digiorno | ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅲ

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ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅲ

buongiorno! sorry i missed you; i'll happily get back to you as soon as i'm done with whatever business i'm on. leave a message!

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[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.

[Several things happen in quick succession. It is a nearly Herculean task to process them all at once, especially when he's so thoroughly preoccupied with the act of helping Giorno with his buttons. A little more skin is exposed with each button. It's incredibly tempting to abandon the task halfway and kiss the hollow of Giorno's throat and down his breastbone, but-- no. If Giorno can manage this task without getting distracted, so can he.

Probably.]

[First of all, Giorno is looking at him as if he's a piece of fine artwork. A priceless masterpiece. His pupils are wide. There's a growing smile on his face, peeking around the corners of his mouth and hiding around the loose set of his eyebrows. He's so pleased with himself, and with...

Me, Fugo realizes, with a fluttery feeling rising up through his chest. Giorno is pleased with him. Which shouldn't catch him by surprise so often. But it does. And at least it's not a bad surprise. It's a good surprise, this reaffirmation that Giorno likes what he's doing and how he's looking at him. It makes him feel so loved and wanted.]

[Secondly, Giorno's shifts his hands to take a hold of him by his hips, leaving behind a lingering palm print of warmth on his chest. That by itself feels delightful: he loves the way Giorno's palms contour to his side, the movement of his fingers. But what makes his fingers stumble clumsily around Giorno's second-to-last button and the breath catch in his throat are the pads of Giorno's thumb brushing up then down then up again on his hips.

And finally, as if all of that weren't enough, Giorno tilts his neck forward. Fugo is dazzled by the play of soft lamplight and softer shadows along the high and low points of Giorno's features. He's just-- so pretty. Fugo bites his lower lip and stares, grappling mightily with the urge to abandon his task to kiss Giorno everywhere. Like he promised.]

Huh? [Oh. Giorno's talking to him. He's... explaining the button thing. Fugo shakes his head to try and clear out his dazed, starstruck thoughts. He's mostly successful. No, he can do this. There's only two buttons left. Just this one and then one more.] I-- ... didn't get it, before. But now, I...

[There. Finally, it's done. Fugo looks down at his work, pleased and shy, unable to look away. There is Giorno's chest. And his stomach. And his sides. And now when he reaches up, he can ease Giorno's shirt off of his shoulders.]

You're so beautiful. [It's a fact. A science fact, even. Excluding obviously biased sources, the world is surely unanimous in its opinion that Giorno Giovanna is extraordinarily lovely to look at. With a care that's nearly reverent, Fugo's hands begin a slow exploration of all this newly exposed skin; starting with Giorno's shoulders and working their way down, marveling at all the pieces that come together to make this whole person.] You-- can look at me. And-- you don't have to stop yourself. Please, don't stop.

[It's surprisingly easy even in the midst of everything that's happening for Giorno to pay attention to what makes Fugo happiest. He can't help but be pleased with himself--Fugo likes so much of the things that he does, he even likes just being looked at. But there are some things that Fugo likes especially, and it's easy to pay attention to those because the way he reacts is gorgeous, the way he can't take his eyes off of Giorno is addictive. Giorno wants to keep doing that thing at his hips that made his breathing strange for years. Maybe forever.]

[The only problem is Fugo's hands on him. Not a problem at all, not really, but--distracting. Giorno is told how beautiful he is by someone so pretty it makes him faint, and then Fugo's warm hands are all over him, and he just . . . cannot quite manage. His eyes fall shut as most of his attention focuses on the shivery heat of the places Fugo's hands have been and gone from; he leans into the touch, biting his lip and not quite managing to keep all of his low, wordless approval behind his teeth.]

That's--

[Thinking? Words? He has something he wants to say, but he knows the shape of it in feeling, not verbiage. To buy himself time, and because he wants to, he surges forward for a kiss, uncoordinated and needy. His nails dig into Fugo's hips at the same time as he bites down on his bottom lip, which is mean, but he isn't sorry.]

That's-- [Kissing hasn't at all helped him think, but that's okay. He frees one arm from its sleeve, then the other, tosses it away somewhere that doesn't matter, and pulls Fugo closer in his lap.] --a dangerous thing to say to someone who wants you this much, Fugetto.

Edited 2017-08-29 22:15 (UTC)

[This isn't the first time Fugo has looked at Giorno's chest--that would be a real hat trick to manage, given how much Giorno loves his plunging necklines and strangely cut jackets. But it's so different right now. Giorno wanted help with his buttons because he wanted Fugo-- Fugo specifically and no one else-- to look at him, to touch him, to kiss him. Everywhere.

