digiorno | ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅲ

[This is so. Much. He's all buzzy, although in a good way this time. This is good planning. It's good. Fugo keeps practicing saying it--you're my boyfriend--and he keeps going redder. Having a boyfriend is so distracting.]

Ah, [Giorno says, and:] Oh. [His arms go tighter around Fugo's waist. Mine, mine, mine.] Yes. You're . . . mine. My Fugo. My boyfriend. Mine.

[Nice . . . nice. He closes his eyes and just thinks about it for a moment: all of this that's happening. All these good things.]

Okay. [He sighs, delighted, and opens his eyes. He's all rosy, but he's pretty resigned to that.] I want . . . if it's okay--to tell Bruno with you? Because I avoided him a lot last time. Um, after you talked to him. Until he talked to me. So I want to be better, this time.

Ah. For this. For you. I want to be--my best! [He gives a bright, embarrassed, rosy smile.] Do you think that would be okay?

[Fugo doesn't say anything back at first. He knows he should. What they're talking about, being open and honest with each other and their loved ones, is very important. But he's just. Caught up a little, all over again, in the curve of his eyelashes brushing against his cheeks. The spray of dusty freckles on his nose. And his smile, bright and shy and a dozen over words.]

I wish, [Fugo declares and blinks, while he tries to get his thoughts back together,] we were done talking already. You're very distracting.

[He nods to himself, mentally establishing this fact: Giorno's really cute. He wants to say it, but doesn't, because if he does they'll both be distracted.]

You're correct. [He wants to espond to those arms tightening around his waist with a kiss. But he can hold on for a little while longer, probably.] If that's what you want, I'd like you to be there. Not just because of that, but. I think I'd feel better with you there. It would make the conversation less intimidating if we talked to him together.

[A smile stretches across his face.] Your best is pretty dazzling. Dangerously dazzling. But I think Buccellati can handle it. He's pretty tough.

[Here's the thing: saying you're very distracting isn't that different from saying you're very cute. Even if Giorno didn't know that, it's hard to mistake the look on Fugo's face for anything but exactly what it is.]

[Incredibly quickly, his eyes go incredibly wide.]

Fugo! Don't say that!

[It comes out in a soft(ish) wail, so pitiful, why is this his life--]

Don't say that, I know what that means and now I can't stop thinking about it! Not fair . . .

[He screws up his face so he doesn't have to look for a second. He won't finish saying what he needs to say if he looks at Fugo, who is being handsome and charming like a jerk.]

Just--let's just make a list. Of who we want to tell. And who we want to tell together or separately. Let's make a list later. Okay? Can we be done now?

[he is Dying.]

Edited 2016-12-30 03:03 (UTC)

[Fugo has tried his best all evening. This whole conversation was absolutely terrifying and honestly more than a little tiring. But it's been worth it. Where they are, right now, is incredibly foolish. But he likes it. He's very happy, even if he's having a hard time keeping himself from laughing.]

Giogio. Don't lie to me. [This is said very seriously. Both of his eyebrows are raised, skeptically.] You were already thinking about it. You've been distracted ever since you kissed me. But. [One of the many things Giorno is right about: Fugo can't stay annoyed, even play-annoyed, with him for long. Already, he's smiling instead of frowning.] I suppose, since we're already both so distracted, we can make a list at a later time. But you need to hold on for a minute.

[Fugo twists and reaches behind and briskly pulls Giorno's arms away from his waist. Freed from the embrace, he takes advantage of the space and wiggle room to rearrange himself in a way that extended kissing won't end with a crick in his neck: in the end he's facing Giorno, one knee on either side of of his hips. Just as briskly as he pulled Giorno's hands away, he replaces them on his waist.]

There. That's better. [He smiles, entirely pleased with himself, and settles his arms in a circle around Giorno's shoulders.] Let's be done. You can kiss me now, if you'd like. And I'll think about letting you bite my neck. You've already left a mark on me though, so you're going to have to present a very compelling argument if you want to make another.

[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.]

[Like this, it's an easy thing for him to reach up and run his hands through Giorno's curls; he loves the texture of it brushing against his palms, the feeling of tangling his fingers through all that gold.]

