[He retrieves his hat when it comes sailing over to him, but oddly doesn't put it back on as one might've guessed from his apparent objections to losing it earlier; he lets it come to sit at the edge of the mattress, and unshoulders the strap of his guitar long enough to set it aside and pivot so that he can better look in Polnareff's direction without craning his neck to see.

He looks like hell. Maybe no matter what happens here, he's going to look like hell. Maybe that's only to be expected; he'd looked like hell for a long time after he'd gotten here, too, and that was even having the advantage of Kakyoin being close by.

He thinks of Giorno slapping him, shaking him by the collar while he lay there in the sand. I don't want to watch you kill yourself.

He thinks of how easy it had been for Polnareff to call him a hero. If he really is one, then surely this must be the time for it — when he's needed, and someone needs him, whether anyone really realizes it or not.]

I can't talk and talk and end up with whatever's right in the end, Polnareff.

[He glances down and away, his eyes finding their way back to his guitar, to the name there.]

...You know my mom only sees my dad like...maybe one month or so out of the year. Maybe a little more than that, I don't know, but not by much. He doesn't come home a lot. I don't even really know if he even knows Mom got sick when she did.