♥*♡∞:｡.｡「Fugo Loveposting」｡.｡:∞♡*♥

「 Of Loneliness, Home and Other Flavors. 」

In which you and Fugo live together in the middle of the woods.

This was going to be something entirely different then it turned into... cottagecore? Is this cottagecore? You'll still get that different thing though, eventually.

⳾*⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*⳾

Perhaps it was the wind rustling the tall grass that surrounded the cabin, or the howling that it produced when doing so. Maybe it was the setting sun, weeping shades of red and orange that dyed the landscape below the nearby cliff, or contrary to it, sunrise, sweeping away the darkness of cold nights to welcome you once again.

Something about here, about this place, it felt like home.

Of course, an orphan like you couldn't remember her hometown. If you squinted, reaching deep into the cavern that guarded your distant memories, maybe, just maybe, you could remember the face of someone only slightly older than you, an older sibling you'd considered, or just somebody who might've picked you up on the street. Whoever that had been, they held your hand, theirs was cold but you held it back, and even then they only dropped you near a villa and you were on your own from there.

Growing up in the woods by yourself you learned the essentials, by the time you were about to flourish into adulthood you'd raised a cabin from the ground up. You learned to speak the language of common men and how to exchange currency for goods and goods for currency.

You learned to wear clothes and to use tools and utensils, though alone you had not been isolated and that much showed.

Everything that surrounded you might've been alien and strange, but you had pushed past it. You had grown up, the strangeness may have not ever left, but you were at peace with it.

Yet nothing and nowhere ever felt like home.

Not the swirling night sky, not the howling wind, not the red cries of the sunset. What had changed then? With that in your mind, you looked over your shoulder.

"Should I make it spicy...?" You heard him mumble to himself, lips barely parted as words slipped under his breath. He gently stirred the contents of the pot on the stove, his movement as calculated as it always was, you noticed with time that he moved like that no matter how simple the activity.

You centered on his hands for just a moment, big and steady but quite thin, slender fingers and knuckles full of scars. You made your way up his arm, to his face... so gentle and soft, features fine and beautiful, expression relaxed, skin seeming warm, blonde eyelashes fluttering twice.

"But, Fugo can't handle spice," you said, not giving it much thought. His shoulders raised in response to the words reaching his ears, and he whipped his head toward you.

"I can handle spice," he stated, scowling. When his brows furrowed, his nose would scrunch up which you found endearing. You giggled.

"No way."

"Just because I don't bite into wild peppers as if they were apples like someone I know doesn't mean I can't handle spice."

You shrugged. "Narancia can't handle spice then."

He paused, eyes drifting aside. "I've never asked him..."

You shook your head and went back to carving the block of wood between your hands. The piece was on a very early stage, but you could picture it taking shape later on. Resisting the urge to look back at him, you heard Fugo grumble to himself as he looked through the kitchen cabinets.

You had been surprised the first time you met Pannacotta Fugo. That villa you had never strayed much too far away from belonged to a wealthy family of foreigners, a marriage and their three sons, youngest of which was your now companion.