Archive of Our Own ^beta

One thing about living in a small town that’s no surprise: you really do get to know everyone. Mista can name every face in town by heart and can, with a bit of time, remember the year that he met them. He knows the season’s about to change by the goods Sorbet’s got in stock at the general store, he knows what Pesci has to say about how hard a fish is to catch and all the wrong questions to ask him about having a pet crab, and he knows nearly everyone in town’s routines and how they change with the seasons like the back of his hand.

Which means, when there’s talk of a new face, it’s not too hard to get swept up in the excitement.

A new farmer, moving into an overgrown ranch his grandfather left for him. Bucciarati let the news slip a couple days ago, during one of the nights when most of the town can be found in Risotto’s bar and restaurant: the Iron Tap. It’s not something Mista got to see in-person, he’d turned in early, but he’d woken up to voicemails from everyone clamoring to be the first to tell him. And a second call from Bucciarati, before dinner.

“You know as well as I do how long it’s been since someone’s lived at Joestar Farm. I’m gonna clean the inside up a bit before the guy gets here, but would you be willing to meet him at the bus station and bring him over when he arrives?”

He’d love to. Really. He’s dying to. It’d be amazing to get to be the first person to meet the new guy--both for his own curiosity and so he can lord it over Narancia. But he can’t. It sucks, but Mista’s doing a check-up on Trish’s forge on the day the guy’s bus gets in. Mista’s curiosity almost convinces him to postpone, but he really needs the money.

“Tell him I said hi, though,” Mista says. “And also that if he wants his house to be bigger than a storage closet to come see me, and for a price, I’ll give him some renovations.”

“Tell him yourself,” Bucciarati answers. “I’m showing a new villager to his house, not advertising for you.”

Mista clicks his tongue. “Fair enough. I’ll mail it in the ‘Welcome to the valley’ letter I was gonna send him.”

“If you’re serious, then please don’t include the part about his house being the size of a storage closet.” Bucciarati sighs. “It’s already gonna be hard selling him on this house with the fifteen years of neglect it wears like twenty. I don’t need him realizing even its built-in features could do with an upgrade.”

Mista laughs. “Fine, fine,” he tells Bucciarati, good naturedly, “but you owe me one, boss.”

It’s easy to get swept up in the excitement of a new villager, and Mista spends dinner alone with his leg bouncing violently, picturing different faces on the broad-shouldered body of someone prepared to do manual labor, and even the sound of the TV he keeps in his kitchen for background noise can’t distract him.

The thing about living in a small town: you really do get to know everyone. And on that note, when you get a new face, you can point them out on sight.

It’s not three days after the barrage of calls that someone knocks at Mista’s door. Only Bucciarati bothers to knock anymore, and only on visits where he comes to collect Mista’s taxes for the week.

Mista waits for Bucciarati to let himself in. In the meantime, he opens the register, gathering what he owes. It’s easier if he’s got the money ready for him when he walks in, that way they can spend the rest of the time chatting.

Mista hisses when he sees how much is left after taxes. He knew he’d taken a bit of a hit this past week, but it always looks worse when he sees how shallow the bills are in the tray.

It’s only at the second set of knocks that Mista realizes the person at the door hasn’t let themself in. That’s when it occurs to Mista that it might not be Bucciarati.

“C--” he starts, clears his throat, hurries to put the bills back. “Come in?”

The handle clicks as it turns, and the door swings open.

Mista’s first impression is that this is some kind of a mistake. By some trick of the lighting, he didn’t recognize Fugo, but when the door closes, his face will go back to normal and they can laugh about Mista confusing the twink ass he dated for a literal year for a stranger. Mista will ask him when he started knocking when he paid visits, and Fugo will give him whichever lesson about manners from his grandma he decided to take to heart this week.

But that doesn’t happen. The trick of the lighting closes the door behind him, and it starts to sink in that this peculiar figure must be that of Giorno Giovanna.

First of all: he’s unbelievably skinny. Much smaller than Mista’d been imagining. Clearly didn’t do a lot of physical work at wherever he’d been making money in the city. Second of all, he looks like he’s gonna burn if he’s outside for two minutes, let alone however long it’ll take to tend to his crops. Third, he’s… exceptionally put-together. Soft features and light pink lipstick that, with his green eyes, remind Mista of a rose. His clothes look like satin for God’s sake. The closest thing to a farmer’s look he’s got is the braid his hair is carefully tucked into, but that’s so shiny and soft looking, Mista can only guess at how many bottles he’s brought with him of product. Mista doesn’t even remember Joestar Farm having a connected bathroom.

