Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sickly sweet. That was how Pannacotta Fugo would describe The Garden. Well, no. That’s how he felt in the Garden. Without him in it, it was just sweet. Serene and surreal. Ethereal and Edenesque. Fugo enjoyed watching it from a distance.

Giorno had set up their home—Passione’s headquarters, rather—in an old mansion near the water. Like all really old buildings that have been renovated and expanded on over time, it had a lot of odd nooks and crannies that someone like Fugo, who felt drained if he stayed out in the open too long, loved to get lost in. One of Fugo's favorite nooks was in the Northwest corner of the third floor, at a corner where an old wing of the building met a modern one. In this nook, a bench was built into a window that overlooked the massive courtyard and garden behind the house. It was on this bench that Fugo sat, shoes kicked off, pillow at his back, knees pulled up to his chest, and it was here in this nook that Mista found him.

“Hey.”

Fugo nodded at him, barely turning his face away from the window. “Hi.”

He’d heard Mista coming from all the way down the hall. Mista took decidedly confident, clomping steps that not even the heavy carpet could mute. Fugo turned away from the window to look Mista over, gage his friend's mood. He didn't really feel like being sent out on a mission right now, but he would go if he had to. Anything for Passione-- no, anything for Giorno Giovanna.

Mista still wore that stupid hat of his, but his style had slowly been evolving, flourishing, as all things did under Giorno Giovanna’s supervision. Gone were the tiger striped pants, at least. 

Miata ddidn'tstop walking until his knees hit the edge of the seat and Fugo was forced to lean back, his space suddenly invaded by Mista’s torso while Mista tugged the curtain aside to look out the window. His eyes landed on the garden below and he raised an amused eyebrow at Fugo, more perceptive than pre-Giorno Mista could have ever been before. “Nice view.”

“Yeah.”

“Bet it’s nicer when he’s actually down there, huh?”

Fugo glared at him. “Wh— that’s not—you don't know--," he stammered. Giving up that train of conversation before he embarrassed himself further, he asked, "How’d you find me up here?”

Mista dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. “Everyone knows you hang out up here; we usually just leave you to it. But Giorno wants to see you.”

“Oh. Why?”

Mista shrugged. “If there’s a reason, I don’t know it. I have to go to town today, talk to some people about some stuff.”

“Everything alright?”

“Not really, nah, but it will be. One of our Capos fucked up and I got a big mess that needs cleaning, but it could be worse. I just don’t wanna go.” Mista collapsed onto the bench, landing on Fugo’s feet. Fugo freed one and kicked half-heartedly at him.

“Sorry,” Fugo said, because he wasn’t sure what else to say. He and Mista were doing better, friendship-wise; they’d had a whole year to rebuild trust, but it still wasn’t like before. Every time Mista brought up his new responsibilities, Fugo was reminded of that.

Mista shrugged with one shoulder and thunked his head back against the window. “I’d drag you out with me, if the boss hadn’t already claimed you for the day. It's going to be tiresome and I don’t wanna have to suffer alone on this.”

“Sheila’s not doing anything important today,” Fugo said. She was going to kill him for that later.

“Yeah. Hey, yeah! Her stand might actually come in handy.”

“It usually does.”

Mista nodded thoughtfully, then pulled out his phone and shot off a text. “Oh, hey, I meant to say, try and distract Giogio today, will you? Otherwise he’ll be fretting over this Capo thing ‘till I get back.”

“Sure. But uh, how exactly is one supposed to distract Giorno Giovanna ?”

“Uh.” Mista blinked at Fugo, then laughed. It was a single loud, hah that echoed in the hallway. “Shit. I guess that’s not as easy as it sounds, huh? You’re the smart one, you’ll figure it out. Get creative.”

“’Smart’ and ‘creative’ aren’t the same thing, Mista,” Fugo said dryly.

“Just talk to him. You can...tell him his hair looks pretty or something. Just try not to be yourself too much, huh?”

