard enough, give him a good reason to cry.
He couldn't imagine doing it.
"I know what you did for us in Venice," he said. "You took care of the operative there and got us out. We're square – that's what Buccellati said. I just wanted to tell you in person."
Fugo stared down at him for several long seconds. Then he dropped his fist and rose in one abrupt movement, stepping away from Mista.
"Come up," he said. "I'll get you some ice for that."
***
"You're a nice guy," Giorno said when he saw Mista's face. "You know that?"
"Um, thanks," said Mista. "I think." The sun was hot, and the ice wrapped in the rag he was holding to his bruised eye had nearly melted completely. Water dripped down his arm to the elbow, and he shook it off.
Giorno had been sitting on the hood of the Spider, in a corner of shade afforded by a protruding wall. He slid off at Mista's approach.
"Here," he said, "let me take a look."
Mista moved his hand out of the way. Giorno's touch was usually pleasantly cool – as if his body temperature were naturally lower than average – but compared to the ice his fingertips felt warm. Mista shivered, irrationally.
"He's not coming back with us," he said.
"I hope you didn't ask him to," Giorno said. He sounded amused. He took a step back and dropped his hand, seemingly satisfied with his examination.
"I didn't. That's the funny thing – he said he wasn't coming back anyway."
"Fugo always liked to think ahead," said Giorno. He reached for the driver's side door. "Come on."
Mista didn't move. The sense of reluctance was nameless, as if some unseen spectator were holding his or her breath. He was aware of the bright sunlight, the breeze – the irregular, pastel-coloured buildings lining the empty street – Giorno. Who had paused with his hand on the Spider's door handle; he was watching Mista, expression thoughtful, and Mista suddenly wanted to push him up against the sun-warmed metal and kiss him, except they were out in the open.
So it's finally over, he thought. All the loose ends tied up.
No, this is—
A small butterfly fluttered past between them and rose in the air, circling, like a scrap of paper caught in the wind. Mista tracked it absently with his gaze. It was a common cabbage white, marked with black, as if someone had let fall a dash of ink at the centre of each of its forewings. It tumbled in the air and descended again, toward Giorno.
Giorno made a sound, a sharp intake of breath. He lifted his hand slowly, as if to ward something from his face, and the butterfly landed on the tip of his index finger, in front of his eyes. Only for a brief instant: a heartbeat later it had taken off again and was gone, fluttering away up the street.
Giorno stared after it. His hand dropped to his side.
"Boss...?"
Giorno took a slow step, then another – then all of a sudden he was running. Mista was barely quick enough on the uptake to follow.
The streets all ran steeply uphill, winding and narrow, intersecting each other at acute angles. At certain crossings Giorno paused briefly before setting off again, usually in a wholly different direction. Sometimes Mista thought he caught sight of their guide as well: a speck of white, dancing in the periphery of his field of vision. He was in good shape, but found himself sweating and panting nonetheless.
By the time Giorno stumbled to a stop they were both gasping for air. Mista put one hand on the wall and looked up.
They were standing next to a garden gate. The wall was too high to see over, but green growth crept and spilt over the top of the brick, like foam over the edge of a bowl. The same vines clambered over the wrought-iron grille, the foliage dense enough to cover the latch and hide the interior entirely from prying eyes. The dark mass of leaves was scattered with star-shaped white flowers.
The butterfly had come to rest on the gate itself. One blossom among many – Mista saw it only when Giorno moved and it fluttered upward out of reach, disappearing over the wall.
"Here," Giorno said, as if in answer to an unasked question. He laid his hand on the gate, palm flat, and the vines parted with a loud rustle, untangling and whipping backward like the feelers of a sentient creature. Giorno found the latch, lifted and pushed. The gate swung inward, creaking.
The courtyard was small, paved with rectangular stones. A granite basin stood in the centre, but it was empty of water. A small tortoiseshell cat lay in its shade, paws outstretched; it followed Giorno and Mista's passage with lazy, narrowed eyes, but did not deign to rise.
