[It's not a lot of movement, all things considered. But it makes a big difference. To Giorno, who has always paid attention to the little things, who has trained his eye to see nuance, this is as significant a declaration in its way as the one in the restaurant. It isn't in words--body, heart, soul--but it's the same meaning.]

[Fingers twine with his, and some of the tension goes out of Giorno's shoulders. A hand placed over his, and the rest drains away, leaving him limp and exhausted, a puppet with his strings cut.]

[Fugo understands.]

[Slowly, Giorno exhales. Slowly, he allows himself to lose his balance, to lean over sideways and rest his forehead against Fugo's perfect pointy shoulder. His eyes close, just for a moment or two.]

Thank you, [he murmurs.] I'm so glad.

[He feels--not good. But so much better. Like he hasn't been breathing for weeks and just hasn't realized it; now that he is, his lungs are aching, there are pins and needles in his fingers and toes. It hurts, but it's better.]

[His fingers flex around Fugo's, after he's held his moment close and then set it free. The box is still closed, but it's breathed, too. It's better--it's all right, for now. He breathes in, and out, and looks up at Fugo again.]

I didn't mean to put all of that on you, first thing. But thank you for sharing it with me. You still remember, don't you?

[There's so much to remember. That they share in grief. That it's all right to take half steps, quarter steps, as long as they meet in the middle. That Fugo belongs to him. He means all of these things. Do you remember who you are to me?]