Fugo swatted his book at Mista, who hopped off the bench and danced out of the way, chuckling, and gave Fugo’s hair a fond a ruffle as a goodbye before leaving. Fugo didn’t immediately follow. When he came up to this window seat, it was usually to sift through his thoughts, and now he had even more thoughts to sift through. Fugo's thoughts were slimy black, grotesque things with legs like centipedes and hard exoskeletons that chittered and hissed, that slithered over and around each other and clambered for Fugo’s attention. Knowing Giorno wanted to see him but not knowing why made them even louder.

He partially wished he could just stay up here. It was comfortable here, even with the noise of Fugo’s thoughts and the gloom of the world outside, even with the storm clouds that creeped along above the Palazza and threatened them with rain at any moment.

Fugo had almost made up his mind never to leave this window seat again when the sun appeared. Not literally—the real world was rarely such a cliché brand of poetic. Fugo was, though. At least as far as Giorno Giovanna was concerned. Fugo’s “sun” strolled through the garden, stopping at each flower to inspect it, cradle it in his hands like it was a miracle, something to be treasured. And it was. The whole garden was a miracle, as was the young man who made it.

Giorno’s appearance made Fugo want to leave the window even less. Up here, he was far enough to watch and enjoy the garden and its inhabitant without being left raw and exposed by them both, without being struck dumb by their beauty and exposed as unworthy of their presence. Giorno stopped suddenly at the center of the garden and stood stock-still. Fugo imitated him in this, not even breathing while Giorno tilted his head to one side like he was listening for something. He waved to someone Fugo couldn’t see, then turned and looked directly up at Fugo’s window.

Fugo froze. He didn’t dart back; that would’ve been stupid. If Giorno hadn’t seen him already, such a quick movement would ensure that he did. Besides, Giorno couldn’t have seen him. Fugo had double checked, triple checked, quadruple checked that he couldn’t be seen from the garden. From the outside, a shadow from the clock tower fell on the window, making it difficult to notice and even more difficult to see into. Of course…he hadn’t factored in one possibility: the effects of a strange stormy day where everything was bright without shadows and without sun.

Giorno raised his hand and waved.

What would happen if Fugo didn’t wave back? He considered it; he also considered perishing on the spot, letting the embarrassment at being caught swallow him whole rather than have to deal with the consequences. How many times had he sat in this window watching Giorno? How long had Giorno known about him doing it? Was this the first time Giorno had seen him, or just the first time he acknowledged it?

Fugo waved back, more a twitch of his fingers than anything, but Giorno’s answering grin - even at this distance - was resplendent. It quieted Fugo’s hissing thoughts enough for him to leave the window seat. Through the halls, down the stairs, out into the courtyard. He made it that far without issue, but he hesitated at the garden gates, as usual. Unless Giorno explicitly invited him into the garden, Fugo didn’t dare enter. Even then, he hesitated. Only a few people were allowed into the garden whenever they wanted. Giorno, of course. Mista and Trish. A couple of Giorno’s favorite Capos. Fugo didn’t actually know whether he was allowed in without permission and he didn’t want to ask, for fear of the answer.

When he pushed through the creaking gate, he was assaulted by the smell of fresh rain, only slightly dampening the sweet flowers. There were hundreds of varieties and so many colors, from pale pinks to vibrant oranges to deep blues. And green. Green everywhere. Fugo took one a step and a squirrel crossed his path, quickly disappearing back into the thick brush. Somewhere nearby, Fugo could hear a family of birds chirping. He thought they might’ve been in a tall tree that was shedding purple flowers, flowers that danced and twirled their way to the ground, lining the path before Fugo. It was like he'd just stepped into a Disney movie.

It was an entirely different world, one Fugo wasn’t sure he belonged in.

He found Giorno at the center of the garden. The young Don was perched on a bench, holding a rose in his hands. If the window seat was Fugo’s “place,” so the bench was Giorno’s. When he heard Fugo’s steps on the cobblestone path, he looked up, his intent expression transforming into something else entirely. A grin spread across his face, bright and nervous and more excited than the don of the mafia had any right being. The expression quickly changed into something more reserved, but Fugo had seen it. It had been there. The shadow of it still teased at the edges of Giorno’s lips.