The four walls were covered with trellises, and nearly choked with greenery – ivy, climbing roses, and clematis, the visible flowers nearly all white, but here and there a deep, rich violet. Closer to the ground there grew lavender, tall white snapdragons, masses of blue hyssop. The air was warm and fragrant. Mista spotted the butterfly again – it was feeding, clinging to a hyssop stem – but then he saw others, dancing and still, white and grey and orange and gold. The garden was filled with butterflies; there was no way to identify the one they'd followed.
The house was silent, the green shutters closed. Giorno stopped at the door but did not knock. He reached under his collar and pulled out a fine silver chain. At the end of the chain was a key. It fit the lock, and turned. The door opened.
Mista followed Giorno into the entranceway, past a staircase, and down a short corridor. When the door closed behind them the interior was dark enough that his eyes could not immediately adjust. He had an impression of sparse, wooden furnishings, and white walls. The place smelled unlived-in.
The corridor opened out onto a room. Giorno went immediately to the windows and threw the shutters wide, one after another. Sunlight flooded in, and Mista blinked.
"Hey," he said. "Hey, you can see the sea from here."
He could see the sea. Just a scrap of it, far away and between the rooftops of intervening buildings, but it was there: blue and glittering, dissolving into the paler colour of the sky. They must have been close to the edge of the hill.
Giorno looked at the sea, then looked around the room, turning slowly. It was empty, except for a table, two long wooden benches, and a cabinet in the corner. There was a ceiling lamp, and a door that might have led to a kitchen. The air was golden with motes of suspended dust.
Giorno moved to the centre of the room and stood there, leaning against the table as if to test its solidity. Mista stayed by the window. For long seconds they were quiet. Then Giorno laughed, softly, and covered his eyes with one hand.
"I'm a fool," he said. "For a moment I thought he'd – but no. Of course."
"You're not a fool," Mista said, as decidedly as he could. Giorno didn't answer, so he went to Giorno and slid his arms around the other boy from the back, pulling him against his chest. He bent his head, feeling daring, and buried his face in the thick, tamed gold of Giorno's hair, where it was pulled back to begin his braid. Roses, clematis, lavender... others too, both nameless and familiar.
"We're not... it's okay to miss him," he said. "It's okay. Boss."
Giorno did not protest or pull away. Mista felt him sigh a little; that was all.
"This is a beautiful place," he said, finally.
"It is."
"Trish would like it. Probably he wanted her to—if they'd—" The soft laugh again, and then Giorno did pull away. "I don't know," he said, "I don't know. I shouldn't have come here. It's not for me. There's so much work to be done, and no time."
"We can handle it," said Mista. "You and me and the others. You won't be on your own."
"Yes."
But for once he didn't sound certain.
On impulse Mista reached out and took Giorno's hand, lifting it to his lips. Then he went to one knee. Giorno did not make a sound, but his fingers tightened around Mista's before relaxing again, slowly.
"By my blood," Mista said, "and the blood of all the saints—" he had to pause to find the wording, but it came easily enough— "and by my immortal soul, this I swear: to protect and obey, with love and in silence, without divulging my secret, from this moment until my death." He looked up. "Boss."
He couldn't remember having taken Giorno off-guard before. The expression would have been becoming, if it hadn't been alarming.
"...Boss?"
Giorno only looked at him, until Mista felt embarrassment threaten. Then he smiled. It was dazzling, perfect.
"Let's go back," he said.
[ Author's Notes ]
I'll probably need to edit the last bit tomorrow, if only because I had no idea Mista was going to do that. I MEAN.
[ Parts I-IV. ]
[ Parts V-VII. ]
[ Part VIII. ]
IX.
Volume 39 of Pink Dark Boy ended on a cliffhanger.
Mista eyed the last double-page spread with a growing sense of despondency. He flipped back, reread the preceding chapter, then flipped forward and read the teaser pages. Volume 40 was supposed to have been out in Japan two weeks ago, by the date. He was going to have to owe Koichi a favour.
The entranceway of the building was dark and cramped, with just enough space for Mista's folding chair between the front door and the foot of the staircase. The concierge had shuffled off half an hour ago, apparently satisfied that he wasn't out to burgle the premises; she'd left a door open somewhere, so that he could hear the clatter of pots and pans coming from the back, and sporadic running water.
