digiorno | ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅲ

[Oh. Oh, no. Fugo is still teasing him. More than before. On one level Giorno really hates it, he does, because he feels so flustered and confused he doesn't know what to do with himself at all. But on another level, he knows he deserves it. And on a third . . . it's nice. He isn't sure what exactly it is that he's done or that Fugo's done or that they've done together that's made Fugo feel so comfortable being so very wicked, but it's good. It makes him feel like he's flying.]

Oh, [he says breathlessly, blinking up at Fugo slowly.] You . . . you can give him most of them. He's a good boy. Not like you. You're being mean.

[But he's doing an awful job acting mad about it. Huffing out a sigh, he sits up and--leans heavily against Fugo's shoulder, then presses their foreheads together. He's very rosy.]

I love you. Please kiss me.

Really? I'm being mean? [Fugo leans in, precariously close to kissing Giorno, but only to bump their noses together and smile wickedly at him. They're so close now that, when he speaks, his lips brush lightly against Giorno's--but it's not quite a kiss. It doesn't count. He's not free yet.] But I have pudding and hot chocolate with an excessive amount of marshmallows ready for you. And I was under the impression that moths and kissing me were relevant to your interests.

[If he were really merciless, Fugo would draw it out a little longer. But he isn't. This is the exact extent to his meanness, because the problem with being so close to rosy, huffy Giorno is that Fugo can't bear not kissing him. Especially not after Giorno says that he loves him. So he does, soft and sweet. His mouth tastes like ginger, from the mug of tea he's been drinking.]

Ti amo.

They are, but--

[He's dying. Fugo is killing him. He is going to die here in Fugo's doorway, hoist by his own petard, not quite being kissed by this extremely rude boy he loves so much. Except then Fugo does kiss him, so--so he'll live another day.]

[He's all hazy when Fugo pulls away, lips still parted like he's waiting for the rest of it, or hasn't entirely registered that he's been kissed at all.] Mm, [he says, and then,] Mmhm.

[He may need to be redirected a little, here.]

Mmm, [Fugo agrees. He's able to resist kissing Giorno again for about, oh. A second or two? But he doesn't try very hard, not when Giorno is saying kiss me again with everything but his words. Besides, He has to focus his efforts on not drawing Giorno into his arms. They're on the floor, if they get wrapped up in kissing on the carpet one or both of them is going to wind up with a terrible backache.] Come on. Come up and sit with me on the bed.

[Fugo reaches for Giorno's hands. He has to pull away to get them to their feet, but only a little.]

Oh. Okay.

[It's one of those moments when he'd blindly follow Fugo anywhere. Into the bedroom isn't much of a hardship at all, given that's where he was headed anyhow. He does stumble a little, though, still very focused on the kisses he just got.]

I like your nails, [he murmurs as they cross the threshold, and then, petulantly, as he sinks onto the mattress:] Why did you set a trap for me!

Thank you. Painting all of on both hands is the next phase of the nail biting cessation experiments. [After getting settled in the bed, Fugo offers Giorno one hand to examine the state of his nails. None of them are very long or particularly fancy, but they're all very purple and the paint has been applied very exactly and precisely. A few of them that look significantly less raggedy than usual.] Revenge, mostly. And because I wanted to see how you'd react.

[With his other hand, Fugo picks up Giorno's pudding and spoon and holds it out to him. It's a peace offering.]

For the record, you got high marks in dramatics. [Fugo pauses. He's still very clumsy at this part. But he wants to say it, mostly because Giorno deserves to hear it.] And. Cuteness.

Edited 2016-12-26 02:05 (UTC)

[Giorno responds to the offered hand by taking it in his own, obviously. This leads to a moment of consternation when he has to decide how to handle the pudding and spoon situation. In the end, he lets Fugo's hand drop to the bed, pats it firmly so as to encourage it to stay in place, takes the pudding, wedges it between his knees, and grabs the spoon as well, leaving one hand free to hold Fugo's again. He's satisfied.]

[Surprised, though. He blinks a few times, spoon resting on the edge of his pudding cup.]

Really? [Rosiness intensifies.] I wasn't trying to be.

[Oh, no. He's inadvertently caused a pudding dilemma. Thankfully, Giorno's cleverness equals his greediness so he works out a solution. Without realizing it, a small, crooked smile twitches across his face at the sight of their hands together; at the thought that not being able to hold his hand is downright unacceptable to Giorno.]

