digiorno | ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅲ

[Every time Fugo does this--every time that look of wonder crosses his face, that amazement that Giorno really does like him, not just him in principle but in reality, every facet of him no matter how strange or awkward--Giorno falls a little more in love with him. The more often he can make Fugo realize that, the happier he is. And maybe Fugo will never totally believe it on his own, but . . . maybe someday he'll be a little less surprised.]

[Hopefully he never quite gets over some habits, though. It's weirdly charming how suddenly and effortlessly Giorno manages to freeze him, just by baring his shoulders. He bites his lip to hide a crooked, fond smile and tries his best to replace it with something contemplative.]

If your intention is improvement, consider factors other than just success or failure. Speed of success, for example. Or if there's a particular reaction you'd like to prompt, consider that your goal.

Or . . .

[He hms and rolls his shoulders absently (but not really absently at all).]

I could just do my best to make it more difficult for you. Generally speaking, I tend to be pretty good at that.

Edited 2017-04-04 21:10 (UTC)

[There is no chance, in any shape, way, or form, that Giorno's gesture was anything but intentional. Fugo knows it. And yet here he is, a little dazzled just by-- how it feels, to have someone move underneath his hands. To have Giorno move underneath his hands. Wow, is a thought he has, immediately followed by, this is nice.

Sitting in a library and the smell of books, which is quickly being overwhelmed by Giorno's perfume, with this amazing boy in his lap and underneath his hands. Talking about the study of flirting. God, it's stupid.]

[Wistfully:] Usually, I'm just happy to see you smile. If I can manage that, I count it as a success.

[He's so in love with him. It leaves him foolish and a little dizzy every time he thinks about: the fact that he can say that to Giorno, I love you, ti amo, aishiteru, and Giorno will say it back to him.]

Hm. There really are a lot of variables when it comes to flirting, aren't there. Nonverbal cues, delivery, tone of voice, expression... [Fugo's thumb fondly brushes the curve between Giorno's neck and shoulder, up and down.] I might have to make a list. Come up with a formula.

[Usually, I'm just happy to see you smile.]

[God. How unfair. He was so ready to be terrible, to be absolutely wicked. He was all geared up to it. And then something like that. The sweetest thing anyone's ever said to him, probably. The sweetest thing anyone could say. What's he supposed to do with that?]

[In practice, all he does is stare. His lips twitch up helplessly at the corners, like some strange and incomprehensible reflex. Which, with Fugo, and especially lately, it is. He smiles so much around Fugo, and it's silly, because Fugo thinks he's such a sad person who's no fun, but he is--not heavy at all but light, the sort of person who can lift up anyone's heart.]

[Or Giorno's, at least. That's what matters, here and now.]

. . . Oh . . .

[His voice comes out so stupid. Soft and breathy and ridiculous. And it's just--he's just a mess. Fugo is so sweet to him, and every time it's absolutely destructive in slightly different ways. Now, off-kilter as he is, ready as he was to lean forward and torment his poor boyfriend who's done nothing wrong in his life but be easy to tease--he just melts a little, cards his fingers through the hair at the nape of Fugo's neck and curls in close.]

I'll help. If you want a test subject. But, um.

. . . That was at least an eight out of ten. I don't remember how I was going to tease you at all.

[Ah, there it is. The smile he was hoping he would get to see. Not that he doesn't love Giorno's smiles-- because he does. He loves Giorno's wicked smiles, sharp and toothy, his perfectly practiced charming smiles, bright and dazzling, and he even loves the smiles that aren't really smiles at all. (As much as they hurt. As much as they mean that everything is wrong.) But he has a special place in his heart for these soft, subtle smiles.]

Is that so? [He reaches out with his other hand, the one that isn't busy tracing the outline of Giorno's neck and shoulder, to settle in the dip between his waist and hip. He leans in close, foggily murmuring:] I'd like that. I'd like that a lot.

[That's... really all he can manage, before he just. Gives up on flirting, gives up on words entirely, in favor of just kissing Giorno. This kiss is slower and softer; unhurried in its affection, lingering in its sweetness. He's not worried about the time. They have all day, for whatever else Giorno has planned.]

