[Fugo is relaxing. That's good. Fugo is taking a moment, and that's good too. Fugo is talking again, and what he says makes Giorno feel a lot better--less like he's made some terrible misstep, although he's gradually starting to believe just a little bit that nothing he says to Fugo could really ruin everything.]
[And that's all very good, and calms him down a lot himself, but. Then Fugo brushes his thumb across the mark he made, and it becomes abruptly very hard to focus. It's more sensitive still than he expected, and--surprising, yes, and it makes him squeak and bury his face against the crook of Fugo's neck and shoulder until he figures out how to breathe right.]
[Fugo smells good. The . . . smell of him, that alone is enough to help. Giorno squeezes his eyes shut and breathes in and tries to think, although it's hard. What he wants, really, is to kiss Fugo very hard on the mouth, but--he doesn't know. It's hard to know. He wants to kiss, but he wants to talk, too, and he wants to sink his teeth in and leave a mark where Fugo won't be able to hide it.]
Fugo, I--
[Wait, no. It would--help if he could see, right? If he can see Fugo's face, he won't be so worried. Because if Fugo says it's okay and doesn't mean it, he'll be able to tell. And if Fugo is unhappy, he'll be able to tell. And knowing that he'd know if something was wrong . . . will also let him know when it isn't. Right?]
[He lifts his head, still a little flushed but determined as he looks at Fugo, who is. Being very brave for him, again. Always.]
I think it's--hard to know, sometimes. If you're just flustered or--really unhappy, or uncomfortable. And it's hard to know because I'm not good at people, but I--want to be good for you, I do.
I like making you flustered. A lot. But I don't want to make you unhappy or uncomfortable. And it's easier not to ask, because sometimes--it seems like asking some things makes you uncomfortable, but I.
[He breathes in sharply. Out. Finding words is so hard, sometimes, at the worst, most inconvenient times.]
Do you--I. Will you tell me? If you want me to stop talking about it? This or anything. Now or ever. I love you, and I think we should talk, and you've already been so brave for me, but sometimes I just--don't know what the right choice is. You know?
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[And that's all very good, and calms him down a lot himself, but. Then Fugo brushes his thumb across the mark he made, and it becomes abruptly very hard to focus. It's more sensitive still than he expected, and--surprising, yes, and it makes him squeak and bury his face against the crook of Fugo's neck and shoulder until he figures out how to breathe right.]
[Fugo smells good. The . . . smell of him, that alone is enough to help. Giorno squeezes his eyes shut and breathes in and tries to think, although it's hard. What he wants, really, is to kiss Fugo very hard on the mouth, but--he doesn't know. It's hard to know. He wants to kiss, but he wants to talk, too, and he wants to sink his teeth in and leave a mark where Fugo won't be able to hide it.]
Fugo, I--
[Wait, no. It would--help if he could see, right? If he can see Fugo's face, he won't be so worried. Because if Fugo says it's okay and doesn't mean it, he'll be able to tell. And if Fugo is unhappy, he'll be able to tell. And knowing that he'd know if something was wrong . . . will also let him know when it isn't. Right?]
[He lifts his head, still a little flushed but determined as he looks at Fugo, who is. Being very brave for him, again. Always.]
I think it's--hard to know, sometimes. If you're just flustered or--really unhappy, or uncomfortable. And it's hard to know because I'm not good at people, but I--want to be good for you, I do.
I like making you flustered. A lot. But I don't want to make you unhappy or uncomfortable. And it's easier not to ask, because sometimes--it seems like asking some things makes you uncomfortable, but I.
[He breathes in sharply. Out. Finding words is so hard, sometimes, at the worst, most inconvenient times.]
Do you--I. Will you tell me? If you want me to stop talking about it? This or anything. Now or ever. I love you, and I think we should talk, and you've already been so brave for me, but sometimes I just--don't know what the right choice is. You know?