Work Text:
When he first gets approached, Mista‘s almost sure he’s being messed with.
What do you mean, ‘teach me how to dance’? Giorno knows how to dance just fine. He’s seen it, and felt it. The forward point of his body wherever he stands. His step more graceful than a ballet dancer’s, never a strut, always a glide. His words, full of wit and sophistication, sloooow whenever his intention is to charm and fastfast when time is of the essence, keeping the beat of Mafia life like a perpetual foxtrot. The forever-flutter of his hands, tapping tabletops, caressing flower petals, pressing with agonizing firmness against Mista’s wounds, brushing elbow or shoulder or waist, rhythm changing but never ceasing. And all of it, leaving a vulgar, unsophisticated mambo pounding away in Mista’s heart.
Giorno knows how to dance, alright. He’s been dancing around Mista since day one.
So he can’t help it—he laughs. Giorno is trying to look mild as ever but his lips are pursed just a little too tight and his eyes are just a little too wide, and he’s so damn serious about it. He doesn’t even really ask . “Teach me,” he commands, like it’s all part of the job description.
And Mista laughs—not because he’s trying to be an ass, but because for all the brilliance under those gold ringlets Giorno can be clueless at the most unexpected of times.
“I didn’t know you couldn’t dance.”
The sarcasm breaks free and slides off his tongue before he can stop it— yeah you can, GioGio, Christ, can you dance, you’re just on the wrong side to see it —and he can tell Giorno picks it up, because one flawlessly straight eyebrow arches high before he shrugs and lets it drop.
“It was never necessary.”
This is for that party, the anniversary thing the mayor’s throwing. Mista can’t see Giorno as much the partying type; the way he brings necessity into it, he must not be looking forward to it either. Plus, the mayor’s got that daughter of his—Mista’s seen her in the paper and at televised press conferences, short, stocky and perpetually disinterested in her father’s political ambitions. He’s probably pressuring her to make nice with Giorno to save face. Mista imagines the two of them together: her in black, Giorno in rose-gold, both of them dour, both trying so hard to be charming that their faces ache. He smiles again.
“Guess you really gotta make a good impression, huh?”
“Ideally, yes.”
“ Arright, ” he says by way of agreement, and hauls himself to his feet. “Then let’s get to work.”
Except, he really doesn’t want to work this afternoon. Especially not after he gets the music going.
Nope. Once messing around with the radio yields the right tune and he starts to feel it at the tips of his toes (Giorno’s got one hand on his desk, hesitant, staring down at Mista’s calves like he’s trying to find hidden meaning in them), he decides he doesn’t want to be helpful at all. He wants to have some fun with GioGio, to mess with him in this pocket of time where he isn’t quite so expected to uphold professionalism. Besides, he’s always been a shit teacher. He’d rather show by example.
It takes a while for Giorno to accept his hand: he finicks with his jacket, folds it neatly over his office chair, smooths it, puts way too much concentration into it; like he’s trying to tell himself, no way is he overwhelmed by the prospect of this dance lesson. Mista wonders if it must be weird for him, the tables turned like they are. He never has this much trouble when he’s the one being attentive, when he sidles up to Mista or Fugo or just about anybody and bestows those touches and whispers that weaken resolve so sweetly.
But he does take it, after a few seconds; and in spite of all his lightheartedness Mista senses something raw and honest pass between them.
“What kind of music is this?” Giorno half-mumbles.
“Merengue.” One gentle tug and he’s got him in the middle of the office. “I think. Maybe it’s salsa.”
“You don’t know?”
“Nah. Doesn’t matter. It’s more about doin’ what feels right. If you focus too much about where your feet are, not only are you gonna fuck up, but everyone’ll know it.” Gingerly he takes Giorno’s other hand, interlacing fingers, allowing him an arm’s distance. “Just don’t think about it too much.”
For Giorno, that’s much easier said than done. His mind’s got to be racing right now: Mista knows how much he hates being told what to do, how much he hates being less than three steps ahead of the other guy. Giorno told him in confidence one day, not so long ago—and Mista’s heart broke for him, because for all the times he failed to meet his own mom’s standards he couldn’t imagine a world where she didn’t care —that the first few years of his childhood lacked control enough for a lifetime. For all the strain it puts on him now, on them both, GioGio is always in charge and he likes being there.
Mista likes him being there too. With him in the lead, Mista can have his mind on other things (like how good he looks in that suit, or in that chair, or the way his eyelashes flutter when he drinks out of his favorite coffee cup) besides out-strategizing enemies.
But he still puts his hand on Giorno’s hip. Still guides him, firm as he can without being intimidating, urging his body to sway. Trying to get him to live in the moment.
And of course he fights him on it. Giorno’s got his eyes closed and he keeps drifting forward, back, like he’s trying to gauge how comfortable he should let himself be. Mista knows he’s trying, really , but he’s way too stiff. His steps are resistant, his hips stubborn. Rose-red rises in his cheeks the longer they go on. It’s nothing like the grace of when he’s winning over a new associate, or staring death in the face for the millionth time. Here Mista is the only one asking anything of him. The stakes are so impossibly low that he knows the only thing Giorno could be thinking about right now is how close they are to one another.
He manages to spin Giorno once, just once, before the Don of Passione clears his throat and pulls away. Sweat, actual sweat has broken out on his brow, and the effort of keeping himself composed has left his voice low and shaky. “I believe that’s enough,” he manages, and it’s very nearly a stammer.
As he turns away and thanks Mista, the gentlest of dismissals, he makes a show of smoothing some of his curls back in place. Suddenly he looks far from perfect—but closer to perfect than before.
“—Sure thing, boss.”
He’s up early the next morning, a habit to which he—and more importantly the Pistols—have grown accustomed. It’s taken training, and caffeine, and bribery (“you want us up at this shit hour,” Uno had nagged the first time he’d tried to get up before six, “you better make sure the food’s good!”), but after doing it for a year it’s a welcome part of his routine. There really is nothing like those last cool moments before the sun rises over Napoli. He’s grateful that he can still enjoy small stuff like that, even when the rest of his life has become so hectic.
But he knows he’s not the only person who gets up that early, so he normally keeps to one side of the headquarters. The side where he knows Fugo won’t be hanging around.
The past six months have been... weird for them, and Mista swears it’s not for lack of trying. The day Fugo was welcomed back into the family Mista apologized in the way he knew best, with lots of shoulder-bumping and teasing and “no hard feelings, right, man?” He’d only been as harsh as Giorno wanted, that day in San Siro; had to be his eyes and ears, get a feel for his loyalties. There’s been a lot of hurt lingering in the past year, he wants to tell Fugo; a lot of being pissed and sad at nothing as he tries to shake off the last shreds of grief for GioGio’s sake. But never once has he blamed Fugo for it. He missed him, really and truly. And, sure, he doesn’t expect things could go back to normal—they’ve lost too many for that—but he’d really hoped that having Fugo around would make it feel like there was one less piece missing from the weird puzzle their lives had all become.
But this piece is made of glass now, a hundred times more fragile than it’s ever been. Fugo’s become like a shadow, appearing when Giorno wants, vanishing when Giorno no longer needs him, quiet, stern, reverent in a way Mista doesn’t get. He owes shit to Giorno too, they all do, but this is something else. There’s something about the way Fugo acts—like he doesn’t deserve to be alive unless it’s for GioGio—that rubs Mista the wrong way.
He guesses it’s not really his business. Except that he kinda misses the Fugo who’d snicker at his dumb jokes, and liked poking holes in all of his carefully crafted logic. And engaged with him, like, at all.
He doesn’t know what sets him wandering through the dawn. Maybe part of him realizes there would be a follow-up to yesterday's fiasco, since he'd taught Giorno virtually nothing; and that Fugo, with his uptown childhood, should have been the first person Giorno asked when he decided to learn how to dance. That part also realizes what that says about the level of trust GioGio has in him, and the thought makes him grin to himself as he ambles around with his hands in his pockets.
Lo and behold he stumbles upon them, almost by accident, and has to lurch back to avoid passing into their line of sight. There’s no music for them here; the only things Mista can hear are the two of them murmuring to one another, and the occasional reminder by Fugo of the time— one -two-three- one -two-three—as they work themselves in a tight, careful circle. Giorno doesn’t look to be any more graceful, or more comfortable, than he did when Mista was ‘teaching’ him; but Fugo’s moving at a snail’s pace, unwilling to urge Giorno, unwilling to rush him, letting Giorno lead. Like, actually letting Giorno lead. He’s got Giorno’s hand on his waist and everything. It really is a sight to behold.
Mista leans back against a marble beam and watches them a while. They keep talking, just out of earshot, and out of respect he doesn’t use his Stand to eavesdrop. As the minutes pass he notices little things: the way they both step forward and back as they move through the waltz, reassessing boundaries, trying to find spots where they feel comfortable; the halting and the hesitancy of steps until the moment one of them, Giorno maybe, he can’t tell, hits his stride and smooths down some of the sharp edges. The way Fugo leans in just the slightest bit—not so different from how Giorno, for just a second, accepted the closeness of Mista’s body yesterday.
