[Sometimes the two of them don't sync up quite right. Just a little while ago, some silly joke that didn't mean anything pushed them out of sync. Sometimes they're awkward or running at different speeds or in different places entirely. Which is fine. There's something lovely, something satisfying, about slowing down so Fugo can catch up, or running to where Fugo is patiently waiting for him.]
[But sometimes they fall into place next to each other like they were born for it. Sometimes they tug back and forth, playful and teasing, and in the middle of all that they find a moment where they're in the exact same place. Every time, no matter how long it lasts, it's beautiful. Every single time, it takes Giorno's breath away.]
[Fugo is right here with him. In every way imaginable, Fugo is right here with him. Body, heart, and soul. Fugo is always beautiful, always, no matter how tired or messy or upset, but right now--Giorno thinks this is the most beautiful he's ever seen him. This is possibly the most beautiful anyone has ever been in the history of the world. Because--Fugo looks like this because of him. Fugo looks this way because of all the things he wants from Giorno and how good Giorno has made him feel. And because he loves Giorno, body, heart, and soul.]
[It registers in a hazy way that Fugo is not only teasing him, but doing so in a direct mimic of his own past actions and expressed wishes. He can't fuss about it, though, because he understands. Fugo repeats himself with his words and his actions, doesn't he--especially when he knows how uncertain Giorno is, how desperately he craves permission and praise. Fugo says I want you. Everything you've thought about, I want to give to you, and then . . . lets Giorno see him, the way Giorno has let Fugo see him in the past. Kisses his fingertips the way Giorno wishes to kiss his fingertips. He knows he's doing it, too, and is so smug about it, and maybe he knows how much Giorno likes it when he's smug--because, oh, he does. So much. So much.]
[When Fugo smiles against his fingertips, he shivers and draws his bottom lip between his teeth. He can feel that he's flushed from the heat in his cheeks, can see his hair curling messily and spilling over his shoulders. This time, he doesn't say anything about how it's dangerous to give blanket permission like that. He's made sure. He doesn't want to make Fugo repeat himself again.]
I--
[Oh. Even the sound of his voice wants. He licks his lips, closes his eyes, takes a breath, opens them. Tries again.]
I think it will make it worse. But I want it to.
[His fingers curl around Fugo's cheek; a few too-light brushes of knuckles, and then he rests his fingertips over the mark he left under Fugo's ear. And then they're kissing. He doesn't know who moved first. It was probably him. But maybe it wasn't. And it doesn't matter. They're right here with each other, body, heart, and soul, so whoever kissed first--whoever started this kiss, which is needy and insistent and practically starving, as though stopping might honestly end the world--it's irrelevant. What matters is that it's happening.]
no subject
[But sometimes they fall into place next to each other like they were born for it. Sometimes they tug back and forth, playful and teasing, and in the middle of all that they find a moment where they're in the exact same place. Every time, no matter how long it lasts, it's beautiful. Every single time, it takes Giorno's breath away.]
[Fugo is right here with him. In every way imaginable, Fugo is right here with him. Body, heart, and soul. Fugo is always beautiful, always, no matter how tired or messy or upset, but right now--Giorno thinks this is the most beautiful he's ever seen him. This is possibly the most beautiful anyone has ever been in the history of the world. Because--Fugo looks like this because of him. Fugo looks this way because of all the things he wants from Giorno and how good Giorno has made him feel. And because he loves Giorno, body, heart, and soul.]
[It registers in a hazy way that Fugo is not only teasing him, but doing so in a direct mimic of his own past actions and expressed wishes. He can't fuss about it, though, because he understands. Fugo repeats himself with his words and his actions, doesn't he--especially when he knows how uncertain Giorno is, how desperately he craves permission and praise. Fugo says I want you. Everything you've thought about, I want to give to you, and then . . . lets Giorno see him, the way Giorno has let Fugo see him in the past. Kisses his fingertips the way Giorno wishes to kiss his fingertips. He knows he's doing it, too, and is so smug about it, and maybe he knows how much Giorno likes it when he's smug--because, oh, he does. So much. So much.]
[When Fugo smiles against his fingertips, he shivers and draws his bottom lip between his teeth. He can feel that he's flushed from the heat in his cheeks, can see his hair curling messily and spilling over his shoulders. This time, he doesn't say anything about how it's dangerous to give blanket permission like that. He's made sure. He doesn't want to make Fugo repeat himself again.]
I--
[Oh. Even the sound of his voice wants. He licks his lips, closes his eyes, takes a breath, opens them. Tries again.]
I think it will make it worse. But I want it to.
[His fingers curl around Fugo's cheek; a few too-light brushes of knuckles, and then he rests his fingertips over the mark he left under Fugo's ear. And then they're kissing. He doesn't know who moved first. It was probably him. But maybe it wasn't. And it doesn't matter. They're right here with each other, body, heart, and soul, so whoever kissed first--whoever started this kiss, which is needy and insistent and practically starving, as though stopping might honestly end the world--it's irrelevant. What matters is that it's happening.]