[There is a strange and painful freedom in being seen. As difficult as it was to say, now that the truth has crawled out of the pit inside of him-- now that it's been made real with his own voice, in his own words-- he feels pulled apart. And so much lighter, now that it's between the two of them instead of buried deep inside of himself.
A not so insignificant part of him is afraid. But he doesn't look away from Giorno. Not anymore. Fugo, who has instinctively pulled himself tight, his back ramrod straight against the cool wall of his bedroom, watches Giorno digest the information he has been presented. How it sinks in. How it fits in with other things Giorno knows about him. He can see the sharp shape of Giorno's knuckles underneath the thin skin of his hands, before he relaxes his fist to draw circles over his chest with his fingertips; the tapestry of his veins, fine and dark, winding up his wrist and throat. Giorno looks like as if he, too, is in pain. Giorno looks relieved, even as they both slip underneath black ice.]
[Fugo watches. He doesn't interrupt. How could he? This, what they're talking about, is too important to not drink in every word. Even if it doesn't make sense. (Because that's just how it is, is the correction that ought to be made. I'm a stupid investment, a bad hand to stake your bets on.) Even when it startles him, enough that his eyes go wide and he forgets to breathe for a moment. (Because better me than you, was the simple truth, even when he didn't have an idea what Giorno's stand might be. I'm not strong, I'm a liability.) Even when it hurts, because what he sees mirrored back is an all-too-familiar pain. An aimless, frustrated sadness.
Somehow, a long time ago or maybe not that long ago at all, in another world, Giorno found the strength to drag himself out of his own grave. Someone reached out to him, half of a step, and gave him something to hang on to. He, too, understands the pain of pointlessly existing in an empty, painful present with no hope for the future.]
Thank you. For-- not leaving me there.
[Fugo doesn't cry. Not this time. He has a better handle on himself. Instead, he takes a deep and shuddering breath. He allows his mask to slip, for just a moment, so Giorno can have a look. He is so tired. He hurts so much. But he is here. He is present. He can feel all his fingers and all his toes. He won't let the nothing, the hollow emptiness in his heart, swallow up his time.]
Back there, in the restaurant, you showed me a future that I could not see. I chose to believe in that future. To believe in you.
[And in the promise Giorno made to him. Half of a step. And in the promise he, in turn, made to Giorno. He brings one hand, stiff and jerky, to rest over his own heart. Slowly, like the tide coming in, his expression shifts. He's still so tired, still carries so much pain. But there is a light in his eyes. Hope. In this moment, Fugo bleeds sincerity.]
no subject
A not so insignificant part of him is afraid. But he doesn't look away from Giorno. Not anymore. Fugo, who has instinctively pulled himself tight, his back ramrod straight against the cool wall of his bedroom, watches Giorno digest the information he has been presented. How it sinks in. How it fits in with other things Giorno knows about him. He can see the sharp shape of Giorno's knuckles underneath the thin skin of his hands, before he relaxes his fist to draw circles over his chest with his fingertips; the tapestry of his veins, fine and dark, winding up his wrist and throat. Giorno looks like as if he, too, is in pain. Giorno looks relieved, even as they both slip underneath black ice.]
[Fugo watches. He doesn't interrupt. How could he? This, what they're talking about, is too important to not drink in every word. Even if it doesn't make sense. (Because that's just how it is, is the correction that ought to be made. I'm a stupid investment, a bad hand to stake your bets on.) Even when it startles him, enough that his eyes go wide and he forgets to breathe for a moment. (Because better me than you, was the simple truth, even when he didn't have an idea what Giorno's stand might be. I'm not strong, I'm a liability.) Even when it hurts, because what he sees mirrored back is an all-too-familiar pain. An aimless, frustrated sadness.
Somehow, a long time ago or maybe not that long ago at all, in another world, Giorno found the strength to drag himself out of his own grave. Someone reached out to him, half of a step, and gave him something to hang on to. He, too, understands the pain of pointlessly existing in an empty, painful present with no hope for the future.]
Thank you. For-- not leaving me there.
[Fugo doesn't cry. Not this time. He has a better handle on himself. Instead, he takes a deep and shuddering breath. He allows his mask to slip, for just a moment, so Giorno can have a look. He is so tired. He hurts so much. But he is here. He is present. He can feel all his fingers and all his toes. He won't let the nothing, the hollow emptiness in his heart, swallow up his time.]
Back there, in the restaurant, you showed me a future that I could not see. I chose to believe in that future. To believe in you.
[And in the promise Giorno made to him. Half of a step. And in the promise he, in turn, made to Giorno. He brings one hand, stiff and jerky, to rest over his own heart. Slowly, like the tide coming in, his expression shifts. He's still so tired, still carries so much pain. But there is a light in his eyes. Hope. In this moment, Fugo bleeds sincerity.]
As long as I live, I serve your dream.
[Body, heart, and soul. I am yours.
That vow is his everything.]