[Fugo watches the two of them, Giorno and his Gold Experience, with a quiet, solemn fondness. Before Giorno laces their fingers together his thumb slowly brushes, back and forth, over the top of Giorno's knuckles. He doesn't shift away when Gold Experience leans over the note; when Giorno laces their fingers together, his lock together around Giorno's.
It's a little strange, he thinks, how familiar this gesture has become; how naturally their fingers seem to criss-cross and fold together. His concern from before seems almost silly now in the face of how easily their palms fit up against each other. He's quickly distracted by Gold Experience, who tears out the note with the kind of reverence and care that it's like he's preserving a piece of artwork. And he laughs too, his shoulders briefly shaking with a voiceless chuckle, when he sees Gold Experience eliminate that pesky fourth edge--because that's a Mista habit, something he's seen dozens of times over in in letters and toast and sandwiches.
Before he has a chance to recover he's surprised again, this time when Giorno brings his forehead down onto their hands and-- God, Giogio, he thinks, you're so much sometimes. The back of his neck heats up and he briefly raises his other hand, pen still loosely held between his fingers, to cover his face. Even though Giorno's head is bowed, he is not allowed to see how red his face is all of a sudden, because he's just going to say something else embarrassing and it's just never going to stop. When he recovers, he smiles bashfully up again at Gold Experience and gingerly reaches out to pat the top of Giorno's weird, overdramatic head.]
[It's fine. All of that's fine. Gold Experience can keep what he wrote. Giorno can keep him. Because he isn't going anywhere. Wherever Giorno is--that's where he wants to be.]
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It's a little strange, he thinks, how familiar this gesture has become; how naturally their fingers seem to criss-cross and fold together. His concern from before seems almost silly now in the face of how easily their palms fit up against each other. He's quickly distracted by Gold Experience, who tears out the note with the kind of reverence and care that it's like he's preserving a piece of artwork. And he laughs too, his shoulders briefly shaking with a voiceless chuckle, when he sees Gold Experience eliminate that pesky fourth edge--because that's a Mista habit, something he's seen dozens of times over in in letters and toast and sandwiches.
Before he has a chance to recover he's surprised again, this time when Giorno brings his forehead down onto their hands and-- God, Giogio, he thinks, you're so much sometimes. The back of his neck heats up and he briefly raises his other hand, pen still loosely held between his fingers, to cover his face. Even though Giorno's head is bowed, he is not allowed to see how red his face is all of a sudden, because he's just going to say something else embarrassing and it's just never going to stop. When he recovers, he smiles bashfully up again at Gold Experience and gingerly reaches out to pat the top of Giorno's weird, overdramatic head.]
[It's fine. All of that's fine. Gold Experience can keep what he wrote. Giorno can keep him. Because he isn't going anywhere. Wherever Giorno is--that's where he wants to be.]