[I don’t think I could focus on anything else, Fugo admits; in clear response, a spark of possessiveness shoots from the depths of his soul across the Bond, sudden and vital. His fingers tighten around Fugo’s, his wrist twitching slightly to pull his Bonded closer, just an inch so that there’s a scant few millimeters separating them as they walk. Hip to hip.]
[Fugo can’t focus on anything but him. There’s the feeling of his stomach sinking and his heart lifting at the same time: he can’t go back from this. It would crush him. To have Fugo back out of this—]
[The fear threatens to swallow him. To swallow both of them. He looks at Fugo from the corner of his eyes, Fugo with a light flush splashed across his pale cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, Fugo who wants to take him home. He’s not — he won’t. He promised.]
[I will find my way forward by holding your hand.]
[The fear (of being left alone, having wholly, instantly eclipsed the fear of being known) eases. Not entirely, but enough. He squeezes Fugo’s hand again and nods.]
[And they go home.]
[It’s strange, how the instinct kicks in. He leads Fugo upstairs to his room, explaining, if he’s asked, that the bed is better. Letting Fugo’s hand go only to haul out extra blankets from the closet, he piles them on the bed and then removes his shoes, lining them up neatly by the door. As he crawls into the bed, curls up half-sitting against the pillows, and blinks across the room expectantly at Fugo, he isn’t thinking about dying in this bed. He’s thinking about all that he can feel from Fugo in this moment. He’s thinking about examining the correlation between his emotions and the shifts in his facial expression from up close. About Fugo. That’s all.]
no subject
[I don’t think I could focus on anything else, Fugo admits; in clear response, a spark of possessiveness shoots from the depths of his soul across the Bond, sudden and vital. His fingers tighten around Fugo’s, his wrist twitching slightly to pull his Bonded closer, just an inch so that there’s a scant few millimeters separating them as they walk. Hip to hip.]
[Fugo can’t focus on anything but him. There’s the feeling of his stomach sinking and his heart lifting at the same time: he can’t go back from this. It would crush him. To have Fugo back out of this—]
[The fear threatens to swallow him. To swallow both of them. He looks at Fugo from the corner of his eyes, Fugo with a light flush splashed across his pale cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, Fugo who wants to take him home. He’s not — he won’t. He promised.]
[I will find my way forward by holding your hand.]
[The fear (of being left alone, having wholly, instantly eclipsed the fear of being known) eases. Not entirely, but enough. He squeezes Fugo’s hand again and nods.]
[And they go home.]
[It’s strange, how the instinct kicks in. He leads Fugo upstairs to his room, explaining, if he’s asked, that the bed is better. Letting Fugo’s hand go only to haul out extra blankets from the closet, he piles them on the bed and then removes his shoes, lining them up neatly by the door. As he crawls into the bed, curls up half-sitting against the pillows, and blinks across the room expectantly at Fugo, he isn’t thinking about dying in this bed. He’s thinking about all that he can feel from Fugo in this moment. He’s thinking about examining the correlation between his emotions and the shifts in his facial expression from up close. About Fugo. That’s all.]