When he glanced outside he had to squint against the light. The sky beyond the neighbouring edifices was an arc of blue, scattered with clouds like tufts of white down. A sea breeze had risen to cool the air.
The street was deserted. He let the door swing shut and turned back to the beginning of the tankoubon.
The front jacket flap featured a doodle of Kishibe Rohan by himself, lounging on a recamier and langourously brandishing a fountain pen. The blurb beneath read:
Last night I dreamt that I was Araki, the butler of Wesley House – a minor role indeed! But in my dream I – or he – was still drawing manga for Weekly Jump. The serial concerned the adventures of Kishibe Rohan and his friends, and ran to many volumes. It was a strange and marvelous tale! But before I could finish reading, I woke up.
This is a conundrum. Am I Kishibe, dreaming that I was Araki, drawing a manga about Kishibe? Or am I Araki even now, dreaming that I am Kishibe – a Kishibe who draws a manga in which Araki appears? I suspect that I have the better part of this bargain, since I am the hero of his story. But as I am I, how could it be otherwise?
There was the sound of a motor scooter; it was getting louder, engine revving as it ascended the steep incline of the street. Mista could hear it round the corner. He closed the tankoubon, got up and stepped outside.
Fugo puttered into the courtyard on a baby blue Lambretta that might have been new at the time of his grandmother's wedding. He braked when he saw Mista, and put one foot on the ground. The engine hiccupped and cut.
"Hey," Mista said, raising his free hand.
Fugo didn't smile back. Nor did he look surprised. He wore a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, open at the neck. A square messenger bag was slung over his shoulder. He looked a little thinner than when Mista had last seen him, and a good deal more tanned. His hair was bleached flaxen by the sun. It was a good look on him; it brought out the blue of his eyes.
"So," he said, "I guess you're alive."
"I guess I am," said Mista. Fugo just looked at him, until Mista started to wonder what he saw that was different. After a moment he got off the scooter and started to half-wheel, half-carry it into the shed by the gate.
"I hear Giorno Giovanna takes care of Naples these days," he said. "You working under him now?"
"Something like that," said Mista. "Yeah, I guess I am. It's not so bad."
"Business as usual, huh?"
"Pretty much," said Mista. "How about you?"
He took a few steps closer, then stopped. Fugo had set his scooter down inside the shed and turned around, grasping either side of the open door. His grip was somewhere between casual support and a readiness to tear the jambs off the frame bare-handed.
"I've heard all sorts of rumours," he said. "Even that Passione has a new boss now, but no one knows who he really is. Is that one false?"
Mista swallowed. "No," he said.
"What happened to Buccellati?"
This was the hard part, and inevitable. "We lost him," Mista said. "The old Boss, he – you know what he was like. You felt it back there in Venice. We fought him and won, in the end. Giorno took him out. But we lost Buccellati."
He stopped short, knowing he had to go on. But Fugo was already looking away.
"What about Abbacchio?" he said, very softly. "Narancia?"
"We—"
He'd known this was coming as well. Had thought it through, even, and figured the easiest way out was to take the hit – he'd never raised Fugo's stakes, none of them ever had except for that moron Narancia, not with Purple Haze theoretically in potentia – but sheer limbic instinct of self-preservation brought his arms up when Fugo moved.
It wasn't nearly fast enough.
The back of his head hit the ground, and a second white star of pain burst behind his eyes. Then Fugo landed on his chest with both knees. The air whooshed out of Mista's lungs and he couldn't breathe in to replace it. He twisted and flailed, avoided the follow-up punch by sheer providence, but got jabbed again before he managed to block his face.
"He didn't know any better," Fugo was saying, low and hoarse with fury. "He didn't know any fucking better. He would've stepped off a cliff if Buccellati said jump. You would've too, huh? Every last one of you. Fucking lemmings without two brain cells to rub together. Where's Buccellati now? Where's he now? That moralistic fucking idiot. All of you too fucking stupid – to—"
His voice wavered and broke.
