I'm always happy to see you. [He bumps their foreheads together, offering Giorno another point of stability. Now it's Fugo's eyes that flutter closed as his smile twitches and unfolds, ever crooked and uneven, from the corners of his mouth while he continues to talk; his expression and voice are warm with fondness.] Even when you're forbidding coffee. Or denying that strawberry is a real color. Or not-very-subtly trying to get me to tell you when my birthday is.
[Oh. And now he's--warm and embarrassed, pink tinging his cheeks as he reaches to tug at the front of Fugo's sweater. He doesn't understand how something so simple makes him feel so dizzy.]
I didn't, um. I can stop doing that. I just . . .
[Fugo's eyes are closed, and he's smiling, and he's beautiful and perfect and--Giorno forgets what he's going to say entirely.]
[Fugo slowly shakes his head, left than right, which has the inadvertent effect of causing their noses to bump together. It's okay, is what he means. It's okay for Giorno to be every bit of his weird and particular self.]
You wanted to know, right? [He opens his eyes a little, focusing on a sidelong point that isn't Giorno. His thumb brushes over the top of Giorno's cheek again, restless and more than a little shy, and he briefly pulls his lower lip between his teeth. He lets it go and brings his eyes back to Giorno's face in one gesture and, before he loses his nerve, quietly tells him:] It's November 11th.
[Any of this, really. How bowled over he is by the delicate lines of Fugo's cheekbones and the uncertain, crooked ways his mouth moves; how desperately overwhelmed and stupid he feels from tiny gestures like Fugo's nose brushing against his; how soon it is; that Fugo told him at all; and--]
I--can't believe you found a way to make that romantic.
[It's going to ruin him. It already has. He's got a death grip on Fugo's sweater, and his face is hot, and he just--he can't, for a moment. So he doesn't, and kisses him instead, threads his fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and kisses him, all emotion and no finesse.]
[It isn't even revenge, this time. It's just an inability to make feelings into words. He's the one with his lip caught between his teeth a moment later, dazed and doing his best to meander back to human language.]
Tell me what you want, or don't, and I'll make sure that's what happens. If you want nothing, then nothing. You matter. A day is a day.
I wasn't-- [looking for anything is the sentence Fugo starts but is unable to finish, because all of a sudden Giorno is the one kissing him and has his fingers in his hair. It says nothing and everything all at once about what Giorno feels.
Whenever Giorno kisses him like this, time gets a little-- funny. He didn't mean it to be romantic, but. Oh, he realizes, a little late and sort of stupidly, that this isn't the first thing he's said to Giorno that he didn't intend to be romantic but actually very much was.]
[When Giorno pulls away, Fugo's still bowled over; caught up in the riptide of what he feels about Giorno and what Giorno feels about him. He has no time to recover to for what Giorno has to tell him. Unbidden, tears prick the corners of his eyes. He blinks, trying to chase them away, because it's so stupid, that something so simple can make him feel so much.]
I-- will. I promise. [He takes a breath to steady and then swallow down his nerves; offers Giorno a watery, but brave, smile and brushes his thumb over his cheek to make sure he knows that everything is alright.] More than anything, I-- just want to spend it with you.
[He feels--warm, staticky, jagged, happy, lost, perfect, messy. Like he's falling apart and more whole than he's ever been all at the same time. Fugo's eyes are wet. He's nearly crying, and maybe someone else would think that strange, but Giorno doesn't. Can't. He was there a moment ago. He's nearly there now, that feeling exactly between perfect and awful that hits square in the center of disbelieving.]
[He kisses Fugo again. Then he kisses next to the corner of each of his eyes, for symmetry. Everything might be all right, but that doesn't mean he can't make it more right.]
I want to spend it with you, too. So that's what we'll do, all right?
[He doesn't want to let go. He wants to stay here forever with his hands in Fugo's hair and his breath catching, exactly like this. Slowly, he exhales.]
[When his emotions run high, Fugo's natural instinct is to clench his fingers; as if by tightening his grip on whatever he's holding will strengthen his mental grasp on what he feels. Not today. Not when he's holding Giorno. He closes his eyes instead and allows it all to wash over and through him. He feels nervy, both from worrying about what would happen if he told Giorno his birthday and from telling him. He's profoundly reassured by Giorno's words and his gestures, one kiss for each damp corner of his eyes, but still a little worried, because he doesn't know how to communicate that just being with Bruno and Girono is all he could ever and more than he should want for his birthday without making Giorno sad to hear it. He's sad, too, in a way that's difficult to explain, because Giorno was so worried that he'd done something wrong by allowing himself to be supported by someone he trusted. And-- happy. He's still so happy to be here, on this stage with Giorno's fingers caught up in his hair, overwhelmed by the affection that's bouncing rather haphazardly between them.
