digiorno | ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅲ

. . . Ah?

[There's a question. God, he knows there is, he heard the way Fugo's voice went up at the end of his sentence. But it's so hard to focus. All he can think of is how nice Fugo's voice sounds, the ebb-and-flow roll of syllables that make up his name in Fugo's voice; how nice it feels, those words pressed against his skin. Fugo says he smells nice. Fugo's absolutely destroying him.]

[There's a question. He almost doesn't care. His breath stutters, eyes half-opening to look beyond Fugo at . . . the piano. The stage curtains. He blinks.]

I--

[Can't make decisions while you're doing that. But if he says that, maybe Fugo will stop.]

Don't want you to stop.

[There. That's . . . hm. He murmurs, listening to and letting himself feel Fugo's breathing, one of his favorite natural rhythms in the world. He listens to his own heartbeat, which doesn't know what to do with itself.]

But you're making me so-- If we stay here, I think I'll fall. [A conundrum. He sighs plaintively. He doesn't want to move, but he doesn't want to fall, but he hates the idea of being anywhere but wrapped up in Fugo as he is. This is terrible.]

I don't want you to fall.

[That's ... common sense. But it still feels weird to put into the air in this moment, which doesn't make common sense at all. Fugo lingers where he is, reluctant to leave the delightful curve of Giorno's neck, for a few moments longer. And then, with great regret, begins the journey of kissing back up to Giorno's jawline.]

It's not... really stopping. If we moved somewhere else. [... no, Fugo, that's pretty much the definition of stopping. Which he, very notably, hasn't yet. Rather than pulling away to try and convince Giorno (and himself) of the merits of relocating, he continues to ramble all of this nonsense right where he is.] It's more like-- pausing. I'll come back for my papers later, so we don't have to waste time picking them up. And you could hold onto me while we walked. I just can't carry you. Then I'd fall, probably, which is what we're trying to avoid.

No falling.

[All of his words come out so slow. He knows he should be trying to work on this--conversation they're trying to have, this problem they're trying to solve. But his eyes have fallen shut again with the gentle pressure of Fugo's words breathed against his jaw.]

[His grip eases. A little. For a moment. Then it tightens again, because no, he still might fall.]

You'll keep kissing me when we get there? It's good, I like it a lot. I like everything you're doing.

Yes. Of course. I want to kiss you ev-- [Fugo hesitates, in the middle of a last kiss-- as a promise that, in just a little bit, they can get back to this-- to Giorno's temple. Something's clicked in his head that... no. Maybe he shouldn't say "I want to kiss you everywhere," because if he does he will probably combust in place while walking back home.] Um. Yes, I'll keep kissing you. I want to keep doing that.

[That's a good instinct. They wouldn't get anywhere if Fugo said that out loud, probably; Giorno would start kissing him and refuse to stop, and he'd not only fall off the piano bench but off the stage.]

[Instead, the reassurance soothes him enough to at last loosen his grip. He pulls away, even--not far, but a bit, so that he can look Fugo over. Fugo, who is so beautiful, who's flushed and a little unfocused and who wants to keep kissing him . . .]

[And Giorno kisses him. Just once. It's a sweet kiss, but it's also--well. Giorno's gotten very good at putting all of the feelings he can't verbalize into his kisses in the last six months or so. This kiss is full of love, but also of the simmering warmth he would like to get back to as soon as possible, the reason he's so reluctant to let go.]

[But he can't let it be a long kiss, or they'll linger on the edge of leaving for ages. So after a moment he pulls away and sighs.]

Okay. Okay, let's go, then.

[He bites his lip and stands to go; his eyes catch on the burst of color that is the flower atop the piano, and--oh. He carefully plucks it up and tucks it behind his ear. He can't leave a present behind. They'll have to get the pudding later, though, because he'd absolutely drop it on the way back if he tried to bring it now.]

[Giorno is the most eloquent person Fugo knows. He paints vibrant pictures with his words and weaves patterns, some visible and others not, that guide whoever is listening to him as surely as if Giorno was gently tugging them forward by the hand. In the past six months, those same words have failed him again and again; he's sat flustered, tongue tied, overwhelmed by his own enormous emotions.