Overall, he’s just… pretty. Gorgeous. Much too beautiful for the picture of a farmer Mista’s got in his head. But, to be fair, it hasn’t been a week yet. There’s still time. Maybe he’s just trying to impress on his first day.

Mista realizes he’s been staring so long that the guy’s standing in front of the counter. Mista clears his throat, and the poor guy actually jumps.

“Sorry about that,” Mista says. He crosses his arms on the counter and leans towards him. “You must be the new farmer. Welcome to the valley!” He sticks a hand out. “The name’s Mista.”

“Giorno,” he says. His grip is firm but not crushing as he shakes Mista’s hand. “Though I’m sure you knew that. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Same here. Sorry to make you walk all the way out here for a hello. I’ve been meaning to head down to your farm to greet you myself, but I’ve been busy holding down the fort.” He pats the counter a few times. “But you got my letter, right?”

“I did.” Giorno’s smile is small, businesslike. “It’s actually part of the reason I’m here. You said you do house renovations?”

Mista blinks, shoving himself back upright. “I do, yeah.”

Giorno’s business smile turns a fraction more friendly. It’s small, but bright.

“Wonderful! I was wondering what it would cost to get my house renovated.”

“Well well well,” Mista smiles, “I wasn’t expecting you to want one so soon. I figured you’d take a season or two to get there.”

Giorno shrugs. “I ran out of space.”

Mista snorts. That sounds about right. Last he remembers, the Joestar Farm was maybe as big as one room. It’s a wonder the guy can fit a table and a bed in there, let alone any other furniture or stuff he might’ve brought from the city.

“Sure, let me pull up the numbers really fast.” He reaches under the counter for the pricing book. “Now, I should let you know, for house renovations, you get a discount if you pitch in your own raw materials. So, like, if you have the stone and wood needed for the upgrade, I’ll give you a special price.”

Giorno nods. “Bucciarati told me as much. I’ve got them.”

“Perfect. When I get to the…” Mista trails off as Giorno takes off his backpack and opens it to show the hundreds of pieces of wood visibly crammed into it.

Mista blinks.

“I… I really only need them at the farm,” he says. He was raised better than to laugh in the guy’s face, but he’s not even sure if that’s what he wants to do, staring at all the wood Giorno’s stuffed into his backpack. “It’s not much help to me to have all the raw materials here at the shop, but I appreciate how prepared you are.”

Giorno raises an eyebrow.

“How else are you supposed to know that I have the material for the discount, then?” he asks.

Mista’s not quite sure how to react to that either.

“That’s… fair,” he says. He doesn’t know why he wouldn’t just trust the guy to have the raw materials if he says he did, and even if he didn’t, it’s an easy fix to get the remainder of the money owed, but Mista has the feeling arguing is not the way to go here. “Thank you. I’ll start work tomorrow, if that’s alright?”

Giorno tells him it’s fine and pays the discounted amount. On his way out, he turns around at the door.

“By any chance, do you know where a man named Narancia might be?” he asks. “I’m trying to meet everyone in the valley today, but I haven’t been able to find him anywhere.”

Mista frowns. “What is today? Tuesday?”

“Monday.”

“Oh. Monday. Right.” He looks at the wall clock by his head. “It’s almost three, so he should be at home right now eating lunch. Better hurry, though, he leaves to go visit Trish at 3:30-ish.”

Giorno smiles bright as he thanks Mista and leaves, closing the door behind him.

Mista clicks his tongue and starts sorting the money into the register.

“Strange guy,” he tells the empty shop he calls home.

On days when he’s got a job at someone’s house, Mista gets up with the sun. By the time he walks all the way to Joestar Farm, it’s already 5 in the morning.

The Joestar Farm isn’t quite as shitty as Mista remembers it looking the last time he visited: a testament to the work Giorno must’ve been putting in in the few days he’s been here. A large amount of the overgrowth has been cleared away, which probably explains where he got all the wood for the renovation. In the space left, there’s a small, rectangular patch of tilled soil with sprouts of green popping out from the ground.