The noises he's making, the quiet ones he's trying to keep locked up in his chest, they're so-- heady. Thrilling. And if Giorno had not surged forward to kiss him, Fugo would have been magnetically drawn to his throat again; to see what that delightful noise feels like under his mouth.

But that's fine, isn't it? Neither of them are in a rush. There's plenty of time for Giorno to kiss the breath out of him; to draw a strangled cry out of his throat because he feels good, so good, with his lip caught between Giorno's teeth and Giorno's fingertips pressing down so hard that he wouldn't be surprised to see a line of fingertip sized bruises tomorrow morning.]

I don't-- care. [His voice has gone rough around the edges. The words that come to him, that are lined up in his head and in his mouth, are just as dangerous. He brings his hands to Giorno's face, carefully tracing his cheeks, the perfect lines of his jaw, the bow of his mouth.] I want-- your hands on me. Everywhere. To kiss me, all-- [He shivers, briefly closing his eyes.] All over.

[He's not done yet. To demonstrate, he trails one hand down Giorno's bare shoulder, fingers tapping and playing as they take a winding path down to Giorno's wrist. It's not easy to get him to let go-- but it's worth it, because he can guide Giorno's hand to the small of his back and firmly press it there. He arches his back, hungry for as much skin on skin contact he can get.]

I want you more than anything, Giogio.

[This time there's no hiding the sound he makes, because there simply isn't time. Fugo is genuinely destroying him just by talking; I want you more than anything, and he makes a very embarrassing sound that's soft but nonetheless undeniably a moan. Fugo's so alive under his fingers, the line of his spine subtle and beautiful. Giorno has to look down and away, just for a second, because it's just--it's a lot.]

[He can still feel the phantom touch of Fugo's fingers down his arm. It makes him feel shivery all over.]

[I don't care. Fugo doesn't care. Fugo doesn't care. That makes him shiver once or twice, too.]

. . . Good.

[That's what he comes up with, finally, as his fingers twitch against Fugo's hip and the small of his back. He looks up through his lashes, somewhere between shyness and hungry focus. The hand at Fugo's hip shifts, just a little, subtle and careful. He's been given permission--he's been given blanket permission--but that doesn't mean he doesn't watch Fugo's expression carefully as he hooks his first and middle fingers through the closest belt loop, tugs Fugo closer, his thumb running lightly back and forth along the warmth of Fugo's stomach.]

[And then one of his favorite things. It's not a nice thing to do, but--Fugo also gave him permission to be terrible, didn't he. To be as wonderfully awful as he knows how, to make Fugo squirm. As he lets his fingers drift too lightly up and down Fugo's spine, he leans in close but doesn't close the distance. Not quite. He knows Fugo can feel his breath on his lips; he doesn't have to look to know that Fugo's staring at his mouth. Those are just facts.]

I'm right here. All yours.

[There really is only one word to describe the look on Fugo's face in reaction to this new touch: wanting. He pulls his lower lip between his teeth and his fingers, still curved around Giorno's wrist and cheek, twitch with each back and forth pass of Giorno's thumb. His eyes are closed and his eyebrows are drawn together; he's entirely focused on their shared warmth, the pressure of Giorno's hand on his back, and--

... and ...]

[Giorno isn't actually kissing him.]

[Hazily, Fugo opens his eyes. Giorno first pulled him close and then leaned in; they're touching in nearly every way possible. Except with a kiss. God. This is so unfair. He looks down at Giorno's lips and is momentarily distracted by their softness and his breath, which is warm and tickly. But it's not long before this distraction becomes its own sort of agony. Because Giorno isn't kissing him.]

Giorno--? [He doesn't mean to sound petulant. But the truth of the matter is that he is, at least a little. Especially when just talking makes their lips brush together. He presses a little kiss on the corner's of Giorno's mouth. A conceded point. A starter kiss, of sorts.] Giogio...

[When that doesn't work, he kisses that place again. And then along his jaw, fingers twitching and working by instinct to push through Giorno's hair; a series of light, feathery, and needy little kisses, because he can't stand that they aren't kissing properly.]

[At first Giorno doesn't realize what's got Fugo so upset because, frankly, he's more focused on looking than listening. He's absolutely enraptured by the look on Fugo's face, how focused and present and needy it is. It's actually the most gorgeous thing he's ever seen, to the point where he's got no idea how to cope with it. For a few long seconds he doesn't even breathe, just stares.]