[Oh, no. Oh, no--Giorno squeaks, overwhelmed and startled and pleased and everything, so much, when Fugo leans up to kiss him. His lips are so soft and so warm, and Giorno keeps having these moments of being startled, so shocked and surprised that he gets to kiss Fugo whenever he wants to.]

[It's one of those moments again. He doesn't want this kiss to stop. He so doesn't want it to stop that when Fugo pulls away, he follows, fingers of one hand insistent in his hair while the other hand is flat, palm-down against his chest. He's got to try to regain some kind of balance or he'll float away, but for now he's just--drifting, kissing Fugo with the kind of fondness that doesn't have words.]

[Thank God for kissing. Even when he decides he's done, he doesn't pull away, not really. That would be the worst, probably. It's Valentine's Day, he can just drape himself over his boyfriend if he wants to.]

Fugo.

[He tugs, very lightly but also very petulantly, on Fugo's hair, leaning his forehead against Fugo's as he huffs.]

You're being too cute. I was going to be wicked and I keep forgetting to. And I was going to give you your gifts but I keep forgetting that too. What am I supposed to do? You're so cute you're making me dizzy.

Shouldn't that be my line? [It's good that Giorno didn't pull far away, because that might actually count as a crime in the pit of lawless anarchy that is Ruby City. Fugo chuckles and, oh, he really can't stop smiling. He can't even pretend to be skeptical or stern or whatever. He's too happy, too dazzled, too content in his own skin to pretend to be anything what he is.] If I had been on my feet earlier, you would have knocked me right down to the ground.

[Reluctantly, his hand drifts down to rest on Giorno's hip proper. If he's going to talk about the skirt, he ought to call attention to it.]

This skirt looks pretty on you. And your tights, um-- they bring attention. To how slender your legs are.

[He. May have also sort of forgotten about the present. He'll be excited about it later, but right now-- God, Giorno is cute today. He squeaked when he was kissed. He's rosy and freckly and has their foreheads pressed together, so how can Fugo be peeved about his hair being tugged. And shy as he is, he doesn't deny or try to wiggle out of Giorno's accusation of cuteness.]

[Oh.]

. . . I wasn't trying to knock you down. Not literally. Only figuratively.

[But now he's being flattered, so he can't make himself be sorry. Ooh, he really can't. It's that weird fact: when it's just him thinking to himself how cute he is, it doesn't affect him much. It just feels like truth. But when it's Fugo--]

[Well, it's very overwhelming. He chews his lip for a moment. He's going to wear this skirt . . . forever. All the time.]

You should tell me more facts. About how cute I am today. [

]

Okay. Here are a few.

[Even though he's not the one being complimented, Fugo's pink all over. He reaches with both hands for Giorno's face, fingers sliding into his hair, his smile wide and wondering.]

Your hair... you usually tie it back. And that looks good too, very dramatic, very bold, completely unforgettable. I usually don't get to see it loose unless you're brushing it. But when it's loose like this, it frames your face and makes your jaw look rounder. Softer. [Fugo could probably run his fingers through Giorno's hair forever. He loves the texture of it, the feeling of all those curls and waves slipping through his fingers. But he pulls them out this time to carefully touch Giorno's face as he continues to speak; his brows and the bridge of his nose, the crest of his cheeks.] You're not wearing any makeup today. I can see your freckles and that, um-- that makes me think of the spring and the summer and wonder if they'll get any darker when we get more sunshine.

[Giorno's makeup routine fascinates him; how he so carefully draws lines around his eyes, darkens his lashes, evens out the tone in his cheeks, brings out the shape of his mouth with bright splashes of color. The result is Giorno, only more intense. Intense and bright and perfect. Again, Fugo's hands drift down; this time, they come to rest on Giorno's shoulders.]

Your shirt... you look very good in colors like this. I think they're... jewel tones? Is that what they're called? This shirt is purple, but it's so bright and I think that makes your eyes look brighter. It makes your everything look brighter. And I get to look at your neck and shoulders and-- [Ah. Here he goes. Fugo's pink briefly flushes darker into red, but he manages to get the word out:] stomach.

