[Because of Angelica, dreams of Sicily are so much more unsettling than his other nightmares. It's hard to put away insidious what-if doubts about dreams brought on the wings of Night Bird Flying: the one he had been trapped in had been so real. He'd wanted it to be real. In the fuzziness between his dreams and the waking world, he has to walk himself through a series of reminders that he's here and not there. Those fights are over. Kocaqi, Angelica, and Volpe are dead, because he killed them. He wonders if he should feel bad about that. Angelica had only been thirteen and very, very ill.]

[Sitting with Giorno like this feels a bit like cheating. He's impossible, but the most real thing in his life right now. He can trust Giorno to watch out for him and watch out for him.]

I think... I might. [Fugo settles further into Giorno's shoulder, turning his face so his ear is pressed against Giorno's collar. He murmurs:] Thanks, genetics.

[His words come off a little flat, but they're still a thumbprint of his usual shitty sense of humor. For a time, he just sits. He listens to Giorno's heartbeat, the steady in and out of his breathing. Focuses on the feeling of-- just being cared for. Slowly, slowly, the knots in his back start to untangle.]

... yeah. [He knows that much, at least. He wants to hear Giorno's voice. But-- no. Not the dream, not yet.] Kakyoin's painting. How is it coming along?