And so, the two of them together, have come up with a language that doesn't need words. It's expressed with kisses and little touches; warm smiles, tearful ones, smiles stretched wide with laughter; furtive glances and unbreakable eye contact. Fugo learns a little more of it every day. Of all the languages he knows, this is his favorite to practice.]

[Giorno's kiss means I love you. But at the same time, it's greedy--don't keep me waiting. Fugo's response, relayed through the twitch of his fingers and the way he bites his lip when they part, boils down to soon, soon, soon and there's no one I would rather be with than you.]

[It's with some reluctance that he stands, a heartbeat behind Giorno--he means to link their arms together without hesitation, but the way Giorno tucks the flower in his hair gives him pause. It's ... cute. Wait, more than that--

Giorno is leaving his pudding behind. Which is about as strange, Fugo thinks, as the fact that it honestly doesn't matter much in this moment to leave his sheet music and notes behind. Normally it wouldn't matter that there's no one to see or take note of his mess: leaving a bunch of paper strewn about would make him anxious. But Fugo knows that as soon as they walk out the door, he'll forget them in favor of the feeling of Giorno's hand in his and the promise of a kiss just a few moments in the future.]

Let's hurry. But carefully.

[So they don't trip, or something. That would be unbelievably stupid.]

[Giorno slides his hand into Fugo's and laces their fingers together. He's feeling . . . shy isn't the right word. Not exactly. But as he leads them down off the stage and out of the theater towards home, he tries to sort through what he's feeling exactly, what it means, where one feeling ends and the next begins.]

[He does this not because he needs to, but because he wants to. He likes the complexity of what he's feeling and doesn't want to dissect it completely or particularly scientifically. But he needs something to think about as they walk besides the phantom pressure of Fugo's lips against his throat, or wondering whether Fugo finds the thumb brushing the back of his hand soothing or distracting or something else.]

[There's a part of him that's worried about vanity--which is probably surprising. He liked it so much when Fugo said what he said (exceptionally cute, so lovely, carino carino carino), and maybe that's vain, maybe it's terrible, maybe . . . But Fugo liked it too. So it probably isn't terrible at all.]

[He squeezes Fugo's hand and glances at him out of the corner of his eye. He can't quite maintain eye contact, though. This is a sweet and soft silence, and he feels comfortable in it, but there's heat prickling his cheeks and the back of his neck, and he's a little worried that if he looks at Fugo for too long his heart will beat out of his chest.]

[For the record: it's all three. It's very for Fugo to think at all, much less clearly, when Giorno's thumb is brushing back and forth over his hand. It's a wonderfully soothing and terribly distracting gesture all on its own, but everything they just shared makes the feeling--brighter. More intense. It makes him feel warm all over, even though it's such a little thing.

Because even though home is just a few moments away, Giorno can't bear to spend those few moments not touching him; holding hands isn't enough for him. He's so greedy. But, when Giorno's greedy like this--

It makes Fugo feel like it's okay for him to be greedy, too. It's okay to want to touch and be touched by Giorno. It's okay for Fugo to take up Giorno's time and space in his life; they can leave behind everything else to spend a lazy while kissing in bed. It's okay for him to spend the night, it's okay for him to lean on Giorno's shoulder, it's okay for him to reach out and take his hand. It's okay for him to want more than he thinks he deserves to have. It's okay for him to just be with Giorno.]

[It's a good thing Giorno is leading the way. When he peeks over at Fugo, what he'll see isn't so different from what he saw at the theater: Fugo is warm and rosy all over, unfocused, with his hair disheveled from Giorno's fingers and his tie no longer sitting perfectly around his neck. He didn't think to fix those things. He's focused, as much as he can be, on just getting home so he doesn't have to think about anything or anyone else but Giorno.]

[Interminable as the walk home seems, it really doesn't take that long at all. Ruby City isn't big enough to make it a truly agonizing walk, just mildly annoying. Plus, Giorno has the luxury of sneaking glances at what he personally considers to be the prettiest thing in the city, so it's not too much of a hardship.]

[He'll have to tell Fugo sometime that he likes him like this. Messy and not particularly concerned with neatening up. It's hard to make words happen right now, though, and anyway he doesn't want to. He'll just look and appreciate, and words can come later, maybe.]

[It's the middle of the day, and no one's home when they get back--or at least no one is between them and the stairs, or the top of the stairs and Giorno's room. Giorno isn't rushing, exactly, but his impatience is more palpable by now in the way he squeezes Fugo's hand every few moments, as if to emphasize they've almost completed their arduous journey.]

