[Oh, good. Fugo laughed. Poking fun at him is a risk sometimes, but in this case, the act of ignoring the obvious would have been superhuman in a way Giorno simply can't aspire to. And Fugo's laughter is so pretty. It makes him grin, triumphant and smug, and roll his eyes in mock-exasperation.]
Don't be so rude. I'm going to fold them right, and you'll wait however long that takes.
[This, he ponders as he sits back on his heels, is a total lie. He'll do it as quickly as humanly possible, probably not quite up to Fugo's standard because he admittedly doesn't understand the point, but well enough that Fugo will be able to let it go. But it's an acceptable lie under the guise of teasing, of making sure they both feel relaxed and comfortable. Both of them, because it's not as though he knows what he's doing any more than Fugo does; his fingers twitch nervously against Fugo's hips before he tugs down, guiding his pants down his thighs, past his knees, to his ankles, and off of his feet.]
[It's not a perfect process, because Fugo's legs are long and Giorno is trying very, very hard not to get distracted at being able to see so much of them. He simply can't allow that. He knows himself well enough to know that if he focuses too hard on every new inch of Fugo that he can see, like he wants to, he'll stop and want to touch and this whole thing will go off the rails. It's fine. He can focus long enough to fold a pair of pants. Absolutely.]
[And so it's done. He . . . huffs a little, triumphant and rosy, and glances up at Fugo, a quick check-in. Then he leans up, places his hand on Fugo's chest, and presses him gently but firmly back against the pillows.]
Don't move.
[When his bare feet hit the floor, he finds it more difficult than expected to focus on standing up. The act of folding is soothingly familiar, however, and done quickly. It's a better job than he expected to do, in all honesty. He sets it down on the chair with a sense of relief. And turns. And--]
[Oh. He should have waited to look until he was back on the bed. He can't move now, he realizes. He's frozen. His breath hitches in his chest; he can hear his heartbeat in his ears. Fugo is . . . too beautiful. He's so gorgeous, so leggy, so perfect, and--Giorno gets to be here. With him.]
[You have to move, he tells himself dizzily; you have to get up there, or say something, or you're going to make him think he's done something wrong. And it takes a few long, stupid moments, as he gets redder and redder, but he manages. Eventually.]
I'm--sorry. You're just-- [Oh, god. This is ridiculous. He ducks his head and climbs back up onto the bed, over Fugo, and can't quite his fingers from grazing curiously down the outside of Fugo's thigh.] Incredible. Not a good enough word. More than that. Very good-looking. But more than that, too. [Goddamnit.]
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Don't be so rude. I'm going to fold them right, and you'll wait however long that takes.
[This, he ponders as he sits back on his heels, is a total lie. He'll do it as quickly as humanly possible, probably not quite up to Fugo's standard because he admittedly doesn't understand the point, but well enough that Fugo will be able to let it go. But it's an acceptable lie under the guise of teasing, of making sure they both feel relaxed and comfortable. Both of them, because it's not as though he knows what he's doing any more than Fugo does; his fingers twitch nervously against Fugo's hips before he tugs down, guiding his pants down his thighs, past his knees, to his ankles, and off of his feet.]
[It's not a perfect process, because Fugo's legs are long and Giorno is trying very, very hard not to get distracted at being able to see so much of them. He simply can't allow that. He knows himself well enough to know that if he focuses too hard on every new inch of Fugo that he can see, like he wants to, he'll stop and want to touch and this whole thing will go off the rails. It's fine. He can focus long enough to fold a pair of pants. Absolutely.]
[And so it's done. He . . . huffs a little, triumphant and rosy, and glances up at Fugo, a quick check-in. Then he leans up, places his hand on Fugo's chest, and presses him gently but firmly back against the pillows.]
Don't move.
[When his bare feet hit the floor, he finds it more difficult than expected to focus on standing up. The act of folding is soothingly familiar, however, and done quickly. It's a better job than he expected to do, in all honesty. He sets it down on the chair with a sense of relief. And turns. And--]
[Oh. He should have waited to look until he was back on the bed. He can't move now, he realizes. He's frozen. His breath hitches in his chest; he can hear his heartbeat in his ears. Fugo is . . . too beautiful. He's so gorgeous, so leggy, so perfect, and--Giorno gets to be here. With him.]
[You have to move, he tells himself dizzily; you have to get up there, or say something, or you're going to make him think he's done something wrong. And it takes a few long, stupid moments, as he gets redder and redder, but he manages. Eventually.]
I'm--sorry. You're just-- [Oh, god. This is ridiculous. He ducks his head and climbs back up onto the bed, over Fugo, and can't quite his fingers from grazing curiously down the outside of Fugo's thigh.] Incredible. Not a good enough word. More than that. Very good-looking. But more than that, too. [Goddamnit.]