digiorno | ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅲ

[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.]

[Above him, Giorno's ragged voice catches around the corners and edges of the words he's trying to make; underneath his hands and his mouth, Giorno shivers and trembles. Giorno's arms are all around him, holding him tight and close and safe, fingers digging into the skin of his back.]

I have you, [he promises, voice a reassuring, fervent murmur against Giorno's shoulder. This needs to be said. Giorno has to hear it, just as much as he needed and still needs to hear how much Fugo loves him. Aishiteru. Mio corpo, mio cuore, la mia anima. A feeling that's too enormous for words, so he has to express it every other way he can.] I have you.

[His teeth graze one last time against their point of symmetry; then he kisses it, before moving to the hollow of his throat. He sort of wants to kiss up Giorno's neck again, but he's not sure he can maintain the lazy softness of the gesture. So instead he just leans up and in to kiss Giorno's mouth, oddly haphazard, for Fugo, in his insistence.]

You have me.

[He has exactly enough time to repeat this, in a voice that's soft and uncertain and hazy, before Fugo is kissing him again. Fugo kissing him like this is . . . he doesn't know how to describe it. It's so warm, and so safe, and it makes him feel like he isn't touching the ground or anything at all but Fugo. Like he's floating in the warmth of the summer ocean.]

[He can't explain it. He doesn't want to. He just sighs, wrapping his arms tight around Fugo's waist and leaning into him. For a while he just--is that, is this, whatever this is, this halfway point between himself and Fugo, poised to fall into him and hazy with the anticipation of doing so.]

[Even when he remembers that there were things he wanted to say (a thousand things, a thousand little praises), he doesn't really pull away. Words come out lazy and inarticulate against Fugo's mouth.]

I like you. You're good. Very . . . sharp. A nice mean boy. Good to me.

[Oh. He does love it when Giorno holds him like this. He feels secure in the best of ways, positioned perfectly to be as close as he can get to Giorno. Fugo shifts and rearranges himself so he can reach out to hold Giorno's face with both of his hands, thumbs fondly brushing the curves of his cheeks.]

I like you, too. I like it, so much, when you hold onto me like this. [When... they talk like this, every word is like an almost kiss. That's so many almost kisses. How many almost kisses does it take to add up to a whole kiss? He will have to investigate this math at a later time, because right now this realization makes his spine feel as sturdy as a piece of string.] I like being yours. And I like that you're mine.

Told you. I'm all yours.

[He sighs, not quite wistfully but--in a drifting sort of way. Like he's being lulled into comfort by the breaths they're sharing. Which is true. He places another lazy, imprecise kiss against the corner of Fugo's mouth and just. Stays there, speaking softly, really barely audibly.]

Mio corpo. Mio cuore. La mia anima. I told you . . .

[It's a lot of almost kisses. But Giorno isn't really concerned by the math. Instead, one arm tightens around Fugo's waist while he reaches up so he can curiously brush his fingers against the mark Fugo's made. He kind of wants to see it, but he'd have to disentangle himself from Fugo, which sounds like pretty much the worst idea ever.]

Mm. Think it'll stay a while? I hope so.

[Fugo knows. He remembers. He remembers a lot of things, especially things that Giorno has said to him, because that's just how his mind works. And he almost always is paying close attention to what Giorno says. He's not going to forget that moment in a hurry, or this one; or the silly smacking sound Giorno made when he kissed his jaw after teasing him about the marks Giorno left behind on him to begin with.

But it's a little (a lot) like how, now that he's no longer afraid of thinking it, Fugo wants to tell Giorno he loves him whenever he can. He knows that Giorno knows. But he wants to say it, again and again. Because he likes to and thinks Giorno should hear it every day. I love you, ti amo, aishiteru.]

[But all of that's too complicated to sort out, especially when he's so hazy and unfocused to begin with by the soft brush of Giorno's lips on his cheek. So many almost-kisses. Too many to count.]

Um. Yours do. But you keep-- [Fugo shifts in place, a little shy, eyes twitching this way and that.] You keep coming back to the same places. So it's hard to say for sure.

. . . Oh.

[He pauses to consider this. As scientific ponderings go, this one is slow as molasses; he's leaned in so close, his cheekbone resting lightly against Fugo's jaw, that every slow blink leaves his eyelashes brushing against Fugo's cheek.]

Yes, [he concludes eventually.] Isn't that strange . . . mm.

[Another moment of silence. He rubs his cheek against Fugo's jaw, then pulls him a little closer by the waist and presses a thoughtful kiss to his throat.]

I want to leave them everywhere. But I also want to make you happy . . . so if I know which places make you squirm I want to come back to those, because I love that best. That's the choice I'll usually make . . . instant gratification.

[Honestly the worst part of this is that he isn't even trying to tease. This is a genuine train of thought he's experiencing.]

Human behavior is really strange.