[Here is another fact that Fugo can't quite manage to say: because it has such a high waist, Giorno's skirt naturally draws the eye to the gap between the hem of his shirt and the top of his skirt. He can't not look at it.]

You look so comfortable. And happy. You've been smiling a lot today, which is the cutest thing of all.

[. . . This is it, Giorno thinks, a little dizzily.]

[Not: this is it, this is the end of me. It's not quite so dramatic. He's overwhelmed, but it's good. It's sort of a beautiful thing, actually, a brand new experience that he has to navigate instant by instant in order to properly understand it.]

[It reminds him a bit of the moment that he realized that he loved Fugo--that he was in love with Fugo. It's like that, that same bright and crystal-clear realization, but it comes without the heavy choke of fear. Because--he knows now, doesn't he, he knows that Fugo isn't going to run away anytime soon. Fugo loves him, too.]

[Fugo loves him too. Fugo . . . without question, without doubt, loves him, so much that he thinks deeply and wonderingly about every part of his appearance, what every expression means, what his freckles might look like with more sun.]

[Is this it? Is this what it feels like to no longer be afraid?]

[He shudders a little, then curls forward and presses his face against Fugo's neck and exhales sharply. His smile is so sharp it curls into his voice, leaves its fondness against Fugo's jaw.]

I am. Comfortable. And happy. You make me feel comfortable and happy. It's you, it's all you.

I've never felt so good and so . . . safe, to be myself. Before this. It's extraordinary. You're extraordinary. Do you realize?

[He ... can't just reply to that. He needs a moment, even floating in all this happiness, to make a circle with his arms around Giorno and draw him in; lean back into the armchair, close his eyes, and curl closely around this boy who's staked out a claim in the unsteady ground of his heart. Listen to him breathe. And just let those words sink in, float down to come to rest at the center of his collection of countless little observation collected through the six months they've lived together.

Objectively speaking, Fugo is not a safe person to live with or be close to. After all, Purple Haze is always with him. And no one knows better than Fugo how little control he has over his own Stand--or his own temper. There is a simple, undeniable, certain risk to associating with him.]

[And yet, Giorno feels comfortable with him; enough to share a bed with him, both on nights where it's hard to sleep and nights where it's easy. He makes Giorno happy, in so many little ways that it would be silly to try and think of them now. Giorno feels safe to simply be himself; to be a boy who likes wearing skirts, someone in love with more than one person, a cunning criminal with dangerous ambitions, the young man who grew up as a child who was told over and over again that he wasn't worth it and there was no place for him. And all of the other things that Giorno is.]

[When he's finally ready to make words, he has to admit:] Probably not as much as you would like me to. But, when I'm with you...

[Fugo trails off and opens his eyes again. He sort of wants to shift around so he can get a better look at Giorno; the way they are now, the most he can see is the top of his head, the set of his shoulders, and the curve of his spine. But he doesn't want to move him, either, not when he can feel how happy Giorno from the smile on his jaw.]

I feel very loved. I feel-- unique, in all the world. Not because of what I've done or what I can provide for you. Just by being. [Somehow. He wonders, some days, if he'll ever simply understand it in the way others surely must.] Thank you for telling me. Knowing you feel that way... I don't think I have the words for how happy I am.

I love you. Ti amo. Aishiteru.

[He understands why Giorno used that particular word. Extraordinary: very unusual, remarkable. He knows fear, has lived with it and carried it with him so long. He understands, so well, how unheard of it is to feel that way around someone; to have that sort of faith and trust in someone simply for being there. It's amazing. It means the world to Fugo to know that Giorno feels safe to be himself with him.]

[Oh. That's . . . exactly what he wanted to hear. He didn't know he wanted to hear that, he wasn't angling for it--not like he would normally be. Not how he would have been, a year or two ago. It just happens to be the perfect thing at the perfect time to make this moment perfect.]

[Fugo feels unique in all the world when he's with Giorno. He feels not only loved, but very loved, just because of who he is.]

