[He's projecting. That's Bruno's first thought and instinct. And why wouldn't he? It's not as though Giorno has had the space here or back home to process. What time was there? If he didn't rise to take over Passione, someone else would have, and God only knows if they might have been worse than Diavolo. He had to push his feelings back and attend immediately to business, to projecting that image of a competent and untouchable don that bore no weaknesses.]
[But that Giorno is projecting is only half of the truth. The calm neutrality that Bruno is presenting now is a practiced image. It's not one that he's completely fabricated, but that doesn't mean it's always a true reflection of his inner-workings either. Bruno's jaw tightens and relaxes, a single ripple over otherwise still waters. He feels that increasingly familiar urge to reach out for his pulse because that choice of words--they're the things that prove that we're alive--was no coincidence. Giorno has been and is still pushing too much for that to slip past Bruno's notice, especially now when he's cleared his head of otherwise disorienting anger and whatever else.]
[But he doesn't move so much as a muscle to feel for his pulse. That feels too much like an admission, like surrender. Of and to what this might be, Bruno doesn't know and he's not about to try and figure that out here and now in front of Giorno. He can't quite stop his attention from drifting towards his own breath, in and out, but he keeps his hands still.]
Things that prove you are alive.
[Even when placing emphasis on his correction, emotion doesn't creep even into the edges of Bruno's words. There's no even a touch of bitterness or spite. There's not even a trace of regret or despair. It's a simple correction delivered in a patient way one might correct a child on their school lessons when they've confused facts.]
Nothing has changed, Giorno. You might not want to, but you need to accept that. Whatever this is, it's temporary at best.
[Bruno's time came and went. Being here cannot and does not change that fact, no matter how much Giorno may want it to.]
[...]
[...No matter how much Bruno may want it to sometimes beneath that calm veneer and the storm of anxieties he must silence nearly every day.]
action;
[But that Giorno is projecting is only half of the truth. The calm neutrality that Bruno is presenting now is a practiced image. It's not one that he's completely fabricated, but that doesn't mean it's always a true reflection of his inner-workings either. Bruno's jaw tightens and relaxes, a single ripple over otherwise still waters. He feels that increasingly familiar urge to reach out for his pulse because that choice of words--they're the things that prove that we're alive--was no coincidence. Giorno has been and is still pushing too much for that to slip past Bruno's notice, especially now when he's cleared his head of otherwise disorienting anger and whatever else.]
[But he doesn't move so much as a muscle to feel for his pulse. That feels too much like an admission, like surrender. Of and to what this might be, Bruno doesn't know and he's not about to try and figure that out here and now in front of Giorno. He can't quite stop his attention from drifting towards his own breath, in and out, but he keeps his hands still.]
Things that prove you are alive.
[Even when placing emphasis on his correction, emotion doesn't creep even into the edges of Bruno's words. There's no even a touch of bitterness or spite. There's not even a trace of regret or despair. It's a simple correction delivered in a patient way one might correct a child on their school lessons when they've confused facts.]
Nothing has changed, Giorno. You might not want to, but you need to accept that. Whatever this is, it's temporary at best.
[Bruno's time came and went. Being here cannot and does not change that fact, no matter how much Giorno may want it to.]
[...]
[...No matter how much Bruno may want it to sometimes beneath that calm veneer and the storm of anxieties he must silence nearly every day.]