Archive of Our Own ^beta

His stomach grumbles, basic biological function doing its part to sabotage him. A tempting slice of strawberry shortcake makes its silent appeal to him. A waitress had come by half an hour prior, politely asking if he would like to order yet. Burdened by a reverie for what was to come, Fugo stumbled out an order. It was only when the plate clicked onto the wooden table that he realized his mistake.

Would you think it rude that he ordered without you? Or, worse, would you put two and two together to deduce he’s been here way in advance? Troubled by these thoughts, he opted not to touch the cake, much to the chagrin of his empty stomach. It’s not his fault he hasn’t had an appetite all day. God, he wishes he did. All that he’s got in his system is two shots of espresso to treat a night of restless sleep. Caffeine was both a blessing and a curse, in this instance. It gave him a much-needed energy boost for the day ahead, yet further set his frayed nerves aflame.

The bell rings again.

It still isn’t you.

Sighing, he takes the juiciest strawberry from atop the cake slice and bites in. Surely you wouldn’t notice such an insignificant detail missing, not if he smooths the layer of icing out where it once sat… he almost groans aloud at his thoughts. This is misery — this is torture. No working of Dante Alighieri's imagination could conjure such a visceral punishment as this.

Once more, the bell sounds.

This time, Fugo doesn’t bother fixing his gaze upon the door, not wanting to face disappointment for the umpteenth time. What was that English saying? Fool me once, shame on you? Fool me twice, shame on me? Something like that, he thinks. To any perceptive onlooker, he must look foolish. Perhaps he’s started to earn their sympathies. He can imagine it now: the elderly couple sitting at the adjacent table whispering poor thing, waiting for a date that won’t show. Or the high school students meeting at the counter stifling their laughs and placing bets at his expense.

“Panni!”

Oh, great, now he’s even hallucinating your voice. He has got to see a psychiatrist one of these days.

Huh, now wait a second. The person standing in front of him looks suspiciously like you. She has the same sweet smile, hair, and even her eye’s pigmentation is similar. Right down to the twinkle he’s written sappy poems about that later make a home in the bottom of his trash can after he realizes how pathetic he’s being.

A hand waves in front of his face.

“Pssst, Earth to Panni, come in.”

Fugo blinks. Why would someone be waving their hand in front of him? Are proper manners a thing of the past? His eyes refocus on the figure standing before him, blurred shapeless colors coming together to form a sharper image.

That’s you. You’re finally here.

With all the grace of a newborn fawn, he stands, his chair scraping against the ground and producing an unholy noise. Luckily, no one seems to hear over the sounds of brewing coffee and silverware scraping against plates. He thinks he might choke when he finally gets a good look at you, the tie around his neck feeling noticeably tighter.

You stand before him in all your glory, lips pink and glossy, wearing a pale yellow sundress with floral patterns. There’s something shiny on your cheekbones, too — highlighter, he thinks it’s called — adding an ethereal glow to your skin so bright he thinks he might need to look away or risk being blinded. And that pleasant perfume has got to be criminal. He’s familiar with it, having bought it for your past few birthdays. He purchased a smaller vial for himself, an admittance he’s not proud of. On his worst nights, he’d spritz the heavenly aroma upon his pillow, holding it to his chest and inhaling deeply; pretending that it was you within his grasp.

You are so… so beautiful, so enchanting, boasting an allure that’d put Botticelli’s Venus to shame. Say it, Fugo, he tells himself. Come on, compliment her already. Stop being a coward.

“Ah, [First], I apologize for that,” he loosens his tie. “Wow… you look…”

In his peripherals, he notes a few figures whose heads have turned to follow you. Frustration thrums to life like an engine after the ignition’s been turned. That’s all it takes for him to almost lose his cool — some strangers whose eyes rake over you longer than he’d prefer. Deep within, tucked in a place he wishes would just disappear already, Purple Haze voices its displeasure. His Stand represents an ugly side of himself he’s been working hard to overcome.

It’s for this reason, that he takes a deep breath, mentally pushing Purple Haze down into the abyssal depths. Nothing is going to ruin this date for him.