[And then, of course, once the door is closed behind them, he doesn't waste any time in turning around and kissing Fugo. That impatience is still very much presence in this kiss, but it's quicker and sweeter--more an expression of relief than anything else.]

Ti amo, [he says, his hands coming up to fuss with Fugo's tie--well, not fuss. He's undoing it. He's putting it out of its misery. He likes undoing Fugo's tie anyway.]

[Thank God no one's home. He and Giorno aren't sneaking around; they've never been, even when they were quieter about all of this. Dating stuff. But Fugo is plainly relieved that there's no one around to look at them with a knowing smile as they very pointedly, very quickly, very obviously head upstairs and make a beeline for Giorno's bedroom. But the relief is honestly overwhelmed by a beat of excitement each time Giorno squeezes his hand.

Almost there. Nearly there. Just a few more steps.]

[He's not surprised at all by the way Giorno pushes forward to kiss him. That's why he didn't turn around to close the door; instead, he reached behind him to push it into place with the palm of his left hand. This leaves his right hand free to reach out and pull Giorno in by the waist to expedite the kiss he can see Giorno leaning in for. The kiss is bright, sweet, and altogether too quick. But Fugo's willing to let it slide, because Giorno's hands are currently occupied with unknotting his tie.]

I love you. [Fuck. Wait. He needs both of his hands, doesn't he? To shrug his jacket off. Fuck it, he'll just work on the left shoulder first and deal with the right in a moment. He doesn't want to let go of Giorno; since Giorno is busy with Fugo's tie, it's up to him to steer them to the bed.] Since you're there. Mind getting the buttons?

[There's a note of humor in his voice and the quirk of his smile--but it's a very serious question. Giorno never minds getting his buttons. Fugo knows that Giorno is particularly weak to the temptations of unbuttoning His Boyfriend's pajama shirts, which really aren't that different from the nicely pressed shirt he's currently wearing. It's not the sort of question Fugo would pose to Giorno if he were at all opposed to the idea of unbuttoning his shirt.]

[Oh. Giorno's expression brightens, and then he grins--bright, wide, and mischievous. He finishes undoing Fugo's tie, tugs it so both ends hang down evenly (as much as he'd rather throw it on the ground dramatically, Fugo is far too fussy to allow that), and pulls him forward by the ends for another kiss.]

[This one's different. Honestly the best way to describe this kiss, sweet as it still is, is flirty. It lingers as Giorno seems terribly reluctant to pull away entirely; his hands come up to frame Fugo's face, he allows himself the indulgence of letting his teeth lightly graze Fugo's lower lip, and then . . .]

[Sigh. And then he pulls away just a little, and smiles up at Fugo, and runs his hands down Fugo's jaw and neck and collar until his fingers snag on the top button of Fugo's shirt.]

Okay.

[He is very happy too, and busies himself with this task immediately. Unbuttoning someone else's buttons is one of his newer very favorite things. It's like opening a warm, cute present. His lip catches in his teeth as he works, delighted and focused and anticipating.]

[Giorno's face lights up, in a way that reminds Fugo of the way his bedroom with its east-facing windows in Buccellati's apartment would fill up with sunlight in the early morning. It's pretty dazzling. Which is why he ends up with his jacket only half shrugged off of his shoulders when Giorno neatly adjusts the ends of his ties and then pulls him forward for a Kiss.

Not just a kiss. A capital K-i-s-s. With just a little teeth and Giorno's palms cupping his cheeks. That's very dazzling. There's no recovery time, either; because then Giorno's hands trail down his jaw, feather-light, and brush along his neck til they reach their final destination of shirt. And buttons. The whole process leaves Fugo shivery with anticipation; the hand on Giorno's waist twitches, fingers curling to catch in the fabric of Giorno's shirt.]

Thanks. You're very... gracious. [He means to tease a little. But the delivery ends up a little too vague for that. Fugo smiles, soft and twitchy all at once, pleased by the results of his request--and by the smile on Giorno's face, especially the way he bites his lip because he really is that delighted to help Fugo with his buttons.] How can I ever repay you?

[Another question he knows the answer to. With a kiss, probably. That sounds like the sort of thing Giorno would charge for his unbuttoning services.]