[But then Fugo opens his eyes, and--oh. Oh. Fugo wants a kiss. Fugo wants a kiss very badly, it seems. The nice thing to do would be to give him one.]

[Hm.]

[Giorno lets out a soft, shuddering sigh as kisses press against his jaw. It feels good, but . . .]

I want to see you . . . You look so good when you're greedy, Fugo.

[So soft, so dreamy. He turns his head so that he and Fugo are face to face again, and he smiles--sweet and kind and then all of a sudden not in the least, toothy and wicked and full of promise.]

Did you want something? All you said was Giogio, but I want to give it to you, whatever it is . . . This?

[He leans in and kisses the corner of Fugo's mouth, a teasing repetition of Fugo's own gesture a moment ago. It's very light. It's terrible. Giorno is awful, and happily absorbed in tracing the dip at the small of Fugo's back with his fingertips. There's no place for his voice to go other than directly pressed against the corner of Fugo's mouth when he speaks again:]

Or did you mean--

[And Giorno surges up to kiss him. Properly, hungrily, full of greed and fondness and relief. Because he wanted a kiss, too. Very badly. Why wait? They spend too much time waiting as it is. He'd much rather do this, as pretty as Fugo is when he's sulking.]

[Giorno is being absolutely terrible right now; he knows what it is Fugo wants. That pretty smile, although Giorno can only keep it up for a brief moment to mask his wickedness, doesn't fool him for a second. He makes a frustrated sound that-- it's not a whimper. (It is a whimper.) He knows three languages. Why can't he work out a sentence in any of them? He wants to chastise Giorno for being pointedly obtuse, but that's running up against the desire to babble praise for Giorno's clever, wandering fingers.]

Yes, but-- [He makes an exasperated noise and shivers a little. So Giorno doesn't get the wrong idea, he rolls his hips back towards the touch.] You know where--

[-- oh, thank God, Giorno finally can't keep up with his own teasing. Fugo tilts his head so they can meet at the perfect angle; he eagerly responds, matching Giorno in affection and desire. Without realizing he's doing it, other than acting on a desire to simply hold Giorno as tight as he can, his arms rearrange themselves until both elbows are hooked around Giorno's shoulders. Oh, yes. That's nice. Giorno is very warm and fills his arms so perfectly. This is what he wanted.]

[Fugo can't seem to hold onto him tight enough. It makes him feel warm from his toes to the top of his head, so loved and so wanted and so needed in a way that he's only just starting to realize how much he loves--not emotionally, although that too, but physically. He's unfamiliar with someone needing him this close, but it fills a space in him that resonates with joy at being sated.]

[He loves the way Fugo can't touch him enough, really. It makes it safer to admit his own greed, which makes it easier for Fugo, and so they get more and more honest with each other. He likes it. It's a good loop.]

[He likes the way Fugo reacts to praise. He'd praise Fugo anyway, but knowing how he squirms in response makes it that much more satisfying to murmur scattered phrases between kisses: so soft, so sweet or I love you or please more, which is essentially a response to everything. More of all of this--that's what he wants.]

[And he likes the way Fugo reacts to touch. His mind keeps coming back and hooking on the eager roll of Fugo's hips, even as his thumb keeps up its slow back and forth. It wasn't a subtle movement. It's good; this is a touch that's okay, that Fugo likes, that he likes so much he felt safe saying so.]

[Giorno sucks in a breath, awed, and runs his palm over Fugo's stomach where his thumb was making its slow path just a moment ago. Fugo's skin is so warm, and it feels like his hand covers so much of his stomach, even as his fingertips still reach far enough to nearly graze Fugo's hipbone.]

Like that . . . ?

[It's soft and tentative, a very honest question accompanied by a kiss that lingers somewhere between teasing and needy. If the other thing was better, or he should stop entirely, he wants to know--wants to touch and kiss Fugo all over, to make him feel good, but so carefully, because Fugo is so precious to him it hurts sometimes.]

[Now that they're this close, there's no way he's going to let Giorno go. Nearby isn't good enough. It doesn't matter that it's really only a matter of time before his legs start to fall asleep. As long as they're touching as much as possible, as long as he's close enough that he doesn't have to reach to feel warm skin under his fingertips, he doesn't care.