The improvements on the land make the size of the rundown house all that much more glaring. Mista inspects the damage as he knocks on Giorno’s door. There’s some evidence of the natural deterioration of being abandoned for so long, but thankfully the walls aren’t sagging and there’s no cracks or unnatural sloping to the roof to suggest structural damage. Nothing too hard to fix, then. Mista adds “replacing a few boards of the original walls” to the mental checklist.

There’s still no response from inside the house to his knocking. Same for the second try.

Mista huffs. He figured farmers were supposed to get up early, but maybe that’s just another quirk about Giorno that’s not quite like the image of farmers in Mista’s head. He’ll have to start working on the outside of the house first. It’s for the best--it’ll get hotter as time passes, and it’ll be nice to finish up inside--but he was hoping to take a look inside to get an idea of what he’s working with.

No matter. He’ll get there eventually. Mista starts roping off the area where he’s planning on working and gets to it.

He’s well underway with the renovation when the guy leaves his house closer to 7.

There’s a few differences to Giorno’s outfit for the day, but it looks like no less effort was put into it. His hair is tied back in a neat plait. He’s wearing a pair of denim overalls over a plaid red shirt. He looks like a model posing in a farm-themed photoshoot rather than the real deal.

Huh. That must just be how he lives.

“Good morning,” Mista calls out. Giorno starts and turns on his heel. He relaxes when he recognizes Mista and nods a hello. “I hope the hammering didn’t wake you up,” Mista says. Giorno blinks over at him, but shakes his head soon after.

“No, I was already up when you started working,” he says.

Mista hums. “That’s good,” he says.

Mista watches from the corner of his eye as the guy walks maybe three steps from Mista and gets to work on the tilled soil.

Mista’s… not sure what to do here.

He’s usually not very talkative while he’s working. He’d rather pay attention to what he’s doing, and talking to a client while in the middle of a job always makes him feel like he’s being rushed, which will doubly not stand.

But, then again, most clients spend a majority of their day away from home. Giorno goes to work five steps away from his front door. It seems rude to pretend that he’s not there.

Twenty minutes pass, and Giorno seems to be hovering within earshot, almost like he’s waiting for Mista to talk first. Unless Mista’s imagining that. Is Giorno hoping to talk but is worried that Mista will get mad at him for interrupting his work? Is he waiting for Mista to say something first? Or will Giorno get mad at Mista if he tries to talk to him because Mista should only be working?

It’s stalls like this that make Mista appreciate how nice it is to know the ins and outs of all his friends and acquaintances in town.

He figures there’s no learning without trying, though.

“So,” Mista starts, and Giorno starts. Mista powers through. “You’re from the city?”

Giorno’s smile when he turns is amicable, but plastered on.

“A few of them, yes,” he says. “I’ve moved around quite a bit.”

“What made you wanna become a farmer?” Mista asks.

“Call it personal reasons,” Giorno says. “I have a certain dream, and the success of this farm is a crucial part of that.”

Mista blinks.

“Wasn’t expecting such a concrete answer, I’ll be honest,” he says. “Mind if I ask what dream could make you trade skyscrapers for dirt and bugs?”

Giorno’s smile strains.

“You don’t gotta--” Mista starts.

“Some other time, maybe,” Giorno says. “I’m afraid I have to get back to work for now.”

Giorno turns on his heel, heading the five steps back to his crops, and Mista huffs a laugh.

“Until next time,” he calls. He turns back to his work, taking the hint.

It’s halfway through the day that Mista figures it’s about time to get started on the work in the house.

He calls out to get Giorno’s attention.

“I have to go inside to finish with the electrical stuff,” Mista says. “Do you mind?”

Giorno waves. “Here, I’ll show you in.”

Mista high-knees over the rope barrier and follows Giorno up onto the wooden porch. Giorno unlocks the door and holds it open for Mista, who thanks him as he passes.

It’s… somehow even smaller on the inside than it looks on the outside. Amongst all the furniture, there really isn’t a lot of space to move around.

It’s nicely decorated, though. Posters and art of country hills and lakes are framed on the walls. There’s a tall geode in one corner. A half-full bookcase, a bed that probably only barely fits him, a fireplace, and on the table--

Oh, that’s interesting.

There’s a bouquet in a vase on the table.

It’s not the traditional bouquet that villagers give to their suitors, but he’s also not from around here. Mista imagines other cities would have other traditional designs for their bouquets.

