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A languid stretch; and Fugo’s arms rise well above the top of his head. His knees pop and long legs extend underneath soft duvets, his toes flex up and down on an early Sunday morning. Elongated like a cat a crooked yawn escapes him, and the sudden noise goes unnoticed by the still sleeping body beside him. Don Giovanna’s rosettes hang off his face and his gold lion’s mane stretches out atop of a feather down pillow.
Fugo hovers over him, boxing the restful Don between outstretched arms. “Sleep in.” A small reminder to consider how late it was when they finally managed to escape the day’s work.
A hand sweeps through Giorno’s bangs parting the loose rosettes and after a few more careful passes Giorno’s face is finally clear. Fixed with adoration he watches from above finding peace in the rhythm of the even rise and fall of his chest. Healthy, strong, and content; it’s all Fugo ever wants to see. His smile is crooked, and he sighs wistfully as the body underneath him just begins to stir.
Giorno mumbles something that Fugo can’t quite make out. Though he’s partially distracted at how the sun peaks through the dark sheer bedroom curtains and coats the Don in morning light. Like a moth coveting the warmth of a lamp’s glow Fugo leans in ever so slightly. An aid as Giorno’s hand reaches up to cup the left side of Fugo’s face.
He’s only partially awake but manages to thread his fingers further into Fugo’s hair; an unspoken beckoning and Fugo moves in closer. Lips press a soft kiss to Giorno’s forehead; emotion and feeling reciprocated as Giorno leans up to kiss Fugo’s cheek. “I’ll get up right after you.”
Fugo smiles; he smiles even though he can’t feel the sensation of Giorno’s lips to the left of his cheek, and the glide of Giorno’s hand moving down across the scared tissue of his neck. Pleased, the Don curls his hand back to his chest, and stills.
--
Fugo’s face twists in the mirror, and a wet toothbrush is held to the right side of his mouth. He pushes up and down on the pads of his feet as he leans in. Hands gripping at the counter he cements a scowl on his face. A focused stare as he draws in the stretch of skin to the left of his mouth.
The doctor said it was a good exercise; ‘the stretching of scar tissue helps to align the collagen to make the skin more flexible’ and it had been in practice for several months now. Fugo forced his face to freeze at any off-hour intervals; at times he would find himself in the middle of dinner with his mouth stretched apart. Often his lips were pulled in a strained pout as Fugo worked throughout the day.
Though Fugo wasn’t too terribly expressive in today’s standards. His brow was normally furrowed, and the line of his mouth always seemed to be connected at the seam of pressed lips, but he’s been making an honest improvement since the first day. He wonders why it even matters.
--
“I like your smile.” Giorno tells him one day a few short weeks after Fugo’s integration back into Passione. Thin fingers rise to press at the mangled scar tissue to the left of his mouth. There’s a ghosting feeling there one that he can’t really sense. It’s the conclusion of breaking Purple Haze’s virus capsule between his teeth. It’s the result of spitting death in the face of another, and the scar traces down the left side of Fugo’s face and down his neck. It stops just inches before his collar. His smile is crooked; he eats and chews with the right side of his mouth. Fugo speaks with half a breath, half a voice and he can’t ever get a word in edgewise in a busy room.
“Don’t.”
--
Fugo doesn’t think often about his scar, but he knows how ugly it makes him look. He can tell when people are staring; he can recognize the pity in their expression as they avoid his eyes when Fugo speaks. Concern fixes on the drop of people’s stare; fear falls on the curls of people’s lips as they hold their tongue before they speak. That’s the smart thing to do. “It’s okay.” Fugo already knows what they’re going to say; they always ask the same thing anyway. “I deserved it.”
Fugo didn’t care much about the vanity; typically he only saw himself twice each day. Once in the morning and once at night, and he’s learned in the first few months to stop looking at it. He accepts it as if half of him isn’t even there.
Though it’s never interfered with the work he’s able to produce for Giorno. If anything, certain things came with an added efficiently.
