Yeah, yeah. [Fugo rolls his eyes, pointedly, before unfolding this surprising amount of paper, running his fingers along the thick fold, and tapping them all together. He clears his throat, obviously also pointedly, before he finally looks properly at the first page and reads:] "Things I Love"...
[Fugo trails off, sarcastic demeanor falling away as his eyes widen in soft surprise. For what he's reading is a list, written in Giorno's familiar loopy handwriting: Things I Love (the word love is surrounded by a little cloud of hearts) About Fugo (An Unordered List).
It's a long list. One that Giorno couldn't have written in one sitting; just glancing at the page, he can see that it was written in several different pens. It's a list, with explanations and addendums and footnotes. Fugo doesn't say anything as he reads. In fact, he reaches up to cover his mouth with one hand-- as if he's afraid of what might come spilling out of it if he's not careful. His expression is caught somewhere between awe, disbelief, and embarrassment.
He really can't believe what he's reading. There's so much of it. And it's so thorough and detailed, although not particularly organized. In the end, Fugo doesn't even make it a third of the way down the page before he has to close his eyes. He doesn't need a mirror to know that he's totally red in the face-- he can feel the heat in his cheeks and in his ears.]
You-- ... [God he can't handle this. Fugo shifts gears and rather than talking from behind his hand, hides behind Giorno's incredibly rude and terribly thoughtful list.] I don't know what to say. ... thank you.
no subject
[Fugo trails off, sarcastic demeanor falling away as his eyes widen in soft surprise. For what he's reading is a list, written in Giorno's familiar loopy handwriting: Things I Love (the word love is surrounded by a little cloud of hearts) About Fugo (An Unordered List).
It's a long list. One that Giorno couldn't have written in one sitting; just glancing at the page, he can see that it was written in several different pens. It's a list, with explanations and addendums and footnotes. Fugo doesn't say anything as he reads. In fact, he reaches up to cover his mouth with one hand-- as if he's afraid of what might come spilling out of it if he's not careful. His expression is caught somewhere between awe, disbelief, and embarrassment.
He really can't believe what he's reading. There's so much of it. And it's so thorough and detailed, although not particularly organized. In the end, Fugo doesn't even make it a third of the way down the page before he has to close his eyes. He doesn't need a mirror to know that he's totally red in the face-- he can feel the heat in his cheeks and in his ears.]
You-- ... [God he can't handle this. Fugo shifts gears and rather than talking from behind his hand, hides behind Giorno's incredibly rude and terribly thoughtful list.] I don't know what to say. ... thank you.