[What Giorno wants to say is that it isn't English. He doesn't know how to say it in Italian either, and he's certain he never could in Japanese. It's not linguistic limitations; it's that Fugo is beyond words, Giorno's fairly certain. Every time he looks at Fugo and gets this silly, tipsy feeling of love, or the heavy, insistent want he's feeling now, searching for words to fit its magnitude is a futile and frustrating effort.]
[This is what he wants to say. But Fugo is still talking. Fugo is talking about how good he looks, and here's the thing: it's an awful, clumsy compliment. From anyone else, it would be halfhearted or even insincere. But from Fugo, it's--]
[He can feel his heartbeat so loud in his ears. It's mortifying. And he's staring at Fugo, he can't even blink, because when Fugo says something like that, it means that there's more he wants to say but doesn't know how to. That's what this all has been: the not being ready, the not knowing how. It hasn't been the same as not wanting.]
[There's another moment when Giorno wants to say something. Anything, actually. He feels like he's lost control of his tongue to an unforgiveable extent, and he really wants to do something about that, less because he feels an urge to take the lead and more because--he thinks if he does, maybe he'll stop being so nervous. The thinking too hard is what always trips him up.]
[But then Fugo moves. And when Giorno glances down, he finds himself, very fortunately, unable to think anymore.]
[Fugo is . . . always. Always, always, always. Such a quick learner. He's learned that Giorno wants, craves, needs permission, that there are ways of giving it without speaking, that sometimes Giorno doesn't know how to ask. That sometimes he hesitates. That he wants to be reached out to. That--Giorno loves his legs. Very much.]
[It probably wasn't meant to be so destructive. But when Giorno sees him shifting and settling, helping him, inviting him to do what he's already said he wants to do so badly, he just--can't. He whimpers. Thinks about covering it up, but doesn't, because he does want Fugo to know, doesn't he, exactly how he feels about this. So he takes in a sharp breath and breathes out, but it's a whimper again, softer, a little more vocal than a sigh.]
[For a moment he just stares. This is one of those moments he's been greedy for. He likes the idea of Fugo showing him what he wants without a single word, oh, he likes that idea very much, and now--he has to memorize it. What it looks like in this moment for Fugo to want him to get on with it.]
[But it's not hesitation. Not anymore. This is purposeful, and has a fixed endpoint. Once Giorno knows that he's committed this moment to memory--and, even more so, that he's got a good mental image, a before to compare with a bruised and bitten after--he moves. His fingers trail, teasingly light but much more quickly than before, to the inside of Fugo's thigh. That's where they slow, his fingertips pressed lightly against Fugo's skin--so soft, Giorno marvels, biting his lip and letting it go--as they head towards his knee.]
. . . Fugo.
[The way he says Fugo's name, a moment before he looks up, isn't a question. It's a request for--hm. Hard to say. If he were asked at a later time to put a word to it, he'd probably settle on feedback. But at the same time, it's a request for attention. As he looks up at Fugo with eyes wide, pupils blown, intent and fiercely focused; as he starts over, running his fingers down the inside of Fugo's thigh, and curls his fingers halfway down so it's his nails instead of his fingertips, grazing lightly but awfully pointedly--what he wants is for Fugo to look at him. That's all.]
no subject
[This is what he wants to say. But Fugo is still talking. Fugo is talking about how good he looks, and here's the thing: it's an awful, clumsy compliment. From anyone else, it would be halfhearted or even insincere. But from Fugo, it's--]
[He can feel his heartbeat so loud in his ears. It's mortifying. And he's staring at Fugo, he can't even blink, because when Fugo says something like that, it means that there's more he wants to say but doesn't know how to. That's what this all has been: the not being ready, the not knowing how. It hasn't been the same as not wanting.]
[There's another moment when Giorno wants to say something. Anything, actually. He feels like he's lost control of his tongue to an unforgiveable extent, and he really wants to do something about that, less because he feels an urge to take the lead and more because--he thinks if he does, maybe he'll stop being so nervous. The thinking too hard is what always trips him up.]
[But then Fugo moves. And when Giorno glances down, he finds himself, very fortunately, unable to think anymore.]
[Fugo is . . . always. Always, always, always. Such a quick learner. He's learned that Giorno wants, craves, needs permission, that there are ways of giving it without speaking, that sometimes Giorno doesn't know how to ask. That sometimes he hesitates. That he wants to be reached out to. That--Giorno loves his legs. Very much.]
[It probably wasn't meant to be so destructive. But when Giorno sees him shifting and settling, helping him, inviting him to do what he's already said he wants to do so badly, he just--can't. He whimpers. Thinks about covering it up, but doesn't, because he does want Fugo to know, doesn't he, exactly how he feels about this. So he takes in a sharp breath and breathes out, but it's a whimper again, softer, a little more vocal than a sigh.]
[For a moment he just stares. This is one of those moments he's been greedy for. He likes the idea of Fugo showing him what he wants without a single word, oh, he likes that idea very much, and now--he has to memorize it. What it looks like in this moment for Fugo to want him to get on with it.]
[But it's not hesitation. Not anymore. This is purposeful, and has a fixed endpoint. Once Giorno knows that he's committed this moment to memory--and, even more so, that he's got a good mental image, a before to compare with a bruised and bitten after--he moves. His fingers trail, teasingly light but much more quickly than before, to the inside of Fugo's thigh. That's where they slow, his fingertips pressed lightly against Fugo's skin--so soft, Giorno marvels, biting his lip and letting it go--as they head towards his knee.]
. . . Fugo.
[The way he says Fugo's name, a moment before he looks up, isn't a question. It's a request for--hm. Hard to say. If he were asked at a later time to put a word to it, he'd probably settle on feedback. But at the same time, it's a request for attention. As he looks up at Fugo with eyes wide, pupils blown, intent and fiercely focused; as he starts over, running his fingers down the inside of Fugo's thigh, and curls his fingers halfway down so it's his nails instead of his fingertips, grazing lightly but awfully pointedly--what he wants is for Fugo to look at him. That's all.]