[Well. That works. Fugo's got me, Giorno echoes to himself dreamily--and then Fugo's fingers brush against his stomach again, and he melts. It's very difficult to be self-conscious when Fugo knows it almost before he does and is so, so good at taking care of him. And manages his pants and underwear at once, that's--he's so talented. So talented.]
[As dazed and relaxed as he is, Giorno manages to help a little. He manages the important things, at least. Kicking his stupid clothing off his ankles with spiteful finality, for one. Planting his hand against Fugo's chest and pushing him back against the bed again, for another. It's playful and lazy more than assertive; when he crawls over Fugo, it's with the intent to say something clever and ask for a kiss.]
[Except: he doesn't. The second he looks down and meets Fugo's eyes, the playfulness recedes and awe takes over. This is where they were just a minute ago. It is, and on some level nothing's changed, but--]
[Giorno believes he's good-looking. He's worked hard to believe that, and he does, now. So it's not that he thinks Fugo doesn't agree. It's that . . . as he looks Fugo over, top to toe, it seems impossible that anyone else has ever wanted anyone as breathlessly as he wants Fugo.]
[This, he thinks, tentatively tracing his fingertips from the curve of Fugo's jaw to the fresh bruises at his throat and collarbone. This is how he forgot. Thank goodness he doesn't have to worry about clothes anymore.]
When I think about you, [he starts. Stops, chewing the inside of his cheek, before continuing, quiet and tentative.] Like this. It's perfect. You're perfect. But you're so much better for real.
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[As dazed and relaxed as he is, Giorno manages to help a little. He manages the important things, at least. Kicking his stupid clothing off his ankles with spiteful finality, for one. Planting his hand against Fugo's chest and pushing him back against the bed again, for another. It's playful and lazy more than assertive; when he crawls over Fugo, it's with the intent to say something clever and ask for a kiss.]
[Except: he doesn't. The second he looks down and meets Fugo's eyes, the playfulness recedes and awe takes over. This is where they were just a minute ago. It is, and on some level nothing's changed, but--]
[Giorno believes he's good-looking. He's worked hard to believe that, and he does, now. So it's not that he thinks Fugo doesn't agree. It's that . . . as he looks Fugo over, top to toe, it seems impossible that anyone else has ever wanted anyone as breathlessly as he wants Fugo.]
[This, he thinks, tentatively tracing his fingertips from the curve of Fugo's jaw to the fresh bruises at his throat and collarbone. This is how he forgot. Thank goodness he doesn't have to worry about clothes anymore.]
When I think about you, [he starts. Stops, chewing the inside of his cheek, before continuing, quiet and tentative.] Like this. It's perfect. You're perfect. But you're so much better for real.