All those little compliments leave him shivery and pleased. More, huh? He thinks he can do that. Fugo pushes forward so he can keep as close as possible, even as he relaxes his hold on Giorno. He needs his hands free to give Giorno more of what he wants. His right hand settles in the dip of Giorno's waist, to make sure he stays as close his possible; his left slips underneath Giorno's arm to reach his back, where his fingers draw a slow, sure line down his spine. There. That's Giorno's backbone, from the back of his neck to--

Well. Fugo meant to trace it all the way down to the small of his back, but the touch stutters a little past halfway down when Giorno's hand unfurls over his stomach. He sucks in a breath, sharp and tight in his chest. His fingers clench; distantly, the thought occurs to him that he might be holding on a little too tightly. And when he exhales, releasing a breath held so long his chest aches, it comes out as a low groan.]

Yes-- yes, that's-- [He pushes forward for another kiss, unwilling to let go or allow there to be any distance, however small, between them for too long.] Yes. That's good. [He smiles, pleased and dazed.] You're so good. So beautiful. I love you.

[Fugo's fingertips dig into him, ten pressure-points of need making themselves known against his bare skin. He's not prepared for how good that feels. It makes his breath stutter as he startles with the knowledge that Fugo let himself lose control enough to do that, the wave of need that comes with knowing that.]

[The sound Fugo makes a second later is just--it's not fair. Giorno keens quietly until it's smothered in Fugo's kiss. Then he has to kiss back, of course, just as fervent as Fugo. He lets out another small noise of protest when the kiss ends, leaning forward to rest his head against Fugo's shoulder.]

[His smile is going to kill me one day, he thinks dizzily. What he says, though, with breathless awe in his voice, is,] I love that. Hold me like that. You sound so nice. You're so soft . . .

[He doesn't need to look to let his hand slide up Fugo's stomach, his chest, to rest over his heart. Back down again a moment later, touch light, maybe a little too light, slowing as he passes back to the place that made Fugo jump like that. His fingers trace small, sloppy circles over Fugo's skin.]

[But he can't look up yet. He has to hide for a little while longer, leaning on Fugo's shoulder and just watching the movement of his fingers and the way Fugo reacts.]

[Be careful. You're stronger than you know. Don't hurt anyone.

Fugo has to live life carefully. Not just because of Purple Haze-- but because of the things he does when he loses his temper. He smashes plates. He hits people with dictionaries. He gets into fights that leave his knuckles red and raw. He breaks things. He hurts people.

It's not like he doesn't touch people. He does-- very carefully, because he knows better than most how easily hurt human bodies actually are. Fugo is especially careful around Giorno. He wants, so badly, to be someone who Giorno doesn't have to be afraid of. The one prayer he has left in him is a plea to a higher power he can't bring himself to believe in to keep him from hurting Giorno Giovanna.

Little by little, he has learned that it's okay for him to reach out. It's okay for him to hold on. It's okay to want to be held and it's okay to want to hold the person he loves. And tonight, he has learned that it's okay to-- let go of that worry a little, to hold on so tightly that when he struggles to find better purchase on Giorno's shoulders his nails scratch lightly across the warm skin of Giorno's back.

No, that's not right. It's not just okay. Giorno loves it when he holds on tight.]

[Not that Giorno is giving him much room to think. Not with the way he's touching his chest, hand briefly resting over his racing heart as if trying to calm it. Fugo shivers and twitches during the journey there and back; Giorno's hands are so light. It's as if they weigh nothing at all. But then, oh, the pressure is back on his stomach and he can't keep quiet or still. They're already so close, but he squirms to try and press forward in a clumsy attempt to match Giorno's rhythm.]

I have you-- [His promise is ragged. Haphazard, when he meant to be certain. His next attempt doesn't fare much better.] I have you, I won't let go. I want-- [His breath catches.] --you to feel as good as I do. Tell me? Please, Giogio. Please.

What? You want--

[Oh, no. Oh, he can feel his face burning. He can feel his ears an his neck and his shoulders burn like they're on fire. His fingers twitch helplessly against Fugo's stomach, and his breath is just--it's stupid, it's a stupid mess.]

[All of him is a mess. His breathing has lost all semblance of normal rhythm and his heart is beating so fast it almost hurts and his mouth won't work. He has so much he wants to say and no idea how to say it. What is he supposed to do with himself when Fugo asks him something like that? Please, Giogio, please, and he wants so badly to respond with something coherent, but all he can manage instead is to press his face against Fugo's neck and gasp.]