Mm-hmm. [Fugo ... honestly isn't expecting Giorno to continue his thought. His hands lazily drift away from Giorno's face, one catching in his hair while the other settles around his shoulder. His eyes drift mostly closed and he allows himself to simply enjoy the way Giorno is leaning against him, the little ticklish flutter of his eyelashes against his jaw, the certainty of the grip on his hip. He sighs contently when he's kissed, further curling into Giorno's arms.

And then Giorno starts talking again. Fugo's eyes snap open and he freezes a little, startled by Giorno's careful examination of his own motives. I want to make you happy, is ... something he knows, both because he can infer it from Giorno's behavior and because he's said it before, but he's never connected it before with so if I know which places make you squirm.]

Oh-- I-- [If they weren't so caught up in each other this would be the point where Fugo, trying to the way he's gone red in the face, would bury his face in a nearby pillow, or hide underneath a blanket, or if all else fails just behind his hands. But Giorno's got a grip on his waist still, so all this amounts to is wiggling in place.] Oh.

[What does he say. What does he do with this information? Make a silly flustered sound and hold on a little tighter onto Giorno instead of pulling away. Is Giorno bullying him, or just thinking out loud? Right now it's very hard for him to tell. He wants to say something, but all of his words are so clumsy and silly all of a sudden.]

Is... that. How it is.

That's how it is.

[But he wonders. Fugo's gone stiff and nervous. Sometimes it's hard to know: is that good stiff and nervous, or bad, or just neutrally overwhelmed?]

[Giorno hesitates. He makes an effort to . . . not get nervous. To not stiffen up, himself. Wouldn't that just make Fugo more tense anyway? So instead, he lets his hand fall from Fugo's shoulder to rub careful circles at the small of Fugo's back, then sets another kiss against his throat.]

If I do something by accident, or not really thinking about it, and it makes you feel so good you don't know what to do with yourself, I want to do it again. Because I love that best. It makes me very happy.

I wonder if . . . I shouldn't have said it? You're so tense now. But it's true.

[Giorno is so quick to react to the signals his body is sending. There's a hand at his back, easing the tension out of him in slow circles, and another comforting kiss on his throat. Little by little, his posture starts to relax again. He doesn't reply right away; instead, he gives himself space to settle and to ease into Giorno's touch.]

I knew that. I think. [It's a sort of knowing that's hard to put into words, because this is one of those subjects that's almost too embarrassing to think about. It makes very good sense, the idea that Giorno comes back to the places that feel so good he can't help but squirm. Because Giorno wants him to feel good. Giorno wants him to happy.] Hearing it feels... bigger. You surprised me, that's all.

[He falls quiet. The hand on Giorno's shoulder moves back, then forth, before dropping to reach his collarbone. When Fugo's thumb finds it, he carefully draws a line until he finds the place where he made a mark; it comes to a rest there and, after a moment of hesitation, starts to mimic the motion Fugo feels at his back.]

Because-- I want the same thing. [Here, he fumbles with his words. But even though his voice isn't much more than a shy, embarrassed mumble, he continues on.] You make me feel very good. I want you to feel the same way.

[Fugo is relaxing. That's good. Fugo is taking a moment, and that's good too. Fugo is talking again, and what he says makes Giorno feel a lot better--less like he's made some terrible misstep, although he's gradually starting to believe just a little bit that nothing he says to Fugo could really ruin everything.]

[And that's all very good, and calms him down a lot himself, but. Then Fugo brushes his thumb across the mark he made, and it becomes abruptly very hard to focus. It's more sensitive still than he expected, and--surprising, yes, and it makes him squeak and bury his face against the crook of Fugo's neck and shoulder until he figures out how to breathe right.]

[Fugo smells good. The . . . smell of him, that alone is enough to help. Giorno squeezes his eyes shut and breathes in and tries to think, although it's hard. What he wants, really, is to kiss Fugo very hard on the mouth, but--he doesn't know. It's hard to know. He wants to kiss, but he wants to talk, too, and he wants to sink his teeth in and leave a mark where Fugo won't be able to hide it.]

Fugo, I--

[Wait, no. It would--help if he could see, right? If he can see Fugo's face, he won't be so worried. Because if Fugo says it's okay and doesn't mean it, he'll be able to tell. And if Fugo is unhappy, he'll be able to tell. And knowing that he'd know if something was wrong . . . will also let him know when it isn't. Right?]

[He lifts his head, still a little flushed but determined as he looks at Fugo, who is. Being very brave for him, again. Always.]

I think it's--hard to know, sometimes. If you're just flustered or--really unhappy, or uncomfortable. And it's hard to know because I'm not good at people, but I--want to be good for you, I do.

I like making you flustered. A lot. But I don't want to make you unhappy or uncomfortable. And it's easier not to ask, because sometimes--it seems like asking some things makes you uncomfortable, but I.

[He breathes in sharply. Out. Finding words is so hard, sometimes, at the worst, most inconvenient times.]

