digiorno | ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅲ

[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.]

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.

[It's so difficult to sustain his smug satisfaction in the face of Fugo's sweet bewilderment. Honestly, though, Giorno doesn't try that hard. He's gotten his revenge, but he doesn't need to wallow in it. It's enough to know that his meaning has been understood.]

[He loves Fugo so much. Putting it down on paper really doesn't do it justice, and there's so much he's sure to have forgotten something. But it's a start.]

Fugo, [he says, and then isn't sure how to follow it up. He's in agony with how fond he is.]

[Slowly, carefully, he brushes Fugo's hair behind his ear, pulls his arm down by the wrist, and rests their foreheads together. He's smiling, soft and pleased.]

It was a real pleasure to write, you know. I love you so much, I could write a whole book about it. I could write a series.

[Fugo peeks at Giorno from underneath a bit of bangs that immediately slipped from behind his ear right back to where they like to sit, helpless and dumbfounded. A whole book? A whole series? He's so torn. Giorno is obviously exaggerating, but... no. At the same time, Fugo knows that Giorno only needs the shadow of an excuse to actually do this foolish thing.]

You are-- [He falters, unable to muster any sort of indignation whatsoever. He glances down at their hands, marveling at the loop Giorno's fingers have made around his wrist. He then looks back up at Giorno and, rather helplessly, fondly bumps their noses together.] Beyond definition. There's no one like you in the world.

I'm very glad we met.

I'm very glad we met, too. You've made my life a much more beautiful thing.

[He brushes Fugo's nose with his, then kisses the tip of it as he sits up and leans over to dig around in the gift bag for the next part of the present.]

You're ruining my reputation a little bit, though. I gave that to you here and now to tease you, and instead of feeling satisfied I'm just charmed. That's not very me of me.

[The very next layer of the gift strata is a small tin, silver and purple stripes on the outside. The inside is a bright neon green, and carefully placed on a doily are cookies. Not many--but each one is a different shape, although they're all dense and not very sweet almond cookies with tart raspberry compote between the layers. One is in the shape of a baggy sweater, not unlike the one Fugo is wearing now. One is in the shape of a sprig of mistletoe. One the shape of two hands holding, one the shape of a stubby beach umbrella. One, the most delicately and carefully crafted of them all, is a recreation of Fugo's outfit from last Halloween.]

[They're all--edible mementos. Very silly ones. But Giorno's done his best, and it's obvious he remembers . . . everything. Down to the last detail.]

[Fugo's nose scrunches up in a fussy sort of way at the kiss.]

I want it known, for the record, that I think by saying that you're still teasing me. At least a little.

[He knows what a bully Giorno is. He knows how easy it is for anyone, but especially Giorno, to bully him. It's sort of a recipe for disaster.]

[He takes the tin, turn it around carefully in his hands. He's a little tempted to shake it, but thankfully refrains. Instead, once the pattern is facing in a way he likes, he carefully eases the lid off to look at... what have to be the most complicated, silly cookies he's ever seen. He half-chuckles just at the sight at them, because how could he not?]

How did you get all those details? [The stripes on the sweater are impressively even. And although they're too small for actual notes, he can see little speckles in the scarf of the ridiculous piano costume. He carefully looks them over before picking, not quite at random, the umbrella. Like the tin, he turns the cookie around to examine the front, back, and middle.] We should go to the beach again once it's less miserable out.

[Okay, cookie properly examined. Time to give it a try. Ah! His eyebrows go up, reflecting his surprise when the tartness of the compote fully registers.]

[For once, he wasn't trying to--which doesn't mean he wasn't succeeding, obviously. It just makes him laugh a little bit under his breath, how easy it is for Fugo to feel teased even when he's just being honest.]

[Then he wrinkles his nose a little bit.]

By making a lot of mistakes until it turned out right? I would like to go to the beach, though. I want to nap on you in the sand. [#priorities]

[Ah, and Fugo likes them. He's making a cute face. Giorno wants to kiss Fugo on the nose again, but that's teasing, apparently, so he bites his lip instead.]

[Sadly, old lessons on politeness die hard. Fugo covers his mouth while he finishes his bite, making sure it's totally swallowed before he speaks up again.]

They're tart! [It's obvious from his tone of voice that this was not the flavor he was expecting and, as someone who doesn't care much for sweets but is willing to be polite and eat them in the name of romance, he's very pleased about it.] The filling-- did you use raspberries for it?

I'll take that under consideration, but only if we bring an umbrella. I don't want you to get sunburned. [... says the most easily-sunburned person in the house. But, okay.]

Of course they're tart, Fugetto, I wouldn't make you something very sweet because that wouldn't be sweet of me.

[Since that hand is in the way, he leans in and kisses the back of it, then sits back and hums contemplatively.]

Mmhm, some. About . . . a third. I experimented a lot, I still wanted it to taste like strawberries, after all! You're the one who'll be under that umbrella, by the way.

[-- ah.]

[So. As far as gestures of affection go, Fugo has done very in recent months in his self-appointed task of not being totally useless and overwhelmed even in the face of something he doesn't expect. He's very used to holding hands, sitting shoulder to shoulder, and even the way Giorno likes to either curl up as small as possible against his chest or wrap his arms around his shoulders and waist when they sleep in the same bed together.

He thought he was getting better about kisses. But, this--]

[The spot on the back of his hand where Giorno kissed him is very warm. Actually, so are his ears. And the rest of his face. Truth be told, Fugo's gone from pink around the edges back to red all over. All from a casual little kiss that Giorno was too impatient wait for his hand to fall away from his mouth to give him.]

I. Well.

[Fuck. What were they even talking about? The ... beach. And sunburns. Oh. Naps on the beach.]

The-- filling you made. It does taste like strawberries. It's very good.

[Goddamnit.]

[Oh. Giorno's stomach just--jumps. Bounces. He's shocked. It was an impatient gesture more than anything, not one meant to make Fugo so overwhelmed.]

Oh, [he murmurs, wide-eyed and staring.] Fugo, you're beautiful.

[This is too much. He touches his fingers to his lips, then takes Fugo's hand in his and kisses the back of it again, reverent. He doesn't at all know what else to do.]

[It is becoming increasingly difficult to keep everything balanced. With great care, Fugo replaces what's left of the umbrella cookie back into the tin, closes the lid, and sets it aside. There. That should be fine, for the time being. This little bit of movement helps Fugo to gather his thoughts-- but only a little. Just enough for him to have the courage to look into Giorno's eyes, bottomless and blue.

And in looking at him, Fugo can tell that, in his own backwards way, Giorno is just as overwhelmed by Fugo's reaction as Fugo is by Giorno's gesture. So much so that he can't help but do it again. It means so much. Unwavering devotion and a promise to serve, generally; half a step, for Fugo personally.]

When you say that, I can believe it.

[Fugo's fingers flex in Giorno's grip, who is holding onto him so carefully, and stretch out to touch his face. He's not sure if he'll ever be able to believe it on his own. But he trusts Girono; he can believe that when Giorno looks at him, he sees someone beautiful.]

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