“Good. I mean, ahem, really good. Is that— is that a new dress?”

Remembering his manners, he pulls out your chair. You sit your purse aside then take your seat across from him. While he wasn’t able to shower you with as many compliments as he would’ve preferred, this is a step in the right direction. At least the words didn’t get caught in his throat as he feared.

“It is, actually,” you confirm. “I went shopping with Trish the last time she was in town and picked this up. Forty percent off, can you believe that? That’s why I buy winter clothes in the summer and summer clothes in the winter. You can’t beat the prices.”

Fugo can’t help but chuckle into his hand. Many moons ago, when you were both teenagers, it was necessary to count your change and scour magazines for coupons. Not so much now, with the substantial increase in salary Passione offered. Old habits die hard, he guesses. He can practically imagine Trish coercing you into buying something more expensive, while you remain adamant about hovering around the clearance aisle.

He’s always appreciated that fiery side of you. It caused you both to butt heads while your prefrontal cortexes were still in development, but those are memories he looks back on fondly now. It’s just one of the many things he loves about…

“Your order, miss?”

The waitress from earlier makes her appearance, interrupting his train of thought, much to his relief. You put in your request — a slice of tiramisu, no drink, which he found odd — then your attention is back on him. The sun itself must be working in tandem with you, streams of light flowing through and basking you in radiance. He was never a strong believer in the Catholic faith, but by god, if you told him you were a saint, he’d believe it.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long. I thought traffic wouldn’t be so bad this time of the day and kinda forgot tourists are a thing. Listen, if there’s ever legislation proposed to ban those abhorrent tourist buses, just know I’m going to enter the political process. I’ll hand out petitions and everything.”

Fugo’s lips quirk upward. “Tourists are good for business, you know. The steady increase in revenue benefits the city greatly.”

“Entering treasurer mode, are you, Signore Fugo?” You tease, to which he huffs. Honestly, you need to be more careful with what you say in public, but he’s never had the heart to chastise you. Not when he’s wound so tightly around your finger. “But really, I’m sorry for being late.”

He waves it off, not wanting to linger on that aspect any longer. The miserable few minutes he spent wondering if your date was a practical joke he wasn’t in on are now, gratefully, a thing of the past. You’re here and so is he. There may have been some stressors along the way, but he’s hellbent on making the most of the time you’ve given him.

Your tiramisu is brought over not long after. Unlike him, you’re quick to dig in, a content hum leaving your lips after taking a bite. In doing so, you lean closer over the table. Consequently, Fugo is treated to a clear view of your cleavage, and he swears his mind temporarily shut down. It takes every ounce of his strength for his gaze not to linger. He still ends up crossing his legs to be on the safe side.

This dizzying effect you had on him… it had to be dangerous. Beguiling woman, he thinks. He’s convinced that if you asked him, he’d be willing to tear his heart from his chest and present it without hesitation. If only he knew how to verbalize an ounce of his adoration. What manages to seep through the cracks pales in comparison to what he really feels. Plank by plank, he built a dam so his reverence would remain concealed, yet you took it upon yourself to tear it down.

“Have you been getting enough sleep, Panni?” You query, eyebrows arching together in worry.

Not at all, he thinks. How could he sleep when he knew his date with you was rapidly approaching?

“I try to,” is the answer he decides to go with, finding it honest enough. “Sleep is… well, picky about when it wants to go well. It’s nothing to concern yourself over.”

Having experienced your compassion too many times to count, he doubts that last addition will sway you, an assumption that’s quickly proven correct.

“I could always stay the night over at your place. Y’know, drink some wine, play some board games — relaxing stuff. There are candles that help you sleep, too! We could try that, or maybe…”

You continue brainstorming aloud, but Fugo is so enraptured by the boldness of your first sentence to follow the rest. He has to squeeze his jaw shut to keep it from dropping.

Stay the night. At his place. Stay the night. You. In his apartment. Holy shit. He needs to get his head out of the gutter before it becomes permanently wedged there. Were you unaware of how that came off, when spoken to a man? Did you view him as a man? The thought troubles him, and he worries over his knuckles, ruminating despite his best efforts not to. You must see some romantic potential in him, having accepted his date offer. He did make an active effort to call it a date, so it can’t be an issue of miscommunication.

