[There it is again, that prickling feeling of heat as a flush crawls across his cheeks. Oh, he didn't--mean to say that. It's embarrassing, even though it's honest and, in fact, the only truly honest answer he could have given.]
[At least he doesn't really have time to worry about it. There's so little time between Fugo's repetition of that single, vital word, everywhere, and the moment when he smiles, yeah, confirmation of the fact that it wasn't a wrong thing to say, it was okay. It was right. It was good, even, because--Fugo wants that, too.]
[He doesn't know how to process that. Hope and confirmation are such unbelievably different things they're not even on the same plane. And he's got no time to think about it before Fugo's leaning in and kissing the breath out of him. It's--a good kiss. It's a really good kiss. He can't help but gasp against Fugo's lips, kissing him back fiercely; his fingers dig tighter into Fugo's hip as his other hand slides up Fugo's back, clinging to the warmth of his shoulder.]
[And then--]
[And then Fugo's hand is under his shirt, fingers slipping across his stomach, and he can't help it and he doesn't want to, either, doesn't try to stop the way he twists and arches into it. Fugo's hands are so warm, they feel so good, and it's wonderful every time Fugo decides to just reach for what he wants.]
Yes, [Giorno says fiercely, both a reaction and an answer to the question; he pulls Fugo in closer and kisses him with all the feeling he hasn't yet figured out how to put into words. His fingers flex, nails digging in just a little; he's constantly aware of the touch against his stomach, which leaves him murmuring a scattering of soft, enthusiastic affirmatives against Fugo's lips.]
[But. This won't work, given the givens. They have to stop kissing, if only briefly. So--eventually, Giorno does let Fugo breathe. He doesn't let him go far, though, because he has a question to ask, too. As it happens. It's hard to look at Fugo's eyes instead of his mouth, but Giorno glances up through his lashes and manages it. Barely.]
no subject
[At least he doesn't really have time to worry about it. There's so little time between Fugo's repetition of that single, vital word, everywhere, and the moment when he smiles, yeah, confirmation of the fact that it wasn't a wrong thing to say, it was okay. It was right. It was good, even, because--Fugo wants that, too.]
[He doesn't know how to process that. Hope and confirmation are such unbelievably different things they're not even on the same plane. And he's got no time to think about it before Fugo's leaning in and kissing the breath out of him. It's--a good kiss. It's a really good kiss. He can't help but gasp against Fugo's lips, kissing him back fiercely; his fingers dig tighter into Fugo's hip as his other hand slides up Fugo's back, clinging to the warmth of his shoulder.]
[And then--]
[And then Fugo's hand is under his shirt, fingers slipping across his stomach, and he can't help it and he doesn't want to, either, doesn't try to stop the way he twists and arches into it. Fugo's hands are so warm, they feel so good, and it's wonderful every time Fugo decides to just reach for what he wants.]
Yes, [Giorno says fiercely, both a reaction and an answer to the question; he pulls Fugo in closer and kisses him with all the feeling he hasn't yet figured out how to put into words. His fingers flex, nails digging in just a little; he's constantly aware of the touch against his stomach, which leaves him murmuring a scattering of soft, enthusiastic affirmatives against Fugo's lips.]
[But. This won't work, given the givens. They have to stop kissing, if only briefly. So--eventually, Giorno does let Fugo breathe. He doesn't let him go far, though, because he has a question to ask, too. As it happens. It's hard to look at Fugo's eyes instead of his mouth, but Giorno glances up through his lashes and manages it. Barely.]
Mm. Mind getting the buttons?