[This is one of those moments when Fugo doesn't seem real. It's not a new feeling, not by a long shot. It's not just reserved for Fugo, either. Anyone who's kind to him, really, makes him feel this at one time or another, or many times: the sense of looking at someone and knowing they're there while at the same time knowing, in his heart of hearts, that they're impossible.]
[His breath stops, just for a moment. I'll be good, he reminds himself--doesn't mean to, but does, and takes Fugo's offered hand in his very close to desperately. It will be all right, he knows, if he's good. Or if he's not. Fugo is safe. So he needs to stop being so stupid.]
You . . . yes. But don't let go.
[His voice is soft, eyes downcast as he hops off the desk and comes to stand just at Fugo's side, close but not touching except where their fingers twine together.]
no subject
[His breath stops, just for a moment. I'll be good, he reminds himself--doesn't mean to, but does, and takes Fugo's offered hand in his very close to desperately. It will be all right, he knows, if he's good. Or if he's not. Fugo is safe. So he needs to stop being so stupid.]
You . . . yes. But don't let go.
[His voice is soft, eyes downcast as he hops off the desk and comes to stand just at Fugo's side, close but not touching except where their fingers twine together.]
The bed is better. Please.