[If time felt stretched out before, each moment taut and over extended, now it snaps back into place between one sharp, stuttering moment and the next. Giorno stares at him, unmoving and uncomfortable, and then suddenly he is here. Clumsy as they are, they have still somehow managed to meet in the middle.]
[Giorno's hands in his are cold. (They always are, these days.) His palms are clammy and his fingers are twitchy. Giorno's hands, resting in his, are heavy. He isn't holding himself back. He's trusted Fugo with their weight. And when Fugo gently turns them over, he doesn't resist.. Doesn't flinch, doesn't pull away. Giorno allows himself to be seen.
There are four marks on each of Giorno's palms, left behind from fists clenched too tightly. He didn't break the skin. It probably doesn't even hurt that much. But-- that's unlucky, isn't it? Mista would say so, if he saw it. Fugo, when he looks at the not-quite-cuts on Giorno's hands, realizes this:
If we do this-- I will see him, too.]
I... don't understand. Why you would want to. [Fugo looks up. When he meets Giorno's eyes, it's like looking in a mirror. He sees the same pain, the same frustration, the same anxiety. His heart is beating painfully fast; so is Giorno's.] ... but I will believe you.
[Not can: will. Belief is not about can or cannot. It's a choice. And a difficult one for him, given what he understands about himself and knows about the world. But it's what he has decided. It's the only way forward. If he lets himself doubt, it will eat away at everything he wants to hold onto until there is nothing left.]
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[Giorno's hands in his are cold. (They always are, these days.) His palms are clammy and his fingers are twitchy. Giorno's hands, resting in his, are heavy. He isn't holding himself back. He's trusted Fugo with their weight. And when Fugo gently turns them over, he doesn't resist.. Doesn't flinch, doesn't pull away. Giorno allows himself to be seen.
There are four marks on each of Giorno's palms, left behind from fists clenched too tightly. He didn't break the skin. It probably doesn't even hurt that much. But-- that's unlucky, isn't it? Mista would say so, if he saw it. Fugo, when he looks at the not-quite-cuts on Giorno's hands, realizes this:
If we do this-- I will see him, too.]
I... don't understand. Why you would want to. [Fugo looks up. When he meets Giorno's eyes, it's like looking in a mirror. He sees the same pain, the same frustration, the same anxiety. His heart is beating painfully fast; so is Giorno's.] ... but I will believe you.
[Not can: will. Belief is not about can or cannot. It's a choice. And a difficult one for him, given what he understands about himself and knows about the world. But it's what he has decided. It's the only way forward. If he lets himself doubt, it will eat away at everything he wants to hold onto until there is nothing left.]