[Look: it's not his fault that he doesn't hear Fugo the first time. The first two times. He has demonstrated stunning, nay saintlike, patience, but he's never been patient about kisses and he sure as hell can't start now. Besides which--moving from where he was, which he liked a lot, to literally anywhere else was a horribly unfair experience, but he's damn well going to take advantage of it. There is a lot of Fugo to touch.]
[But then Fugo touches his stomach. To get his attention, at least in theory, but here's the flaw: Giorno has spent a lot of time touching Fugo and has temporarily been too overwhelmed by doing so to remember how good it feels to be touched in return. So when Fugo's hand presses against his stomach out of nowhere, it startles him so much that he does pull away from the kiss, but not constructively. No, he--gasps, leans his forehead against Fugo's, eyes falling shut. That's . . . nice. He leans into the touch, sinking into the lovely feeling of Fugo's pretty fingers spread across his stomach.]
[. . . Is he talking?]
[Oh. Yes, Fugo is saying something. But what, and why? Reluctantly, propelled by a grudging sense of responsibility, Giorno pulls back and opens his eyes to look at Fugo. His gaze snags briefly on Fugo's mouth, for which he really can't be blamed, before he blinks and meets his eyes.]
[Meaning filters gradually through his distraction. Fugo's talking about . . . his button. But that doesn't make sense. Giorno doesn't have a button. Fugo had buttons, but they're long dealt with. Now they're both--]
[Wait.]
[Giorno . . . blinks. Sensation that had been relegated to the "unimportant, therefore ignorable" category begins to come back to him. No. No, he can feel cloth against his legs, the shape of cuffs brushing his ankles. Of course. God. God.]
[He blinks down at Fugo with wide eyes. Widening. Wider. And then, when it seems that he's entirely lost the ability to speak, he--giggles. Slaps a hand over his mouth to try to stifle it, with very little luck, because he's laughing, honestly laughing, tears in the corners of his eyes as he goes pink with good-natured embarrassment.]
I'm not--! I'm not laughing at you, Fugo, I promise, I just--
[God. He bites down hard on his lip, lays his hand over Fugo's, tugs it down to his waistband. Second time's the charm, or something. Still trembling with laughter and rosy over his own nonsense.]
Please. Do. Take care of it for me, Fugo, I can't--Fugo, I forgot.
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[But then Fugo touches his stomach. To get his attention, at least in theory, but here's the flaw: Giorno has spent a lot of time touching Fugo and has temporarily been too overwhelmed by doing so to remember how good it feels to be touched in return. So when Fugo's hand presses against his stomach out of nowhere, it startles him so much that he does pull away from the kiss, but not constructively. No, he--gasps, leans his forehead against Fugo's, eyes falling shut. That's . . . nice. He leans into the touch, sinking into the lovely feeling of Fugo's pretty fingers spread across his stomach.]
[. . . Is he talking?]
[Oh. Yes, Fugo is saying something. But what, and why? Reluctantly, propelled by a grudging sense of responsibility, Giorno pulls back and opens his eyes to look at Fugo. His gaze snags briefly on Fugo's mouth, for which he really can't be blamed, before he blinks and meets his eyes.]
[Meaning filters gradually through his distraction. Fugo's talking about . . . his button. But that doesn't make sense. Giorno doesn't have a button. Fugo had buttons, but they're long dealt with. Now they're both--]
[Wait.]
[Giorno . . . blinks. Sensation that had been relegated to the "unimportant, therefore ignorable" category begins to come back to him. No. No, he can feel cloth against his legs, the shape of cuffs brushing his ankles. Of course. God. God.]
[He blinks down at Fugo with wide eyes. Widening. Wider. And then, when it seems that he's entirely lost the ability to speak, he--giggles. Slaps a hand over his mouth to try to stifle it, with very little luck, because he's laughing, honestly laughing, tears in the corners of his eyes as he goes pink with good-natured embarrassment.]
I'm not--! I'm not laughing at you, Fugo, I promise, I just--
[God. He bites down hard on his lip, lays his hand over Fugo's, tugs it down to his waistband. Second time's the charm, or something. Still trembling with laughter and rosy over his own nonsense.]
Please. Do. Take care of it for me, Fugo, I can't--Fugo, I forgot.