[Giorno is ... so toothy. Here is a kiss, unplanned and wet on his neck, to soothe him after a sharp pain of another bite. Fugo can't see his own neck and shoulders, but knows there has to be a growing pattern of delicate little bruises left behind by Giorno's pretty teeth there. Fugo whimpers when Giorno's teeth skate underneath his jaw, then again, a little louder, in the moment between Giorno's sigh and when his teeth press into the sensitive skin beneath his ear.]

P ... page-- three. [The knowledge floats up to him from the recesses of memory. I love your legs, they're so long and thin. I love the way you fold up in big chairs. So sharp! So angled! Giorno's stupid letter, his ridiculously long and hideously embarrassing list of things he loves about Fugo, took him ages to read. He couldn't get more than a few items down a page before he would have to fold it up and set it away.] You said that you couldn't wait for summer, because--

[Fugo shivers. For a lot of reasons, honestly. The biggest being the back and forth motion of Giorno's hands, pretty and clever, running up and down his thighs. It's such a steady motion. He could time music to the measure of Giorno's hands, if he weren't very done with piano for the day.]

You want to look at them. And-- my stomach. You missed it. You said so, I remember. [Fugo licks his lips. Giorno doesn't want him to stop-- so he keeps his hands moving. His fingers twitch and relax their grip on Giorno's hip, instead starting to massage slow circles on his side. The hand on his back drifts towards to the nape of his neck; rather than scratching, he chooses to brush the back of his nails down Giorno's spine.] I like ... I love your hands. They're gorgeous. Elegant. And so soft. You have such clever fingers, Giogio, I adore them. They feel so good. I love it when you touch me-- hold me. We're so close.