[Giorno misses his moment, the instant when he could catch Fugo in something terribly embarrassing and tease him about it. That's probably for the best, though, because while it's certainly possible that he'd tease relentlessly . . . with today being what it is, with how much he's learned in such a short span of time, and how confused he is and how much he's feeling, it's just as likely that he'd freeze, words caught in his throat and eyes locked on Fugo's red face.]

[Not that it matters. He takes the moment for all it's willing to give, stretches it out like someone unspeakable might, wraps it around his shoulders like the finest fur coat, and takes just seconds to rest. Fugo's hand smells like ink and graphite and faintly of blood from where he's chewed his nails too close to the quick. That smell belongs to Giorno now, like everything else about Fugo.]

[He wonders if Fugo is as worried about this as he is. It doesn't seem that way. Fugo is worried about everything else, but not this. Their fingers locked together doesn't faze him; he reaches out and touches the top of Giorno's head with some hesitation, but not much. That's startling, not just that it happens at all but that he likes it. He'd have expected it to feel patronizing if the idea was floated verbally, but it just feels familiar in a nice way, a soft and silly touch that he can't help but lean into.]

[Which is also embarrassing. So when he looks up he's a little red himself, but smiling, as he reaches out and ruffles Fugo's hair.]

I don't remember you being all right with this, you know. This much touching. Not from me.

[That isn't actually what he set out to say, but now that he's started — well, whatever. His grin is crooked now as he laces their fingers together again.]

It's good, though. If I've got your hand in mine, then I always know where you are in case you get in trouble. And I always have someone to talk to. Or—

[He wrinkles his nose.]

Gesture to. I hope your throat gets better soon, I miss your voice already.