Giorno held the rose out to him.

Fugo took it. “Ah…thanks?”

Giorno shrugged like it was nothing, but it wasn’t nothing to Fugo. He couldn’t remember the last time his heart beat like this, and he was in the mafia. He pulled his hand back quickly so Giorno wouldn’t see how it shook and looked down at the flower. He’d had nightmares that started exactly like this, with him in this garden, holding a rose in his hand. Under his touch, the vibrant red of the petals—bright as blood—changed, first dulling, drooping, and then turning black. It drooped away from him, the life dripping from the stem and the silky petals, depositing thick, sticky juice on his fingers. Its cloying smell stung Fugo’s nose, too much, too strong, too sickly sweet. The petals fell to the ground, which is when Fugo looked up and noticed the rest of the garden. It all rotted with the rose. The colors were gone, replaced by grays, blacks, and browns, everything dead, dying, rotting, festering.

Even in his dreams, Fugo knew what that meant. What it meant when each plant that had so carefully been given life was alive no more.

But this wasn’t a dream. The rose in Fugo’s hand wasn’t rotting. More importantly, Giorno was sitting right in front of him. Fugo didn’t have to wake in a panic, didn’t have to run up to his window seat to make sure the garden still thrived when all he wanted was to know Giorno was alive.

“Are you alright?” Giorno asked. “I can’t read your expression.”

“Yeah, sorry. I just…” Fugo waved the rose in front of him. “What’s with this?”

Giorno’s smile dropped a little. “Oh, I…I don’t know. I just wanted to give it to you.”

“Oh.”

Giorno patted the bench and Fugo sat.

“The garden looks nice,” Fugo said.

Giorno’s smile was back, then, brighter than the sunflowers behind him—and really , Fugo thought, sunflowers. “Did you just wake up or something? You seem out of it.”

“No, it’s just…bright.”

“Right.” Giorno nodded with mock seriousness, eyes wide. “When was the last time you were here? In the garden, I mean.”

“Last week. Monday.”

“Oh. That long? You haven’t seen the middlemist reds I made, then?”

Fugo raised an eyebrow. “Middlemist reds? Aren’t those supposed to be…”

“Incredibly rare, yes. They’re only known to exist two places in the world. Three, now. I’ll show you them when we get up.” Giorno sat back on his hands and looked up at the sky. He closed his eyes, the picture of serenity.

Fugo nodded, tried to keep himself from staring. “Why did you want to see me?”

Giorno sat up. On anyone else, Fugo might describe his expression as disappointment. It was so out of place on Giorno's face, he didn't even know what to call it. “Um,” Giorno said, like he was only just thinking about it for the first time. “Because I knew you weren’t busy and I wanted your company? I need a distraction.”

“Ah. Yeah, that’s what Mista said.”

“I could distract myself with work,” Giorno said, closing his eyes again and tilting his face up toward the sky. “But this is nicer, don’t you think?”

“Sure, until it storms and ruins your pretty hair.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Fugo cringed. He’d meant “pretty” to sounds teasing, he really had. It hadn’t.

Giorno smiled, sharing some private joke with himself. “It’s not supposed to, according to my app.”

Fugo glared up at the clouds. “The weather app is always wrong.”

“Not the weather app. I have a radar,” Giorno said, waving his phone at Fugo. “The storm was supposed to move around us.”

“You have a weather radar installed on your phone? Why not use the normal app like everyone else?” Fugo asked, though the idea of Giorno doing anything “like everyone else” made him snicker.

“Because it’s always wrong,” Giorno said with a smirk. "And I like to be right."

“Giogio,” Fugo sighed, then trailed off when he realized he didn't know how to finish the thought. A butterfly flitted past Giorno’s head, distracting him, and then—was that a raindrop on his forehead?

“If a storm does hit," Giorno began with a faint smirk, "I guess I’ll just…go curl up in some window seat and watch my garden from somewhere dry. Know of anywhere good?”