“... I hear the changing of seasons can impact sleep, too. Have you tried taking allergy medicine?”

“I’ll, um, I’ll give it a shot.”

That came out lamer than he intended. He balls his hands into fists atop his lap, finding that he loathes the sound of his own voice. Usually, it isn’t this difficult to speak with you. You’re one of the few individuals he feels most comfortable with. It’s the situation that’s troubling him so. You must have different expectations of him now, expectations that he doesn’t know if he can live up to.

Can he be a partner worthy of you as he is now?

This is the question that haunts his subconscious at night when he’s alone with his thoughts. At some point, he decided he just needs to act, while he still can. You’re growing more beautiful by the day — it’s an honest-to-goodness miracle that you’ve remained single. He can’t keep biding his time. If he does, he might regret it for the rest of his life.

Today is the day he’ll tell you. It has to be.

The rest of the lunch is relatively uneventful. You inform him about the latest developments in your life, ask for his thoughts on a book you recently lent him, and pester him to take more time off of work. While not entirely at peace, Fugo manages to keep up without embarrassing himself. He grows increasingly convinced that you’re an angel incarnate. The way you craft a comfortable atmosphere that even a bundle of nerves like himself can somewhat relax is impressive.

The check arrives (which he whisks away before you can, to which you snap your fingers in faux disappointment), and you’re both on your merry way. Fugo purposefully walks to shield you from the men who had been leering earlier, shooting them the nastiest glare when you’re not looking. He holds the door open, wishes the jingling doorbell goodbye, parting ways with the sound that’d been the bane of his existence this past hour.

Passerbys swarm by in a flurry of different languages and directions. You were right about the tourists — this area was a prime location for them to congregate. A few people brush shoulders with you, too occupied with a map in their hands to watch where they’re going. Fugo is about to tell them off, and you must sense this, as you shake your head and smile sheepishly.

“It’s not a big deal, maybe his wife went into labor and he’s looking for the hospital or something,” you joke. Fugo wills his rage to subside upon hearing your wish, not wanting to make a scene. A bright gleam shines in your eyes that has him swallowing thickly. He knows that look. More specifically, he knows that look means you’re up to nothing good.

You outstretch your arm. Before he can comprehend it, you’re interlinking your fingers, the soft sensation of your hand against his sending his head to cloud nine. He can’t believe it. You’re holding his hand of your own volition. Was this a dream? He must be wearing his heart on his sleeve, as you purse your lips together and hesitate.

“Ah, was that too bold? I’m sorry if—”

You start to pull your hand back, fearing you crossed a line, only for Fugo to give a gentle squeeze.

“It’s alright. I don’t mind.”

He isn’t sure who he’s trying to convince — you or himself. Really though, he couldn’t believe this is what embarrassed you, not stating in public that you’d sleep over at his place. You’re a woman of many mysteries, he decides.

“In that case, where to next, Signore?”

Fugo had made a spreadsheet for your date today for preparation’s sake. There are two main elements: getting lunch and finding a place to talk afterward. He had backups for if it rained, if his first choice of caffè was too busy; even another plan for if it was particularly windy out. Every variable had been under significant thought and scrutiny. Since the weather is agreeable, he intends to bring you to a secluded spot overlooking the Gulf of Naples.

“It’s a secret. Will you be able to keep up with me in those shoes?”

You puff your cheeks out. “Without issue, thank you very much. And a secret? C’mon, at least give me a hint.”

“I don’t want to hear any complaints. And no, don’t give me that look. It’s not going to work.”

“Blink twice if it’s— ah, Fugo, wait up!”

It doesn’t take long to reach the location Fugo had in mind, as per his meticulous planning.

It’s a public park that few know about. Due to it being within walking distance of Libeccio, Fugo had made the pilgrimage here many times, finding the spot perfect for getting a breath of fresh air when he needed time to himself. The sun is a little shy over an hour from setting, yet the benches will offer the best seats for witnessing it.