I won't. [Just a moment ago, he was teasing. But it's obvious that his moment of rearranging took too long; to apologize, Fugo leans in to brush kisses against all the places on Giorno's face he's wanted to kiss. His freckles, his cheeks, the corners of his eyes.] Ti amo. Hold me. Don't let go of me.

[He's tired of teasing and he's tired of words. They're good for so many things, but they're awful and clumsy for trying to describe the enormous feeling he shares with Giorno. There's hardly any space between them, but that's good. They haven't even started kissing yet, really, and he already likes the way Giorno's torso and shoulders have curled forward to meet him. He'll say it later, maybe: I want you to kiss me and I didn't want you to stop, before. He'll curl up next to Giorno's side and, before the shyness creeps back on him, and they can whisper together about leaving marks.

(He's so afraid of hurting Giorno. Of holding too tightly, saying something wrong, pressing too close. But Giorno, he... wants Fugo to leave a mark. A dark mark left behind by his mouth, maybe in a place he will have to hide; or maybe in a place no one else but them can see.)

But that's for later. For now, he just wants to feel Giorno's mouth on his. So instead of saying any of that, he leans in and kisses Giorno with an intensity that leaves no room for doubt. He wants, very much, to be kissed and that he's accepted Giorno's argument and he's through with talking.]

[He doesn't have time to say it back. Not I love you, not ti amo, not aishiteru: none of those three very different but equally true things have the chance to come out of his mouth before Fugo is kissing him like it's as important as breathing.]

[That's fine, though. He doesn't mind. In so many ways, this is so much easier than just saying it. Words are hard, words are imprecise, words are too small to contain the way he loves and needs Fugo. If he were talking, he'd be babbling, run-on sentences with half-nonsensical praise of the slope of his neck and the stubborn strength of his heart, how the universe has reshaped itself around them in the stupidest of possible ways just so that they can be together.]

[He doesn't have to talk. He doesn't try. The sound that slips out of him when Fugo kisses him like that is about as far from words as he's ever gotten; it's pure relief, enormous and impossible gratitude for Fugo existing and being here and kissing him. His hands bunch in the back of Fugo's shirt, one at the small of his back and the other snaking up to pull him close by the shoulder. There's so much of Fugo he wants to hold onto, and anyway, Fugo saidoh if it weren't muffled by kisses. It's okay to love Fugo this much, and to want to be his. It's okay--nothing bad is going to happen. That thought makes Giorno want to laugh and cry and fall back on the bed and relearn how to breathe. His fingers dig into Fugo's shoulder as he kisses back fiercely, instead, because really: he was already halfway there.]

[Giorno has a hold on him and he's never letting go. And that's comforting to Fugo, who has always been hungry for a place of his own where he doesn't always have to be strong; a place where he can curl up and be weak, for a little while, let go of all the things he holds so tightly inside his chest. He can be the same thing for Giorno: a shoulder to lean on, a shelter for his worries, a guidepost in the dark. Closer, closer, Giorno's hands say, pulling and pushing and holding him tight. They're so close now that when they pull apart, they share the same ragged breath.]

My Giogio, [Fugo murmurs, shifting to mark the beginning of a trail of kisses at the corner of Giorno's mouth and winds along his jaw. He runs his fingers through Giorno's hair; untangles one, so he can carefully and precisely trace the lines of Girono's brow.] Has eyes like the sea.

[Which are in turns bright and playful, clear and calm, flat and still, dark and fathoms deep. Fugo likes watching them from across the room, the way they crinkle up in in the corners when Giorno smiles; but he loves watching them this close, when he can see every flicker of emotion that darts across them.]

And a number of freckles on his nose, which I haven't counted because when I'm this close I forget that I want to. [He's going to, one day. Have a precise number of freckles to tell Giorno he loves. Fugo sighs, content, and continues to let his silly train of thought go.] Because he's very beautiful and very distracting, so I stop thinking about anything but kissing him. And that I love him, all of him, so much.

[Oh.]

[Oh, no. Oh, no--My Giogio has eyes like the sea--and his mind goes blank. He should be protesting, he thinks vaguely, but he can't. He doesn't have words, he doesn't know what to say. Fugo is kissing his jaw. Fugo is looking at him. Fugo is talking about how beautiful he is, and ordinarily--ordinarily it's big, but not this big.]