Briefly, Fugo pictured Giorno curled up in his window nook, soft and sleepy while rain beat down on the outside world. Then he picked up on Giorno’s insinuation and turned bright red. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“For being a creep, I guess.”

Giorno frowned. “How are you a creep?”

Fugo squinted up at the window, frowning when he realized he’d been right. Despite the sun’s omnipresent light, the clock tower still cast its shadow on the window. Fugo could make out the pattern of the curtain inside, but just barely and only because he knew what to look for.

Giorno followed his gaze. “What do you think about when you sit up there?”

Fugo considered the question. He couldn’t say “ you ,” but Giorno would know if he lied. “Things,” he said instead. “The past, the present, the future. People in my life, people who used to be in my life.” Giorno’s mouth pulled together in a way that meant he wasn’t pleased, but he had no real basis for objection. He didn’t say anything, so Fugo continued. “Sometimes I just sit there and I try really hard not to think about anything at all, but I get overwhelmed by how loud my thoughts are and I think, ‘I’m never escaping this, ever.’”

Giorno nodded, wide-eyed and solemn. That part, he knew Giorno understood. Fugo had seen the same frustration in his eyes on more than one occasion. The only difference was that Giorno took his frustration and used it to make something beautiful. 

Giorno said, “I only ask because…I see you up there all the time. Sometimes you’re looking down at me, sometimes up at the sky. I just wanted to know what you see.”

“In you or in the sky?"

Giorno gave a wry smile. “Yes."

“I see the fucking sun.”

Fugo didn’t know what Giorno expected, what else he could have expected, but that evidently wasn’t it. His jaw worked as he formed an answer, but he finally just settled with, “Oh.” Fugo’s stomach dropped all the way to his toes. He didn’t care if Giorno returned his crush, expected him not to, in fact, but that didn’t mean he wanted Giorno knowing about it. Or that a flatly delivered "oh," in response to his admission didn't hurt.

Giorno opened his mouth to say something else, and Fugo waited for it like it was a sentencing, but before Giorno could get a word out, a large raindrop landed right on the tip of his nose. They stared at each other a moment, Giorno sheepish and Fugo surprised, then Fugo broke the silence by laughing. Giorno opened his mouth, closed it again, gaped at Fugo, and finally started laughing himself. More raindrops fell around them, pattering on the cobblestone, catching on flowers only to roll off, muting the flowers’ sweet scent. For the first time, Fugo saw the garden as something other than intimidating. He felt welcome here.

He would’ve been happy to stay out here forever, watching as Giorno, mascara running and hair loops drooping into his face, laughed up at the sky like he defied the storm and mocked its existence, but then Giorno grabbed Fugo’s hand and dragged him back toward the Palazza. They parted just inside the door, Giorno dropping Fugo's hand and saying, “I should go change.”

Fugo glanced down at Giorno’s white suit, which had been soaked through by the rain. “Yeah. Okay.”

“It won’t take long.”

Fugo’s face scrunched up in confusion. “Oh…Okay.”

Giorno gave a little wave and left. Fugo watched until he was out of sight, then returned to his window seat to think.

Chapter Text

After changing out of his wet clothes, Giorno returned to the foyer to wait for Fugo. He managed a few minutes of standing perfectly still, watching the rain beat against an old paneled window. He traced the track of the raindrops across its surface; the glass was cool against his finger. Eventually, Giorno got tired of watching rain and started pacing, his thoughts on Fugo, on all the work he was ignoring, on the rhythmic sound of his heeled boots clicking against the old stone floor.

Giorno fished his phone out of his pocket. No texts, no news from Mista yet.

He stopped pacing when he heard footsteps and waited, trying not too look too disappointed when two of the Palazza’s staff, and not Fugo, rounded the corner. They hid their surprise at finding their boss standing alone in the foyer with polite smiles, scurrying off when Giorno gave them a cursory nod back. As soon as they were out of sight, Giorno sighed and fell back against the wall.

