watchfob

when giorno extends his hand, fugo feels something drip into his chest. it’s familiar, he thinks -- he felt it years ago, in the professor’s lacquered office, listening to the man berate him. a steady rise of unquenchable emotion filling his lungs and choking him, as though he’d been pulled out with the tide and forced under. he remembers the gasping with each blow of the textbook, gulping down air in an attempt to alleviate the pressure, but relief never came. he simply stood over the body and waited, dying, mind blank with fuzz.

the swell is familiar. fugo shakes as he raises his own hand to take giorno’s, waiting for the inevitable snap. he wonders if he’ll leave giorno bleeding on the ground, dinnerwear shattered around him like ceramic angel wings broken from heaven’s fall. his throat begins to close, breath coming in labored pants, and ah, here it comes --

he squeezes his eyes shut and waits.

a tear falls. two.

fugo does not explode. his gasps sting his lungs, but he can feel them. he feels the oxygen spread throughout his body, lightening him to the point of dizziness. in the back of his mind, he thinks about the effects of hyperventilation.

he looks up. giorno has not stopped looking at him.

fugo presses giorno’s hand to his trembling lips, to his forehead. “my gio gio,” he says, and waves of relief wash over him. he is alive, he is here, and he is breathing.

when he looks up again, giorno’s eyes are an open ocean, and he swims into them.