I know. That's what made it stand out, from your-- [Fugo squirms, sighs, and then just. Takes a breath, because maybe it will be easier to blurt it out.] Your usual cuteness is deliberate. You dress that way here because it helps you get what you want and you like to. You can wear skirts whenever and wherever because-- who cares? Nobody cares, here. And if they did it's not like their opinions matter.

[Which is liberating and frustrating; Don Giovanna's reputation should be important, even if it's stupid that his capos would be difficult for no reason if he chose to wear a dark skirt patterned with butterflies that accentuates the slimness of his waist to a meeting. He misses Napoli. Even though this is such an obnoxious time of year, with so many cookies and desserts everywhere and Mista ringing his stupid cowbell for Mass.]

... sorry, I went off on a tangent. What I mean to say is that it was a different sort of cuteness from the image you usually try to present. Because you weren't trying to be, you just-- were.

[Fugo seems . . . agitated. Very much so, actually. But at the same time, he's being so brave again, saying what he's obviously embarrassed about. Giorno tips his head to one side, regarding him with a soft, fond smile; then he wedges the spoon into his pudding and reaches up to cup Fugo's cheek while not letting go of his hand.]

Fugo. I don't think I ever told you. But that first day here, when I saw you . . . it felt like I'd spent months off and on explaining to Jotaro and Kakyoin and Polnareff why things like that don't matter. I thought I was going crazy. And then when you saw me, you just looked at me and you saw--me. I could tell that it was something you were used to, that didn't bother you, that it didn't even occur to you to be bothered by.

That was a very healing thing to see, on that day, at that particular time. You always do that, somehow--find a way to make things better without really meaning to. [He grins crookedly.] Even when you're being mean to me. You're pretty cute when you're being wicked. And . . . there aren't a lot of people who get to see me like this. Mm, unintentionally cute.

[It's ... surprisingly difficult not to close his eyes, so he can narrow his senses to just the warm feeling of Giorno's fingers on his cheek and the sound of his voice. But if he did that, he wouldn't be able to see him smile. The compromise ends up being listening to Giorno with his eyes half-closed, looking at him through his lashes.]

I didn't know you for very long. Two weeks and two days. [Fugo leans into his touch and, briefly, gives in to his instinct to close his eyes.] But when you were with us-- with the people you trusted, and no one else-- sometimes you would wear skirts. When I saw you dressed like that in the coffee shop, I knew that it was safe.

[He opens his eyes again, although he can't quite meet Giorno's anymore, cheeks pink.] ... I'm glad, that I can be that for you. No one has ever-- [He falters, before his eyes flick back to Giorno's face. He's always made things worse, not better. And he's not used to being called cute. It's not fair how Giorno's turned that on him.] Mmph. Too bad for them. The difference is-- ... it's exponential.

. . . You're making me embarrassed.

[It's not really reprimanding, though. More awed.]

Not many people can do that. But the way you talk about me, I don't know. It's very overwhelming sometimes. But in a good way.

[Reluctantly, he lets his hand fall again, back to the spoon. Because . . . he wants snacks.]

You're really sweet to me. Even when you're being wicked. It's nice. It feels a little like . . . what it must feel like to be someone normal. Only it doesn't feel like wearing someone else's skin. Just me and you, being sort of normal. Feeling good things. I don't know.

You think so? [Fugo's fingers twitch, then tighten around Giorno's.] ... I've always had a hard time imagining what that might be like. To be someone normal, to do normal things. My own experiences have always felt very far removed from things like--

[He pauses and-- fidgets, chewing on his lip and looking down to fiddle with the hem of his shirt. Fugo's eyes flick from his fiddling fingers, over to Giorno's face. He impulsively reaches out for his mug of tea... and then stops, halfway, choosing instead to shift in place to face Girono. In the end, he abruptly abandons whatever he was thinking of to say.

(For the record, it was: "going out with someone". In this moment, that still feels too big and too scary to say.)]

Gioio. Did you know? Sugimoto's planning another party at Egress. [His cheeks go pink.] For Christmas Eve.

[Giorno, regrettably, has his spoon stuck in his mouth when Fugo asks this very important question. It was his own mistake; he was too busy watching Fugo chewing on his lip and trying to decide if he could get away with biting it later (for revenge) to realize that Fugo was working his way up to something.]

