[He squirms each time Bruno's fingers curl in his shirt, helping him to hoist it up as he sees fit. It's only fair; his own hands keep moving upwards. His hands are in symmetry with one another as he rubs his palms flat over his ribs, against his stomach, feeling out the line of muscle there. Bruno's deceptively slender; you'd never guess just how muscled he really is.
He's breathless and his voice is thick, but he's hardly so far gone he can't speak.]
What is it you want me to say?
[Oh, but that's easy, and now his voice has the hint of a laugh to it.]
no subject
He's breathless and his voice is thick, but he's hardly so far gone he can't speak.]
What is it you want me to say?
[Oh, but that's easy, and now his voice has the hint of a laugh to it.]
Ti voglio, Bruno.