[What's a stranger sight, Fugo wonders: spots of tears on Giorno's lashes now, or the sight of him bent over and shuddering but not crying as his vaccine destroyed the virus he carried in his own flesh to the world inside the mirror in the ruins of Pompeii? He's not sure. Both strike him as very strange and a little unsettling. The moment passes quickly. Giorno ducks his head and pushes away his tears in a gesture that's painfully familiar. There's no sign of them anymore, save for smudgey mascara in the corner of one eye.

Fugo's line of sight drops to their hands, where Giorno has caught a hold of one of them. I didn't think you would be, either. Does that mean he's alone? No, that can't be. If Giorno is here then Mista is sure to follow. How long has he been here? Absentmindedly, his fingers close around Giorno's hand.]

I'm sorry too. [For what, he's not quite sure. Not being where he's supposed to be, mostly-- although it's hard to tell in this moment if that's back in Napoli, or here with Giorno.] I wouldn't mind. Your room is fine. I have some things in there, but the door is locked right now. I can get them later.

[He's just going to ... assume that Giorno will have him relocate to a room closer to where he is. Which he's more than fine with.]