[Oh, no. Fugo's writing again. Oh, no, Fugo's poking him. Oh, no, he has to look up now, and the thought of it alone has him going redder. This is the hardest thing he's ever had to do in his entire life, ever.]
[He does do it, though. Fugo deserves that much, and some terrible part of him wants to see what's been written, even if it makes him feel a million times more twisted up inside.]
[So he drops his hand, twisting it in the hem of his shirt, and reads what Fugo's written. And he was right: it just makes everything so much more . . . more.]
No.
[It comes out breathless and fervent, and he closes his eyes after, trying to keep his breathing steady. He can't, they can't keep doing this or they'll both explode, so he has to just . . . breathe.]
[Okay.]
[When he opens his eyes, he fumbles for the pen, sliding it from Fugo's grip and writing down his thoughts hesitantly, in a cramped hand. He has to twist to do it, but it seems so much safer than talking.]
It isn't weird. Or if it is, I really don't mind. I like having you here. I like the way you are and how much you like me. I don't want you to stop being like this. Even though it's
[The briefest hesitation.]
It's a little confusing. But it's not the kind of thing I feel the need to understand, because even though it's confusing, it feels very right. I have trouble remembering what it was like before you came here because that doesn't feel right. And anyway I like you a lot too. Very much. So isn't it only fair?
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[He does do it, though. Fugo deserves that much, and some terrible part of him wants to see what's been written, even if it makes him feel a million times more twisted up inside.]
[So he drops his hand, twisting it in the hem of his shirt, and reads what Fugo's written. And he was right: it just makes everything so much more . . . more.]
No.
[It comes out breathless and fervent, and he closes his eyes after, trying to keep his breathing steady. He can't, they can't keep doing this or they'll both explode, so he has to just . . . breathe.]
[Okay.]
[When he opens his eyes, he fumbles for the pen, sliding it from Fugo's grip and writing down his thoughts hesitantly, in a cramped hand. He has to twist to do it, but it seems so much safer than talking.]
It isn't weird. Or if it is, I really don't mind. I like having you here. I like the way you are and how much you like me.
I don't want you to stop being like this. Even though it's
[The briefest hesitation.]
It's a little confusing. But it's not the kind of thing I feel the need to understand, because even though it's confusing, it feels very right. I have trouble remembering what it was like before you came here because that doesn't feel right.
And anyway I like you a lot too. Very much. So isn't it only fair?