[Giorno always takes his time with buttons. That's part of the fun, drawing out the anticipation of the action. So it takes longer than it might if he were truly hurrying as he undoes one button at a time, terribly focused on every brand-new inch of skin.]

[As a result, it takes a moment for him to register Fugo's voice, much less the question. His eyes flick up to meet Fugo's, and--ah. It's that look. Fugo seems to be getting more use of it lately, but he still really doesn't understand, Giorno's sure, the effect it has. That mischievous smugness. It makes his heart fall out of rhythm and his knees weak. It makes it nearly impossible to think of anything but kissing Fugo.]

[Honestly, that look alone would be repayment enough. But that's already been offered for free, so no. He'll come up with something else. A kiss. Or--]

[He bites his lip again, spreads his palm and all five fingers across Fugo's chest. He considers this for a moment, his skin against Fugo's. It looks good. Fugo is very warm. It makes him smile, a little hazy, as he leans in to very-nearly-but-not-quite press his lips to Fugo's. Almost.]

How would you most like to repay me?

Well, I'd like to kiss you. [Fugo admits this in a very matter-of-fact sort of way, because it is. That's what he's wanted to do this whole time: kiss Giorno without having to worry about either of them falling of a piano bench that's really too small for two people, or someone interrupting them, or anything getting in the way of more kissing. It's tremendously hard not to just-- close the tiny, millimeter wide gap between them. Talking seems awfully silly.] But I've already promised you that. Several times over, actually.

[Fugo shimmies his shoulders, finally managing to get the rest of his jacket off. He pulls his hand briefly away from Giorno's waist, just long enough to fold the jacket up and leave it hanging... somewhat precariously over the arm of a nearby chair. That sits where it does by the bed for this exact reason, because he and Giorno both know he really can't ignore clothes lying on the floor.]

Unless-- ...

[Fugo trails off. He's half thoughtful and half shy at this point, because he knows how he wants to follow that statement up. But he's not quite sure he has the guts to say it. He glances down at Giorno's hand through his lashes and then, very fussily, spends a moment fiddling with the buttons on his cuffs. By the time he has them unfastened he's worked up the courage to look at Giorno again; with great exactness he reaches to lightly rest the fingers of of one hand on the nape of Giorno's neck, tangling his fingers up in Giorno's loose hair. The other rests over Giorno's hand to just ... hold it there, for a little while, against his chest. God, does he love the feeling of Giorno's hands on him.]

I make the first one very special. [He bites his lip.] If that's not enough, tell me and--

[I'll figure something out is what the rest of that sentence was supposed to be but, no, he just can't. Not when Giorno is so close and Fugo wants to kiss him so badly. So he does, finally; presses forward with his whole body, intent and yearning and tremendously emotional. It was a good idea to come back home, it's fun to tease, but all of that took up so much time. And this is a much better use of those seconds, honestly.]

[Talking instead of kissing: a controversial debate. For Giorno's part, he likes these moments in between, the liminal spaces between "not" and "kissing". There's a power to it, the inevitability that they'll meet in the middle eventually as well as the way they circle each other like some kind of celestial improbability.]

[There's something special about this, specifically, this rare occasion when Fugo gathers his nerve and takes initiative--although it's getting gradually less and less rare. To Giorno, Fugo's self-consciousness has always been part of his charm and something of a challenge. Can he get Fugo to smile? To laugh? To relax? So when Fugo feels comfortable and happy enough to tease him, to flirt with him, to take the reins even for a moment--]

[Giorno doesn't know the word for that. Magnificent, maybe. Fascinating, definitely. In a way it's almost hypnotic, and it certainly makes it impossible for him to focus on anything else. What Fugo says isn't terrifically smooth, but it doesn't need to be; the sheer existence in the space between them of these words out of Fugo's mouth, clumsy as they may be, is enough to absolutely ruin Giorno in no time.]

[It's around unless that Giorno's gaze flickers down to Fugo's mouth and stays there. Oh, he tries to glance up once or twice to meet Fugo's eyes, but it never sticks. He wants so badly to kiss Fugo, but even more so to be kissed by Fugo, to have Fugo close the gap between them and make this kiss very special.]

[God. Truthfully Giorno's expression has already crumpled in overwhelmed pleasure long before Fugo does close that gap. If the words weren't enough, the fingers in his hair would be, or the hand covering his, or the look on Fugo's face.]

