[Giorno wants to see him. Giorno... wants to see him. Has always wanted to see him.]
[Fugo stares. He doesn't blink. He barely breathes. The words sink in slowly, but they don't completely register. They're just so unbelievable. He doesn't-- can't focus on them. Instead, his expression to crack at the glimpse he gets of Giorno's palms; at this distance, all he can see is the line of red marks. Is he bleeding? Was he clenching his fists behind his back? Has he hurt himself?]
Giogio, your hands. [He blinks, quickly, then shakes his head; his hair goes flying, this way and that. Frazzled, he runs his hands through it and tries to get it out of his face.] You... want to see me.
[His first thought is this: how? And his second: why? Knowing what he does. Having seen his Stand-- having survived him. How can Giorno say that. Why would he still want to?]
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[Fugo stares. He doesn't blink. He barely breathes. The words sink in slowly, but they don't completely register. They're just so unbelievable. He doesn't-- can't focus on them. Instead, his expression to crack at the glimpse he gets of Giorno's palms; at this distance, all he can see is the line of red marks. Is he bleeding? Was he clenching his fists behind his back? Has he hurt himself?]
Giogio, your hands. [He blinks, quickly, then shakes his head; his hair goes flying, this way and that. Frazzled, he runs his hands through it and tries to get it out of his face.] You... want to see me.
[His first thought is this: how? And his second: why? Knowing what he does. Having seen his Stand-- having survived him. How can Giorno say that. Why would he still want to?]