[His eyes go a little wide. Slowly, he pulls the spoon out of his mouth, and swallows, and nods.]

Mmhm. Yeah. I saw the signs. It's a pretty clever idea, I thought. Since there are so many people here from Japan, and they celebrate Christmas differently.

[... ah. He wants to know. He knows he shouldn't get distracted, but--]

I want you to tell me how Christmas is celebrated in Japan. [He wants to know.] But-- in a moment. I want to ask you something, first.

... would you like to go to that party? [Another pause. The first part's out of his mouth. Now he's just got to work his way through the rest of it.] Together, with me. [And then, a little too quickly-] I promise I won't wear anything tacky on purpose.

[Oh.]

[Oh. He wondered--but Fugo doesn't like parties, he thought, and he would've asked but he thought himself in circles again, and Fugo is being brave and shy and beautiful and he feels full of butterflies.]

Yes.

[His voice sounds . . . really stupid. And he can't quite help the rest of it, oh no--]

Christmas Eve is for couples. In Japan.

[fUCK]

Oh. [And... he can feel himself going red. This is the worst. He hates his stupid recessive genes and his own lack of experience in this area. Reimi had called it a date night, so he went in prepared for that but. No, for all his thinking and worrying, apparently the only time he can speak confidently about this sort of thing is when he's taking revenge.] Well. If that's the case, I.

Would like to celebrate the holiday in that way. With you. [He swallows and, before proper words come out of him, makes an deeply embarrassed noise.] As a couple.

[Those last three words, the most important ones of this entire exchange, come out very quickly. They bump and collide until they become one awkward, clumsy disaster of a word: asacouple. After that, Fugo can't seem to meet Giorno's eyes anymore. Much like his earlier meanness, he abruptly runs out of courage.]

[It's . . . so strange. He's excited. He can tell that much. Excited and relieved and a little giddy. But there are more things under those things that aren't nearly as good, and there are so many that it's incredibly hard to sort. Panic, that's one of them. Dread, that's another. Disbelief, resentment--not of Fugo, but of the fact that, with this out in the air between them, their thing, this thing they're doing, knows what it is, and will know to end.]

[He feels a little sick. But happy, too. It doesn't make a bit of sense.]

Is . . .

[And his voice sounds worse, now.]

Is that . . . what it is? That we are.

[Somehow, that doesn't sound right. He tries again.]

Is that what you want, too? Not just on Christmas, but--all the time.

[Fugo nods. It's all he can manage at first, with his throat knotted up with worry. He's been-- thinking about this so much. And all of the perfect, gentle words he's been considering have fallen out of his head. He's messed it all up, honestly, with his own awkwardness. But he did say it. And he has to have faith that it's enough.]

... I don't know what words I should use. I don't know if any of the normal words fit what I feel or what we are. But, Giorno-- [He takes another breath. His voice sounds awful, small and overwhelmed and getting hung up on words that should be easy.] I love you. I want to be yours. And I want-- you to be mine, too.

[It occurs to him, as though the information is arriving from a very distant place, that he is still holding Fugo's hand. Once he realizes, he clamps down, squeezes desperately before he loosens his grip just a little. Hot shame courses through him. It must seem--really pathetic.]

I love you. [He has to say this first, and it's the truest thing he's ever said--just as true as the next thing:] I'm already yours, if you want me to be. But I--

[A third, equally true thing. This one is the hardest to say, and he can't meet Fugo's eyes as he whispers it through trembling lips.]

But I'm scared. I don't want to belong to someone if--the good thing's just going to. Go away. I don't . . . want to be alone anymore.

[Giorno isn't pathetic. Fugo could never think that of him. Not now, not ever. Not when he has the courage to admit to being afraid; not when what he's afraid of is something that could happen to either of them any day.]

... I know you don't remember. Because "I" haven't made this promise to you yet. [They've built a bridge over the gap in time that's between them. Giorno reached out to him and Fugo took his hand. But it's still there.] In the restaurant, I promised you all of me: mio corpo, mio cuore, la mia anima.

So before anything else, no matter what we are or where we go, my place is with you. Your dream is my future. [This time, it's Fugo's grip on Giorno's hand that grows tight. He blinks, quickly, trying to chase away a prickly feeling in the corners of his eyes.] And there's nothing that frightens me more than the idea of not being at your side. So, please--

I want to stay with you. For as long as I can.