Not that it’s that surprising for Giorno to have a bouquet. Mista was just thinking yesterday about how pretty he is on the first impression. Someone that good-looking is bound to be already taken. Mista figured they would’ve moved together, being serious enough to warrant one of them giving the other a bouquet and all, but he’s heard of weirder things. Maybe his partner is joining him later.

Mista snaps himself out of it with a nod. There’s still a job to do. He can’t let his curiosity get in the way of his work.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Giorno says, newly-filled water bottle in hand. “I’m going back to work. I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

Mista smiles. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

He steps up to the wall he was working on before, and before the door even closes behind Giorno, he’s right back to it.

He switches between outside and inside work for the rest of the day depending on whether there’s shade or not. He finishes just after nightfall. Giorno’s asleep by the time it’s done, so he leaves a note on the door.

He doesn’t think about Giorno again until he walks in late to Friday Night Hangouts to find the new guy the center of discussion.

“Hey, Mista.” Sheila nods at him. “But nah, Bucciarati. I haven’t met him yet.”

Bucciarati frowns. “I told him he should try to make the rounds and introduce himself.”

“With all due respect, Bruno, give the guy a couple days,” Risotto pipes up from the bar. “He’s gonna want to settle in before he goes hunting down every strange face for a hello.”

Mista frowns. “He’s been trying,” he says. “I heard him say the other day that he was trying to meet everyone.”

Bruno hums. “As long as he’s been trying.” He crosses his arms. “So how many of you have met Giorno?”

Fugo shrugs with the shoulder not holding his beer. “Hasn’t been to our house, yet. At least not when I’m around. Nonny said she caught him on the way to the store though.”

“I’ve met him,” Narancia pipes up. “Blocked my way in the door, and I had to shimmy around him to get outside when we were done talking.”

Mista hides his smile behind his beer. Trish leans her cheek on her hand.

“He caught me on my way to Sorbet’s shop,” she says. “Seems alright. I told him I’d give him a discount on upgrades for his tools at the smithery if he brings the metals I’d need.”

Narancia snorts. “How in the hell is he supposed to get that?”

“The guy’s got a pick-axe. We’ve got a mine.” Trish shrugs. “He’ll manage.”

“Nothing’s stopping y’all from going to meet him, you know,” Mista pipes up. “It’s not fair to expect the guy to go out of his way for introductions if you won’t do the same.”

“I’m not going all the way out there,” Abbacchio says. “There’s nothing by that ranch but a walk back to town.”

Bucciarati gives him a look.

“It’s a fifteen minute walk from here. Just past the bus station.”

“One-way,” Abbacchio counters. “It’s a 30-minute round trip from anything else in town.”

“Don’t you live at the ranch?” Narancia pipes up.

“‘Live at’?” He squints, but the teasing tone in his voice isn’t unkind. “I own it. It’s my ranch. Of course I live there.”

“Dude. That’s closer to his place than it is to town.” Narancia points with the hand holding his drink. “It’d take you five minutes max from your front door.”

Abbacchio’s expression sours. “All the more reason. I don’t wanna waste time going backwards just to say hi to some brat who’s only gonna be here for three months, max.”

Mista rolls his eyes. “Not this again.”

“He’s just some city punk who thinks a small town is some magical fairytale land where all his responsibilities won’t matter anymore.”

Bucciarati glares. “Abbacchio.”

“You know it’s true, Bruno.” Abbacchio leans back in his seat and brings his glass with him. “Happens all the time. He’ll have a brief honeymoon tourist period with the place, but eventually, sooner than later, probably, he’s gonna miss the hustle or the smell or whatever it is about the city people actually like, and he’ll leave. If I had a dime for every time I’ve seen it, I’d own the town myself by now.”

“Shut the fuck up, would ya?” Mista pipes up. Then, to Bucciarati, before it can become a full-blown argument: “I’ve met him. He’s even hired me to do a little work for him. Nice guy, but seems kinda quiet.”

Fugo raises an eyebrow. “What kind of work could he possibly have needed already?” he asks. “He’s barely been here a week.”

“I renovated his house.” Mista nods in the direction of Joestar Farm, like they could see it from here if they looked. Bucciarati nods.

“That makes sense. The old farmhouse wasn’t very spacious by anyone’s standards. I’m surprised that’d be such a high priority though.”

“Wait,” Trish says, “so you’ve been inside the new guy’s place?”

Mista raises an eyebrow. “His name’s Giorno.”