[And then the tension breaks, and Fugo kisses him, and he--melts. Immediately, with no time or desire for resistance, he meets Fugo halfway with a desperate kiss and hands that have no option but to cling. If he doesn't hang on tight, he'll fall. He's breathless because Fugo's stolen it, but he doesn't mind; he likes the feeling of his heart beating so hard in his chest he can hear it in his ears. Or is that Fugo's? Is there enough of a difference that it matters?]

[Fugo is so warm, pressed so close, kissing him perfectly, and it would be nice to have the breath or thought to say how this is so much better than enough it exists in a different universe, but words don't exist right now. Giorno kisses back instead, breathless and hungry and not at all teasing now, just--yes. Yearning is the word. His hands drift up, over Fugo's chest to his shoulders; he has enough presence of mind to realize he can push Fugo's shirt off his shoulders, which he does, but none whatsoever to follow up on that action, so he doesn't bother. Just runs his hands along Fugo's shoulders and kisses him and--he couldn't possibly be happier or think of anything more special.]

[Fugo shivers. Not because he's cold at all. Oh, no. Giorno's hands, so gentle and feather light, have drawn out such warmth from him. He feels good from head to toe-- but especially in the places where they're touching and the tingling trail left behind on the bare skin of his shoulders. Fugo barely notices the way his shirt ends up caught in the crooks of his elbows; he's much more focused on holding Giorno close to him, still with one hand at the nape of his neck and the other now pressed to the small of his back. And their kiss. This perfect, special, extraordinary kiss that neither of them really have the breath to continue, or the heart to stop.]

Giogio-- [Words are and aren't important right now. His are caught up in his throat and between one kiss and the next--(or is it just one kiss, continued on and on?)--sometimes sensible, often losing their specific meaning or getting muddled together. Still, he tries. It's important to say it. To express this feeling in as many ways as he can, even if the end result is clumsy.] Love you. You're so-- I like that. That's good. You're lovely.

[It's embarrassing, how obviously he reacts to praise. It's even embarrassing now, in this moment, when Giorno is usually more than capable of acting and only getting embarrassed later. But here and now, with Fugo being so sweet to him and so honest about what he likes, Giorno lets out a pleased sound that's too loud for the barely-there space between them and feels his cheeks prickle with heat.]

Fugo--

[Probably he was going to follow that up with something. But it's much more important--imperative, even--to show Fugo that saying what he likes will get him more of it, and on a much more basic level to make Fugo happy. Really, Giorno can't think of anything else in this moment. So he brushes his hands across Fugo's shoulders, fingertips skating along his collarbone and up his neck along his jaw, then back to his shoulders again. It occurs to him that if Fugo likes this, maybe he'd like being kissed on the shoulder as well, but the thought alone is so overwhelming that Giorno surges forward to close the gap between them again.]

[This kiss is toothy. More so than before; he bites down on Fugo's lower lip and curls one of his hands around the nape of Fugo's neck, more or less missing in an effort to twine his fingers in strands of loose hair. What happens instead is a light graze of his nails against Fugo's scalp. He honestly doesn't care. He just wants to kiss Fugo and hopefully not fall down in the process.]

[Well, no. He wants to cling. He wants to wrap his arms and legs around Fugo and pretend gravity doesn't exist. Clumsily, he tries to toe one of his shoes off and gets halfway there, only stumbling a little.]

Fugo, [he manages, almost steady, and kisses the side of Fugo's mouth.] 'M gonna fall, Fugo.

[Silence is a virtue. Of all the rules his grandfather laid down in his house, it's this one that Fugo has had the most trouble in giving up. He doesn't like putting himself out there-- words a risk that, once they've put in the air, can't be taken back. It's easier and safer to say nothing. But, with Giorno--

With Giorno, Fugo feels safe enough to let his ragged breathing catch and stutter; to not even try hold back any of his pleased murmurs. They start off as sort-of words, babbling praise and affection and affirmation that what Giorno is doing is very good. He briefly loses them entirely when Giorno kisses him, particularly when his lip is caught between Giorno's teeth and there's a brush of nails at his scalp. Then it's just a sound called up from the hollow of his throat, an echo from the delightful, rewarding one Giorno made just a moment ago.