Mista waited until he could breathe again. Eventually the rushing in his ears subsided, and he peered over his forearms. Fugo still had his fist pulled back, clenched tight so that his arm visibly trembled, but he didn't seem inclined to do anything with it. His knuckles were scraped raw from missing Mista's nose and hitting the concrete. His face was very white.
He wasn't crying. Mista wondered if he was supposed to hit back, to tell Fugo it was his fault for walking away, that maybe Narancia would've made it if someone had been there to watch his back. If the point was to hurt Fugo for what they both knew. Raise the stakes this time, punch him hard enough, give him a good reason to cry.
He couldn't imagine doing it.
"I know what you did for us in Venice," he said. "You took care of the operative there and got us out. We're square – that's what Buccellati said. I just wanted to tell you in person."
Fugo stared down at him for several long seconds. Then he dropped his fist and rose in one abrupt movement, stepping away from Mista.
"Come up," he said. "I'll get you some ice for that."
"You're a nice guy," Giorno said when he saw Mista's face. "You know that?"
"Um, thanks," said Mista. "I think." The sun was hot, and the ice wrapped in the rag he was holding to his bruised eye had nearly melted completely. Water dripped down his arm to the elbow, and he shook it off.
Giorno had been sitting on the hood of the Spider, in a corner of shade afforded by a protruding wall. He slid off at Mista's approach.
"Here," he said, "let me take a look."
Mista moved his hand out of the way. Giorno's touch was usually pleasantly cool – as if his body temperature were naturally lower than average – but compared to the ice his fingertips felt warm. Mista shivered, irrationally.
"He's not coming back with us," he said.
"I hope you didn't ask him to," Giorno said. He sounded amused. He took a step back and dropped his hand, seemingly satisfied with his examination.
"I didn't. That's the funny thing – he said he wasn't coming back anyway."
"Fugo always liked to think ahead," said Giorno. He reached for the driver's side door. "Come on."
Mista didn't move. The sense of reluctance was nameless, as if some unseen spectator were holding his or her breath. He was aware of the bright sunlight, the breeze – the irregular, pastel-coloured buildings lining the empty street – Giorno. Who had paused with his hand on the Spider's door handle; he was watching Mista, expression thoughtful, and Mista suddenly wanted to push him up against the sun-warmed metal and kiss him, except they were out in the open.
So it's finally over, he thought. All the loose ends tied up.
No, this is—
A small butterfly fluttered past between them and rose in the air, circling, like a scrap of paper caught in the wind. Mista tracked it absently with his gaze. It was a common cabbage white, marked with black, as if someone had let fall a dash of ink at the centre of each of its forewings. It tumbled in the air and descended again, toward Giorno.
Giorno made a sound, a sharp intake of breath. He lifted his hand slowly, as if to ward something from his face, and the butterfly landed on the tip of his index finger, in front of his eyes. Only for a brief instant: a heartbeat later it had taken off again and was gone, fluttering away up the street.
Giorno stared after it. His hand dropped to his side.
"Boss...?"
Giorno took a slow step, then another – then all of a sudden he was running. Mista was barely quick enough on the uptake to follow.
The streets all ran steeply uphill, winding and narrow, intersecting each other at acute angles. At certain crossings Giorno paused briefly before setting off again, usually in a wholly different direction. Sometimes Mista thought he caught sight of their guide as well: a speck of white, dancing in the periphery of his field of vision. He was in good shape, but found himself sweating and panting nonetheless.
By the time Giorno stumbled to a stop they were both gasping for air. Mista put one hand on the wall and looked up.
They were standing next to a garden gate. The wall was too high to see over, but green growth crept and spilt over the top of the brick, like foam over the edge of a bowl. The same vines clambered over the wrought-iron grille, the foliage dense enough to cover the latch and hide the interior entirely from prying eyes. The dark mass of leaves was scattered with star-shaped white flowers.
The butterfly had come to rest on the gate itself. One blossom among many – Mista saw it only when Giorno moved and it fluttered upward out of reach, disappearing over the wall.