“You’re not denying it,” Sheila says. “So you’ve seen the new guy’s house.”

“What’s it like?” Narancia pipes up. “I’m imagining, like, white furniture with gold accents.”

“No way.” Trish elbows him with a grin. “He’s gotta be a dark hardwood guy.”

“I wasn’t really paying attention to the furniture,” Mista says. “My job was the house. Not the shit in it.”

“You must’ve seen something interesting,” Trish says.

“Leave him alone,” Fugo says. “If he didn’t notice anything, then there must’ve been nothing too special.”

“Oh!” Mista snaps his fingers, memory jogging. “There was a bouquet of flowers in a vase. He was keeping them as decorations on a table.”

Narancia blinks. “You didn’t tell us about a partner,” he says.

“Yeah, I thought he moved here by himself. What’s the partner like?” Trish asks.

“That’s the thing, he did move here by himself.”

The table blinks at him.

Trish shoves at his shoulder.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell us that in the first place?” she nearly shouts, and Mista’s face breaks out into a smile.

“Who gives a fuck about his love life?” Abbacchio asks.

“Because what happened between them that Giorno came down and the partner didn’t?” Narancia asks.

“Giorno seems like a nice guy, if quiet,” Mista says. “Can’t really picture him as a farmer, though, and I’ve seen him at work.”

“Do you think the partner is why he became a farmer?” Trish asks.

“Maybe he got dumped and decided to reinvent his life,” Narancia says.

“Maybe one of them needed space, so he came down here,” Mista says.

“Or,” Fugo pipes up. “Maybe the partner’s back in the city, finishing up sales on their old place, and is gonna join Giorno again when that’s done.” He rolls his eyes, but there’s no anger to it yet. “Not everything is a soap opera, you guys.”

“Could be none of the above,” Sheila says. “He might not even be dating.”

“Then why does he have a bouquet?” Trish asks, leaning way into the PDA territory of Sheila’s space.

“For decoration?” Sheila shrugs. She kisses her wife on the forehead before resting her temple over the spot. “Bouquets don’t mean in the city what they do here.”

Trish playfully shoves Sheila off.

“What do you mean?” Mista asks.

“Well, in the city, people can just give each other bouquets for things without anything romantic going on between them. It’s a common thank you gift.”

“You’re bullshitting,” Narancia says.

“Believe it or not, but it’s true.” Sheila shrugs a shoulder. “If you told someone in the city that in the valley, you only give a bouquet to a person to ask them to go out with you, they’d look at you like a crazy person.”

“Yeah, well…” Mista smirks. “10 bucks says he’s got a partner.”

Sheila smirks. “Don’t do this,” she says.

“No, too late, I’ll take that,” Abbacchio says, leaning forward in his chair and resting his elbows on the table. “10 bucks says he doesn’t.”

“I’m with Sheila,” Narancia says.

Mista scoffs. “Just a second ago you were so sure he and his partner were in a fight, you fucking traitor.”

The rest of the night is spent like this: playfully bickering over bets and backstabbings. By the time they all part ways, Mista’s reminded, again, of why he loves these guys.

On his walk home, he passes the Community Center. He thinks of Bucciarati and Dad. For his own sanity, he focuses on not noticing it.

It’s not 18 hours later that there’s a knocking on Mista’s door again.

Mista looks up from his magazine. It takes a few more ticks on his clock than he’d like to admit to remember his and Giorno’s meeting.

“Come in!” he calls. He dog-ears the page he’s on as Giorno walks through the door.

“Good morning,” Giorno says. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“You’re not.” Mista flips the glossy pages closed. “What can I do you for?”

“I just wanted to give you a thank you gift,” Giorno says, rifling through his bag.

“Thank you gift?” Mista parrots, leaning over the counter for a better look. “For what?”

Giorno cocks an eyebrow at him. “For the house, of course,” he says. “It’s been a blessing how much more space I have now.”

“Oh,” Mista waves away the words. “No gift needed. I appreciate it, but you paid me to do a job.”

“I insist,” Giorno says. “You worked faster than I’ve ever seen, and it really was a great help.”

“Well,” Mista says over the rustling of Giorno in his bag. “Thank you very much. That’s really nice of--”

Giorno pulls a bouquet of flowers from his bag, and Mista feels his heart stop. Giorno holds it out for Mista to take, and oh fuck. Oh God. Sheila was right. He missed something here.