[Good, Giorno's whole body breathes, as delight settles around his shoulders and curls at the corners of his lips. He sits up and, a little helplessly, crooks his finger under Fugo's chin to tip his face up. If he does that, Fugo has to look at him, and he can't look away either. He doesn't want to, but he doesn't trust his own courage, sometimes.]

That's all I ever want. For you to feel loved and unique in all the world. Both of those things are true.

[The idea of not kissing Fugo right now seems truly horrible. So he doesn't bother trying to resist the impulse, just leans in and kisses him softly. He always manages softness and possessiveness at the same time, but tonight that's not what he passes along. It's more along the lines of: I'm so proud of you. Look how amazing you are.]

[Reverent, that's what the word is.]

[The way his fingers curl in Fugo's hair when he pulls away is a little less reverent, more playful. But the look is still there, somewhere in his eyes. It's not as though he ever thinks Fugo isn't amazing. Not even when he's trying to embarrass him. Although in this case, Giorno would say he's helping when he picks up Fugo's hand by the wrist and presses it securely against the gap between where his shirt ends and his skirt begins.]

Aishiteru, Fugo.

[He can be sentimental and awful and smug all at the same time. He has that power. Also he wants to see how red Fugo gets. He's getting really good at it.]

[Ever since Kurama shared with him the meaning of oak-leaved geraniums and lily of the valley with him, Fugo's done a lot of reading about flowers; he's been pouring over old-fashioned books, printed a hundred years ago about which blossom means this and what color meant that. And so he found heliotropes. Little flowers who, according to the legend of Clytie and Helios, dutifully follow the sun as it makes across the sky.

Most of the books he's read told him they mean devotion. But they also mean love. The bouquet he asked Kurama to make for him, that he'll pass along to Giorno later-- it's a little silly, how blunt and clumsy the message is. But what he means to say when he gives Giorno heliotropes and pink peonies is this: I love you, always; now and forever.]

[Like a heliotrope, Fugo turns to face the warmth of Giorno's smile. He looks at him like he's shy, which he is, and with the sort of smile that can only be categorized as hopelessly in love, which is undeniably true. He doesn't shy away from what Giorno has to tell him; sighs when he's kissed, perfectly content just to be in this moment.

Content enough, apparently, that when the kiss is over he leans forward when Giorno pulls back because he doesn't really want it to stop. And he's content enough to laugh when Giorno relocates one of his hands, eyes bright and playful, even though he can feel himself going red.]

Ti amo, Giogio. [He darts forward and kisses Giorno's cheekbones, then his jaw. And since Giorno so helpfully put his hand there, his fingers slyly curl up to tickle a spot near his ribs that Fugo has learned makes Giorno giggle when it's touched.] Later, I promise. When we go back upstairs.

[His whole body crumples around that one ticklish spot, a burst of giggles tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop them. Part of him thinks it's so unfair that Fugo knows where he's ticklish; part of him thrills at it, because no one has ever--]

["No one has ever" is Fugo all over, Giorno thinks, and bites his lip, overwhelmed all over again.]

Okay. No tickling!

[It isn't as stern as he wants it to be. In part because he really doesn't mind, and in part because a thought has occurred to him. It's a thought that a couple of months ago he would have kept locked up in his own head, but now--it seems important to share it, even if he's a little bit embarrassed.]

. . . I never dressed up for anyone before, [he admits eventually.] Only for myself. I used to think it was silly that people did that, when they were--together. But I like it. I want to do it again, to see your face light up like that. And hear you laugh, maybe--I can't believe I can do that!

No tickling. [Fugo agrees to this demand peaceably, mentally adding for now to it. Because he loves making Giorno laugh like that too much to give it up even for a day. He tips his head to the side, resting his temple on the back of the armchair and keeping his hand on Giorno's waist, and listens to Giorno talk. And then he takes a moment to think on the subject himself, turning it over in his head.]

Before today, [he starts, eyebrows coming together; he's still thinking, even now.] I thought I would never want to dress up for anyone again.

