[It comes out muffled into Fugo’s shirt, because even in the wake of such a strange question he isn’t willing to pull away. Instead he peeks over Fugo’s shoulder to stare at the opposite wall in confusion, brows drawn together. Instead his fingers tighten instinctively in the back of Fugo’s shirt — because of course they do.]
No, Fugo. I— [And then Fugo’s arm reaches around to hold him. Fingers tighten in the back of his shirt, an overcautious echo of his own desperate grip. Unable to stop himself, he sighs and closes his eyes, burying his face against Fugo’s shoulder again.]
. . . I like this. I like when you reach for me. [He likes to be needed, to be held. Strange as that is for both of them, there’s no point denying it. Not now, when it’s so obvious.]
no subject
[It comes out muffled into Fugo’s shirt, because even in the wake of such a strange question he isn’t willing to pull away. Instead he peeks over Fugo’s shoulder to stare at the opposite wall in confusion, brows drawn together. Instead his fingers tighten instinctively in the back of Fugo’s shirt — because of course they do.]
No, Fugo. I— [And then Fugo’s arm reaches around to hold him. Fingers tighten in the back of his shirt, an overcautious echo of his own desperate grip. Unable to stop himself, he sighs and closes his eyes, burying his face against Fugo’s shoulder again.]
. . . I like this. I like when you reach for me. [He likes to be needed, to be held. Strange as that is for both of them, there’s no point denying it. Not now, when it’s so obvious.]