[Fugo's eyes are bottomless. Really bottomless, a portal to another place and time entirely, an implacable cenote of grief. No matter how much love is poured into him, he cannot believe it. Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever.]
[It's stupid, Giorno thinks, to keep harping on how much this hurts, even in his own mind. No one had this experience with him, with his own stubbornness and resistance to Bonding. He initiated his first Bond for — debatably — mutually beneficial reasons. They had both hit a point of no return. But here and now, he is relatively stable with Zelda's help, Zelda's presence in his mind. Here and now, Fugo is the loose end, drifting off in the currents of magic and stubbornly refusing a life preserver.]
[It hurts. But he needs to stop caring about how much it hurts. How much it feels like rejection, over and over again, when he knows logically why Fugo doesn't want this. Why it's hard for Fugo, too. His own feelings shouldn't be part of this equation.]
[But then Fugo stands.]
[His breath catches, although he doesn't realize it right away, too hyperfocused on the jerkiness of the motion, the uneven blotchiness of frustration-confusion-overexertion on Fugo's face. On Fugo's hands, outstretched between them.]
[Let me see. Instinct says no. But—]
[I want to see you. Please.]
[Shoulders back and tense, he's frozen for a moment, heart kicking rabbit-like against the inside of his ribs. And then he moves, no, surges forward, crossing the space between them gracelessly to place his cold hands atop Fugo's outstretched palms, fingers curling to rest against the sharp bones of his wrist.]
[Like this, he can feel Fugo's pulse, the echoing jump of his heart. They don't quite match up. That's fine, he thinks, eyes wide and clear as he lets Fugo see. They don't have to fit perfectly, do they?]
no subject
[It's stupid, Giorno thinks, to keep harping on how much this hurts, even in his own mind. No one had this experience with him, with his own stubbornness and resistance to Bonding. He initiated his first Bond for — debatably — mutually beneficial reasons. They had both hit a point of no return. But here and now, he is relatively stable with Zelda's help, Zelda's presence in his mind. Here and now, Fugo is the loose end, drifting off in the currents of magic and stubbornly refusing a life preserver.]
[It hurts. But he needs to stop caring about how much it hurts. How much it feels like rejection, over and over again, when he knows logically why Fugo doesn't want this. Why it's hard for Fugo, too. His own feelings shouldn't be part of this equation.]
[But then Fugo stands.]
[His breath catches, although he doesn't realize it right away, too hyperfocused on the jerkiness of the motion, the uneven blotchiness of frustration-confusion-overexertion on Fugo's face. On Fugo's hands, outstretched between them.]
[Let me see. Instinct says no. But—]
[I want to see you. Please.]
[Shoulders back and tense, he's frozen for a moment, heart kicking rabbit-like against the inside of his ribs. And then he moves, no, surges forward, crossing the space between them gracelessly to place his cold hands atop Fugo's outstretched palms, fingers curling to rest against the sharp bones of his wrist.]
[Like this, he can feel Fugo's pulse, the echoing jump of his heart. They don't quite match up. That's fine, he thinks, eyes wide and clear as he lets Fugo see. They don't have to fit perfectly, do they?]