[To be respectable, to be obedient; to fall in line with what he's supposed to be. He did that for years and years, until one day he was just-- sick of it.]

But I like this. Because what you're wearing-- I can tell you were thinking of me when you picked it out, because of the colors, but they're still clothes you like. And I think it's those two things together that makes me smile the most. [He quirks a smile and taps his fingers, pinky to thumb, up along Giorno's side.] Laughing, though. That's just you being you.

[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.

[Oh. Whoops? Fugo chuckles and then, because he didn't really mean to tickle Giorno again with his fidgeting, adjusts his arms in a loose embrace around his middle. Best to remove the temptation.]

Well. You are pretty.

[Fugo says it plainly, as if this is just a simple fact--because to him it is. On an every day level, Giorno's very pretty; when he wants to be, he can be devastatingly beautiful. And he's not self-conscious about it either; in fact, most of what he likes to wear (even his most masculine of clothes) draws attention to that. And Fugo mulls over it an honestly embarrassing amount. The only reason he doesn't comment more on Giorno's prettiness is his own self-consciousness.]

It felt sort of like a movie. You know, one of those silly romantic ones. I always thought it was stupid when there were shots highlighting how beautiful the protagonist was and her designated love-interest just stared at her like an idiot. [He sighs, a little pink around the edges.] ... guess I know how that feels now.

Oh, but! You're not an idiot.

[Giorno quirks a soft smile, a little self-deprecating.]

Or at least no more than I am. You just love me, right? It's okay if you stare at me because you love me so much. I do the same thing. Remember, we're in this situation because you were too pretty in this sweater. Sometimes I'm the designated love-interest.

[What a silly way to put it. He laughs a little, reaches up to play with Fugo's bangs.]

I like being in a movie with you. It's been a very lovely movie so far, and I have high hopes for the rest of the plot as well.

Wait, wait a moment. You need to explain something. [Fugo reaches for Giorno's shoulders, carefully readjusting him so he can see his face without interrupting Giorno from his bang-fiddling.] What do you mean I was "too pretty" in this sweater?

[Fugo's brows come together as he thinks back on that day. Their retroactive official-- ... anniversary, that's what it is, because that's the day they started dating to think back on how the conversation. It was cold, so he was wearing this sweater, that... yes, that's right. Giorno gave it to him. Pushed it into his arms that morning while he was still very drowsy and cheerfully pulled a promise out of him that, yes, he'd wear it and, yes, it would be specifically on that day.]

What?

[He blinks for a moment, his fingers frozen in motion. Oh. He never did properly explain that, did he? By the time they were good at talking, that was so far in the past . . .]

Well.

[He flushes a little, tucks his hair behind his ear and glances to the side for a moment before fixing his gaze back on Fugo. Nervously, he starts talking with his hands, quick darting motions between himself and Fugo to--make it seem less ridiculous, maybe.]

I wanted you to wear the sweater because I thought it would look cute on you. Because I liked to look at you! Even then . . . I liked it a lot. But then you went back to sleep and I didn't see it on you until I saw you outside, on the bench, and I couldn't--

You were too pretty! I couldn't stand it. I spent a lot of time thinking about kissing you anyway, but I couldn't think about anything else, that day.

[Fugo listens to this with wide, wondering eyes. With all their shuffling about, his sweater has settled unevenly around his shoulders and he's too distracted by Giorno's pretty hands to fix it-- which, of course, means that one of Giorno's pesky marks is peeking out along the edge of the garment's collar. He grows steadily rosy the longer Giorno goes on.

And... he's floored, really. Too pretty! That's the turn of phrase Giorno is using to describe him sitting on a bench. Eating a sandwich.]

Giogio, you... [Fugo doesn't laugh. No, not at Giorno. Never. Why would he ever laugh at his boyfriend, who's never been silly a day in his life? Fugo smiles, the corners of his mouth twitching up, and bites his lower lip. No, he shouldn't. And then he reaches out to hold Giorno's face, wondering if what he says next will make the cheeks under his thumbs puff up or go red.] You're silly. I love you.

