[Fugo's hand is in his. That . . . that in itself isn't strange. It feels strange, startles him, not because of the action itself or because it's Fugo, but because when he's focused on Gold Experience like this he is now he feels like a different person. Younger and more afraid and worse. Worse all over.]
[Fugo's fingers curled around his remind him that he is himself, here and now. Fugo's fingers are warm, they feel warmer than his own even though that's got to be impossible. Maybe it's just that the presence and touch of them is so grounding, like half an instant of traveling home. For that moment he knows who he is without question, the Don Giovanna, Mista's and Trish's and Fugo's and everyone's, someone who belongs to himself but to the world, as well.]
[That knowledge doesn't preclude pain, though. It makes him feel less vulnerable, but he still feels everything else, too, the strange cocktail of affection and confusion and homesickness and protectiveness that Fugo stirs up in him, the aching possessiveness that makes him want to tighten his grip and never let go. Gold Experience leans over the desk and reads, and the shock waves are there, too.]
[It meant a great deal to me then and still does today.]
[I'll never forget that morning.]
[I love you so much, we love you so much.]
[Take half a step towards me. Just half a step. That's all.]
[That first day, there was a moment when Giorno relaxed, from his head to his toes. It happens again now at the tail end of a shudder; he has to close his eyes to keep the sudden inexplicable tears in (the tears he could explain if he wanted to, but he doesn't, so he won't). Mascara faintly dots under his lower lid when he opens them again, the only clue besides the shakiness of his smile, but he laces his fingers through Fugo's to keep him from leaving. Not that he thinks he will. Not really. But he always worries, somewhere in the back of his mind, what if?]
[He glances at his Stand, who glances back at him, checking for . . . something. Approval, maybe. Whatever it is, he sees it, or feels it, and so he very, very carefully tears the piece of paper off and folds it into a small square. He considers the square for a moment, turns it around to consider all of its edges, and folds it in half again so that it's a triangle: three sides, not four.]
[Are you lonely, Gold Experience?]
[Giorno laughs under his breath, bows his head, and presses his forehead to the back of Fugo's hand.]
He's going to keep that forever, you know.
[I love you so much, we love you so much.]
I'm going to keep you forever, too, though. So that's all right.
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[Fugo's fingers curled around his remind him that he is himself, here and now. Fugo's fingers are warm, they feel warmer than his own even though that's got to be impossible. Maybe it's just that the presence and touch of them is so grounding, like half an instant of traveling home. For that moment he knows who he is without question, the Don Giovanna, Mista's and Trish's and Fugo's and everyone's, someone who belongs to himself but to the world, as well.]
[That knowledge doesn't preclude pain, though. It makes him feel less vulnerable, but he still feels everything else, too, the strange cocktail of affection and confusion and homesickness and protectiveness that Fugo stirs up in him, the aching possessiveness that makes him want to tighten his grip and never let go. Gold Experience leans over the desk and reads, and the shock waves are there, too.]
[It meant a great deal to me then and still does today.]
[I'll never forget that morning.]
[I love you so much, we love you so much.]
[Take half a step towards me. Just half a step. That's all.]
[That first day, there was a moment when Giorno relaxed, from his head to his toes. It happens again now at the tail end of a shudder; he has to close his eyes to keep the sudden inexplicable tears in (the tears he could explain if he wanted to, but he doesn't, so he won't). Mascara faintly dots under his lower lid when he opens them again, the only clue besides the shakiness of his smile, but he laces his fingers through Fugo's to keep him from leaving. Not that he thinks he will. Not really. But he always worries, somewhere in the back of his mind, what if?]
[He glances at his Stand, who glances back at him, checking for . . . something. Approval, maybe. Whatever it is, he sees it, or feels it, and so he very, very carefully tears the piece of paper off and folds it into a small square. He considers the square for a moment, turns it around to consider all of its edges, and folds it in half again so that it's a triangle: three sides, not four.]
[Are you lonely, Gold Experience?]
[Giorno laughs under his breath, bows his head, and presses his forehead to the back of Fugo's hand.]
He's going to keep that forever, you know.
[I love you so much, we love you so much.]
I'm going to keep you forever, too, though. So that's all right.
[Are you lonely, Gold Experience?]
[Not anymore.]