So much of what Giorno has said today, has said to him in the past, goes against what he understands about love. And he wonders if maybe that's it: if what makes everything about this so hard is that his understanding of the subject is flawed, because all this time his own confirmation bias had spoiled the data he'd thought was so impartial. He has to tear it all down and start over. Or maybe he's already started and that's why it hurts.]
Okay. [He takes a breath, only a little shaky, and-- nods, shoulders curling forward towards Giorno.] Thank you.
[And then he kisses Giorno again, without worrying about the angle and about it being just right. Words aren't working. He doesn't know how else to express how much he appreciates this moment, how much Giorno's consideration means to him, how else to share how much he cares and how much Giorno matters to him.]
[Fugo isn't really all that good at kissing. He's practicing a lot--and to be fair, Giorno is providing him with a lot of opportunity to practice--but if he were graded on it, he wouldn't get a perfect score. If there were kissing Olympics, which Giorno thinks there should be, so he could win them, Fugo probably wouldn't place.]
[It doesn't matter, though, because that's a stupid way of evaluating a kiss. Fugo kisses him like he loves him, like nothing matters except loving him. He kisses him in a way that makes the difference between ti voglio bene and ti amo negligible at best, probably irrelevant. It doesn't matter. Fugo is happy, Fugo cares about him, Fugo wants to much to be kissing him. It makes Giorno melt into his arms a little, because once again, it's romantic without Fugo really meaning it to be. In a way, that's even better.]
[He's pretty starry-eyed when it ends. Starry-eyed eventually, when he recovers and opens his eyes. His arms have found their way around Fugo's neck, and he's smiling with that soft self-consciousness that so few people actually get to see.]
You're welcome.
[I'd do anything for you. Except he doesn't need to say that, because Fugo already knows. He bites his lip a little, too happy to think about what they were supposed to be doing. This is more important.]
You're so beautiful right now, you know? I'm glad I'm here with you.
[For just a moment, Giorno's body softens and relaxes in his arms; he doesn't worry, not for a second, about falling. Because he trusts Fugo to hold onto him, to prop him up when he's off balance. Trust. Giorno trusts him, Giorno is happy to be with him, Giorno likes to kiss and be kissed by him, Giorno thinks--
God. Giorno thinks he's beautiful. Somehow? He's already red but he's just going redder, eyes darting about but they're so close that it's honestly impossible not to look at Giorno.]
Mmph. [He never knows what to say when Giorno compliments him. Why aren't there books about this? ... actual books with good advice, not-- baffling magazines with nonsense personality quizzes. That aren't embarrassing to read.] I'm glad you're here. Even though I'm very distracted. [He presses his lips together and then, again, just so know Giorno knows and understands that this isn't a bad thing he very seriously invokes:] Blanket forgiveness.
[His smile is crooked and silly, like he's trying to be wicked but is too happy to really pull it off all that well. His fingers drift up Fugo's arm, across his shoulder, bury themselves in his hair again, all delighted, lazy energy.]
I'll start being really terrible if I know you've already forgiven me for it . . . although maybe. Maybe I'm a little sorry for keeping you from playing.
[Maybe? He seems a little puzzled about the answer himself.]
I know, but-- [Fugo does not wiggle. He fidgets. But his shifting in place and fidgeting Giorno's grasp comes very close to a wiggle; finally his fingers trail down from Giorno's face, thumb lightly tracing the curve of his jaw, to take hold instead in the fabric of his shirtfront.] That's how much I like you. I want you to be here even when you're distracting or terrible. If you're sorry or not or both about keeping me from playing... [His brows knit together. What. Was he going to play again?] J...azz. I was going to play jazz today.
[It's really cute. The way Fugo just . . . forgets, sometimes, what he was going to say to Giorno, after Giorno has been so aggressively Giorno for a little while. It makes him smile in a hazy way, one hand coming up to cover Fugo's where it's twisted in his shirt.]
[He's going to go on a date with Fugo in just a few days. He really is. The two of them. He sort of can't believe it.]