[It's difficult to know how to react. Here's Fugo, rosy; here's Fugo, with the fading marks of Giorno's teeth peeking out from under the collar of his sweater; here's Fugo, laughing at him, or close to it. Calling him silly. Here's Fugo, comfortable enough with him now, with this now, to do that.]

[Giorno's head is spinning a little. He thinks he should be irritated, but he just can't make himself do it. Being in love is so complicated.]

Well--! I love you too.

[A beat. He puffs up his cheeks, glances sideways.]

I know it's silly. I just--honestly! I wasn't ever going to say anything. I thought it would be--inappropriate. Or forward, or something. It's not my fault you're so pretty. You've always been so pretty, and you just get prettier.

[With enough time, repetition, and supporting evidence Fugo's warming up to it; this idea that Giorno thinks he's cute. And now, he's becoming increasingly adamant that Fugo is pretty. Fugo is used to looking in the mirror and seeing someone strange--someone who will stick out, no matter what. He's not sure what to do with this idea that Giorno thinks he's cute. He knows it leaves him feeling flustered, fluttery, and-- pleased? Is that what this is?]

It's not a bad thing. [Fugo affectionately runs his thumbs over Giorno's puffy cheeks. It's cute, when he does this. Cute and very silly. He loves it. He then pulls his left hand away, precisely tracing the shape of Giorno's brow and the curve of his jaw with his fingers.] I'm glad you changed your mind and decided to said something. Both back then and today. I'm very happy right now.

Oh.

[He says it out loud, this time--the oh of realizing that oh, oh, oh, Fugo is paying attention to him, Fugo is glad, Fugo is tracing the shape of his face . . . Giorno drops his eyes, because he can't look Fugo in the face at the moment, and catches sight of those fading marks again. Remembers how pleased Fugo was, and how pleased he was, and shivers a little, closing his eyes and leaning into the touch.]

. . . I'll never be sorry for it. I'll never, ever be sorry for kissing you.

[And there's something else he won't be sorry for, not after this--not with Fugo laughing at him! Or, if not quite, then clearly thinking about it. He sighs, opens his eyes, and leans over to dig around in the gift bag on the side table--although he doesn't have to dig much. On the top of the bag is an envelope, a thick one, clearly full of paper but quite a bit of it. At least five sheets.]

[He whaps Fugo in the chest with it, lightly.]

Open this. Read it. [He was going to tell him to open it and read it in private, but. No. Not anymore he's not.]

[Ah. He's been whapped. Giorno is serious about this. Fugo takes the envelope with a bemused look on his face, testing the weight of it as he turns it over in his hands.]

This is going to take a while even for me, you know. [He slides one finer under the seam and makes as neat of a tear as he can without a letter opener and pulls out the packet of paper Giorno managed to cram in there.] How did you even get this to seal?

[But, okay. The sooner he reads whatever-this-is, the sooner they can get back to... wait. Wasn't all of that kissing and sweetness a distraction from the rest of the date Giorno had planned? Hopefully Fugo hasn't put them off-schedule.

-- right, right, he needs to read this and stop being distracted by tangents.]

Oh, I wouldn't worry about it too much.

[Very arch.]

I doubt you'll be able to get through more than the first page. But that's fine. You can pace yourself.

[Which is obviously an incredibly suspicious thing to say. But Fugo will figure out what's up soon enough, because at the very top of the very first page is a header that says: Things I Love About Fugo (An Unordered List).]

[Needless to say, it's a long list. And while it is a list, each page is packed tight with words, because each item on the list has an elaboration of at least one sentence. The list is also . . . well, a range, covering everything from personality traits to physical characteristics to Fugo's various gestures, nervous or sweet or entirely unintentional.]

[This long, detailed, very rude list is obviously something Giorno spent some time on, and also a list whose every item he believes in very strongly. The reason there's an explanation behind everything is because he wants Fugo to truly believe it. The reason it's written down is so that Fugo can look at it whenever he wants to, or needs to.]

[The reason he's chosen to give it to Fugo now, instead of telling him to open it later, is pure spite. But it's always fun to make Fugo very red in the face, no matter what the occasion.]

ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅲ

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