"Here," Giorno said, as if in answer to an unasked question. He laid his hand on the gate, palm flat, and the vines parted with a loud rustle, untangling and whipping backward like the feelers of a sentient creature. Giorno found the latch, lifted and pushed. The gate swung inward, creaking.
The courtyard was small, paved with rectangular stones. A granite basin stood in the centre, but it was empty of water. A small tortoiseshell cat lay in its shade, paws outstretched; it followed Giorno and Mista's passage with lazy, narrowed eyes, but did not deign to rise.
The four walls were covered with trellises, and nearly choked with greenery – ivy, climbing roses, and clematis, the visible flowers nearly all white, but here and there a deep, rich violet. Closer to the ground there grew lavender, tall white snapdragons, masses of blue hyssop. The air was warm and fragrant. Mista spotted the butterfly again – it was feeding, clinging to a hyssop stem – but then he saw others, dancing and still, white and grey and orange and gold. The garden was filled with butterflies; there was no way to identify the one they'd followed.
The house was silent, the green shutters closed. Giorno stopped at the door but did not knock. He reached under his collar and pulled out a fine silver chain. At the end of the chain was a key. It fit the lock, and turned. The door opened.
Mista followed Giorno into the entranceway, past a staircase, and down a short corridor. When the door closed behind them the interior was dark enough that his eyes could not immediately adjust. He had an impression of sparse, wooden furnishings, and white walls. The place smelled unlived-in.
The corridor opened out onto a room. Giorno went immediately to the windows and threw the shutters wide, one after another. Sunlight flooded in, and Mista blinked.
"Hey," he said. "Hey, you can see the sea from here."
He could see the sea. Just a scrap of it, far away and between the rooftops of intervening buildings, but it was there: blue and glittering, dissolving into the paler colour of the sky. They must have been close to the edge of the hill.
Giorno looked at the sea, then looked around the room, turning slowly. It was empty, except for a table, two long wooden benches, and a cabinet in the corner. There was a ceiling lamp, and a door that might have led to a kitchen. The air was golden with motes of suspended dust.
Giorno moved to the centre of the room and stood there, leaning against the table as if to test its solidity. Mista stayed by the window. For long seconds they were quiet. Then Giorno laughed, softly, and covered his eyes with one hand.
"I'm a fool," he said. "For a moment I thought he'd – but no. Of course."
"You're not a fool," Mista said, as decidedly as he could. Giorno didn't answer, so he went to Giorno and slid his arms around the other boy from the back, pulling him against his chest. He bent his head, feeling daring, and buried his face in the thick, tamed gold of Giorno's hair, where it was pulled back to begin his braid. Roses, clematis, lavender... others too, both nameless and familiar.
"We're not... it's okay to miss him," he said. "It's okay. Boss."
Giorno did not protest or pull away. Mista felt him sigh a little; that was all.
"This is a beautiful place," he said, finally.
"It is."
"Trish would like it. Probably he wanted her to—if they'd—" The soft laugh again, and then Giorno did pull away. "I don't know," he said, "I don't know. I shouldn't have come here. It's not for me. There's so much work to be done, and no time."
"We can handle it," said Mista. "You and me and the others. You won't be on your own."
"Yes."
But for once he didn't sound certain.
On impulse Mista reached out and took Giorno's hand, lifting it to his lips. Then he went to one knee. Giorno did not make a sound, but his fingers tightened around Mista's before relaxing again, slowly.
"By my blood," Mista said, "and the blood of all the saints—" he had to pause to find the wording, but it came easily enough— "and by my immortal soul, this I swear: to protect and obey, with love and in silence, without divulging my secret, from this moment until my death." He looked up. "Boss."
He couldn't remember having taken Giorno off-guard before. The expression would have been becoming, if it hadn't been alarming.
"...Boss?"
Giorno only looked at him, until Mista felt embarrassment threaten. Then he smiled. It was dazzling, perfect.
"Let's go back," he said.
