Really? I'm being mean? [Fugo leans in, precariously close to kissing Giorno, but only to bump their noses together and smile wickedly at him. They're so close now that, when he speaks, his lips brush lightly against Giorno's--but it's not quite a kiss. It doesn't count. He's not free yet.] But I have pudding and hot chocolate with an excessive amount of marshmallows ready for you. And I was under the impression that moths and kissing me were relevant to your interests.

[If he were really merciless, Fugo would draw it out a little longer. But he isn't. This is the exact extent to his meanness, because the problem with being so close to rosy, huffy Giorno is that Fugo can't bear not kissing him. Especially not after Giorno says that he loves him. So he does, soft and sweet. His mouth tastes like ginger, from the mug of tea he's been drinking.]

Ti amo.