[Oh.]

[Somehow, ridiculously, stupidly, Giorno feels his face heating up at that. God, it's absurd, but he just--he can never handle it with grace when Fugo says something like that. Especially not now. Fugo is so close, Giorno can read honesty in every line of his face, every soft curve of his little smile. It's so unfair. Fugo is so, so beautiful, and so good to him, and he has no idea what he's supposed to say or do in response to something like that.]

[So earnest. What you want is important.]

[His ears are hot. They must be bright red. Turning his face, he hides against Fugo's palm. It's hard to articulate that--he understands, he does, but he doesn't know how to handle that understanding.]

. . . You are making me feel good, [is what he says eventually, soft, muffled, but honest.] This is good . . . It felt good when you let me make you feel good, before. Even though I didn't-- [He huffs out a breath, squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them again, they roll in exasperation, entirely at himself.] I messed up. But it was okay otherwise. Right?

[It seems unfair, somehow, that Fugo refocused on him so quickly. Fussily, he twirls the hair at the back of Fugo's neck between his fingers.]