[Fugo's thumb is a metronome, slow and steady as it strikes a beat across his knuckles. The sensation is so intimate that he, in his distant state, can barely feel it. He sees it, though, and seeing it makes it real. This is something Fugo is doing to comfort him, but also to comfort himself. The look on Fugo's face is complicated, but part of that complicated is sad. He's made Fugo sad, doing this. Being this way. Losing control.]
[This makes him sad, too. Distantly. It seems like a terribly unfair thing to do to someone who already hurts so much. His lips part as though to speak, to conjure an apology with words he's sure must exist; but then he's interrupted by Fugo's reassurance. I'll be careful, he says, and it's something that would ordinarily make Giorno smile. Unnecessary. Fugo is always careful — with everything, but especially with him.]
[The muscles in his face don't form a smile. After a few seconds, he forgets about the feeling that should make a smile happen, one that feels already as though it happened a thousand years ago. Instead, he watches Fugo work: methodical, rhythmic, practiced. As though he's done this a hundred times before. On his own hands. Perhaps on Narancia's.]
[Something lurches sharply in his chest, strong as a living thing; his thumb twitches, but otherwise he doesn't move.]
[Methodical, rhythmic, practiced. Like striking the keys. Not rough, but firm. Small circles. The lines in his palm lose their new coloring, like rivers flowing in reverse. Fugo pays attention to every groove, every cuticle, as though every millimeter of his skin is significant enough to require his attention.]
[He feels conflicted about this. Somehow, he can't imagine that it's true. Not when he's made so many mistakes — when he's trusted too freely in the quest to trust at all. He's done so much so wrong. And here is Fugo, who came to the woods in the middle of the night at his call, who is before him now washing the drying blood off his hands.]
[He should tell him to go.]
[His mouth stays closed. The whole time, he doesn't say a word. Reluctantly and with some resistance, he begins to feel the cling of his skin to his body again; the sensation of his roots buried deep in the earth; his own fullness; the tension in his shoulders and back from all the violence he's done tonight; the heaviness of shame where it drips from his lips and eyes and every unclean inch of his body. Fugo wipes it away, but he can't keep up even if he wanted to. As quickly as it washes away, it begins to grow back.]
[For now, his hands are clean. For now, they anchor him to this world one gentle swipe at a time. He doesn't want to be here, but he knows he has to. He's grateful, but it hurts. And the whole time he doesn't say anything, not anything, doesn't make a sound or move a muscle.]
[A single saline drop falling from his blurry vision to the heel of Fugo's busy hand — that's not something he can stop. He doesn't even realize tears are forming until it's too late to blink them away.]
cw dissociation again
[This makes him sad, too. Distantly. It seems like a terribly unfair thing to do to someone who already hurts so much. His lips part as though to speak, to conjure an apology with words he's sure must exist; but then he's interrupted by Fugo's reassurance. I'll be careful, he says, and it's something that would ordinarily make Giorno smile. Unnecessary. Fugo is always careful — with everything, but especially with him.]
[The muscles in his face don't form a smile. After a few seconds, he forgets about the feeling that should make a smile happen, one that feels already as though it happened a thousand years ago. Instead, he watches Fugo work: methodical, rhythmic, practiced. As though he's done this a hundred times before. On his own hands. Perhaps on Narancia's.]
[Something lurches sharply in his chest, strong as a living thing; his thumb twitches, but otherwise he doesn't move.]
[Methodical, rhythmic, practiced. Like striking the keys. Not rough, but firm. Small circles. The lines in his palm lose their new coloring, like rivers flowing in reverse. Fugo pays attention to every groove, every cuticle, as though every millimeter of his skin is significant enough to require his attention.]
[He feels conflicted about this. Somehow, he can't imagine that it's true. Not when he's made so many mistakes — when he's trusted too freely in the quest to trust at all. He's done so much so wrong. And here is Fugo, who came to the woods in the middle of the night at his call, who is before him now washing the drying blood off his hands.]
[He should tell him to go.]
[His mouth stays closed. The whole time, he doesn't say a word. Reluctantly and with some resistance, he begins to feel the cling of his skin to his body again; the sensation of his roots buried deep in the earth; his own fullness; the tension in his shoulders and back from all the violence he's done tonight; the heaviness of shame where it drips from his lips and eyes and every unclean inch of his body. Fugo wipes it away, but he can't keep up even if he wanted to. As quickly as it washes away, it begins to grow back.]
[For now, his hands are clean. For now, they anchor him to this world one gentle swipe at a time. He doesn't want to be here, but he knows he has to. He's grateful, but it hurts. And the whole time he doesn't say anything, not anything, doesn't make a sound or move a muscle.]
[A single saline drop falling from his blurry vision to the heel of Fugo's busy hand — that's not something he can stop. He doesn't even realize tears are forming until it's too late to blink them away.]