Where was Fugo? Giorno thought things had been going well between them, especially considering how rare it was that they got to spend time alone together. In fact, it happened so rarely that Giorno was beginning to suspect Fugo actively avoided being alone with him, which stung. Now, Giorno understood choosing solitude. Solitude was comfortable, and solitude was safe. Giorno had always relied on solitude as a crutch, as a means of self-preservation, and so he couldn’t begrudge Fugo for choosing solitude over him. At least, that’s what he told himself objectively. Subjectively, it hurt. Maybe because Fugo was one of the few people Giorno would trade his solitude away for.

Giorno pushed away from the wall. What had he said to Fugo before they parted? Was there any way Fugo could have read it as a dismissal? Giorno sighed, pushed away from the wall, and went off in search of his friend.

Unlike Mista, Giorno made almost no sound when he walked, especially with the aide of the heavy carpet. Fugo didn’t notice him, then, until Giorno suddenly said, “When I said ‘I should go change,’ I didn’t mean it as a dismissal.”

Fugo swore and jumped at the voice that sounded so suddenly behind him, raising his book over his head and whirling to face Giorno. His irritated expression quickly bled into surprise, and he breathed out a soft, “Giorno.” Then his expression changed into something else entirely when he took in Giorno’s casual ensemble. “Uh.”

Giorno glanced at the book in Fugo’s hand, amused. “Were you going to throw that at me?” he asked.

“No,” Fugo said quickly. He lowered the book and settled back onto the bench, his knees brought up to his chest and his shoes discarded on the ground. “But if you’d been Mista, or anybody other than you, I would have.”

“I believe it.”

“What did you say earlier?”

Giorno slid onto the open side of the bench, opposite Fugo. “Oh, yeah. When I said ‘I should go change,’ I meant it in more of a ‘This suit sticks to me weirdly when it’s wet, so let’s meet back up in five minutes because I still want to spend time with you,’ way. Maybe I should’ve clarified.”

A small line appeared between Fugo’s eyebrows while he tried to dissect Giorno’s meaning, unable, as always, just to take it at face value. Giorno resisted the urge to reach out and smooth it. “Oh.”

“I went back to the foyer and waited, but when you didn’t come back, I went looking for you. I checked your room, the library, and finally ended up here.”

“Sorry,” Fugo said.

“Don’t apologize; it was just a misunderstanding. You don’t mind if I sit up here with you, do you?”

“No! No, not at all.” Fugo pulled his legs closer to himself, his eyes tracking Giorno’s movements as Giorno kicked off his shoes and mirrored Fugo’s position on the bench.

Giorno hugged his legs to his chest. He hadn’t had the energy to put another suit on when he’d gone to change, which was fine, because it felt nice to wear something he could move comfortably in for once. Sweatpants were a luxury the Don of Passione rarely indulged in, a luxury he was allowing himself on this rainy afternoon off. He’d even let his hair down— something Fugo seemed all too aware of.

Feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious under the weight of Fugo’s gaze, Giorno ran a hand through the tangled locks. The air between them changed, slightly, charged with something Giorno couldn’t place. Potential, maybe. Fugo’s eyes followed Giorno’s hand, a blush rising to his cheeks.

“It gets curly when it rains,” Giorno said.

“Huh,” Fugo said, forcing his gaze away from Giorno’s hair. It settled down on the garden below. “Mine sort of does, too. Or, well...it just gets weird waves in random places.”

Giorno smiled at Fugo. His bangs did have a bit of a wave to them now, but that’s not what caught Giorno’s attention. “You’re not going to change?”

Fugo looked down at himself and shrugged. “I’ll dry.”

“If you say so.” Giorno said, matching Fugo’s shrug. He eyed Fugo’s book, which he’d abandoned on the bench between them. “Don’t let me interrupt your reading. I’m happy just sitting here with you.”

Fugo’s eyes widened and he shook his head, just a fraction of a movement. “There’s no way I can focus on reading with you here,” he said, then catching himself, “I mean...I just don’t have the, ah, attention span. It’s not you, I...I wasn’t really reading before you came, either. I mean...”

Giorno nodded with mock seriousness when Fugo trailed off. “I get what you mean,” he said, even though he didn’t, really. Fugo just seemed so nervous.

“Oh. Good.”

When silence fell between them, Giorno looked out the window. His entire garden was visible from this vantage point; he looked down at it, at its winding paths and its colors, not focusing on anything in particular. If it had been raining harder, he’d be worried for some of his plants, but it had softened to a light shower.

Part of Giorno wished he was back out there, standing under the crisp rain and letting it run down his face, letting it wake him up and cleanse him. The other part of him was too cozy, here. He looked up at the sky. It was one of those strange rainy days that somehow still managed to be bright, the sun shining out from behind the dark clouds to cast a pink-orange glow on everything— on the Palazza’s ivy-covered walls, on the garden, on himself and on Fugo.

“I can see why you like sitting up here,” he said, refocusing on the inside world to catch Fugo staring at him. Fugo didn’t seem embarrassed by it, just met Giorno’s stare evenly.

“I don’t think you can,” he said.

All of Giorno’s focus hones in on Fugo, making Fugo squirm under the sudden intensity of his stare. “No?” he asked.

Fugo pointed at the garden, tapping on the window once. “You’re not down there. It’s only magical when you’re down there.”

Giorno blinked at Fugo once, then frowned down at the garden. With the break of eye contact, Fugo was able to breathe again.

“Oh,” was all Giorno said, and there went Fugo’s air supply again.

“Uh,” Fugo stammered. He wasn’t sure where that sudden surge of confidence had come from, but he regretted it already. “Plus, I mean, there’s no sun. And it’s rainy.”

Giorno studied Fugo. Giorno’s expression was mostly blank, but Fugo knew Giorno. He’d spent enough time studying Giorno’s expressions to notice the amused quirk of Giorno’s lips, the teasing tilt of his eyebrows.

“You’re blushing,” Giorno said.

Fugo clapped his hands over his cheeks. “Shut up. It’s hot in here.”

It wasn’t, actually. It was pretty cold. Fugo cringed at the lame excuse, but Giorno only laughed and sat up on his heels. He reached forward to tug Fugo’s hands away from his face, but when he heard voices at the end of the hallway, he ended up grabbing the curtain instead. It was trapped between Fugo and the window currently, but Giorno tugged it free and repositioned it so it was on Fugo’s other side. He then pulled it shut, hiding them both from sight, isolating them from the rest of the Palazza.

Giorno smiled and put a finger to his lips, waiting for the voices and footsteps to fade. Fugo couldn’t do anything but stare; Giorno was kneeling between his legs, positioned perfectly so that a golden bar of sunlight fell across his cheekbones.

“This is nicer, don’t you think? It’s cozier,” Giorno said. When Fugo failed to respond, instead stammering out something that definitely wasn’t Italian, Giorno remembered something Sheila told him. “Oh! You’re claustrophobic, aren’t you? Fugo, I’m sorry. I’ll fix—,”

He was about to pull the curtain open again, but Fugo grabbed his wrist to stop him. “No, it’s fine. The window makes it okay. So do you. Plus,” Fugo said, batting at the heavy red drapes, “It’s just a curtain.”

Giorno nodded and returned to his earlier position. The window was cold against his leg; he moved it so it was tangled with Fugo’s, seeking out his friend’s warmth. To his surprise, Fugo didn’t pull away, just smiled to himself.

“I didn’t know you even owned sweatpants.”

Giorno grinned and shifted slightly, kicking one leg up. “Look. There are roses embroidered along the hip.”

“Did they come like that, or did you sew those on yourself?” Fugo asked with a smirk.

“They came like that, thank you.”

“So you just buy every flowery article of clothing you find?”

“Do you just buy every holey article of clothing you find?”

“No,” Fugo said seriously, then, “I cut the holes myself.”

Giorno laughed, loud and bright. It was the loveliest thing Fugo had ever heard. “You have no right criticizing my style, then.”

“Wasn’t a criticism. If I was criticizing, I’d say that...that you should wear your hair down more often. It looks nice like this.”

Giorno made a face, his nose wrinkling up. “I’m not sure that’s a criticism, either.”

Fugo did that strange, snickering laugh of his that meant he was especially at ease, and Giorno felt his chest constrict. He wrapped his arms around his chest, sure that if he didn’t, all the fondness he felt was going to come bubbling out of him, because there was no way his body could contain it all.

“Shit,” Fugo said. “You’re right.”

Giorno’s body sprang into action before his brain could catch up with the rest of him. He pushed himself onto his knees and moved right into Fugo’s space, to Fugo’s obvious surprise. Then, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to Fugo’s lips.

Fugo didn’t kiss back, didn’t react at all except to put a hand on Giorno’s shoulder. He didn't push Giorno away, but he didn’t pull him closer, either. Giorno broke the kiss and pulled back just far enough so he could see Fugo’s expression. He didn’t think he’d misread Fugo, but then, Fugo sent so many mixed signals that it would have been easy to.

“Was that...?”

Fugo blinked at Giorno, expression blank. “Huh.”

Giorno made a face. “What does ‘huh’ mean?”

Rather than give an answer, Fugo slid his hand up to the back of Giorno’s neck and pulled him into another kiss. Giorno responded immediately, sliding between Fugo’s legs, getting closer so he could deepen the kiss. Fugo’s lips were softer, softer than he’d expected. He braced a forearm against the wall behind Fugo’s head while Fugo arched forward to be closer to him.

Fugo’s hand found its way into Giorno’s hair. When his fingers tangled in the loose blond curls, tugging just a little, Giorno let out a broken noise, muffled against Fugo’s lips. Fugo groaned in response, his other hand finding Giorno’s waist.

It was Giorno who broke the kiss, only because he needed to breathe. Fugo let his head fall back against the wall with a thud, and then, to Giorno’s surprise, he laughed.

“Something funny?” Giorno asked, resting his forehead against Fugo’s shoulder. He was still a little breathless from the kiss, but so was Fugo.

“Yes.”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” Fugo said with another laugh. “Something, somewhere, probably. I’m sort of having an out of body experience right now. Tell me this isn’t a dream. Tell me I’m not going to wake up and find myself alone here.”

“You’re not going to wake up and find yourself alone up here,” Giorno repeated dutifully, tilting his head and pressing a kiss against Fugo’s throat. Fugo’s breath caught.

“But you can’t be trusted,” he said, voice strained, “You’re a dream creature.”

Giorno snorted and kissed Fugo again, this time along his jaw.

“But then,” Fugo continued, running a hand through Giorno’s hair, “The real Giorno is like a dream creature, too. Giorno, what’s happening right now?”

“I’m kissing you,” Giorno said, emphasizing his point with another quick kiss.

“Yes, but why?”

“Because I like you. And because I was tired of dancing around it.”

“Oh,” Fugo said thoughtfully. “Those are good reasons. I like you, too.”

Giorno grinned and kissed Fugo again. He resituated himself, sitting and turning so he could lean back against Fugo. “Good.”

Mista was worried. The problem with the rogue Capo was all sorted out, but a new problem had arisen: Giorno wasn’t answering any of his texts. Giorno always answered Mista’s texts. He even responded to Mista’s “K” texts, bless him. But Mista had sent several texts in the last few hours, and he hadn’t gotten a single response back. Not one.

He’d been asking around the Palazza, and no one had seen Giorno, either. He’d checked Giorno’s room, his office, the library. Hell, he’d even checked Fugo’s room. When he’d left, the two of them had been talking, and he’d sort of hoped...well.

But it sounded like Fugo was the last person to see Giorno, so he went looking for Fugo instead. When he reached the window, he was surprised to find the curtain shut this time. It wasn’t until he had a hand on the heavy fabric that he looked down and noticed not one, but two pairs of discarded shoes.

“You’re kidding me,” he grumbled to himself. He pulled aside the curtain. “What are you guys— oh.”

They were both asleep. Fugo had an arm around Giorno, who was nestled against his chest with his head.

“Oh,” Mista repeated.

Wordlessly, he closed the curtain and backed away, leaving the couple to sleep while the rain beat against the window behind them.