I don't know--I don't know how to say it, I just--Fugo.

[His fingers are digging in too hard now, he knows, but he feels so frantic, so betrayed by his own lack of eloquence. He wonders if he should do what Fugo did and then just does it, shifts the angle of his hand so his nails dig against Fugo's stomach just a little, because he can't think anymore.]

[Maybe that's for the best, though.]

I do feel good, [is what he manages eventually, in fits and starts.] Everything you do feels good, and I want you so much, and I want you to want me--I'm so greedy for you, Fugo, always, but I don't know the words. Please.

[He doesn't even know what he's asking for. Mindreading? Permission he's already gotten? More, probably. That's almost always what he wants.]

[It's difficult to make out what Giorno is saying. Part of Fugo's troubles are because Giorno refuses to leave the refuge of Fugo's shoulder; he rambles on and on in the hollow of Fugo's neck, which means Fugo has to focus intently to figure out exactly what words he's using. Except that's really impossible when faced with the distraction's of Giorno's warm breath on his skin and his hands. Oh, God, his hands. Fugo jolts in place and sucks in a sharp breath, desperate not to interrupt so he can listen to what Giorno has to say.

In the end, it takes him a few moments longer than usual to understand Giorno's dilemma. But when he eventually does, he zeroes in on two immediate solutions. Neither of them are easy for someone like him. But he can do it. He can meet Giorno halfway like this, because--]

It's okay. I love you. I-- know you. [There isn't much of Giorno he can reach to kiss right now. But Fugo does his best anyway, leaning down to press an affectionate one to the top of his head. God, he loves this boy.] If you can't say it, you'll-- you already showed me, right?

[When Fugo shifts his hand on Giorno's shoulder, this time it's with purpose; he curls his fingers so his nails, still short but so much less ragged after he started painting them, are angled against Giorno's skin. And then he very deliberately pulls it down, dragging his nails down Giorno's back.]

I want-- you, Giogio, all of you. Keep going, don't stop. This is good. What you're doing is-- it's very good, I like it. Be greedy. I love you.

[Something about that phrase--I know you--makes Giorno's ears burn even more fiercely. It's true, though, isn't it? Fugo knows him so well that even when he doesn't have words, Fugo can figure him out most of the time. And for all the times it's embarrassing there are a hundred when it's just good.]

[This is good. He needs this. He needs Fugo, who understands what to do somehow when all of that bluster falls away and leaves Giorno needy but unable to ask for anything in real human words. For the millionth time even just today, he wonders what he'd do without Fugo. Fall apart, probably.]

[Or maybe he'll do that anyway. He shudders helplessly and presses an ungraceful, open-mouthed kiss against Fugo's throat at the purposeful positioning of nails at his shoulder. I know you. You already showed me. The realization shoots down his spine, how much Fugo loves him and takes care of him, how he'll be realizing that over and over again until the day he dies--and he manages two more quick, begging kisses before he doesn't have to beg anymore.]

[He doesn't know how Fugo manages to be too much and not enough at the same time all the time. He doesn't know how to put words to this other than it feels good, not sharp enough to be pain but a manifestation of need so insistent that it's impossible to pay attention to anything else. It makes him feel like he's losing control of his hands, and he is a bit; as he arches into the touch with a wordless, hungry whine, his fingers twitch against Fugo's stomach, scratching and then petting and then scratching again. By the time they settle--one running restlessly along Fugo's left hip, one gripping his right thigh tight enough to bruise at five points--he's gasped his breath back against Fugo's shoulder.]

[And bitten down.]

[In fairness: he does let go quick. He didn't mean to, and he certainly didn't mean to bite that hard. But then he does it again, gentler but slower and more pointed, because it feels right and--Fugo did say to be greedy.]

[Body, heart, and soul. That's what he has pledged to Giorno: all of him, every last scrap that he has to give. He needs Giorno, who reached so far to take his hand when everyone else had given up on him as a lost cause. Fugo has always been brittle, rather than strong. Sharp--but with enough pressure in the right spot, he can't stand let alone move forward under his own power. He needs Giorno, who shines with promise, to remind him that there's a future worth fighting for.

But more than that. Right here, right now--]

[He wants more of Giorno's mouth on his throat, so he cranes his neck back to give him better access. He wants to hear that sound again, so he clumsily tries to repeat the motion that caused it; he's half successful, but this time his nails pull an uneven diagonal across Giorno's shoulders. He wants to encourage Giorno to keep going, that he loves the contrast between sharp touches and soft ones, but he's out of breath so he rolls his hips towards the touch again because that seemed to work last time. And he pulls in air, filling his lungs up so much that his chest runs up against the weight of Giorno leaning on him.

