Work Text:
In Fugo’s earliest memory, he’s tugging on his grandmother’s skirt. He can’t remember what he was bothering her for, or even how old he was, but Fugo can still recall the stiff wool between his fists, the slight itch on his soft adolescent palms from the tweed. Later, he’d be sitting with her as she fed all sorts of fabrics through a machine, and Fugo would realize that she’d made that skirt, and the rest of her wardrobe, and the sweaters Fugo gets for Christmas every year. As he grew, he’d help her trim fabric, or poke thread through needles, learning more and more about the humble art of sewing under her careful tutelage, until he was tall enough to work the register at her tailor shop and smart enough to count change.
He was only ten when he made his first dress. His grandmother had shown it off so proudly; to anyone who came into the shop she’d say, “Look at little Panni’s first garment,” and, “It’s very in-Vogue, don’t you think?”
It’s still displayed in the shop window to this day. Right underneath the aging sign that reads Fugo’s Fabrics, Finery, & Tailoring. It’s far from Fugo’s finest work, of course, but it stands as a reminder of the love and pride his grandmother held for him. Fugo had inherited the shop from her about five years ago now, and he likes to think he can still smell her perfume in every inch of wool, feel her wrinkled palms in the thread and fabrics weaving through his hands. Even the jewelry display sounds like her, the gentle melody of earrings and pearls clinking together.
Fugo is in the back of the shop reorganizing spools of yarn when he hears the bell at the front of the shop. It’s pretty late for a customer, Fugo thinks. Usually he only gets old ladies stopping by after church services and book clubs, or creative girls with Etsy shops. He doesn’t have any tailoring appointments, either, and his friends haven’t made any plans to stop by.
He can’t complain too much, he reminds himself. New customers are important for keeping the lights on.
Fugo heads back to the front of the store, pushing his apprehension to the back of his mind. There’s a man sifting through one of the baskets Fugo keeps near the register, scraps of fabric he sells at a discount, and he’s dressed sort of like he put all of his clothes on in the dark, with mismatched patterns and textiles. The gaudy, cheetah print fur coat is almost enough to make Fugo kick him out of the store.
The man’s head snaps up as Fugo approaches the counter. “Oh, good, I was starting to think you were closed.”
“In that case, you’d be trespassing,” Fugo says, pointedly. The man raises an eyebrow but doesn’t dispute that, stepping away from the fabric. “What can I help you with?”
“Well, I know it’s pretty late, but one of the local girls recommended this shop to me,” says the man. “All my drag got lost on the flight over, so I need some help hemming and cinching these department store dresses…”
He holds up a bag that Fugo hadn’t noticed until then, sliding it across the counter for inspection. As Fugo pulls out the garments and sifts through the material, the customer adds, “The gig is Saturday night, do you think you could make the adjustments in time?”
There’s a sequined mini dress, a floor-length gown that sort of resembles a prom dress that Fugo’s mother would’ve worn, and a bodysuit that looks more like it would’ve been bought at the sex shop down the street rather than TJ Maxx. A set of shapewear sits at the bottom of the bag.
“It’s doable,” says Fugo. “What are your measurements?”
“Ah, I’m not so sure, I bet I could take them, if I could come back in a little bit—”
“I can do it.” Fugo motions to the sewing tape hung loose around his neck. “As long as you don’t mind sticking around for a little bit.”
“Not at all. Maybe you can give me some ideas for what to do while I’m in town?”
Fugo scoffs as he leads the customer to the back of the shop where he does all of his tailoring. “My idea of a good time is sitting at home watching Project Runway with a bottle of wine. Or going to Sticky Fingers for their drag nights, but it sounds like you have that covered.”
The customer brightens, stepping closer to Fugo excitedly. “Woah, really? Will I see you there?”
Fugo shrugs. “It’ll depend on how much tailoring I have to do this weekend. But I’m sure Giorno wouldn’t mind if I pushed back some of his work to come see her perform.”
“Giorno…? Goldie? Wow, small world— She invited me to this venue.”
“I figured they sent you in my direction.” Fugo stops at his work station, moving the mannequin off the alteration platform he’d been using earlier. “We’ve been friends for a while. I make pretty much everything she wears. Take off your coat.”
“‘Fugo’ must be you, then? Goldie’s friend, and the name of the shop. Is that your last name, or…?”
Fugo takes the coat as he shrugs it off. “Just Fugo is fine.” After a beat, he adds, “What’s yours?”
“I guess ‘Just Mista’ is fine.”
“Sounds like you need to add a comedy set to your show,” says Fugo, motioning for Mista to step onto the platform.
“People get enough of that when I host, I think.” Mista laughs a little as he says it, holding up his arms as Fugo loops the measuring tape around his waist. “Um, shouldn’t I put the dresses on, or a corset first?”
“It’ll help to have a baseline.” Fugo can’t help but admire the natural curve of Mista’s hips as he takes the measurements. Now that the ugly coat is gone, he can see that Mista is well built, muscles strong and defined, a perfect dancer’s body. “Do you wear padding or anything?”
“Just a corset sometimes,” says Mista, sounding a little proud. “I work pretty hard for this body, might as well show it off.”
Fugo wants to say, you definitely should. He hums neutrally instead.
