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The boy behind the counter is strange and unfamiliar, passes too much too quick from smiling to stony and back. It's July; the summer heat makes Giorno’s shirt cling to his back, and he's unpleasantly aware of the tag digging into his neck, his sweat mixing with the condensation of the bottle of lemonade in his hand as he makes his way to the register. He doesn't know the cashier, but his shoulders are broad as he leans forward on his elbows to ask, "Find everything alright?", and there's something about the deep pitch to his voice that makes Giorno flush.
He says, "Yes," a touch too quiet, leaves the convenience store with the neck of his drink tight in his hand.
--
The boy on Giorno's favorite swing is all long limbs and tired eyes, pale knees sticking out through his ripped jeans. Giorno's at the playground around the corner from his house; during the day and the year, it's flooded with elementary school students, but it's the middle of the summer, now, and the middle of the night, and Giorno hadn't expected anyone but the moon for company.
The other boy startles like a deer when Giorno walks in, and the two of them eye each other; he can't see much in the dark, but the reflection of the streetlight off the metal jungle gym illuminates him enough for Giorno to see his long bangs, the hostile look in his eyes. He looks — scared.
Giorno leaves and thinks of autumn.
--
On the first day of school, a boy runs into him with a skateboard. He's halfway to falling, closes his eyes in preparation for the pavement, makes sure his teeth are clenched shut — but a hand wraps its way around his forearm, yanking him back up, and ow, okay, that hurts too, but —
But it's convenience store boy and he looks just as startled as Giorno, says, "Shit, sorry, man,”, and then someone's laughing at him over his shoulder, and the boy turns enough to shout, "Oh, shut up, you didn't tell me how to stop the damn thing!" He turns forward again just enough to look Giorno up and down and say, "Sorry again, hope you're alright," and then walks away, casually, like nothing had happened.
He passes the skateboard to the one who was laughing, and the two make their way up the stairs to the front door. Giorno recognizes the other boy: Narancia Ghirga. They’d had math together last year.
--
On the second day of school, he goes to chemistry, and it's ripped-jeans-tired-boy in the seat next to him. He recognizes him immediately, long bangs and long limbs, which means that he gets to watch and anticipate the entire process of the other boy trying to recognize him, squinting at him from the other side of their lab table, face half-propped on his arm. He waits for the click of recognition, but it doesn't come.
The bell rings. He goes home.
--
"How was school?" Polnareff asks over dinner, scooping carrots and peas onto his plate. Giorno thinks about skateboards and chemistry and says, "Fine."
--
In October, Giorno goes to the convenience store. The broad shouldered boy who smiles too much or not at all and doesn't know how to stop a skateboard scans his orange creamsicle popsicle and leans forward across the counter to tell him, quiet and somber like a secret, "These are my favorite." Then, after a moment, "What's your name?"
His heart beats too fast and he answers, “Giorno.”
--
The weather gets cold faster as Halloween approaches. Giorno wraps his neck in a scarf and sits quiet and still on his favorite swing, waiting.
His lab partner who he now knows is named Pannacotta Fugo walks with his hands in his pockets and doesn't look up until he's only a few paces away. Giorno holds his breath and listens to the faint hum of music coming out of the other boy's headphones, looks at the curve of his nose and the hunch of his shoulders and doesn't say anything, even when Fugo finally notices him.
"Giorno," he greets, blinking once, then twice, like he can't understand what he's doing here. Then realization breaks on his face, and he breathes, "Oh, you were — "
Giorno stands, brushing imaginary dust off his thighs. "See you in lab," he says, and blames his flushed face on the wind as he hurries home, Fugo's stare heavy on his back.
--
Convenience-store-skateboard-boy is friends with Fugo-ripped-jeans-from-chemistry. Giorno's heart leaps into his throat when he sees them together.
He stops getting drinks after school and stops going to the park at night.
--
Narancia Ghirga slides into the seat next to him at lunch, "Giorno, hi, do you want to hang out today?", and he takes a long, slow sip of his strawberry milk before asking, "When's the test?"
The older boy makes a face, "Tomorrow," and slumps down into his seat. He has two apples in his hand and nothing else; they both have bites taken out of them. "C'mon, I'll get you a Slurpee if you help me. Pleaaase?", and Giorno sighs. "Okay."
They walk together to the convenience store and Giorno waits outside. "It'd be easier if you'd help me," Narancia complains, and Giorno replies, smoothly, "You're my upperclassman; I'm sure you can handle it." And he does.
"The guy helping me out right now," Narancia tells him later, "He's fine; he's nice enough when I'm right — but he doesn't get it, you know? He thinks I don't get it, but he just doesn't get it."
Giorno nods as he skims Narancia's notes; they have different teachers, but it's the same class, and they're just about the same as his. He closes the notebook. "Can you recite the quadratic formula?" he asks, and Narancia does, effortlessly. "Do you know which value to use?", and Narancia tells him. "Do you know why it's the positive value that you keep and not the negative?", and he does.
Then, carefully, "Have you asked Ms. Flemming if you can take the exam orally?", and Narancia huffs, hunching over Giorno's coffee table. Giorno drums his fingers and thinks about winter.
--
Fugo's brow is neutral but his mouth is twisted tight, "Did you do the conclusion question yet?", and Giorno silently slides his draft across the table to him. Fugo clicks his tongue, "No, this is a strong acid," and Giorno opens his mouth to object when Fugo adds, all in a rush, "Let's get together this weekend to finish it."
Giorno blinks. "Okay," he says, and keeps his head down as he taps his number into Fugo's phone.
--
The pretty boy who can't skateboard is on the chess team; his name is Guido Mista, but everyone calls him Mista. When Trish from Giorno’s honors English class hollers encouraging words at him from the next seat in an otherwise empty gym, Mista’s face snaps up, his mouth splits wide into a smile, and his eyes slide like oil on water from Trish to Giorno in an instant.
Something like recognition flashes in his expression, and he tilts his head lightly to the side as his hand comes up to a wave. The his opponent makes his move, and Mista's eyes set to steel again. Giorno sits very still and tries not to think about how fast his heart is beating.
--
Polnareff yawns over his morning coffee, watching the news from his chair, and Giorno props his feet up on the coffee table like he never would've been allowed to when he was a kid. They eat Lucky Charms in comfortable silence, and Polnareff asks, "How was your chemistry project?"
Giorno swirls his spoon around his bowl and thinks about the way Fugo had clipped his hair back, the way his eyes lit up when he explained the difference between strong and weak acid reactions, when he'd recited the list of common strong acids from memory. The way their hands had brushed when they'd exchanged pens and highlighters, the way Fugo had looked at him when he thought he wasn't looking, when sunset came in through his sheer bedroom curtains and cast the whole room into color.
"Fine," he answers.
--
Giorno'd never bothered to get his license and has never minded walking home, but Mista pulls up next to him in a battered Toyota and says, "Hey, need a ride?", and for reasons he doesn't really understand, Giorno tells him, "Yes."
Mista sings along to the radio but only when it's a song he likes; when it's a song he doesn't like, he complains, loudly, that he doesn't like it, and hums the chorus anyway. Giorno likes his green backpack and the way his nails are clipped short, likes the way he looks unapologetic when he lays half in Giorno's lap at a stop sign to pilfer through the glove compartment. He glances up, winks at Giorno and says, "My sister's car. I want to know what she's up to,” like it's a worthy excuse.
"Are you hungry or do you want me to drop you off at home?" he asks as they turn onto Giorno's street, as if those are the only two options.
He hesitates only a second before responding, "I'm hungry.”
--
Trish's laugh is loud through the hallway when she asks, "You're dating Guido Mista?", and Giorno just barely knows her well enough to hiss out, "No."
But Trish is loud, and Giorno is quiet. When he gets to chemistry, Fugo won't even look at him.
--
"Please, please Giorno," Narancia begs over lunch, "It's urgent; Fugo skipped yesterday," and Giorno thinks, oh.
"I just need someone to go over it with me out loud," Narancia continues, oblivious even as Giorno haltingly sets his fork down. "It'll take half an hour, tops — c'mon, no one else gets it. I'll buy you a Slurpee again — “ and Giorno says, "Can you buy me a popsicle instead?" A pause, then: "Two popsicles."
Narancia narrows his eyes resentfully and says, "Upping the charge now that I'm desperate; I get it."
Later that night, Giorno takes the popsicles out of his freezer and goes to his swing; but no one comes.
--
Polnareff watches him pick at his dinner and asks, "How was school?" Giorno stabs a piece of broccoli on his plate and answers, "Fine."
--
"Stop driving me home," Giorno says to Mista the next afternoon, hands on his elbows, shifting uneasily on the sidewalk, and tries not to be disappointed when Mista blinks and responds, "Okay."
--
The winter is too cold; he wakes up coughing. Polnareff makes him soup and wheels it to his bed, and Giorno doesn't think about his mom, not once.
He texts Fugo: I won't be in class to hand in our analysis section, but I emailed it to Mr. Lee this morning. Got the flu.
He texts Mista: Sorry for being weird. I think I was already getting sick.
He falls asleep.
--
He's only halfway surprised that the day had come and gone by the time he wakes up. It's early morning, now; Polnareff left a sticky note on his sweaty forehead that tells him that he had to leave for his conference already, but here's the emergency number if something happens. He rubs at the adhesive residue on his skin and peels the orange the man had left at his bedside, body aching but fighting a smile.
Fugo had texted back: okay, hope you feel better. Then, an hour later: see you tomorrow. Mista hadn't texted back at all.
--
But he comes by, later, which counts for something. There's a plastic bag digging tight into his wrist as he steps into the foyer, toeing off his shoes automatically at the door before walking to the kitchen and pulling out several bottles of Gatorade. He's still in his work shirt.
"I didn't know what flavor you wanted," Mista states as he pulls the sixth Gatorade out of the bag, as if though that's any explanation for the number of drinks currently on Giorno's counter, "but my Ma always said this was best when my sisters got sick."
Giorno stares at him with bleary eyes, all pajamas and messy hair. "My dad says not to open the door for strangers," he croaks, and reaches for the orange bottle. Mista whistles. "A good choice," he says, "though if you ask me, the best choice is — ", and the doorbell rings.
There's a pause before Giorno shambles to the door again. On the doorstep is Fugo; his head whips up, eyes wide, like he hadn't expected an answer at all. "Giorno," he greets, and Giorno motions him in. Fugo, he notes, does not take off his shoes at the door.
"I brought you the notes from today — " he starts, and then him and Mista make eye contact. Things grind very suddenly to a halt.
Giorno is too fucking tired for this. "To be clear," he asks, "none of us are dating?" Mista, leaning against the kitchen counter, chimes, "Nope," watching Giorno like he already knows what's going to happen.
"Good," Giorno responds, and takes a half step toward Fugo to yank him into a kiss.
--
Fugo and Mista both get the flu, and aren't in school for a few days. Giorno becomes a legend.
--
"I can't believe you're a grade up from us," Fugo complains; Giorno can just barely see his hands waving emphatically through the rear-view mirror of Mista's sister's car. "You pronounce 'basil' wrong."
"Pronunciation is a suggestion," Mista asserts, voice firm, "You're just mad because we put you in the baby seat, like a baby," and Giorno can't quite keep himself from laughing.
Fugo's objection dies in his throat. "You're lucky you're the only one who can drive," he retorts weakly, and reaches forward from the back seat to place his hand on Giorno's headrest.
Giorno obligingly brings his arm up, twining their fingers together, and places his other hand on top of the empty cup holder next to Mista's cold tea. There's barely a second's break before Mista brings one hand down from the steering wheel to lay on top of his.
He closes his eyes, smiling, and thinks of spring.