With some reluctance, he pulls his hand away (you hadn’t let go even after the crowds thinned down), then takes a seat.

You take it upon yourself to sit right next to him, thighs touching.

“I—”

“You know—”

The both of you start and stop talking all at once. Fugo clears his throat then motions for you to continue, deciding whatever you have to say takes precedence.

“Ah… in retrospect, I feel so silly. You won’t believe the things I was worrying myself over this morning,” you shake your head, sounding incredulous. “If I’m being honest, I barely caught a wink of sleep last night. I kept finding excuses to get up. Setting out different outfits, mulling over what shade of eyeshadow to use… the most inane things, really. God, I was beat when that alarm went off.”

Fugo raises an eyebrow, yet you continue on.

“Get a load of this. In my fatigued delirium, I mixed up my sour cream and cream cheese. Ended up making for an awful blueberry scone. Hands down, one of the worst things I’ve tasted.”

“I never knew you had difficulty sleeping.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Pannacotta Fugo.”

“[First] [Last]...?”

“Don’t tell me you’re this dense,” you point at him accusingly. “You? One of the smartest people I know, if not the smartest?”

He swears he feels his heart jump to his throat at the compliment. In truth, Fugo had some possible explanations for what you were saying. It was the small possibility that he might be setting himself up for disappointment that stopped him from pursuing the reason. For this reason, he keeps his lips shut, while contemplating the best course of action to take. Was this it? The opening he’s been waiting for? He hears his heartbeat in his ears as warmth envelops his trembling body.

“I treasure you deeply, Fugo. I have for the longest time. Your intellect, sharp wit, how I know I can rely on you for anything and everything… it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say I consider you my best friend. But, if, um, it’s alright with you, I think I’d like to be more than that. Ah, are you alright? P-Panni?”

Fugo furiously wipes his damp cheeks against his sleeve, weakly muttering that something got in his eye.

When he gathers the courage to look at you again, for a moment, he’s afraid of what he might see staring back at him. Would there be shame upon your visage like what he saw on his father? Shame in your eyes as there was in his mother’s? Or, even worse yet, what if you change your mind and leave him behind? He’s keenly aware of what it's like to be abandoned after your prestige fades away, dull where it once shined brightly.

There is no such expression on you.

With the hand that had been holding his earlier, you cup his face, brushing away the few tears that slipped past with your thumb.

“Would you take me as yours, Panni?”

“Would I take you?” He laughs, the sound light and fleeting, like a fresh breeze rustling blooms in spring. “I should be the one asking you that, [First]. Do you… do you know what you’re getting yourself into? I’m by no means a perfect man.”

“And I am by no means a perfect woman. Ah, I know that look, no arguing, Signore. I’m really not. That’s not what matters — what matters is that we try our best for one another, yes?”

He does truly believe it to be sacrilegious that you do not consider yourself perfect, but he knows how to pick and choose his arguments. To him, you were the closest thing to it, a being so divine he worried his sinful flesh might corrode from coming into contact with you. Fugo gazes down at you through half-lidded eyes. Shades of red paint themselves across his neck, cheeks, and ears. The softness of your lips is all he can bring himself to focus on.

“May I kiss you, [First]?”

When he was younger, he used to scoff at the romantic poets who weaved together melodramatic stanzas dedicated to their lovers. Romance had been his least favorite genre for that very reason. Living in a world of monochrome and only seeing in color when your beloved was present? Little Fugo scoffed at such silly notions (how unscientific was that)!

It was only when he began to fall for you that he realized they might have a point. Maybe two. No more than that, he reasons. 

Subconsciously, he begins to lean forward, feeling drawn to you like opposite sides of a magnet. To his chagrin, you press your pointer finger against his wanting lips. He almost growls at having been interrupted.

“Only if you answer me this,” you whisper, your warm breath fanning across his face, “How long have you wanted to?”

Out of all the difficult questions that have been posed to him in his life, this might be the easiest.

He gingerly pulls your hand aside, presses his lips against the inside of your wrist, then murmurs,

“Ever since I laid eyes on you.”