Mista never seems as hesitant on pointing it out, “I think you got these guys intimidated Fugetto.” Mista’s strong hand pushes on Fugo’s shoulders one afternoon; and Fugo swears it was an honest attempt at knocking him over. They had just been dismissed from a meeting involving a few local capos, and typically they always had to get past Fugo’s initial presence first. Standing at Giorno’s left he would watch them as they funneled in through the door with red eyes and an indignant press of his mouth. He never smiled during these meetings, but Fugo made it a personal mission statement to stare down at each capo as they stood encircled around the Don. With a pointed clear of Giorno’s throat the meeting would start.
“They take one big look, at that nasty thing on your face and they know not to fuck with any of us.” His smile is crooked, and Fugo knows where’s Mista is coming from. He’s trying to help. This is supposed to be a battle scar, a reminder of Fugo’s survival. Though it’s never felt that way before.
“As long as it benefits Don Giorno.”
--
When Giorno touches him Fugo’s skin is alight, and a pleasant warmth pulses against each point of contact. Fugo can feel the life there and Giorno’s energy marks a path with every touch.
When Giorno kisses him Fugo fails to see through the lens of his own self-perceived image. Intrusiveness dies the second soft hands cup at the hard line of Fugo’s jaw.
His heart had burst into a pile of string at the first kiss of Giorno’s hand and every small touch, every soft kiss, and every spoken word since is a small knit. String gathers, and eventually Fugo finds himself waiting to be complete again.
His smile is crooked and when Giorno kisses him Fugo forgets that he can only recognize half of himself.
He can feel the life in every kiss Giorno gives.
Until the second he can’t, and it’s like being thrown into the ocean. Paralyzed with shock as the water takes, enveloping to create a cold and rigid body. He’s held just below the surface and Fugo watches desperately, miserably as he descends with nothing but himself as the sink. The stitches in Fugo’s heart pull apart; unraveling and he gets farther and farther away with the slack.
Fugo tries not to make it obvious when he first pulls away; but his body reacts like a tremor as he recalls the feral scar attached to the side of his face. Though caught in Giorno’s embrace he doesn’t go anywhere far, he doesn’t go anywhere at all but Fugo prays that the Don didn’t notice him flinch.
There’s a silence that follows and Fugo feels like the only thing he can hear is the soft grind of his teeth. “I can fix this.” and the edge of Giorno’s thumb sweeps over the bottom of Fugo’s lips before tracing the scars outline, jaw to neck and back again. “…if you don’t like your scar...” a blue mood overtakes gold, and as Giorno speaks Fugo can recognize how a sadness settles.
A shake of Fugo’s head and his smile is crooked as he pulls at the Don’s embrace and wipes a sweaty palm against his leg. “It’s fine Giogio, I’ve gotten used to it.”
Giorno doesn’t say anything after that, though he tips Fugo’s face back slightly and glances down at the scar in its entirety. Fugo’s hands tighten into a fist, opening, closing, opening, closing but he doesn’t feel the same scrutiny that’s normally recognized under Giorno’s gaze.
Fugo just feels lost, and searches Giorno’s face frantically for a readable expression. His head is quickly tilted back down, the soft turn of Giorno’s mouth goes undefined through Fugo’s eyes. Another soft kiss, one that’s firm and reassuring, one that says, ‘okay’ and Fugo’s already forgotten what they were discussing in the first place.
Fugo eventually becomes accustomed to the lack of sensation; he never brings it up to Giorno again and all talk of fixing maimed skin dies one night.
--
“I can’t feel it.” Fugo tells Giorno one day following a few doting kisses to the left of his cheek. Giorno blinks at him for a few moments, lips pursed as he withdraws a last kiss from Fugo’s face. He feels lame at the panic that was coiling in the pit of his stomach, and immediately clears his throat to clarify. His eyes squeeze shut as an automatic response, “When you kiss my scar, I can’t feel it.” and Fugo’s already recoiled within himself; ashamed at the secret he’s kept for so long. Pathetic as he continues to hide himself.
Hands flail to find Giorno’s elbows, and there’s a weak attempt to pull the Don’s arms apart.
“Fugo.” Giorno’s voice is soft. It moves against the shell of Fugo’s ears like velvet and one of the Don’s fingers stoke at the underside of his chin.
His head shakes in stubborn refusal as he forces his silence. He knows, Fugo knows that if he opens his eyes he’ll melt. He’ll give and cave to whatever Giorno has to tell him. Though Giorno refuses to take his hands away from Fugo’s face, fighting against every weak attempt.
