[It's an illusion, confirmation bias or something like that, the idea that he can sense Fugo's magic building towards a breaking point. Giorno knows that, on a sensible, logical level. He's not a witch. He has a certain sensitivity towards the taste of magic, the sense of it, but that doesn't mean he can feel it, or the pressure behind it in an unBonded witch.]
[Logic doesn't stop him from feeling that he feels it, though. The ease with which he recognizes Fugo's tells doesn't mitigate the illusion, either. Fugo's movements are pressurized, more and more so with every passing day. His posture gets tense; his speech gets terse. There is the palpable feeling that eventually, something is going to blow.]
[Strangely, Giorno doesn't find himself afraid. Not of Fugo; the concept is laughable for reasons that he wouldn't explain even if he was asked, might not be able to in the first place. The primary burst of emotion in him is concern, not for himself but for Fugo, over the outburst he walks in on in their kitchen. With one glance he takes it in: the dissolving spoon in awful, stinking, thick liquid; Fugo snarling at the stove, cursing and spitting like a cornered thing; the way he twitches, like Zelda did.]
[Just like Zelda did.]
Fugo—
[He takes a step into the kitchen, hesitant to get in the way but determined not to leave Fugo alone with his frustration.]
no subject
[Logic doesn't stop him from feeling that he feels it, though. The ease with which he recognizes Fugo's tells doesn't mitigate the illusion, either. Fugo's movements are pressurized, more and more so with every passing day. His posture gets tense; his speech gets terse. There is the palpable feeling that eventually, something is going to blow.]
[Strangely, Giorno doesn't find himself afraid. Not of Fugo; the concept is laughable for reasons that he wouldn't explain even if he was asked, might not be able to in the first place. The primary burst of emotion in him is concern, not for himself but for Fugo, over the outburst he walks in on in their kitchen. With one glance he takes it in: the dissolving spoon in awful, stinking, thick liquid; Fugo snarling at the stove, cursing and spitting like a cornered thing; the way he twitches, like Zelda did.]
[Just like Zelda did.]
Fugo—
[He takes a step into the kitchen, hesitant to get in the way but determined not to leave Fugo alone with his frustration.]
How can I help? Let me help.