[With typically unfortunate timing, Giorno realizes that Fugo is beautiful standing in front of him. Not only now, of course; Fugo is always beautiful, in a way that he now knows to describe as fae-like, ethereal and a little strange. But now, in this room, in this light, hair coming loose around his face . . . Fugo looks cloudy and gossamer, an intangible thing that nonetheless has come to rest in Giorno’s outstretched hands. It seems impossible, but the weight and pressure against his fingers tells him that it’s true.]
[He doesn’t question the thought. There are purely objective ways to consider another person’s beauty. He also doesn’t question the fact that this isn’t one of those ways. There’s no time, and there’s no space in his heart right now, either. He has to watch. He has to listen. This is something he has to remember, always.]
[It all touches him. Holds too close to his heart for him to stand. It feels like long burning fingers reaching through his ribs and digging in tight to his beating heart, holding it so that it batters itself against some foreign palm. But not, he considers absently, in a bad way. There’s a part of him that so desperately fears being lost and alone again, in a place like this or in any place, that it finds itself soothed by being so imprisoned by someone else’s soul.]
[Held. Not imprisoned. Held. This is . . . loyalty. This is . . .]
[There is nowhere you would go that I would not follow, Fugo tells him, and he breathes in softer and shakier than he anticipated or would admit to later. He’s still smiling, but it’s fragile and soft, like the smile he wore a moment ago after a long, overwhelming day.]
Fugo, I am yours.
[He doesn’t realize he’s speaking until the first sentence is finished. He had a plan, a small speech, but he thinks he’s forgotten it. The words just happen. His hands are faintly clammy and cold as always.]
I will walk with you. I will meet you halfway when you can’t take a step. I’ll lead you the best I can — I swear, the very best I can, every moment of every day. I want to hurt with you, to smile with you, to feel quiet with you and loud with you. I will hold all of you, always. And I will try . . .
[For the first and only time, he falters. But then, stubbornly, he forges ahead, chin tipping up insistently.]
I’ll lean on you when I’m not strong enough to stand on my own. I trust you with everything that I am. I want you to see me.
no subject
[He doesn’t question the thought. There are purely objective ways to consider another person’s beauty. He also doesn’t question the fact that this isn’t one of those ways. There’s no time, and there’s no space in his heart right now, either. He has to watch. He has to listen. This is something he has to remember, always.]
[It all touches him. Holds too close to his heart for him to stand. It feels like long burning fingers reaching through his ribs and digging in tight to his beating heart, holding it so that it batters itself against some foreign palm. But not, he considers absently, in a bad way. There’s a part of him that so desperately fears being lost and alone again, in a place like this or in any place, that it finds itself soothed by being so imprisoned by someone else’s soul.]
[Held. Not imprisoned. Held. This is . . . loyalty. This is . . .]
[There is nowhere you would go that I would not follow, Fugo tells him, and he breathes in softer and shakier than he anticipated or would admit to later. He’s still smiling, but it’s fragile and soft, like the smile he wore a moment ago after a long, overwhelming day.]
Fugo, I am yours.
[He doesn’t realize he’s speaking until the first sentence is finished. He had a plan, a small speech, but he thinks he’s forgotten it. The words just happen. His hands are faintly clammy and cold as always.]
I will walk with you. I will meet you halfway when you can’t take a step. I’ll lead you the best I can — I swear, the very best I can, every moment of every day. I want to hurt with you, to smile with you, to feel quiet with you and loud with you. I will hold all of you, always. And I will try . . .
[For the first and only time, he falters. But then, stubbornly, he forges ahead, chin tipping up insistently.]
I’ll lean on you when I’m not strong enough to stand on my own. I trust you with everything that I am. I want you to see me.