[I don't think I could ever know him even half as well as you do. Despite himself, Giorno flushes a little. It's not--it isn't, he knows, that's not what Fugo meant, but he's guilty all over suddenly. It feels like he's stolen Mista from someone who was his friend for years, and . . . and he doesn't even have him anymore, so what's the point?]

[Without thinking about it, he brings his fingers up to his mouth. Once he realizes, he balls them quickly into a fist, but he can't--he can't not miss Mista. He misses him so much it squeezes his heart so hard that it feels like all the good in him is being wrung out.]

[What he wants to say is Io lo amo, ti amo, but that's ridiculous, and anyway he can't. He digs half-moons into his palm with his nails and manages a shaky smile.]

I . . . care about you both. So much. And I--I don't want to tell you what to feel. But. Fugo, I.

[Oh. And . . . and he's crying a little. Just very small tears, and they're perched on his lashes instead of falling, but they're there. Did he ever cry, before? When Mista left, did he cry or did he lock himself in anger.]

I'm sad, [he says, as firmly as he can,] that we can't all be together. That's all.