“I know Panna.” and Fugo couldn’t make his surprise any less evident as Giorno suddenly takes up his entire line of sight. Red to green, and discourse blossoms.
Why did he act like such a complete brat?
“You know?” and there’s a telling smile as Giorno leans in to press another soft kiss atop the scar. Fugo still can’t feel it. “I’ve known for a while. I put two and two together after I tried to wake you one morning, and you didn’t stir…”
Fugo eyes are cast down and a blush blooms across the bridge of Fugo’s nose. His face quickly enshrouds with color. Pink to red.
“You’ve known for months, but still…”
“I don’t let it stop me because I love kissing your scar.” There’s a pause, and the tips of Fugo’s bangs tickle the top of his cheek as Giorno pushes them all away. “That’s okay right?”
Fugo can’t help the way his heart jumps up into his throat, “Y-yeah! No, it’s okay. I-I like it when you kiss me, but that doesn’t change anything…”
There’s a confidence residing in Giorno that Fugo loves; a confidence in action that he can never seem to replicate on his own. The hands to his jaw hold him with a purpose, and the smirk on Giorno’s face is painfully mischievous and all the more ripe with solution.
Giorno leans in to kiss Fugo’s ear, and a sound catches in his throat. The place Giorno’s lips leave tingle with a loud energy. “Can you feel that?”
“Yes.” Fugo replies, feet shifting in their place unsure of Giorno’s direction. He could always feel that. “…and this...” there’s no hesitation and another kiss gets aimed at the bridge of Fugo’s nose, the corner of Fugo’s eye, and the top of Fugo’s brow. “Yes, I can feel it.” A sensation kindles right underneath flushing skin; and Fugo promises that he’ll always commit the feeling to memory.
Eyes blink at a sudden realization and he almost pulls away completely. Though he’s grateful as Giorno holds him still, lips parting in a careful grin as Giorno recognizes the epiphany.
“Good.” Giorno dotes tilting Fugo’s face up to kiss at the underside of Fugo’s lip. Skin affixed with warmth as Giorno continues. Fugo ceased for words and thought as kisses pepper his face.
“I can feel it.” Fugo recites and his hands move from Giorno’s elbows to his shoulders pulling him into a hug like a revelation.
The kisses are varied, and Fugo’s face burns with energy, life, love and warmth. The feeling sinks just underneath the skin, and Fugo’s eyes close as he focuses in. Giorno makes a path from one ear to the other; kissing across the bridge of Fugo’s nose.
“I can feel it.”
Fugo can feel the slack pull and keep taught as he rises. His hands break the water’s surface first. Giorno’s right there, their hands catch together with nothing less than half a step between them.
Giorno spends a couple minutes afterwards pressing kisses to the contorted scar on Fugo’s face, and Fugo relishes in the way it softly burns.
--
“Classical conditioning.” Fugo reassures himself one afternoon with Giorno seated in his lap. Their legs draped across the empty space of the love seat, and it’s the first time he’s really said it out loud. Though he could hear Mista’s chiding in the back of his mind, as if they were in the same room. “…just like one of those dogs, salivating for their dinner!” and Fugo’s face sours as he imagines Mista’s cackle, a hand smacking against the Gunman’s thigh as the doubles over.
It took less than two weeks for Fugo to be classically conditioned. Some things he didn’t have to learn; dogs don’t learn to salivate whenever they see food and Fugo doesn’t learn to blush being a subject of Giorno’s affection. Giving into feeling; the response is just natural.
Eventually Fugo learns to the forget the fact that this is just a trick of his brain. All doubt is continually lost when Giorno tilt’s Fugo’s head to the right and kisses him squarely on the cheek. Fugo’s elated laugh turns into a sigh and his hug around Giorno’s waist tightens.
“That’s right.” Giorno confirms, and Fugo’s smile is crooked as he feels as light as he’s ever been. Just hovering above the ground, their hands clasped together. Giorno lets him fly in the feeling, without being too far away. Elation surges from his chest, eyes sparked with pure adoration as his grin fails to fade. Fugo’s never been more in love with the boy in his lap.
“I like your smile.” Giorno tells him, in between kisses.
“It’s crooked. I think it’ll always be crooked, but I like it too.”