I don't--

[He clenches his teeth, sets his jaw. He's shaking, not much but head to toe.]

I can't think of the words. All I can think is that I want to kiss you, because that's easy--I know how to say what I mean like that. And words are always there the rest of the time, so why not now--!

[Belatedly, he realizes he's being stubborn. He could curl up and cry on Fugo's shoulder if he wanted to. He's allowed. Fugo would hold him as long as he needed. But he's determined, now, to find the words. He won't let the newness of this control him--when has he ever let anything control him?]

I'm-- [Huffing a little, he sniffs and frowns down at his pudding cup.] I know you want to stay with me. That's what makes it feel so stupid to be worried. You told me. Not in those words, but . . . I know. I can see it every time you look at me. So I don't understand why I'm still so scared.

. . . You're being so sweet to me. Even right now, when I'm like this. I know that's because you love me.

But it isn't stupid. This stupid city is keeping Mista from you. [Giorno has already lost so much. He knows that, in a way, it's very selfish of him to ask Giorno to put himself in a position where he could lose someone else again.]

If I woke up tomorrow and you were gone, it would be the worst thing that could happen. I don't know what I'd do. [His free hand clutches in his shirt. Just the thought of life in Ruby City without Giorno makes him feel-- sick. Sick and cold and lost.] I know I can't control the future. I can only control my present. I don't care what happens. I'll never regret telling you that I love you.

[Even if it ends up hurting him in the end, he'll never regret making what he feels for Giorno real with words--because saying I love you was the half a step Giorno needed him to make, so they could reach each other half way.]

But. This morning, if you had been gone-- I would have regretted not asking you this yesterday. So much.

[The mention of Mista makes his breath catch painfully. Just like it always does. Just like it always will, maybe. He doesn't want to be this weak, but this is what Bruno taught him: to depend on people, to love them, and to accept the pain that comes with that love.]

[Because Fugo is right, of course. If Fugo had disappeared without Giorno saying or doing anything about what he felt, he'd have hated himself for it. It would have been the biggest mistake of his life, letting Fugo go without knowing how much he meant to him.]

[So the solution now is . . . it's . . .]

[Hesitantly, Giorno squeezes Fugo's hand again. Then he puts his other hand over the hand Fugo has twisted tight in his shirt. Then he looks up at Fugo, meets his eyes again, and even if it's watery, he's wearing an expression that is very much a smile.]

Sei coraggioso, Fugo, [he says, and kisses him on the cheek.] Sei magnifico, [he insists, and kisses the other cheek, too.] Mio corpo, mio cuore, la mia anima--questi sono tutto tuo. [This one last important thing, and he kisses Fugo softly on the lips, as steady and stable as he can.]

[He doesn't honestly know if any of that is right. If he's answered the question or not, if he's answered it right or not. There's more to say, he knows that, a hundred more things to talk about even just today--but it isn't fair for Fugo to have to be brave all on his own. It's important, he thinks, to share.]

[He doesn't realize it until Giorno rests his his hand over his, but-- he's pulled himself tight again, shoulders drawn tight as a piano wire. Giorno says he's brave, insists that he's magnifico, but the truth is that he's been worrying about this for so long. Even after he made his decision to address it, to ask Giorno to help him give a name for this thing of theirs, he's been afraid of... everything he's just done, really. Being clumsy. Saying the wrong thing. Asking for too much.

But when he looks at Giorno, who's looking at him with a pained and watery smile, he knows that despite his gawkiness and the way he's stumbled haphazardly through this conversation--

It wasn't a mistake. Everything is going to be okay.]

[Fugo closes his eyes. When he does, a few of the tears that have been bothering him roll down his cheeks. His fingers relax and then twist under Giorno's hand, so all ten of their fingers are laced together. Which is probably a silly move, because now he can't push the rest of them back. And even though he's happy, so happy it feels like his heart is full of jagged glass, the tears won't stop. He nods and leans forward, brushing his lips against the corner Giorno's mouth in response.]

Io sono tua. [Fugo pulls back, opens his eyes, and then leans in to rest his forehead against Giorno's. He's so relieved. He sniffs and blinks again, trying to chase away those pesky teas. In the process, he spots--] ... Giogio, your pudding, it's going to fall--

[If they don't do something about it, it's going to make a mess all over his blankets.]

Edited 2016-12-27 17:50 (UTC)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

1/2

2/2

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject