Work Text:
Florida hotels come in many different kinds. Mista knows of motel horror stories, of cockroaches in the showers and beds that are hardly better than blocks of wood. Fugo’s heard of hotels that are fit for kings, with their own jacuzzis in each suite at the very least.
Giorno picks a hotel somewhere in between. He’s a mafia boss, but that doesn’t mean he has to waste money on himself, and Mista and Fugo aren’t extravagant either.
He has almost clicked the button to reserve a room when Mista grabs his hand and yanks it away from the computer. “Mista?” he asks, turning to look at him.
“The suite’s got four beds. Four.” Mista shivers in sheer terror. “Who knows what would happen while we were there!”
Giorno makes an ‘ah’ sound and looks sympathetic as he explains. “This hotel doesn’t offer a group with three. We could make separate reservations, but then there would be no guarantee of us being near each other.”
“We could just take one room,” Fugo suggests. “I don’t mind being on the couch if it means the world won’t end from there being four beds.”
They end up reserving a single room with two beds and a couch. When they arrive and are assigned to a specific room, it doesn’t have a four in its room number, and Mista does a thorough inspection of the room itself and declares that it is satisfactory.
Fugo, who is tired enough from the long flight, the long time spent in customs, and the time zone difference, lifts his head off the arm of the couch. “Thanks, Mista. I don’t know how you still have the energy to move.”
Mista shrugs and flops backwards onto the righthand bed.
Giorno, sitting on the other, speaks up. “Fugo, is that couch comfortable?”
“It’s fine. Why?” asks Fugo.
“These beds are large enough to easily share between two people. I thought that two of us might share a bed.”
Mista and Fugo look at each other.
“I guess I could let Fugo share my bed?” Mista suggests hesitantly. “You should get the whole bed to yourself, GioGio.”
Fugo snorts. “Mista, you drool in your sleep, I’d rather take the couch than have to deal with that.”
“I do not-” Mista flusters and calls his Sex Pistols. “I don’t drool in my sleep, do I?”
“You sure do.” Number 3 doesn’t hesitate to speak bluntly, while the other Sex Pistols mumble ‘yeah’ and ‘sorry Mista’.
“There you have it.” Fugo almost laughs when Mista grumbles and dismisses the Sex Pistols again.
Giorno says, “Then, Fugo, you and I should share a bed, and let Mista have one to himself.”
Fugo goes bright red. “Are… are you sure about that? I don’t mind the couch at all, really-”
“It’s only for a few nights.” Giorno beckons him over, and reluctantly Fugo gets to his feet and approaches. “The bed is large enough that we won’t even be in contact with each other.”
“You have a point…” Still, Fugo can’t help feeling nervous when he climbs into bed, and he makes sure that he’s as far away from Giorno as possible without falling out of the admittedly very comfortable bed.
Giorno doesn’t seem to notice. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, GioGio.” “Goodnight.”
Fugo dreams pleasant dreams the whole night. He’s in the middle of one about hugging a large cat when a yank on his arm wakes him up.
He looks up at Mista, bleary-eyed. “What time is it?”
“No idea, doesn’t matter. Get up.” Mista pulls on his arm again.
Fugo notices then that he has both arms around a contentedly sleeping Giorno, who has his face in the crook of his shoulder. Carefully, he attempts to dislodge himself without disturbing Giorno.
He fails, and Giorno wakes up, but at least Fugo’s not still cuddling with him when he comes to. “...Good morning. I was having such a good dream- Fugo, why are you so flushed? You haven’t caught anything local, have you?”
“No, I’m... just regretting my life choices.”