[It's impossible not to squirm when Fugo drums his fingers along his side. He's primed to be Ready for Tickling, and while that isn't quite the same thing, it's close enough that he squeaks a little.]

Mmph, [he complains vaguely, shying away from the potentially-tickling hand and burying his face on the opposite side of Fugo's neck.] Umm . . .

[What were they even talking about. Oh, right. That's just you being you--he goes a little pinker and stays exactly where he is, thanks so much, huffing out a breath.]

Well. I like to wear skirts best around you. Because you don't care. You just think I look pretty. A lot of people don't. I--like when you say I look cute like this. Because I think I do, but I . . .

[He can't put it into words properly. How he hears handsome but not pretty or beautiful, and doesn't really get compliments in skirts or dresses hardly at all except sometimes "you look nice", and how it would be nice, sometimes, if it wasn't like that. And now it is nice, because Fugo isn't like that.]

[It's okay, though. He doesn't need to put it into words. Fugo will probably understand anyway. He picks his head up, kissing Fugo on the jaw on his way up.]

I just like it. I want to dress up for you a lot. I liked that you were frozen when I came into the room. It felt sort of like a movie.