Mista isn’t sure how he should feel. All the movies he’s ever seen are telling him if you see some chump dancin’ with your girl you cut in, and if he doesn’t back off things’ll get messy . But Giorno’s not his ‘girl,’ not his anything , really, except his boss; and seeing Fugo dancing with him doesn’t make him feel jealous at all. If anything he’s pleased, because Fugo looks almost content with something for the first time in six months and maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance he’ll get Old Fugo back.
They look far from perfect, he ruminates—but closer to perfect than before.
Giorno invites them both to dinner that night. It’s a thank you, he says, for being so patient with him.
It’s been a while since Mista’s last attempt to sit down and talk about anything beside work with Fugo—he just isn’t responsive, too lost in himself. Mista’s nervous, but he’s also glad. This could be the chance he was looking for. And if he isn’t—well, Giorno’s there, and he’ll probably succeed where Mista fails.
As they take their seats (Giorno on Mista’s side, Fugo across from them) he has barely enough time to catch the fourth set of silverware disappear. He blinks, traces the disappearance of nimble fingers up to Fugo’s face. Blinks, incredulously, before finding his comfort and leaning back. Old Fugo used to go on about how ‘illogical’ his fear was. Maybe New Fugo isn’t all that bad.
They work their way through drinks (Fugo’s treat, he insists, upon realizing he’d ordered without asking), and then appetizers (a lot of nervous laughter and faces made, because as dainty as bruschetta looks there’s really no neat way to eat it). During entrees Mista flounders for something innocuous to discuss and winds up asking Fugo about his bar gig, if the pay was good, the nights wild, if he had any admirers. Little by little Fugo unfolds himself, becoming more responsive, relaxed by food and wine. Not great but enough to live off; pretty quiet for a place so close to San Lorenzo ; and no, though there was one starry-eyed girl on a college trip who’d had love in her eyes when she asked him to play “‘Round Midnight.” Her group moved on to Turin the next day and Fugo never saw her again.
“Wow,” Mista chuckles. “Lady-killer over here. —Shit, I guess we’ll have to get you a piano or somethin’. Can’t let all that talent go to waste.”
“I don’t play much anymore.”
“Aw, c’mon. It’s not like you’re gonna forget how to do it, not with that big brain of yours. We can stick it in one of the spare offices so no one else touches it, and when the mood strikes you can drum up something romantic for everybody.”
In his periphery Giorno’s watching them talk. Mista winks, forkful of pasta halfway to his open mouth, and revels in the pink that rises to his cheeks.
They pick over dessert, all three of them too full to really eat it but too appreciative of the flavor to stop. Strawberry layer cake, Mista acknowledges, and snickers as he pushes the garnish around his plate. Now this brings back memories.
“Yo, I forget, are strawberries actually berries? Or is that one of those weird naming things?”
“In the scientific sense? No,” Fugo replies bookishly, toying with a bit of whipped cream on the edge of his fork. “Most things we call berries aren’t actually berries. It has to do with the number of ovaries used to produce a single fruit. A flower that produces something like a strawberry or blackberry has multiple ovaries.”
“So what is a berry?” Giorno chimes in, still smiling
“Most normal fruit with seeds on the inside is a berry.”
“Like tomatoes?”
“Bullshit. Tomatoes aren’t berries.”
“Yeah, they are. Avocados, too. If it’s produced from one flower with one ovary it’s a berry.”
“Christ, next you’ll be tellin’ me bananas are berries ‘cuz they grow in bunches.”
“They are,” Fugo replies smugly, and reaches over the table to spear the strawberry off Mista’s plate.
“Watch that fork,” he grumbles, and realizes too late how mean it sounds. Fugo tenses, grips the utensil a little tighter, pales, sets it down, swallows. Damn it. Damn it, he fucked up. Too comfortable. Too familiar.
Then suddenly there’s a coolness on the back of his palm, a familiar brush of fingers, and when he looks there’s Giorno, calm and easy, one hand over his right, the other on Fugo’s left. And there he goes with his little dance again, pulling Mista in without holding onto him, making him spin without ever getting to his feet. Only this time Mista’s not the only partner. This time Fugo is there too; and he’ll bet good money, as Giorno looks at them both and laughs like a bell, that Fugo is feeling the same exact thing.
Whatever’s happening here is far from perfect—but closer than before.
Late that night Giorno comes through the door alone, unflanked by soldiers, his suit-jacket slung over one shoulder, tie loosened. Mista’s sitting in quiet conspiracy with Fugo, half a bottle of wine sitting on the countertop, chatting about nothing in particular. He slumps when Giorno walks in, smirks, leans his chin in his hand. Fugo sits up a little straighter.
“How was it?” they ask, at the same time, different inflection, same intent—and burst into half-drunk giggles.
Giorno’s eyes flicker between the two of them. A smile ghosts across his lips, wavers, and then comes back stronger.
“Terrible.”