Once Fugo finishes jotting down the initial measurements, he shoos Mista behind a curtain so he can put on his drags. Fugo sits and stares valiantly at the wall on the other side of the room, trying hard to think about something ugly, anything other than the nearly naked, very attractive person just a few feet away. Polyester suits, Urban Outfitters, pleather, Ed Hardy, Gucci Fall 1985…
“I’ve been begging Goldie for forever to put me in contact with her designer,” Mista muses, rounding the corner at last. They’re starting with the prom dress first, and despite the garish shade of chartreuse, it compliments Mista’s tan skin well. Fugo could go without the sleeves, though. “Didn’t want to lose all my stuff for it, though.”
Fugo sets to work at pinning any excess fabric into place around Mista’s waist. “Well, this can be a test run, I guess. You lose makeup and wigs, too?”
“God, I’d never travel without my makeup strapped to my chest, are you kidding? I’d never trust an airline to handle it properly. Looks like I shouldn’t have trusted them with my clothes, either,” Mista scoffs. “Who knows where the wigs ended up. I bet some bitch in the baggage department couldn’t resist.”
“There’s a wig store around the corner.”
“Thanks for the tip. One of the other girls, Moody Blues, you know her? She said she’s got a closet full of ‘em I could peruse.”
Fugo huffs. “Sounds like Leone’s one act of charity for the month.” Fingers running delicately across the silky material of the dress, Fugo takes another measurement, considering something. “She’s got this gorgeous red updo that would go perfectly with this look. Very Cyndi Lauper. Make sure you get that one.”
Mista barks a laugh. “So you know everybody and their closets.”
Shrugging, Fugo resists the urge to poke Mista with the needle like he might with Giorno or Narancia. “Been in the scene a while, I guess.”
“Will I get to see you on stage, too?” Mista asks.
Now it’s Fugo’s turn to chuckle. “That’s a good joke. Just cause I’m a stylist doesn’t mean I could turn it out on a stage.”
“I bet you could turn a look. Bedroom queens are more popular than ever.”
Fugo decides not to answer that one, recalling all the hours he spent in his grandmother’s closet, adorning himself in her finest silks and pearls. Even Giorno has said you make a pretty woman, after he painted Fugo’s face while they were experimenting with some new makeup brands. He hadn’t really known what to make of himself, looking in the mirror at shiny red lips and a harsh cat-eye to match; Fugo had thought he was beautiful, sure, just as he had thought mother’s vintage Dolce & Gabbana heel collection was beautiful, but it was more apt to say that it made Fugo feel like an other, like he was only wearing someone else’s skin.
That’s not how drag is supposed to make you feel, Fugo knows. He has found his beauty in ruched fabric and light reflecting off sequins, tossing dollar bills to the girls who know how to actually wear the garment, not just design and construct like some kind of machine.
They carry on like that for a while, making small talk over measuring and fitting in between outfit changes. Fugo learns that Mista’s been doing drag for six years now, mostly at a popular bar across the country where everyone knows him as Sex Pistol. He describes the persona as, “your friend’s cool older sister who gets too drunk at the family barbeque”, which lines up with everything else Fugo has observed so far. She sounds like a fabulous, charismatic performer, and it’s easy to see why Giogio would’ve invited Mista to her show— Fugo finds himself a little glad, even, that the airline had lost Mista’s luggage. It’s nice to meet him here, surrounded by fabric in the soft lighting of Fugo’s workshop, and not in the crowded dressing room of Bruno’s club or in the alleyway for a smoke.
“So, when do you think they’ll be ready?” asks Mista from behind the curtain, changing back into his loose jeans.
Fugo finishes packing up his supplies with a shrug. “By Friday night, maybe. Saturday morning, if any other rush orders pop up.”
Mista rounds the corner, still slipping into his shirt. Fugo avoids looking at the soft strip of hair above his waistline; he’d already spent too much time oogling Mista’s arms and hips during the fitting, and soon enough he’s entirely covered by that ugly coat anyway.
“You need my number, then?”
Fugo nearly drops his basket of supplies before he realizes what Mista is implying. “Oh, uh, yes. I’ll need to fill out an order form, too, for pricing.”
They head back to the front of the shop, Fugo behind the counter. He calculates the downpayment and slides the form to Mista.
Fugo watches the casual way Mista holds the pen, the elegant flick of his wrist as he signs his name like a celebrity would inscribe their autograph.
“Thanks a lot for doing this,” says Mista, sincere and sweet. To emphasize his gratitude, he reaches across the counter and grasps Fugo’s hand. He doesn’t even shake it— just holds it, his thumb gliding across the back of Fugo’s hand like he would embrace an old friend.
“It’s n-no problem,” Fugo manages, face flushed.
“Don’t hesitate to reach out. You know, if you have any questions or concerns.” Mista drops Fugo’s hand with a wink, stepping away. “I’ll be looking forward to your call.”
“…sure. And I’ll look forward to your show.”
“You better!” Mista calls, before they duck out the door, a cheetah print blur.
Fugo lets out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, leaning against the counter to steady himself. He can hear his grandmother laughing at him in the echo of the bell above the front door. And when he returns to the back of the store, hoping to finish his work for the evening, he buries his fist in a pile of woolen fabric instead, laughing with her.