[It's funny. Fugo himself called the list silly and largely expected Giorno to brightly start rattling off a series of nonsensical and embarrassing compliments, but this is... nothing like that at all. Instead, Giorno carefully and thoughtfully winds a blanket of words around him; he's caught surely, but with such gentleness that it's hard to tell the difference between falling and floating. Fugo usually hates to be complimented. It leaves him feeling itchy, because compliments always seem to come with expectations of gratitude at the least and requests of could you, for me at the most.

But this is different. Giorno isn't complimenting him: he's cherishing him, the realization of such leaves Fugo's shoulders trembling and his cheeks damp. I like all of you, Giorno admits, after sharing his list of all the things he likes in particular. Giorno loves his eyelashes and the way he looks at him in the morning, caught in his hazy wondering if he's awake or still caught up in a dream. He can't think of a time when he's felt so wanted, so accepted, so liked entirely by anyone.]

[He doesn't ever want to leave. He wants to stay like this, curled up underneath Giorno, listening to his chest hum with his voice, feel his heart beat, and rise and fall with him in time to his breath. He doesn't have to see Giorno's face to know that he's smiling, soft and fond and sweet.]

... I love holding your hand too, Giorno. [Because he hasn't moved away from Giorno's side, his voice is still muffled. And helplessly watery from the prickles of tears he doesn't want to admit stung his eyes, let alone the way a few slid down his cheeks. What Giorno said was so beautiful and good and kind. He doesn't want to ruin it by acknowledging that it made him cry, if only a little.] Thank you. For this, for tonight, and for-- ... always meeting me halfway.