[Fugo relaxes, but not because he's relaxed. He relaxes because he's forcing himself to, because in some way he feels reprimanded, or at least in the wrong. And the way he feels this in no way places blame on Giorno, but . . .]
[It's always like this, Fugo says, looking at him with helpless eyes, and what he means is, I'm always like this. There is so much blame in the space between them, and it only goes one way.]
[Achingly, endlessly tender, he scoots a little closer so that their hips press together like they did on the walk over, so his toes dangle over the edge of the bed. Out of the tangle of blankets, even. He slowly, carefully runs his fingers through Fugo's hair from the front to the back, pushing his bangs away out of his face and subtly undoing tangles along the way.]
I'm not upset. [He tips his head to one side, birdlike: See? Because Fugo can feel it. He isn't. He's just fond and maybe a little worried.] I like you. I like who you are.
[He was going to say something else. He loses it, though. Fugo's hair is very soft, and . . . it feels, too, as though he's said everything that matters.]
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[It's always like this, Fugo says, looking at him with helpless eyes, and what he means is, I'm always like this. There is so much blame in the space between them, and it only goes one way.]
[Achingly, endlessly tender, he scoots a little closer so that their hips press together like they did on the walk over, so his toes dangle over the edge of the bed. Out of the tangle of blankets, even. He slowly, carefully runs his fingers through Fugo's hair from the front to the back, pushing his bangs away out of his face and subtly undoing tangles along the way.]
I'm not upset. [He tips his head to one side, birdlike: See? Because Fugo can feel it. He isn't. He's just fond and maybe a little worried.] I like you. I like who you are.
[He was going to say something else. He loses it, though. Fugo's hair is very soft, and . . . it feels, too, as though he's said everything that matters.]