Which is when Giorno holds him in place, hands sure and tight. Just before he bites him, hard enough that the pain briefly makes his eyes water; rather than using his breath to praise Giorno and form haphazard sentences to express how much he wants all of this, how he loves being something Giorno wants, it mostly escapes his chest again in a ragged, wanting cry. In the end, the only sensible words are these:]

Giogio-- oh, Giogio, yes, please-- [And now that he's not trying to hold himself back--(because Giorno wants him to want him and he wants Giorno to know how much he wants him)--he's the one making soft, needy noises. Yes. Keep going. Giorno worries about being greedy but it's okay, it's fine, because Fugo is greedy for the same exact thing; is glad to give Giorno everything he wants.]

[He's all prepared to apologize. To apologize and stop and pull away and be less. If nothing else, he's learned he can be too much; he's learned how to own that. He doesn't want to hurt Fugo, even--especially--if it comes from a place of love. But--]

[But Fugo likes it. Fugo likes it so much he loses his words, falls into a place of sound and want and movement and nothing else and drags Giorno with him. Even when the words come back, there aren't many: his name and yes and please, simple and straightforward and needy. And miraculous.]

[Fugo wants him. Fugo wants this. Fugo wants him, and this, so much that he isn't afraid to let go of the tightly-wound self-control that rules him. It's trust and love and desire all wrapped up into one greedy, beautiful thing; it makes Giorno shudder, his breath skipping across the bruise forming on Fugo's shoulder.]

Fugo, [he says, breathlessly fierce, and then he bites down again on Fugo's shoulder. Because Fugo wants him to. Presses a messy kiss to the hollow of Fugo's throat, because he wants to. Teeth grazing the underside of Fugo's jaw, because they both like that, and by now both of his hands have made it to the outside of Fugo's thighs, fingers gripping tight to hold him close. To feel him best.]

[He sighs into Fugo's ear and bites down again, quick but gentle, just under it. His hands rub up and down Fugo's thighs, curious and greedy.]

Fugo. Fugo, I love your legs, do you know that? So pretty.

[Another sigh, high and helpless with delight; he nips at Fugo's earlobe, draws it between his teeth, lets go, sighs again. His left hand lands on Fugo's stomach again. Some part of him is so focused, always focused, on making sure that Fugo asking for what he wants means getting it. He lets his fingers drift lightly back and forth, before his right hand clamps down on Fugo's thigh again to draw him close and his nails graze over his stomach. Sigh, sigh.]

Here, too. So pretty. Want you always. [Forever, but also all the time. Versatile.] Don't stop. Please?

[Giorno is ... so toothy. Here is a kiss, unplanned and wet on his neck, to soothe him after a sharp pain of another bite. Fugo can't see his own neck and shoulders, but knows there has to be a growing pattern of delicate little bruises left behind by Giorno's pretty teeth there. Fugo whimpers when Giorno's teeth skate underneath his jaw, then again, a little louder, in the moment between Giorno's sigh and when his teeth press into the sensitive skin beneath his ear.]

P ... page-- three. [The knowledge floats up to him from the recesses of memory. I love your legs, they're so long and thin. I love the way you fold up in big chairs. So sharp! So angled! Giorno's stupid letter, his ridiculously long and hideously embarrassing list of things he loves about Fugo, took him ages to read. He couldn't get more than a few items down a page before he would have to fold it up and set it away.] You said that you couldn't wait for summer, because--

[Fugo shivers. For a lot of reasons, honestly. The biggest being the back and forth motion of Giorno's hands, pretty and clever, running up and down his thighs. It's such a steady motion. He could time music to the measure of Giorno's hands, if he weren't very done with piano for the day.]

You want to look at them. And-- my stomach. You missed it. You said so, I remember. [Fugo licks his lips. Giorno doesn't want him to stop-- so he keeps his hands moving. His fingers twitch and relax their grip on Giorno's hip, instead starting to massage slow circles on his side. The hand on his back drifts towards to the nape of his neck; rather than scratching, he chooses to brush the back of his nails down Giorno's spine.] I like ... I love your hands. They're gorgeous. Elegant. And so soft. You have such clever fingers, Giogio, I adore them. They feel so good. I love it when you touch me-- hold me. We're so close.

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