[It's possible that under different circumstances Giorno might have had something else to say, some clever, teasing follow-up. But he doesn't. He couldn't. His fingers twitch slightly in the air between them as he watches Fugo turn from him, shrug his shirt the rest of the way off, and--]
[Maybe there is a time or a circumstance where Giorno will pay close attention to the precious fussiness of that gesture. He can't now. Instead his eyes stay trained on the curve and jut of Fugo's shoulders and the line of his arms as they're slowly revealed, the sharp angle of his shoulderblades. Giorno wants to kiss along that angle, to map the shape of it with his mouth and bite at the place where those two sharp shapes nearly meet just below the nape of his neck. He loves the way Fugo's back looks when he moves. Does Fugo know? Should he tell him?]
[Maybe it'll be obvious. It feels obvious; when Fugo turns to look at him again, Giorno feels as though he's never been more transparent in his life. He has exactly enough wherewithal to remove the flower from his hair and place it on the nightstand, because it's from Fugo so it's important, but he doesn't take his eyes off of Fugo for a second because it would be stupid to look away from someone so fucking beautiful.]
[Fugo settles in his lap, and his breath stutters. Fugo takes his hand, and as the other curls possessively at Fugo's hip he thinks Fugo will kiss him, and that does happen, but--differently. More so. There's something both unbearable and perfect about the way Fugo is teasing him right now. Again, Giorno can't look away. Fugo kisses his knuckles, and his fingers twitch. His palm, and he breathes out sharply. His wrist, and where he was staring before, unable to look away from the places Fugo's lips brushed his skin, he has to close his eyes just for one second, because otherwise he thinks he might fall apart.]
[Can Fugo feel the wild speed of his pulse from where he's kissing? Giorno feels as though he has to. It feels as though the walls are shaking with it.]
[He opens his eyes to the soft vibration of a question against his skin. Fugo is looking at him. He can't breathe. How is he supposed to answer a question after all of this--especially one like that, an impossible choice. Tell me where, like there's just one place. He can't possibly.]
[He opens his mouth to speak, and nothing happens, so he closes it again. Looks at Fugo's mouth for a few breathless moments, hypnotized.]
Everywhere.
[He genuinely doesn't realize he's said it. It's almost as soft as a thought anyway. He just . . . Nothing else would be honest, would it? Everywhere. That's all.]
no subject
[Maybe there is a time or a circumstance where Giorno will pay close attention to the precious fussiness of that gesture. He can't now. Instead his eyes stay trained on the curve and jut of Fugo's shoulders and the line of his arms as they're slowly revealed, the sharp angle of his shoulderblades. Giorno wants to kiss along that angle, to map the shape of it with his mouth and bite at the place where those two sharp shapes nearly meet just below the nape of his neck. He loves the way Fugo's back looks when he moves. Does Fugo know? Should he tell him?]
[Maybe it'll be obvious. It feels obvious; when Fugo turns to look at him again, Giorno feels as though he's never been more transparent in his life. He has exactly enough wherewithal to remove the flower from his hair and place it on the nightstand, because it's from Fugo so it's important, but he doesn't take his eyes off of Fugo for a second because it would be stupid to look away from someone so fucking beautiful.]
[Fugo settles in his lap, and his breath stutters. Fugo takes his hand, and as the other curls possessively at Fugo's hip he thinks Fugo will kiss him, and that does happen, but--differently. More so. There's something both unbearable and perfect about the way Fugo is teasing him right now. Again, Giorno can't look away. Fugo kisses his knuckles, and his fingers twitch. His palm, and he breathes out sharply. His wrist, and where he was staring before, unable to look away from the places Fugo's lips brushed his skin, he has to close his eyes just for one second, because otherwise he thinks he might fall apart.]
[Can Fugo feel the wild speed of his pulse from where he's kissing? Giorno feels as though he has to. It feels as though the walls are shaking with it.]
[He opens his eyes to the soft vibration of a question against his skin. Fugo is looking at him. He can't breathe. How is he supposed to answer a question after all of this--especially one like that, an impossible choice. Tell me where, like there's just one place. He can't possibly.]
[He opens his mouth to speak, and nothing happens, so he closes it again. Looks at Fugo's mouth for a few breathless moments, hypnotized.]
Everywhere.
[He genuinely doesn't realize he's said it. It's almost as soft as a thought anyway. He just . . . Nothing else would be honest, would it? Everywhere. That's all.]