I can let you play. If you want. The jazz. You can show me some of it. If you want. I can play scales and you can pretend like I did well even though we both know I didn't. And I'll pretend like I'm not thinking about how nice you smell instead of about the notes I'm supposed to be playing.
I like playing for you. [Fugo blinks, as if he's a little surprised by his own answer. But it's true: he does like playing for Giorno, whether he gets in much practice or not.] When I was practicing for Buccellati's birthday, it made me very happy when you'd sit in and listen. And I like playing with you. [He pauses, fingers twitching underneath Giorno's hand.] Is that really something you get distracted by?
[It doesn't make sense. Giorno's the one who smells nice, since he wears perfume. Fugo thinks he must smell like the music shop: dust, ink, and paper. How is that nice.]
[That's . . . one of the most amazing things he's ever heard, actually. Very surprising, but wonderful, because he knows enough about Fugo's relationship with music to know it's an accomplishment when he enjoys any aspect of playing it. And Giorno is helping with that? That's amazing. It's incredible.]
I liked it when you showed me how to play. Even though I wasn't very good. You seemed so--like you were proud when I got something right, and you s-- [Oh.] Smiled. At me a lot. And were sitting very close.
[He may have revealed his ulterior motive beyond just making Bruno happy during those practice sessions, but. Oh . . . well. He blinks rapidly a few times and soldiers on.]
. . . Yes. All the time. For a while. You smell--soft. Like the way every library has a secret corner way in the back where you can go and just read quietly and people won't know where to find you. I spent a lot of time thinking about that, when you were showing me how to play. You smell good, you--sometimes I just want to lean against you and breathe you in.
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I didn't, um. I can stop doing that. I just . . .
[Fugo's eyes are closed, and he's smiling, and he's beautiful and perfect and--Giorno forgets what he's going to say entirely.]
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You wanted to know, right? [He opens his eyes a little, focusing on a sidelong point that isn't Giorno. His thumb brushes over the top of Giorno's cheek again, restless and more than a little shy, and he briefly pulls his lower lip between his teeth. He lets it go and brings his eyes back to Giorno's face in one gesture and, before he loses his nerve, quietly tells him:] It's November 11th.
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[Any of this, really. How bowled over he is by the delicate lines of Fugo's cheekbones and the uncertain, crooked ways his mouth moves; how desperately overwhelmed and stupid he feels from tiny gestures like Fugo's nose brushing against his; how soon it is; that Fugo told him at all; and--]
I--can't believe you found a way to make that romantic.
[It's going to ruin him. It already has. He's got a death grip on Fugo's sweater, and his face is hot, and he just--he can't, for a moment. So he doesn't, and kisses him instead, threads his fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and kisses him, all emotion and no finesse.]
[It isn't even revenge, this time. It's just an inability to make feelings into words. He's the one with his lip caught between his teeth a moment later, dazed and doing his best to meander back to human language.]
Tell me what you want, or don't, and I'll make sure that's what happens. If you want nothing, then nothing. You matter. A day is a day.
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Whenever Giorno kisses him like this, time gets a little-- funny. He didn't mean it to be romantic, but. Oh, he realizes, a little late and sort of stupidly, that this isn't the first thing he's said to Giorno that he didn't intend to be romantic but actually very much was.]
[When Giorno pulls away, Fugo's still bowled over; caught up in the riptide of what he feels about Giorno and what Giorno feels about him. He has no time to recover to for what Giorno has to tell him. Unbidden, tears prick the corners of his eyes. He blinks, trying to chase them away, because it's so stupid, that something so simple can make him feel so much.]
I-- will. I promise. [He takes a breath to steady and then swallow down his nerves; offers Giorno a watery, but brave, smile and brushes his thumb over his cheek to make sure he knows that everything is alright.] More than anything, I-- just want to spend it with you.
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[He feels--warm, staticky, jagged, happy, lost, perfect, messy. Like he's falling apart and more whole than he's ever been all at the same time. Fugo's eyes are wet. He's nearly crying, and maybe someone else would think that strange, but Giorno doesn't. Can't. He was there a moment ago. He's nearly there now, that feeling exactly between perfect and awful that hits square in the center of disbelieving.]
[He kisses Fugo again. Then he kisses next to the corner of each of his eyes, for symmetry. Everything might be all right, but that doesn't mean he can't make it more right.]
I want to spend it with you, too. So that's what we'll do, all right?
