[The last thing Fugo says before the ritual of the Bond is complete is: I trust you.]
[The first thing Giorno feels from him once their magics are made one is: I trust you. There are worlds of difference between hearing it said and feeling it. In the space between the spoken word and its intended audience, things can get so lost, so distorted. But within the Bond there is no miscommunication. Not even a chance of it. Everything is bare. It's freeing. It's terrifying.]
[It makes his breath catch in his chest; makes him gasp for his breath, as though they're on the top of some distant mountain where the air is thin. He can feel Fugo's trust in him in the same way he feels his clothes hang on his body, the same as the flex of his muscles when he moves forward, pushing Fugo's hands away in order to run hands up his arms and cup his face.]
[He feels too much. Fugo's cheeks are warm under his touch, his eyes wide and clear; he's overful with relief and gratitude and fear and so, so much trust, reverberating against Fugo's until their shared mental space echoes with it. Something is coming up from behind, tight around the curve, a galloping pulse of mine-mine-mine, fond and pleased as he runs his thumbs over Fugo's cheekbones.]
[But then his gaze catches on the officiating Witch. The faint flutter of a sigh pushes through the Bond.]
Do you know that teleporting spell, Fugo? I don't want to be here anymore.
[He's gotten what he needed from the Coven. Now he wants to go home.]
no subject
[The first thing Giorno feels from him once their magics are made one is: I trust you. There are worlds of difference between hearing it said and feeling it. In the space between the spoken word and its intended audience, things can get so lost, so distorted. But within the Bond there is no miscommunication. Not even a chance of it. Everything is bare. It's freeing. It's terrifying.]
[It makes his breath catch in his chest; makes him gasp for his breath, as though they're on the top of some distant mountain where the air is thin. He can feel Fugo's trust in him in the same way he feels his clothes hang on his body, the same as the flex of his muscles when he moves forward, pushing Fugo's hands away in order to run hands up his arms and cup his face.]
[He feels too much. Fugo's cheeks are warm under his touch, his eyes wide and clear; he's overful with relief and gratitude and fear and so, so much trust, reverberating against Fugo's until their shared mental space echoes with it. Something is coming up from behind, tight around the curve, a galloping pulse of mine-mine-mine, fond and pleased as he runs his thumbs over Fugo's cheekbones.]
[But then his gaze catches on the officiating Witch. The faint flutter of a sigh pushes through the Bond.]
Do you know that teleporting spell, Fugo? I don't want to be here anymore.
[He's gotten what he needed from the Coven. Now he wants to go home.]