They don't come back immediately. He's left wobbly and dazed from-- everything, honestly. But there's a problem here. Giorno... is worried that he's going to fall.]

Mmm. No, I've-- [The hand on Giorno's nape drifts down so Fugo can wrap his arm around Girono's shoulder, hold him close, and support him that way.] Got you. See? [He kisses Giorno's temple. Mostly because it's there and ought to be kissed. And also because he needs to steady himself.] Just... a few steps further. We can make it. Your hair smells nice.

[But they have to move now. His knees are already so weak. Thankfully, the bed is very close; Fugo guides the two of them with one cautious step. And then he gets distracted by how soft Giorno is in his arms, so he can't help but kiss him and stumble closer to the bed. He comes back for air on the third step, just as Giorno's legs hit the side of his bed.]

[It's so difficult to think of anything but Fugo right now. The sounds he's making, the way he feels, how warm he is, his smell--those sounds. The ones in the back of his throat, the pleased and desperate ones; the barely-sensible babbling, the constant praise. It makes Giorno feel like his feet aren't touching the ground anymore.]

[He likes talking like this, the two of them with their lips brushing as they speak, totally inefficient and it doesn't even matter. He likes the way Fugo's breath tickles him, how warm it is, and how secret, the intimate barely-there space between kisses. He doesn't want to talk in any other way ever again.]

[Your hair smells nice makes him laugh, although it doesn't really sound like a laugh, hazy and breathless as it is.]

Your you smells nice-- [is all he manages, and then they're stumbling backwards, and Fugo's kissing him again. And there's something against the back of his legs. The bed. Oh, thank god. He sighs, relieved, and lets his nails graze Fugo's skin again in an attempt to distract from the ungraceful way he gets his shoes off, finally.]

[And then that's it. His shoes are off, this kiss is ending to make way for another, the bed is behind him. He is no longer beholden to uprightness. Finally, after the longest walk in human history, he allows himself to sit down on the edge of the bed, then to scoot backwards until he's leaned back properly against the pillows. This series of events means that he's got to let go of Fugo for a moment, but hopefully it won't be too long. With one hand he tugs his hair tie out, letting his ponytail down; with the other, he reaches out to Fugo.]

Made it. C'mere. Baciami.

[Giorno pulls off his distraction perfectly because Fugo barely notices the shoes, save as a reminder that he should also probably get rid of his, because of the delicate prickle of fingernails on the back of his neck. There's a brief but nonetheless terrible moment when Giorno has to let go of him; well, as long as they can't be close for a while he might as well ditch his shirt. It's just getting in the way.

Fugo briefly turns away from Giorno and shrugs his button-down the rest of the way off of his arms; he does manage to hang it off of the back of the chair, although it's not as even as it usually would be. He places one hand on the face of the bed to balance so he can pull his shoes off, then toe them out of the way underneath the chair. And then, finally, he turns back to Giorno, who--]

[God. He looks amazing, with all his curls tumbling down over his shoulder and one hand outstretched. Who wouldn't want to kiss him?]

You'd like another kiss, huh.

[Fugo smiles, warm and wide when he pushes himself up to join Giorno on the bed. He reaches out to gently take Giorno's hand with both of his, holding it close to his chest, and settles into Giorno's lap. Because there really is no better place for him to be.]

I can help with that. [He lifts Giorno's hand up to his mouth.] Where would you like it? Here? [He brushes a kiss to Giorno's knuckles.] Or... here? [The next kiss is left on Giorno's palm, soft and lingering.] Or maybe... [And then a third, to the inside of his wrist.] Tell me where.

[It's possible that under different circumstances Giorno might have had something else to say, some clever, teasing follow-up. But he doesn't. He couldn't. His fingers twitch slightly in the air between them as he watches Fugo turn from him, shrug his shirt the rest of the way off, and--]

[Maybe there is a time or a circumstance where Giorno will pay close attention to the precious fussiness of that gesture. He can't now. Instead his eyes stay trained on the curve and jut of Fugo's shoulders and the line of his arms as they're slowly revealed, the sharp angle of his shoulderblades. Giorno wants to kiss along that angle, to map the shape of it with his mouth and bite at the place where those two sharp shapes nearly meet just below the nape of his neck. He loves the way Fugo's back looks when he moves. Does Fugo know? Should he tell him?]

