[Oh, thank god. He's so relieved immediately. Even though Fugo is being rude to him. Maybe especially because Fugo is being rude to him. Yes, he thinks, as he tries and mostly fails to stifle a frustrated whine when Fugo makes him let go--it's at least in part because it's nice to not have to worry about this at all for a moment. Just let Fugo do whatever he wants and . . . just follow along.]

[He's so relieved, and that shows; the tension in his shoulders just goes elsewhere, gone like it never was. But he's terribly overwhelmed, too, immediately and irrevocably, because look at him, he can't deal with it, he's so lucky, how does Fugo ever convince himself he's anything but--magnifico?]

[Fugo settles himself again, so close, and Giorno has to bite his lip to keep from saying one hundred increasingly stupid things. There are so many things he wants to say, most of which are embarrassing, many of which don't even make sense. Fugo is too beautiful, too much, and he can't breathe, and he doesn't want to.]

[His arms tighten, immediately and possessively, around Fugo's waist.]

Don't make me let go again, Fugo. Please.

[He cranes his neck, curves up until he's as close as he can be and still stay sitting up properly. His eyes are still wide, but sharper now, not vicious and mean and smug like sometimes but incredibly attentive. Fugo is beautiful. There's nothing in the world besides Fugo that he wants to look at.]

I don't want to let go. I love you. I want to leave marks on you because you're mine. I want you to leave marks on me because I'm yours, too. I want to be yours.

I can kiss you? [It's almost shy. He's really just--staring, at this point.]