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Standing in front of him in that moment, Pannacotta Fugo couldn't see Giorno Giovanna as anything less than an angel, sent from god, or perhaps even just God Himself. Clear as day, he swore he saw a halo, and even the Sistene Chapel paled in comparison to the beauty in the promise of that outstretched palm. He wanted nothing more than to take that hand and let it revive him, as God created Adam, to let those golden fingers shape him into whatever he was meant to be. If there was something greater in Fugo, something unfamiliar and dormant, waiting beneath the surface to emerge, he was sure Giorno could coax it out. There was just something about this boy, something Fugo couldn't quite put his finger on, something still as death, something passive and placid yet somehow effervescent, almost ebullient in its extravagance.
Fugo had always been filled with a nebulous sort of darkness, and that darkness recognized the darkness in Giorno as almost a kindred spirit, and he longed for the familiar touch of one with a heart as hard as his. Yet at the same time, the darkness in Fugo yearned for Giorno's light, and was drawn to it, like a moth to a flame. This embodied paradox that stood before him was both everything he had ever feared and everything he had ever wanted, all at once. Those clear blue eyes looked down at him without judgment, even though Fugo was sure they could see all the way into his very soul. There was something so startling about being the object of that gaze, the idea that someone so special could focus his whole attention on someone like Fugo, someone so consumed in bitterness, someone so depraved and deplorable commanding the attention of someone so divine.
And despite it all, Giorno looked at him like he was the only other person in the world, and for a second, he was.
And at that very moment, Pannacotta Fugo fell head over heels for Giorno Giovanna—for that incredible kindness and unyielding ruthlessness, and the way they fit together like puzzle pieces—nothing short of perfect.
Swearing his loyalty felt like a love confession, and in a way it was, if love was even an adequate word to describe what Fugo felt then, that visceral sort of adoration that left him trembling still, as he finally grasped the hand in front of him in both of his own. Giorno's hand was soft and warm, almost scorching in comparison to the coldness of his lips when he leaned his head down to kiss it in a sudden, unwarranted display of gentle passion. Fugo tasted salt, and although his eyes were closed, he realized he was still crying. His voice came out barely above a whisper, but he spoke straight from his heart, and in that sense, the words rang out loud and clear.
"I am yours..."