[Maybe it'll be obvious. It feels obvious; when Fugo turns to look at him again, Giorno feels as though he's never been more transparent in his life. He has exactly enough wherewithal to remove the flower from his hair and place it on the nightstand, because it's from Fugo so it's important, but he doesn't take his eyes off of Fugo for a second because it would be stupid to look away from someone so fucking beautiful.]

[Fugo settles in his lap, and his breath stutters. Fugo takes his hand, and as the other curls possessively at Fugo's hip he thinks Fugo will kiss him, and that does happen, but--differently. More so. There's something both unbearable and perfect about the way Fugo is teasing him right now. Again, Giorno can't look away. Fugo kisses his knuckles, and his fingers twitch. His palm, and he breathes out sharply. His wrist, and where he was staring before, unable to look away from the places Fugo's lips brushed his skin, he has to close his eyes just for one second, because otherwise he thinks he might fall apart.]

[Can Fugo feel the wild speed of his pulse from where he's kissing? Giorno feels as though he has to. It feels as though the walls are shaking with it.]

[He opens his eyes to the soft vibration of a question against his skin. Fugo is looking at him. He can't breathe. How is he supposed to answer a question after all of this--especially one like that, an impossible choice. Tell me where, like there's just one place. He can't possibly.]

[He opens his mouth to speak, and nothing happens, so he closes it again. Looks at Fugo's mouth for a few breathless moments, hypnotized.]

Everywhere.

[He genuinely doesn't realize he's said it. It's almost as soft as a thought anyway. He just . . . Nothing else would be honest, would it? Everywhere. That's all.]

[Fugo hates the feeling of being stared at; in Giorno's words, when someone is trying to figure him out with unkind eyes. Why does it matter so much to complete strangers that his hair is white, even though he's so young? On good days, it's frustrating. On bad days, it's horrible. And he will never escape it--not unless he changes himself to better fit the mold of a "normal" Italian young man.

The feeling of Giorno's eyes on him is so different from that. Oh, there's a weight to Giorno's staring. It hangs heavy in the air between them. Knowing that Giorno can't take his eyes off of him, is-- to be honest, there's nothing like it in the world. He feels light. He feels warm. His fingertips tingle and... itch, almost, because when Giorno looks at him with such dark, hungry eyes, being out of his reach feels almost unbearable.]

[It's such a relief to be able to reach out and grasp Giorno's hand. He feels so safe held in place by Giorno's hand, possessive and tight on the bare skin of his hip, because it means that Giorno has no intention of letting him go now that they've managed to make it to the safety and privacy of his bedroom. It's just-- good. All of it's so good.]

Everywhere? [God. That's all it takes: one word, the feeling of Giorno's heartbeat racing underneath his mouth, the sound of Giorno's breath hitching and catching. Giorno is too gorgeous to look at, too beautiful to look away from. And he wants to be kissed everywhere.] Yeah. That's-- [He smiles, shy and twitchy, and leans into Giorno's hand. He means just to kiss his palm again, in this silly moment where he can't find his words--and he does, eventually and with a tremendous amount of affection, but first he chuckles breathlessly. Not at Giorno, but himself.] I've wanted to do that this whole time.

[And the best place to start is-- well, why wouldn't it be the mouth? Fugo leans forward and presses as close as he possibly can, giving Giorno very little chance to recover or catch his breath before he kisses him again. He's so hungry for this. For Giorno's touch, to kiss him, to be so close that it's impossible to tell whose heart is racing and who is gasping for breath. His hands instinctively reach for Giorno's sides, settling around his hips; Fugo hesitates only a little before slipping one hand beneath the hem of Giorno's shirt, pushing it up to expose a strip of skin.]

Do-- [He barely pulls away to put words to his question; voice low and quiet and a little ragged.] Do you want to...?

[There it is again, that prickling feeling of heat as a flush crawls across his cheeks. Oh, he didn't--mean to say that. It's embarrassing, even though it's honest and, in fact, the only truly honest answer he could have given.]

[At least he doesn't really have time to worry about it. There's so little time between Fugo's repetition of that single, vital word, everywhere, and the moment when he smiles, yeah, confirmation of the fact that it wasn't a wrong thing to say, it was okay. It was right. It was good, even, because--Fugo wants that, too.]

