[Be careful. You're stronger than you know. Don't hurt anyone.
Fugo has to live life carefully. Not just because of Purple Haze-- but because of the things he does when he loses his temper. He smashes plates. He hits people with dictionaries. He gets into fights that leave his knuckles red and raw. He breaks things. He hurts people.
It's not like he doesn't touch people. He does-- very carefully, because he knows better than most how easily hurt human bodies actually are. Fugo is especially careful around Giorno. He wants, so badly, to be someone who Giorno doesn't have to be afraid of. The one prayer he has left in him is a plea to a higher power he can't bring himself to believe in to keep him from hurting Giorno Giovanna.
Little by little, he has learned that it's okay for him to reach out. It's okay for him to hold on. It's okay to want to be held and it's okay to want to hold the person he loves. And tonight, he has learned that it's okay to-- let go of that worry a little, to hold on so tightly that when he struggles to find better purchase on Giorno's shoulders his nails scratch lightly across the warm skin of Giorno's back.
No, that's not right. It's not just okay. Giorno loves it when he holds on tight.]
[Not that Giorno is giving him much room to think. Not with the way he's touching his chest, hand briefly resting over his racing heart as if trying to calm it. Fugo shivers and twitches during the journey there and back; Giorno's hands are so light. It's as if they weigh nothing at all. But then, oh, the pressure is back on his stomach and he can't keep quiet or still. They're already so close, but he squirms to try and press forward in a clumsy attempt to match Giorno's rhythm.]
I have you-- [His promise is ragged. Haphazard, when he meant to be certain. His next attempt doesn't fare much better.] I have you, I won't let go. I want-- [His breath catches.] --you to feel as good as I do. Tell me? Please, Giogio. Please.
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Fugo has to live life carefully. Not just because of Purple Haze-- but because of the things he does when he loses his temper. He smashes plates. He hits people with dictionaries. He gets into fights that leave his knuckles red and raw. He breaks things. He hurts people.
It's not like he doesn't touch people. He does-- very carefully, because he knows better than most how easily hurt human bodies actually are. Fugo is especially careful around Giorno. He wants, so badly, to be someone who Giorno doesn't have to be afraid of. The one prayer he has left in him is a plea to a higher power he can't bring himself to believe in to keep him from hurting Giorno Giovanna.
Little by little, he has learned that it's okay for him to reach out. It's okay for him to hold on. It's okay to want to be held and it's okay to want to hold the person he loves. And tonight, he has learned that it's okay to-- let go of that worry a little, to hold on so tightly that when he struggles to find better purchase on Giorno's shoulders his nails scratch lightly across the warm skin of Giorno's back.
No, that's not right. It's not just okay. Giorno loves it when he holds on tight.]
[Not that Giorno is giving him much room to think. Not with the way he's touching his chest, hand briefly resting over his racing heart as if trying to calm it. Fugo shivers and twitches during the journey there and back; Giorno's hands are so light. It's as if they weigh nothing at all. But then, oh, the pressure is back on his stomach and he can't keep quiet or still. They're already so close, but he squirms to try and press forward in a clumsy attempt to match Giorno's rhythm.]
I have you-- [His promise is ragged. Haphazard, when he meant to be certain. His next attempt doesn't fare much better.] I have you, I won't let go. I want-- [His breath catches.] --you to feel as good as I do. Tell me? Please, Giogio. Please.