[It isn't fair. It isn't fair, the way Fugo takes the time to ensure the safety of the mantis before he moves any further. Giorno doesn't even have to look at him to know that he's not doing it to protect himself--that he's doing it because he knows Giorno wouldn't want the thing hurt. In this moment, as his tears start to fall, as he knows there's no going back from this, as he watches the mantis creep across the table through his swimming vision, he hates himself for being so obvious.]
[He hates himself for a lot of reasons. He feels like his heart is being torn into pieces with loving Fugo so much and missing home and wanting to be here but also not, wanting Mista and Trish and the Polnareff he knows but the Polnareff here, too, and Fugo exactly as he is but Fugo bigger and brighter and happier, Jotaro and Kakyoin and Italia under his thumb. He loves too much, and it makes him too vulnerable, too broken, too lonely--wasn't it better when he didn't love anyone? Wasn't that smarter?]
[Except then Fugo's hand is on his, his fingers long and spidery and soft and soothing. Spiders have eight legs--four and four--but they are also lucky. He is so tired of seeing Mista everywhere he goes. He never cried. He was only angry. He never cried, because crying hurts too much, but now, with Fugo's hand over his, now--]
[He breaks. A choked sob comes out of nowhere, visibly startling him until he realizes where it's coming from (from him, bursting out of his throat like a death rattle); then his face is crumpling in shame, and there's no going back, is there, there's no recovering from being so broken.]
I miss him, [he whispers hoarsely, before supporting himself becomes too much and too awful and too lonely. One hand scrabbles against Fugo's fingers, the other against the fabric of his shirt; he's breathless and shaking, ugly sobs juddering out of him that he's still trying to smother. His hands are shaking.] I miss him! Fugo--
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[He hates himself for a lot of reasons. He feels like his heart is being torn into pieces with loving Fugo so much and missing home and wanting to be here but also not, wanting Mista and Trish and the Polnareff he knows but the Polnareff here, too, and Fugo exactly as he is but Fugo bigger and brighter and happier, Jotaro and Kakyoin and Italia under his thumb. He loves too much, and it makes him too vulnerable, too broken, too lonely--wasn't it better when he didn't love anyone? Wasn't that smarter?]
[Except then Fugo's hand is on his, his fingers long and spidery and soft and soothing. Spiders have eight legs--four and four--but they are also lucky. He is so tired of seeing Mista everywhere he goes. He never cried. He was only angry. He never cried, because crying hurts too much, but now, with Fugo's hand over his, now--]
[He breaks. A choked sob comes out of nowhere, visibly startling him until he realizes where it's coming from (from him, bursting out of his throat like a death rattle); then his face is crumpling in shame, and there's no going back, is there, there's no recovering from being so broken.]
I miss him, [he whispers hoarsely, before supporting himself becomes too much and too awful and too lonely. One hand scrabbles against Fugo's fingers, the other against the fabric of his shirt; he's breathless and shaking, ugly sobs juddering out of him that he's still trying to smother. His hands are shaking.] I miss him! Fugo--
[It's a plea, all agony. Help me.]