[Fugo takes Giorno's hand. He will always take Giorno's hand.]
[His palm slides beneath Giorno's, shoring it up, fingers curling around the side to hold it in place in the still night air. He looks down at their hands, expression settling into something profoundly melancholy; feels the chill of Giorno's fingertips, the pulsing warmth of the life he consumed thrumming through his veins. He brushes his thumb over the top of Giorno's knuckles, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, before carefully turning it to be palm-up.]
I'm sorry. It's probably going to be cold. [He should have thought to bring a bottle of lukewarm water, or warm one of them in the microwave while he prepared the rest of his supplies.] I'll be careful.
[And then he begins. Working in small circles, one section at a time, Fugo washes the blood from Giorno's hands. He starts with the palm, working his way out from the center over the heel and the meat of his thumb until just beyond the wrist. Next are the fingers, beginning with the thumb and ending with the pinky; he has no nail brush on hand to clean underneath his claws, but he does his best to get the worst of it out. Finally, he turns it over to attend to the knuckles and the back of the hand. When the work is complete, as best as he can manage it, he rinses Giorno's skin with more water from the bottle. Cool and clean. And then he begins again, repeating the exact same process from start to finish, with Giorno's other hand.
It takes time. To Fugo, it doesn't feel like too long. This time is vitally necessary, to help Giorno come back to himself. He knows how uncomfortable it is. He knows how exhausting it is. How awful it feels, to reinhabit a body that was left behind because the world it existed in was too miserable to bear.]
no subject
[His palm slides beneath Giorno's, shoring it up, fingers curling around the side to hold it in place in the still night air. He looks down at their hands, expression settling into something profoundly melancholy; feels the chill of Giorno's fingertips, the pulsing warmth of the life he consumed thrumming through his veins. He brushes his thumb over the top of Giorno's knuckles, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, before carefully turning it to be palm-up.]
I'm sorry. It's probably going to be cold. [He should have thought to bring a bottle of lukewarm water, or warm one of them in the microwave while he prepared the rest of his supplies.] I'll be careful.
[And then he begins. Working in small circles, one section at a time, Fugo washes the blood from Giorno's hands. He starts with the palm, working his way out from the center over the heel and the meat of his thumb until just beyond the wrist. Next are the fingers, beginning with the thumb and ending with the pinky; he has no nail brush on hand to clean underneath his claws, but he does his best to get the worst of it out. Finally, he turns it over to attend to the knuckles and the back of the hand. When the work is complete, as best as he can manage it, he rinses Giorno's skin with more water from the bottle. Cool and clean. And then he begins again, repeating the exact same process from start to finish, with Giorno's other hand.
It takes time. To Fugo, it doesn't feel like too long. This time is vitally necessary, to help Giorno come back to himself. He knows how uncomfortable it is. He knows how exhausting it is. How awful it feels, to reinhabit a body that was left behind because the world it existed in was too miserable to bear.]