Senza fine, tu trascini la nostra vita
senza un'attimo di respiro per sognare
per potere ricordare
perche abbiamo già vissuto
Senza fine, tu sei un attimo senza fine
non hai ieri non hai domani
tutto è ormai nelle tue mani
mani grandi, mani senza fine
Non m'importa della luna
non m'importa delle stelle
tu per me sei luna e stelle
tu per me sei sole e cielo
tu per me sei tutto quanto
tutto quanto voglio avere
--Gino Paoli, "Senza Fine"
[ Author's Notes ]
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-08-15 06:13 am (UTC)Fugo! And closure!
I went all weepy again though, at butterfly part. Buccellati totally should have had gardens of flowers.
no subject
Date: 2007-08-15 05:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-15 09:40 am (UTC)"You're a nice guy," Giorno said when he saw Mista's face. "You know that?"
Ahaha. So the scene you couldn't write but figured out you could skip was the one between Fugo and Mista?
A small butterfly fluttered past between them and rose in the air, circling, like a scrap of paper caught in the wind.
Of COURSE it's butterflies. What else? XD Though I have to say, I really thought Bottachilli had been turned into white birds (doves), all the way back in Section V. I wasn't getting this section at all and I had to re-read V a few times before I noticed my mistake.
no subject
Date: 2007-08-15 09:50 am (UTC)So it's finally over, he thought. All the loose ends tied up.
YES.
no subject
Date: 2007-08-15 05:09 pm (UTC)The line about loose ends is like the hugest Dischism ever. XD
Notes to come!
no subject
Date: 2007-08-16 12:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-16 04:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-16 03:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-16 04:49 am (UTC):D:D:D
Date: 2007-08-19 01:41 am (UTC)And now, back to the dungeon.
Re: :D:D:D
Date: 2007-08-21 03:37 am (UTC)Whenever you have time. XD I'll probably have to futz with this some more!
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Date: 2007-08-20 12:10 pm (UTC)The manga geekery! and Mista flailing around at Koichi filled me with dorky, dorky glee. "What does he do. Like Giorno, I hope this doesn't come as a surprise by the way, Giorno is fifteen years old and he controls the largest Mafia gang in Italy. What does he do." XDDD
And the stuff with the manga paralleling and then physically pushing into the story is so right for the tone, that over-sharp and slightly hallucinatory reality that a highly stylised image is.
Also, butterflies!♥ AND WITH THE DRESS asdkfjs
And I love that along with all the Mafia and that, they're /boys/ and their rooms are full of books and tapes and random shite. It makes it hurt kind of sweeter, um.
Also: this is beautiful, really.
Also Giorno is terrifying-yet-hawt. -_- *flees*no subject
Date: 2007-08-21 05:37 am (UTC)Did no one come drag you off to join![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hail2jojo yetBut oh man, you have to finish reading part 5. Spoilers notwithstanding (I think several people were spoilered thanks to this fic ^^;;). The scanlations are all out, and with this series it's the journey that counts.I'm really glad you liked it. And ahaha, Giorno, yes. What you call the slightly hallucinatory quality of the thing is due to him, I think - rather it seems to be endemic to my Giorno/Mista, and I don't think it could be Mista's fault. XD If I wrote Dio it'd probably come out the same.
It's killing me that to this day, I can't find a picture online of the dress in question. Darn you, agnès b., for your no runway show or print ad policy!
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Date: 2007-08-21 05:32 pm (UTC)Ooh yay, are they out now? Last time I looked, they were missing the last volume.
... I completely didn't realise Rohan was an actual character from the manga. Will have to read 4.
o_0 It's an actual dress? I just thought Escher print.
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Date: 2007-08-22 11:28 pm (UTC)I don't know about the other peeps in fandom because they're not all into WK. Possibly we're just into the pretteh. That being said you have to read parts 3-4 too: 3 is the funniest and best-paced. And everyone thinks Rohan is the mangaka's Mary Sue.
(It's an actual dress I got out of a magazine - didn't keep the magazine, though!)
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Date: 2007-10-20 07:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-21 12:26 am (UTC)This (http://highervoltage.net/mb/showpost.php?p=695014&postcount=4141) is the link I got off
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Date: 2007-10-21 02:17 pm (UTC)