[He repeats, voice soft. It's a strange sort of thing, to confront your own mortality in this way. To mourn for your own future. Narancia doesn't have the practice the others do with distancing themselves from their emotions, the layers upon layers of walls built up over years for self-preservation. Perhaps ironically, Buccellati and Fugo had saved him from that. The moment of shock is clear on his face, but it's not something that devastates him, either. The truth doesn't crush him under its heel, and he's a little surprised by that himself, because he didn't want to die, remembers being so scared that day when Buccellati told them what he'd done and gave them all a choice. He wanted to go home and eat a margherita pizza with mushrooms and reunite with Fugo and try finally giving school a chance, like Buccellati always wanted him to. If this is it, it's sad he won't get to do those things. Maybe he'll feel that harder later, when it's had time to settle in.
But the thing is, he was also supposed to die when he was fifteen. He never was supposed to get the time he had with Buccellati and Fugo and Mista and Abbacchio and Giorno and Trish, and it was the happiest time of his entire life. There were so many people who spent decades upon decades as a living corpse, unhappy and unfulfilled and often content to simply drag others down with them so their misery had company. When he was with Buccellati's group, he felt at peace with the world and himself, and as much as he didn't want to die, he was okay with the possibility. It was like he'd said--he wasn't afraid of anything Buccellati ever had to ask of him.
For a little while, he's quiet, gaze dropped to the floor as he sorts through his own feelings. Then he looks back up.]
Is Trish safe? Then I won't have any regrets.
[There's a look on his face like he has more to say, but he hesitates for a moment, not sure he's overstepping his place, but...]
But I think it's okay if it's about you a little, Giorno. ...Abbacchio would've been pissed if he saw how much I screamed and cried back then, but I couldn't stop how I felt. It's only fair you get to feel what you feel, too.
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[He repeats, voice soft. It's a strange sort of thing, to confront your own mortality in this way. To mourn for your own future. Narancia doesn't have the practice the others do with distancing themselves from their emotions, the layers upon layers of walls built up over years for self-preservation. Perhaps ironically, Buccellati and Fugo had saved him from that. The moment of shock is clear on his face, but it's not something that devastates him, either. The truth doesn't crush him under its heel, and he's a little surprised by that himself, because he didn't want to die, remembers being so scared that day when Buccellati told them what he'd done and gave them all a choice. He wanted to go home and eat a margherita pizza with mushrooms and reunite with Fugo and try finally giving school a chance, like Buccellati always wanted him to. If this is it, it's sad he won't get to do those things. Maybe he'll feel that harder later, when it's had time to settle in.
But the thing is, he was also supposed to die when he was fifteen. He never was supposed to get the time he had with Buccellati and Fugo and Mista and Abbacchio and Giorno and Trish, and it was the happiest time of his entire life. There were so many people who spent decades upon decades as a living corpse, unhappy and unfulfilled and often content to simply drag others down with them so their misery had company. When he was with Buccellati's group, he felt at peace with the world and himself, and as much as he didn't want to die, he was okay with the possibility. It was like he'd said--he wasn't afraid of anything Buccellati ever had to ask of him.
For a little while, he's quiet, gaze dropped to the floor as he sorts through his own feelings. Then he looks back up.]
Is Trish safe? Then I won't have any regrets.
[There's a look on his face like he has more to say, but he hesitates for a moment, not sure he's overstepping his place, but...]
But I think it's okay if it's about you a little, Giorno. ...Abbacchio would've been pissed if he saw how much I screamed and cried back then, but I couldn't stop how I felt. It's only fair you get to feel what you feel, too.