[It's some combination of the ambient emotion from everything they've been talking about and the way Fugo is talking now: reverent, fond, relaxed. Giorno pulls him closer reflexively, just in case--just in case that was the secret code, all these sweet words, for the universe to remember to take Fugo away from him.]

[But he stays. Fugo, who thinks he has eyes like the sea and likes his freckles and kissing him and him, likes him, loves him. His breath hitches in some positive emotion he can't even begin to name. It's good, it's good, he knows it is, but it's enormous and feels like it's straining against his ribs, too. A good hurt.]

Fugo--

[Words are so difficult. His eyes like the sea are bottomless, and both bright and dark at the same time. He's startled and trying to keep up, even as that flush starts crawling over the freckles on his nose again.]

[Eventually, he shudders and gives up on an articulate response. The only way he can respond at all is by closing his eyes, actually.] I love you too. All of you. You're--overwhelming.

Sorry, [Fugo murmurs even though, for once, he's not all that sorry about letting his thoughts spill out of his head and into the air between them. Meanwhile, his hand drifts down to Giorno's chin and carefully tilts it up and to the side; because he's already told Giorno to hold him and not let go, he can't exactly pull back and readjust so he can have better access to Giorno's neck. He hesitates, just for a moment, before resuming his slow, meandering path of kisses down Giorno's throat, across the crook of his neck, and onto the slope of his shoulder.] I just wanted you to know.

[In some small way, using clumsy words, how beautiful he is; how much he's loved; and how, even though it's just as terrifying, happy Fugo is about their thing that has all sorts of convenient words to describe it. Together, dating, boyfriends. It's all social shorthand, blunt and imprecise, but it gets the message across to people who probably won't ever understand.]

You'll probably get revenge on me sooner rather than later anyway. You always do.

But I don't . . .

[It's hard to focus, to think. He feels disconnected, but not lost, tethered to the world by Fugo, who is always there for him, just the reach of a hand away. His fingers clutch, one at Fugo's back and one at his hip, brow furrowed as he tries to find his words again.]

I don't--want revenge. I don't want--you to be sorry.

[Why should he be? It's good, Giorno can understand that, even if only abstractly. There are more important and concrete things to focus on: the brush of lips against his throat and along his shoulder. Other things don't matter as much as Fugo kissing him, sweet and tender and close. Giorno's eyes fall shut and he bites his lip, letting his head fall to the side a little so that Fugo can do . . . really, whatever he wants. He wants Fugo to do whatever he wants. He wants Fugo, period. That's all.]

I want to be . . . your Giogio. Mmhm.

Mmm. [Giorno won't be able to see Fugo smile: instead, he'll feel it on his skin between one soft, slow kiss and the next, followed by a content sigh. He loves this. How they're so close, the way Giorno's fingertips dig into his hip and side, and the hitch of his breath. Giorno's words are slow, lazy, and a little silly.] Is that so?

[Fugo lingers on his shoulder, before shifting back and across to Giorno's neck again. He's so soft and relaxed. When he kisses him like this, in this place, he can feel the rhythm of Giorno's heartbeat.]

Revenge is pretty fun. But okay. I won't be.

Edited 2017-01-08 17:41 (UTC)

[He feels lazy, like he doesn't have anywhere to be ever again, but his heart is beating fast all the same. It's still overwhelming to be the center of Fugo's attention like this. He's pretty sure, now, that it will always be exactly this overwhelming to be this lucky. Feeling Fugo smile against his skin, the brush of his breath, is the only thing that exists right now, and it's--good. It feels right. Being in love stretches from the horizon of his heart to the horizon of his mind, eclipsing everything else, and he doesn't mind.]

I know you like it when I'm wicked to you.

[He chews his lip a little, grinning at nothing; pulls Fugo tighter, both arms wrapping possessively around his waist.]

I don't want revenge because I'm so happy . . . but if you want me to be wicked, I can still be wicked. I'm pretty good at it.

Hmmm. [The usual Fugo-- the one who got so offended when Giorno teased him about the damning mark on his neck-- would have gathered himself up, red all over, and fussed mightily against this accusation. He can still feel it in him, the embarrassment; his ears are already pink. Soft and pleased as Giorno is, that's still very rude. But he doesn't want to let himself be distracted from these things: the gentle rise and fall of Giorno's breathing, the flutter if his heartbeat underneath his mouth, the increasingly relaxed meter of his speech.