[He doesn't want to let go. He wants to stay here forever with his hands in Fugo's hair and his breath catching, exactly like this. Slowly, he exhales.]
I want you to have everything you want.
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So much of what Giorno has said today, has said to him in the past, goes against what he understands about love. And he wonders if maybe that's it: if what makes everything about this so hard is that his understanding of the subject is flawed, because all this time his own confirmation bias had spoiled the data he'd thought was so impartial. He has to tear it all down and start over. Or maybe he's already started and that's why it hurts.]
Okay. [He takes a breath, only a little shaky, and-- nods, shoulders curling forward towards Giorno.] Thank you.
[And then he kisses Giorno again, without worrying about the angle and about it being just right. Words aren't working. He doesn't know how else to express how much he appreciates this moment, how much Giorno's consideration means to him, how else to share how much he cares and how much Giorno matters to him.]
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[It doesn't matter, though, because that's a stupid way of evaluating a kiss. Fugo kisses him like he loves him, like nothing matters except loving him. He kisses him in a way that makes the difference between ti voglio bene and ti amo negligible at best, probably irrelevant. It doesn't matter. Fugo is happy, Fugo cares about him, Fugo wants to much to be kissing him. It makes Giorno melt into his arms a little, because once again, it's romantic without Fugo really meaning it to be. In a way, that's even better.]
[He's pretty starry-eyed when it ends. Starry-eyed eventually, when he recovers and opens his eyes. His arms have found their way around Fugo's neck, and he's smiling with that soft self-consciousness that so few people actually get to see.]
You're welcome.
[I'd do anything for you. Except he doesn't need to say that, because Fugo already knows. He bites his lip a little, too happy to think about what they were supposed to be doing. This is more important.]
You're so beautiful right now, you know? I'm glad I'm here with you.
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God. Giorno thinks he's beautiful. Somehow? He's already red but he's just going redder, eyes darting about but they're so close that it's honestly impossible not to look at Giorno.]
Mmph. [He never knows what to say when Giorno compliments him. Why aren't there books about this? ... actual books with good advice, not-- baffling magazines with nonsense personality quizzes. That aren't embarrassing to read.] I'm glad you're here. Even though I'm very distracted. [He presses his lips together and then, again, just so know Giorno knows and understands that this isn't a bad thing he very seriously invokes:] Blanket forgiveness.
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[His smile is crooked and silly, like he's trying to be wicked but is too happy to really pull it off all that well. His fingers drift up Fugo's arm, across his shoulder, bury themselves in his hair again, all delighted, lazy energy.]
I'll start being really terrible if I know you've already forgiven me for it . . . although maybe. Maybe I'm a little sorry for keeping you from playing.
[Maybe? He seems a little puzzled about the answer himself.]
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[It's really cute. The way Fugo just . . . forgets, sometimes, what he was going to say to Giorno, after Giorno has been so aggressively Giorno for a little while. It makes him smile in a hazy way, one hand coming up to cover Fugo's where it's twisted in his shirt.]
[He's going to go on a date with Fugo in just a few days. He really is. The two of them. He sort of can't believe it.]
I can let you play. If you want. The jazz. You can show me some of it. If you want. I can play scales and you can pretend like I did well even though we both know I didn't. And I'll pretend like I'm not thinking about how nice you smell instead of about the notes I'm supposed to be playing.
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[It doesn't make sense. Giorno's the one who smells nice, since he wears perfume. Fugo thinks he must smell like the music shop: dust, ink, and paper. How is that nice.]
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[That's . . . one of the most amazing things he's ever heard, actually. Very surprising, but wonderful, because he knows enough about Fugo's relationship with music to know it's an accomplishment when he enjoys any aspect of playing it. And Giorno is helping with that? That's amazing. It's incredible.]
I liked it when you showed me how to play. Even though I wasn't very good. You seemed so--like you were proud when I got something right, and you s-- [Oh.] Smiled. At me a lot. And were sitting very close.
[He may have revealed his ulterior motive beyond just making Bruno happy during those practice sessions, but. Oh . . . well. He blinks rapidly a few times and soldiers on.]
. . . Yes. All the time. For a while. You smell--soft. Like the way every library has a secret corner way in the back where you can go and just read quietly and people won't know where to find you. I spent a lot of time thinking about that, when you were showing me how to play. You smell good, you--sometimes I just want to lean against you and breathe you in.