[. . . This is it, Giorno thinks, a little dizzily.]

[Not: this is it, this is the end of me. It's not quite so dramatic. He's overwhelmed, but it's good. It's sort of a beautiful thing, actually, a brand new experience that he has to navigate instant by instant in order to properly understand it.]

[It reminds him a bit of the moment that he realized that he loved Fugo--that he was in love with Fugo. It's like that, that same bright and crystal-clear realization, but it comes without the heavy choke of fear. Because--he knows now, doesn't he, he knows that Fugo isn't going to run away anytime soon. Fugo loves him, too.]

[Fugo loves him too. Fugo . . . without question, without doubt, loves him, so much that he thinks deeply and wonderingly about every part of his appearance, what every expression means, what his freckles might look like with more sun.]

[Is this it? Is this what it feels like to no longer be afraid?]

[He shudders a little, then curls forward and presses his face against Fugo's neck and exhales sharply. His smile is so sharp it curls into his voice, leaves its fondness against Fugo's jaw.]

I am. Comfortable. And happy. You make me feel comfortable and happy. It's you, it's all you.

I've never felt so good and so . . . safe, to be myself. Before this. It's extraordinary. You're extraordinary. Do you realize?