So, in the end, Fugo ends up agreeing with him:] You're unfairly beautiful when you're being wicked. Your eyes get dark and sharp and you smile with all of your teeth. [Rather than twisting up to look at him, Fugo continues to kiss him; he lingers for a while in the place where he can feel Giorno's heartbeat and the breath catch in his throat, before purposefully moving on and up to his chin.] Not like this at all.

[Briefly, he takes a detour to kiss the corner of Giorno's mouth. He'd like to kiss all of it, but then he'd lose track of his words. And he has them lined up in his mind, dangerous and hideously embarrassing. But hasn't he already put his most frightening feelings into words already? While he returns to kissing along Giorno's jawline, up to his ear, Fugo gathers up his courage.]

Later, [he murmurs,] when you're done feeling sweet. You can leave marks on me. [He kisses underneath Giorno's ear.] Wherever you like. As long as they're in places where only we can look at them.

Edited 2017-01-24 18:07 (UTC)

[What.]

[That's all Giorno can think through any of this: what. Just what as Fugo says wicked things at a tempered and steady pace, one after another. They hit him in the gut over and over, an unrelenting assault of pretty teasing that leaves him a little trembly.]

[When did this become a thing Fugo knew how to do? He doesn't mind it, god no, but it's just--surprising, and--overwhelming to the point that he has to come up with a new word, because overwhelming isn't big enough.]

Fugo.

[It comes out on an exhale as he squirms and melts at the warmth of Fugo's breath under his ear, the wickedness and the sound of Fugo's voice; his arms tighten instinctively, pulling Fugo flush against him as he buries his face against his shoulder.]

Not fair . . . [And there's more he wants to say, probably, definitely, but he. Can't. Has temporarily forgotten how to. Is too breathless to think, too busy replaying over and over in his head as long as they're in places where only we can look at them to make words, so he just says Fugo's name again and hides and. Hyperventilates a little, his fingers digging unconsciously into Fugo's back as his heart feels like it's about to pound its way out of his chest.]

[Fugo does not laugh. He's very tempted to. Giorno even deserves it, more than a little, for all the times he's been wicked. I could teach you to tango, Giorno brightly remarked, as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. I could be dipping you, if I wanted. But if he laughed, it might light a spiteful fire in Giorno's heart. And Giorno doesn't want to take revenge yet.

So he doesn't. He contents himself with smiling at the feeling of Giorno trembling and squirming underneath his mouth and in his arms, with feeling warm and pleased and a little surprised at himself for saying all of that without stammering or stumbling over his words. He murmurs appreciatively when Giorno's hands tighten at his shoulder and waist, pulling him so close there's not a single centimeter of space between their chests; in response Fugo's knees tighten to Giorno's left and right, repeating without words his earlier sentiment. Hold me. Don't let go of me.]

Serves you right, Giogio. I love you. [Giorno's picked a good place to recover, because when he's buried his face into Fugo's shoulder it's awfully difficult to kiss him on his neck. Oh, well. Fugo reaches over one arm to gently stroke Giorno's hair, petting the top of his overwhelmed head, and around the other to rub slow circles on the small of his back. He doesn't know how long this will last, this Giorno feeling too much all at once to talk to him thing. But he likes it: feels very satisfied that he can provoke that reaction, even if Giorno will inevitably turn it on him in the end.

But that's what he likes best, he thinks, about all this teasing. It's a little like poker. Oh, certainly, Giorno wins most of their hands. But Fugo's getting a little better at learning how to call Giorno's bluff; how to have faith in his hand so, when the cards between them flip over, he can neatly lay a royal flush down on the table.]

[He makes a prolonged noise that sounds approximately like mrglebrgleurg, which is an incredibly accurate vocal representation of how he feels. It's a little sulky, but not much, because--]

I know it does. So mean . . .

[There's no way to argue that, really. He knows it's true. He likes being wicked because it's fun, but also because Fugo likes it. Which . . . is the same the other way, too, really.]

[He considers this for a moment, then rubs his cheek against Fugo's shoulder and hums contemplatively, brushing his nose against Fugo's neck. A few more possessive little gestures, because despite the whining he's very happy.]

You aren't really mean. I love you. I like when you tease me, too. It's nice, it feels--mm. Safe. It's like sweetness from the opposite direction . . . or something. I don't know how to put it into words. But it's the same kind of safe as--this. Holding you and being held by you.