[He doesn't know how to process that. Hope and confirmation are such unbelievably different things they're not even on the same plane. And he's got no time to think about it before Fugo's leaning in and kissing the breath out of him. It's--a good kiss. It's a really good kiss. He can't help but gasp against Fugo's lips, kissing him back fiercely; his fingers dig tighter into Fugo's hip as his other hand slides up Fugo's back, clinging to the warmth of his shoulder.]

[And then--]

[And then Fugo's hand is under his shirt, fingers slipping across his stomach, and he can't help it and he doesn't want to, either, doesn't try to stop the way he twists and arches into it. Fugo's hands are so warm, they feel so good, and it's wonderful every time Fugo decides to just reach for what he wants.]

Yes, [Giorno says fiercely, both a reaction and an answer to the question; he pulls Fugo in closer and kisses him with all the feeling he hasn't yet figured out how to put into words. His fingers flex, nails digging in just a little; he's constantly aware of the touch against his stomach, which leaves him murmuring a scattering of soft, enthusiastic affirmatives against Fugo's lips.]

[But. This won't work, given the givens. They have to stop kissing, if only briefly. So--eventually, Giorno does let Fugo breathe. He doesn't let him go far, though, because he has a question to ask, too. As it happens. It's hard to look at Fugo's eyes instead of his mouth, but Giorno glances up through his lashes and manages it. Barely.]

Mm. Mind getting the buttons?

[Yes, Giorno says, with his mouth and his whole body, again and again. He doesn't need to say it with words for Fugo to understand. Giorno kisses an adamant yes into him, gasps then murmurs it onto his mouth. There's no doubt at all that, yes, Giorno likes this and, yes, he wants to continue. Fugo feels yes in each of Giorno's nails as they dig into the skin of his help; it's painted in a broad stroke across his back, a gesture that gently tugs a wordless affirmation from the back of Fugo's throat.

There's simply no room to be embarrassed about any of this. Not when they both want this so much. He stretches his fingers out to their widest possible span, sliding his palm up along the flat of Giorno's stomach to the rhythm of his ragged breath. His skin is so soft and warm; he wants to touch more of it, all of it, as much as he can reach without moving and interrupting this amazing kiss.]

[So he's a little puzzled when Giorno is the one to pull back first. Even while he's catching his breath, Fugo shoots him a puzzled look. Why? Neither of them want to stop, so--

And then it becomes obvious. His eyes go wide and then he presses his lips together, a gesture that feels strange given how sensitive his mouth feels after a kiss like that. Giorno would like him to help with his buttons. Oh. That's. Fugo finds that he likes this prospect, even though he normally doesn't have strong feelings about Giorno's buttons.]

Okay. [Fugo pulls his hand out from under Giorno's shirt, fingers trailing over his skin. He can't quite hold Giorno's gaze; instead, he shyly looks down at the task at hand. And then, finally, after smoothing out a few wrinkles on Giorno's chest, starts to carefully unfasten his buttons. Oh-- there's Girono's collarbone. It's so lovely, just like the rest of him.]

[It should get old, thinking about how beautiful Fugo is. It should, logically, like listening to a good song on repeat for too long. Except it never does. Giorno could look at Fugo every hour of every day and never, ever get sick of absorbing his beauty, because it's so . . .]

[His lips curl up a little at the corners, a soft and slightly smug smile at the look on Fugo's face. The look on Fugo's face because he's looking at Giorno. Reflective, that's what it is. Fugo is beautiful in the way that he reacts to Giorno as well as the way he very simply is; the two of them together are beautiful. He thinks about his hand on Fugo's chest, lets his gaze fall down to Fugo's fingers carefully working his buttons loose.]

[Then he looks up again. How to describe this look? Does it matter? The focus in Fugo's eyes is unbelievable--the awe. They're both so familiar. Giorno shivers a bit, smiles wider, showing some teeth this time.]

That's how I feel, too.

[He lets his hands fall to Fugo's hips, to rest there with twitching, restless fingers. After a moment's stillness, his thumbs move, sweeping slowly up and down along the jut of Fugo's hipbones. Pretty, Giorno thinks, and tips his chin up a bit to show the line of his throat down to his collarbone.]

That's why I like playing with your buttons so much. I like to see a little bit of you at a time. I like looking at you so much, Fugo--sometimes I just can't stop myself from touching, too.

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