[Throughout all of this, he doesn't speak. He had, it's true, been hoping for names. This may have been selfish. It was only that . . . he had thought to light candles for them in one of the churches, perhaps, a small and pointless memorial. He'll just have to do that without names, he supposes. He'll have to remember these details instead, and light a candle for the man who named Star Platinum, the one who found Dio, the one who was Jotaro's best friend.]
[Whether Dio killed them by his own hand or no, it was his responsibility, his fault. And so, in some abstract and perhaps unfair way, it's Giorno's fault, too. He accepts this.]
[He accepts, too, the viciousness of the last statement, his eyes showing nothing but a clear reflection of Jotaro's own emotion. He doesn't take it personally; how could he? Jotaro has shown a remarkable amount of restraint thus far, and this, this reaction, this anger, is what Giorno has expected from the start.]
[He doesn't search for something to say, either. If something comes to him, then it comes. If it doesn't, then it doesn't. This is no time for platitudes, less for apologies, because what does an apology do? It doesn't bring back the dead and gone. It doesn't soothe wounds. It makes sounds in the air, nothing more.]
[All Giorno does, for the moment, is tug one petal after another off the lily, rubbing his thumb against the smoothness of it, in sharp contrast with the dusty grit of pollen from the stamen. He doesn't let them fall, but collects them in one hand. It's a perverse thing to do, in his mind, killing something he's brought to life. But he does it anyway.]
no subject
[Whether Dio killed them by his own hand or no, it was his responsibility, his fault. And so, in some abstract and perhaps unfair way, it's Giorno's fault, too. He accepts this.]
[He accepts, too, the viciousness of the last statement, his eyes showing nothing but a clear reflection of Jotaro's own emotion. He doesn't take it personally; how could he? Jotaro has shown a remarkable amount of restraint thus far, and this, this reaction, this anger, is what Giorno has expected from the start.]
[He doesn't search for something to say, either. If something comes to him, then it comes. If it doesn't, then it doesn't. This is no time for platitudes, less for apologies, because what does an apology do? It doesn't bring back the dead and gone. It doesn't soothe wounds. It makes sounds in the air, nothing more.]
[All Giorno does, for the moment, is tug one petal after another off the lily, rubbing his thumb against the smoothness of it, in sharp contrast with the dusty grit of pollen from the stamen. He doesn't let them fall, but collects them in one hand. It's a perverse thing to do, in his mind, killing something he's brought to life. But he does it anyway.]
[In the end, all he says is--]
Thank you for telling me this.