. . . I'm bad at picking, though. I want to mark you up everywhere. [A pathetic, put-upon sigh. He suffers ........ every day.]

[Fugo thinks about this. Turns it over in his head while his fingers busy themselves in Giorno's hair, winding one long piece of it around his pointer finger; manages, somehow, to not get too distracted by the texture and color of it and the sweet smell of whatever Giorno uses to wash it. What he said before was an understatement, really. Giorno is unfairly beautiful all the time. But that's a tangent, when he wants to try and focus on what Giorno is talking about. Kind of. Sort of. His feelings about talking are very fickle at the moment.]

I don't know how to either. [He sighs, brief and annoyed with himself.] But you're always so careful with me. Even when you tease me. So it feels safe, even though it shouldn't.

[To let himself feel things so intensely, even for just a moment. Speaking of behavior he really shouldn't be enabling or giving explicit permission for--]

And-- if you're bad at it. [Pick, he means but all of a sudden doesn't want to say, although he can feel a flush of embarrassment start to creep up on him when Giorno says I want to mark you up everywhere. Which is silly, because he's the one who said you can leave marks on me wherever you like.] ... don't, then.

. . . Don't?

[The way he says it, it's clear that the questioning note in his tone isn't an actual question. It's awe, really. What a terribly dangerous thing for Fugo to give him permission to do. Except . . .]

[Except Fugo likes playing with fire a little, he thinks. When it's him. When it's the two of them . . .]

[And that's the same thing. The same as the teasing thing. Isn't it. Because Fugo feels safe, and like he belongs with someone. Like he has a place to come back to, always. That's why he likes the wickedness.]

[Giorno grins against Fugo's throat and sits up straight, so he can look Fugo in the eye when he says the next thing.]

I'll start here, then. [His fingers are curled into loose fists, his knuckle brushing the bottom of Fugo's ribs on the right side.] Right here. Are you going to do one, too? [Which he tacks onto the end because . . . it's easier not to be shy about it, when he's just finishing up being so rude.]

[Ah. Here it is. The moment where Giorno is done feeling sweet and has decided that he wants to be wicked again. Fugo can feel the switch as it happens in his arms, in the sharp-toothed grin in the hollow of his throat. Giorno straightens up to look him in the eye, so he doesn't miss the way color floods Fugo's face-- or the way he bites his lip at that brush of knuckle on his side, the promise of a future touch.]

[And. The question. Giorno is going to mark him up. Will Fugo leave a mark on Giorno? Fugo searches Giorno's expression and then leans in, not to kiss, but to rest their foreheads together.]

I will. [He doesn't ask if Giorno wants one. This is the second time Giorno has expressed it-- I want you to leave marks on me because I'm yours, too.-- and Fugo isn't interested in making Giorno repeat himself further. He runs his fingers through Giorno's hair one last time, pulling his fingers through all those curls, and dropping his hand to let his fingers play along Giorno's collarbone.] Maybe-- here?

[It's where Giorno first left one on him; the place where they discovered this was something they liked. Symmetry, sort of.]

[The effect is pretty much instantaneous: Fugo pulls his fingers through the ends of Giorno's hair, rests his fingers on his collarbone, and Giorno just. Melts. Sighs and bites his lip and closes his eyes for a moment, just to brace himself against the reality of what his world is right now.]

[It's a good idea. Symmetry. It makes him feel like his heart might beat out of his chest, although if it hasn't already, after all of this, maybe it's secure in its moorings after all.]

[After a moment, he lets go his lip, sighs again, smiles. His fingers drift up and down the small of Fugo's back. He must look silly, he thinks; he can feel that he's very flushed--but that's okay. Another moment and he opens his eyes, grinning hazily at Fugo, who is so close that he can feel his breath.]

Uh-huh.

[It's very quiet, because this close, it doesn't have to be any louder than a murmur.]

I think . . . that's good.

[At first, Fugo can't say anything. He can only stare, because... he can't say it's so rare anymore, is it? To see Giorno so unguarded. But he feels a little dazzled by-- his sigh, the gold in his eyelashes, the soft set of his mouth. Giorno, his boyfriend, is so beautiful that words don't suit him.]

