[Watching Fugo come his way feels like watching a film through a telescope. There's some part of him that's touched at how efficiently Fugo moves towards him, another that feels guilt for making him deal with all of this. Fugo likes neatness, after all, and this is not neat. Having to walk through the slush of human refuse that he's left behind, that's not fair to him. It's not fair to ask these things of him. And yet Fugo does them, without a second thought.]
[Giorno feels guilt and tenderness and empathy from the space of a light-year, a space that only slightly contracts as Fugo comes closer to him. Even when Fugo stands right in front of him, he still feels separated by the space of a stadium. Six months and over a year and one whole space of humanity is what separates them. The two of them, from two different worlds that happen to be the same one.]
[And still, Fugo is the only person he trusted to come here. To see him this way, and to understand, without a word needing to be said by either of them.]
[Staring up at him, hair hanging messy and lank in its dissolving braid over one shoulder, Giorno parts his lips as though to speak. Nothing comes out. There's only air. He doesn't want to drink the water. He wants to say something. The only trouble is, he doesn't know what it is that he wants to say. Would it even matter if he said it? Almost certainly not.]
[In the end, he reaches out with numb fingers to take the bottle. Obedient and on automatic, he drinks. He doesn't put the bottle down until it's empty, or Fugo tells him to stop, fingers digging so hard into the plastic that it makes a sound like ice sheets breaking.]
cw dissociation
[Giorno feels guilt and tenderness and empathy from the space of a light-year, a space that only slightly contracts as Fugo comes closer to him. Even when Fugo stands right in front of him, he still feels separated by the space of a stadium. Six months and over a year and one whole space of humanity is what separates them. The two of them, from two different worlds that happen to be the same one.]
[And still, Fugo is the only person he trusted to come here. To see him this way, and to understand, without a word needing to be said by either of them.]
[Staring up at him, hair hanging messy and lank in its dissolving braid over one shoulder, Giorno parts his lips as though to speak. Nothing comes out. There's only air. He doesn't want to drink the water. He wants to say something. The only trouble is, he doesn't know what it is that he wants to say. Would it even matter if he said it? Almost certainly not.]
[In the end, he reaches out with numb fingers to take the bottle. Obedient and on automatic, he drinks. He doesn't put the bottle down until it's empty, or Fugo tells him to stop, fingers digging so hard into the plastic that it makes a sound like ice sheets breaking.]