Do you--I. Will you tell me? If you want me to stop talking about it? This or anything. Now or ever. I love you, and I think we should talk, and you've already been so brave for me, but sometimes I just--don't know what the right choice is. You know?

[Fugo's done being a bully tonight. He doesn't laugh, or even chuckle, when Giorno squeaks, or point out that it happened. Just smiles, soft and wan, and gently strokes the top of his head. He's glad. He's so glad they can just-- be together like this, that Giorno likes to curl up and hide on his shoulder. He's content to stay this way for as long as Giorno needs.

His expression when Giorno pulls himself up is the sort that's so open it's a little painful to look at. He listens, eyes slowly widening as he realizes what Giorno is talking about. It lines up in a strange way next to something Giorno said earlier this evening. About how the more okay he seems, the less okay he feels. And I'm really scared, still. But I trust you. His mouth trembles, he pulls in a breath and, although his eyes are watery, he doesn't cry.]

You're ... [Fugo closes his eyes and swallows. He has to, because his voice would wobble otherwise.] So careful with me. [There isn't a thing he wouldn't do, wouldn't give to Giorno. That's the weight of his promise: everything. When he opens his eyes again, he's brought his eyebrows together and there's an adamant set to his jaw.] Yes. I promise.

If there's something I can't talk about, or if I feel uncomfortable, I promise I'll tell you. And if you're worried or can't tell, it's okay to ask. I'll never lie to you, even if the only way I can think to explain is stupid.

I--

[For the millionth time, he asks himself: How is Fugo real? His fingers drift up helplessly to brush the sharp line of Fugo's jaw, his expression awed, amazed.]

I'm so in love with you. That's what I am.

[It's saccharine. It's silly. But it's relevant. Not a correction, but an addition to what Fugo's saying. He traces the tension at the corner of his jaw, up to the furrow between his brows, the curve of his lips. Then he kisses them, and rests his forehead against Fugo's, and exhales in sharp relief.]

You're so amazing. I love everything about you, every piece and every part. The parts of you that you like or hate or don't care about, I love them all so much that sometimes it feels like my heart's just not big enough to hold all of it.

I'm so in love with you, Fugo. Thank you for--

[And then he stops, because--how would he even list it? How would he explain? He wouldn't, he can't. He just bites his lip and closes his eyes. This is another almost-kiss. He hasn't quite thought about it in those terms yet, but he knows it's what he wants right now.]

Thank you. You're being careful with me, too. It goes both ways, always.

[Fugo finds it difficult to be resolute when Giorno touches him, fingertips touching featherlight to memorize all the sharp corners that come together to make up his face when he frowns. By the time Giorno starts to kiss those places, around his jaw and between his brows and finally on his mouth, it's half-unraveled. When he speaks, it's fallen completely to pieces. He can't help but make a soft noise when Giorno pulls back just enough to speak again, a silly wordless murmur half-shaped into the words come back.

(He knows, now, exactly how mean it was earlier to tease Giorno when he was trapped by his own mistletoe. To lean in and almost-kiss Giorno, letting their mouths almost but not-quite come together with every syllable. This doesn't mean he won't do it again. It's just that since he knows, he'll have to save this for when he's feeling particularly contrary.)

Giorno is ... reflecting back at him something he said on the first of the month. All of you. The parts he likes. The parts he hates. All of him. And, oh, it hurts. He can't hide that it hurts either, not when they're so close and Giorno knows him so well. He brushes their noses together and smiles softly, happy and sad at once. Feelings really are stupid, aren't they?]

I believe you. [He... can't stand it, really, not being able to kiss Giorno when they're so close. So he just does it, briefly focused on nothing else but that. He's a little fuzzy and out-of-focus after, but as far as he's concerned it's a fair trade.] Because-- aishiteru. I'll always meet you halfway. Always.

[Oh. Fugo kissed him. It's--not a surprise, exactly, and he's so oversaturated with happiness that he doesn't get quite as overwhelmed, proportionally, at the kiss. But it's still a perfect moment. Every moment is a perfect moment with Fugo. Every kiss is perfect, too.]

[He blinks hazily at Fugo when, eventually, they're not kissing anymore. Fugo looks so distracted. Addled. Pretty.]

Aishiteru, [he murmurs, and twines his fingers in the white-blond hair at the back of Fugo's neck, and kisses him again, soft and content.]

[It's a good kiss. He feels at ease, in a way that he knows is hard for either of them to access. They're getting better at finding it together, though. Because . . . they're so careful with each other, he thinks. That has to be it. So he's careful after the kiss, too, because it's good to take care of the people you love. It's hard to pull away, so he does it in fits and starts, feeling fond and foggy. He brushes his nose against Fugo's and sighs.]

Sometimes I feel like, on those days when I know how to talk, I should get all the talking out at once so I don't have to worry about it later. But . . . that's probably not a good idea, right? We've already talked so much.

Can I ask you one thing, though? So I can understand, and think about it for the next time we're feeling brave.

ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅲ

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i lost this notif..... feel free 2 not respond if this is too old smh

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