[ it pains him. yes, sure, everything to him is pain, like this, with his arm broken into splinters, but what is almost as terrible is to watch the way Fugo angles himself towards Stiles, the way he takes care to keep his pace slow, his quiet words about anything on their way to the bookstore.
it's too much, quiet, understated kindness that he doesn't quite know what to do with.
(later, he thinks about it, how outwardly Fugo and Giorno could not be more different, Giorno bright and loud and flamboyant, clear and forward with his feelings like he doesn't know he should hide them; Fugo withdrawn, silent and matter-of-fact, his face carefully blank like he doesn't quite know how to break the wall he's hiding behind. and yet — it's what makes them similar, he thinks, in the end: their kindness. whatever else Giorno (and in addition Fugo, as where one seems to be the other soon follows) is or has done... the kindness is still undeniable. ]
I'm not going to keel over, you know. [ it's not quite a thank you, but it's what he manages to get out, right before they get to the bookstore. ]
no subject
it's too much, quiet, understated kindness that he doesn't quite know what to do with.
(later, he thinks about it, how outwardly Fugo and Giorno could not be more different, Giorno bright and loud and flamboyant, clear and forward with his feelings like he doesn't know he should hide them; Fugo withdrawn, silent and matter-of-fact, his face carefully blank like he doesn't quite know how to break the wall he's hiding behind. and yet — it's what makes them similar, he thinks, in the end: their kindness. whatever else Giorno (and in addition Fugo, as where one seems to be the other soon follows) is or has done... the kindness is still undeniable. ]
I'm not going to keel over, you know. [ it's not quite a thank you, but it's what he manages to get out, right before they get to the bookstore. ]