[Kakyoin is quiet for a long time. Longer than he should be, even given what they're talking about. Fugo furtively looks up at him, around his bangs, and bites the inside of his lip. Kakyoin is staring without seeing at an empty spot on the table, eyes wide and dazed; his long fingers are twisted in his hair, just as tangled as his own thoughts and feelings must be. Hierophant is clinging tightly to his shoulders, as if that's the only thing keeping him grounded. He looks overwhelmed. Lost, in the past. Briefly, Fugo wonders: is this what it looks like? Is this what Giorno saw across the table in November and standing in front of mansion at the end of June? He knows, too well, what it's like to suddenly feel unsteady in the face overwhelmingly strong emotions. But what he doesn't know is what to do when it's someone else who stumbles, even more since it's not Giorno.
What should he do? Does he call out for Kakyoin? Or would it be better to get someone Kakyoin trusts, someone who can reach out to him and who he can lean on? Fugo is close to rising to his feet to just that when something in Kakyoin's eyes snaps back to the present, he begins to speak, and his hand slowly drops from his hair. Lines of tension in Fugo's shoulders that he didn't even realize had bunched up abruptly relax; his hands, tightly folded in his lap, loosen enough so that they're no longer white-knuckled. He listens carefully, still obviously and plainly worried, and manages one of his strange, nervous-looking smiles in response to his attempt at... humor? Lightening the mood?]
Sorry. I suppose I had more than a few thoughts, in hindsight. [He pauses, eyes shifting restlessly and thumbs twiddling nervously, before carefully venturing:] Are... you going to be all right?
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2016-08-29 12:44 am (UTC)What should he do? Does he call out for Kakyoin? Or would it be better to get someone Kakyoin trusts, someone who can reach out to him and who he can lean on? Fugo is close to rising to his feet to just that when something in Kakyoin's eyes snaps back to the present, he begins to speak, and his hand slowly drops from his hair. Lines of tension in Fugo's shoulders that he didn't even realize had bunched up abruptly relax; his hands, tightly folded in his lap, loosen enough so that they're no longer white-knuckled. He listens carefully, still obviously and plainly worried, and manages one of his strange, nervous-looking smiles in response to his attempt at... humor? Lightening the mood?]
Sorry. I suppose I had more than a few thoughts, in hindsight. [He pauses, eyes shifting restlessly and thumbs twiddling nervously, before carefully venturing:] Are... you going to be all right?