[Fugo has a lot of thoughts about Giorno who's very good at pretending to be okay, even when he's not; even more about how much Giorno must trust him to share that with him, to put it into words and admit it without trying to hide or minimize it. A few of them might have even made it successfully out of his head. And he'll get back to them in a minute, because that's all very important, but he's a little distracted from them at the moment.
Because. Giorno gently pulls his hand free, which at first leaves Fugo feeling adrift and unhappy in the distance between them until he puts it together that it was only because Giorno was making space. For him to sit. On his lap.]
Oh. [He starts going red again, eyes flicking restlessly from Giorno's hands to his face. They're too far apart, that's true; it's not quite the same as what he felt after telling Giorno he loved him, resentful of the space between them. But it's in the same range, he thinks. And here's Giorno, offering what he's too self-conscious to even think to ask for. Fugo stares and nervously rubs his knuckles before replying very eloquently with:] ... okay.
[He's. Committed to it now, isn't he. Fugo gingerly shifts and rearranges himself until he's more or less settled on Giorno's lap. And then shifts again, because he's not sure how to sit without poking Giorno with his shoulder or elbow. A thought occurs to him, too silly not to chuckle about or share with Giorno.]
This would be a little easier if we weren't so close in size. [A pause, then-] ... tell me if I'm poking you.
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Because. Giorno gently pulls his hand free, which at first leaves Fugo feeling adrift and unhappy in the distance between them until he puts it together that it was only because Giorno was making space. For him to sit. On his lap.]
Oh. [He starts going red again, eyes flicking restlessly from Giorno's hands to his face. They're too far apart, that's true; it's not quite the same as what he felt after telling Giorno he loved him, resentful of the space between them. But it's in the same range, he thinks. And here's Giorno, offering what he's too self-conscious to even think to ask for. Fugo stares and nervously rubs his knuckles before replying very eloquently with:] ... okay.
[He's. Committed to it now, isn't he. Fugo gingerly shifts and rearranges himself until he's more or less settled on Giorno's lap. And then shifts again, because he's not sure how to sit without poking Giorno with his shoulder or elbow. A thought occurs to him, too silly not to chuckle about or share with Giorno.]
This would be a little easier if we weren't so close in size. [A pause, then-] ... tell me if I'm poking you.