[The first statement strikes him, and it shows, lips curling down in a moue of concern. Has it been very long? How long? How long has he left Fugo alone in this place? — not alone, not really, but it feels like his responsibility — is his responsibility.]
[His fingers curl into a loose fist, hand braced at the wrist by the closed fingers of his other hand, the whole nervous conglomerate resting over his heart. But Fugo takes his hand, and he lets the other fall without thinking about it, nervous gesture banished by that simple gesture.]
Found my way back to you, [he murmurs, a semi-conscious echo of that first day on the grime-covered beach in a garden before a cottage whose owner he never confirmed but suspects he knows. The words come from the emotion, not the memory, which doesn't occur to him directly. He just — knows. He knows what he feels is the same as that moment.]
[But Fugo turns to look at the stage. Squeezing his hand, Giorno lifts his other hand to cradle Fugo's jaw and rest their foreheads together, forcing attention back onto himself. On the stage, Fugo speaks properly for the first time.]
Why me? I'm a traitor. You can't trust me.
[In the space between them, a tiny universe, Giorno shakes his head minutely, a repetitive movement in time to the music that seems meant to self-soothe as much as to deny the false Fugo's statement.]
I can't stop it. I'm sorry. I know it's private. It's not for anyone else.
no subject
[His fingers curl into a loose fist, hand braced at the wrist by the closed fingers of his other hand, the whole nervous conglomerate resting over his heart. But Fugo takes his hand, and he lets the other fall without thinking about it, nervous gesture banished by that simple gesture.]
Found my way back to you, [he murmurs, a semi-conscious echo of that first day on the grime-covered beach in a garden before a cottage whose owner he never confirmed but suspects he knows. The words come from the emotion, not the memory, which doesn't occur to him directly. He just — knows. He knows what he feels is the same as that moment.]
[But Fugo turns to look at the stage. Squeezing his hand, Giorno lifts his other hand to cradle Fugo's jaw and rest their foreheads together, forcing attention back onto himself. On the stage, Fugo speaks properly for the first time.][In the space between them, a tiny universe, Giorno shakes his head minutely, a repetitive movement in time to the music that seems meant to self-soothe as much as to deny the false Fugo's statement.]
I can't stop it. I'm sorry. I know it's private. It's not for anyone else.