Okay. [Fugo tilts his chin forward-- that's all it takes to meet Giorno-- and kisses him, soft and careful. Meanwhile, his thumb draws a last, nervous line back-and-forth on Giorno's collarbone over the fabric of his nightgown; he's hunting for a particular spot along its span. When he finds it he taps it, there. He pulls away from the kiss and looks at Giorno, rosy and content, who thinks that a mark in that place is good.] You're-- so beautiful, Giogio.

[And then he ducks his head, red all over, so he can focus on the task of easing Giorno's nightgown off to the side of his shoulder and shifting in place underneath Giorno's hands so he can lean in to press his mouth against the place they've decided on. He kisses it once; twice; and then three times, for luck. He hesitates for a half of a second, letting go of a nervous breath before he bites down-- decisively, with the intent to leave a a mark.]

[His mouth is still warm and sensitive from the kiss when Fugo kisses his collarbone. Once, twice, three times--and Giorno didn't connect, somehow, Fugo's sudden decisiveness with the fact that, now he's decided to do it, it has to happen now or he'll lose his nerve. One, two, three, though, and he understands, shivers with the understanding and arches up towards Fugo, waiting.]

[He has no frame of reference for what it feels like. All he knows is that it's something Fugo likes, something that he can't stop thinking about, something that leaves a mark of possession and belonging that he so desperately wants. He knows, too, even if not entirely consciously, that Fugo has been worried about it--anxious that it'll hurt him, that it'll upset him, and Fugo is so careful with him, always.]

[It does hurt. But also it doesn't. That is: it hurts, and then the dig of Fugo's teeth blooms into something else he can't describe at all. It resonates through his body, rushing from his collarbone to the tips of his fingers and his curling toes. It feels like pins and needles and being kissed all over and not being afraid of anything, and--the sound he makes is mostly Fugo's name, except it's unfocused; he doesn't really realize he's made a sound at all, because he's so intent on the way it feels. His breath hitches, his fingers digging in roughly to Fugo's hip and shoulder before the hand on his shoulder reaches up desperately to twine in Fugo's hair. Just in case he was thinking about stopping, or leaving, which Giorno really does not want him to do.]

[Fugo doesn't know why he likes it when Giorno leaves marks on him. It's not something that he can put into words that make sense. It hurts. And he hates the idea of anyone else looking at them. But the pain is like a lens: it makes everything else brighter and sharper and better. And it makes him feel so wanted, both in the moment and later when he catches sight of them in the mirror. He looks at them and thinks I let Giorno do that and remembers the promise he made.

He's worried, more than he probably should be, about hurting Giorno-- who has told him first with his words and now with his whole body, that this is what he wants. But all of those worries fall apart like so much miss when Giorno's breath catches and he makes a sound that might be his name; when his fingers, rough and insistent, hold him tightly in place at his hip and in his hair. He can't pull away. But he doesn't need to read Giorno's expression to know that everything is fine. In response, Fugo's arm tightens around Giorno's waist and, despite the fact there's no space between them, pushes up against Giorno; the other snakes back under his other arm so he can get a solid grip on Giorno's shoulder.

He stops. But only briefly, only to pull in a breath-- only to kiss ti amo on the mark he's made but can't see. And then he bites Giorno again, because he wants to hear Giorno make that sound again. Because he wants this to be a mark that lasts. He wants Giorno to feel wanted and loved completely whenever he looks at it, to remember him and everything they talked about tonight.]

[Fugo is holding onto him so tightly. Fugo is so close, and it feels so good, which he says--you feel good and ti amo, and then Fugo bites him again, and he has to let his eyes flutter shut against it. Lets his breath stutter out and his lungs linger empty for a moment, because the way it hurts and feels good at the same time is too important and he doesn't need to breathe at all, it'd just be a distraction.]

[Another moment and he breathes in on a gasp, rough and harsh. His fingers at Fugo's hip find their way to the small of his back, snuck under his shirt and digging in. He has a lot he wants to express, but he can't fit it into a properly comprehensible order; it comes out in fits and starts, yes fugo yours ti amo i love you aishiteru. He leans against Fugo, trembling a little with the effort of staying upright--but he doesn't want to fall. He wants this, Fugo in his lap and his arms, holding him up at the same time as he's held up. This is perfect. He doesn't want a single thing to change.]

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