[Fugo allows himself to be led along, mumbling agreement and more nonsense as he stumbles forward. Most of it seems to be an apology of sorts in muddled Engish and Italian, although it's unclear what exactly he's trying to make up for. He keeps his balance, not somehow, but thanks to Giorno at his side keeping him steady; when it's time to sit, Giorno guides him down to the floor and doesn't let him fall or push him away.]
I just need a minute, [he plaintively promises, as soon as he gathers the presence of mind to know what he needs. His voice is soft and wheezy and he has the fingers of his near hand caught up in Giorno's shirt; he's too woozy to even put it into words even his thoughts but, after everything tonight, he desperately wants to keep Giorno close to him.] I just need to catch my breath. Clear my head.
[Stubbornly, Fugo refuses to close his eyes. He listlessly stares at the seemingly endless stack of shoes on the shelf, picking out the sizing numbers and the brand names. In the distance, someone is calling out to them. Fugo shifts in place on Giorno's shoulder to look out at the rest of the store-- the shoe store, across the plaza-- and blearily watches Joseph as he bounds over the counter and crosses the space in a few gigantic strides.
Ah. That's right. It's that asshole. Who picked them up and carried them here. Fucking him up isn't the plan anymore, but--]
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I just need a minute, [he plaintively promises, as soon as he gathers the presence of mind to know what he needs. His voice is soft and wheezy and he has the fingers of his near hand caught up in Giorno's shirt; he's too woozy to even put it into words even his thoughts but, after everything tonight, he desperately wants to keep Giorno close to him.] I just need to catch my breath. Clear my head.
[Stubbornly, Fugo refuses to close his eyes. He listlessly stares at the seemingly endless stack of shoes on the shelf, picking out the sizing numbers and the brand names. In the distance, someone is calling out to them. Fugo shifts in place on Giorno's shoulder to look out at the rest of the store-- the shoe store, across the plaza-- and blearily watches Joseph as he bounds over the counter and crosses the space in a few gigantic strides.
Ah. That's right. It's that asshole. Who picked them up and carried them here. Fucking him up isn't the plan anymore, but--]
Who the hell are you?