“I couldn’t help but notice you staring at the vase on my table,” Giorno says, “and I saw last time I was here that you didn’t have any plants inside, so I thought this might make a good ‘thank you’ gift.”

Giorno pushes the flowers towards Mista, and Mista, not knowing what else to do, takes them a bit dumbly.

“Sorry they’re a touch late,” Giorno continues. “I didn’t have the time to grow any, so I had to order them from the city and shipping took a bit.”

“It’s no problem. They’re beautiful,” Mista says, a little stilted. He can feel his face reddening preemptively about the news he’s about to break. “Just so we’re clear, the flowers in your home… weren’t from a partner?” he asks, just to be sure.

“Wh--” Giorno’s brows knit. “Oh, no. They’re from my father. I’m not dating anyone.” He leans away from the counter, turning his head to look out the window. “Even if I had been, moving out here, I probably would have ended it.”

“Ah. Got it.” God damn it. He’s really gonna have to be the one to break it to him, doesn’t he? “So, this was really nice of you, but… here in the valley, there’s a certain… tradition. Around giving bouquets.” Mista fiddles with the stems. “I know it’s not this way in the city, but when you give a bouquet of flowers to someone here, you’re asking them to go out with you.”

Giorno blinks. He turns back to Mista. Giorno’s eyes search Mista’s face, flicking between the bouquet in Mista’s hands and his expression.

Mista watches the tips of his ears bloom red.

“Th--” Giorno sputters, hands moving and freezing halfway to the bouquet. “I’m-- I didn’t know, I’m so sorry if you thought--”

“It’s okay,” Mista waves away the awkward apology he can feel starting to snowball. “Don’t worry about it. It’s a lovely arrangement. I figured that you didn’t know.”

“You don’t have to take them,” Giorno says.

“No! No, I’d love to. They’re beautiful.” They really are. The flowers aren’t perfect, but they’re bright. Spangles of all different colors and puff flowers with a strong, fresh perfume that’s unmistakable. “I know what you meant by them, and I appreciate the gift. They’d look beautiful on my bookcase.”

Giorno resolutely doesn’t look at Mista, his face beet-red. As cool as Mista’s trying to play it off, his cheeks feel like they could cook an egg.

“Are you sure I can have them?” Mista asks, just in case.

“If you want it, it’s yours. I--” Giorno coughs. He takes a deep breath and centers his eyes on Mista with renewed determination and resolve, cheeks only slightly diminishing the overall effect. “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.”

Mista ducks down to get to something he might be able to use as a vase.

“No worries. You couldn’t have known. Th--”

“I’m afraid I have to run.” Giorno’s voice sounds further away. “I only had enough time between duties to drop this off. Sorry again for the… yeah. Have a good day.”

By the time Mista pops his head back over the counter, the door is already swinging closed on Giorno’s form, fast-walking away from Mista’s house.

“B--” Mista stutters. “Bye…”

Mista watches after him, even after the door is completely closed. He takes a deep breath to combat the acid embarrassment in his throat, and lets it out in a sigh. He hopes Giorno won’t be too embarrassed from his honest mistake to keep from coming around. He’s got a lot of land that’s itching to get developed on, and Mista could really use the money from all those projects.

It’d be awful to have blown his chance of making friends with the first new villager that might actually stay that’s happened in a while, of course. He seems like a good guy.

It’s just… Mista could also really use the money.

Mista sighs and keeps looking for a vase. Well, nothing he can do about that now. He’ll see soon enough.

Mista, Narancia, and Fugo sit with their legs dangling over the edge of the rock wall behind Mista’s house.

Mista thumbs through the new photos in the gallery, holding the camera at arms’ length so all three of them can appraise the images flashing past.

Blurry.

Blurry.

The waves on the lake are out of time.

Out of focus.

Tilted.

Blurry.

“Mista,” Fugo says, “why didn’t you tell us you suck at this? I could’ve saved the trip and just stayed home.”

“And I wouldn’t have dragged your sorry ass out here had I known that you couldn’t throw rocks at the same time.”

“Hey,” Fugo pouts, “that’s Narancia’s fault.”

“Was not.” Narancia shifts to dangle his legs over the edge of the cliff and kicks his feet. “How were we supposed to know when to throw?”

Mista rolls his eyes. “Cause I fucking told you. If you ever hear me do ‘one, two, three, go’ shoot me, cause that’s the evil clone.” Good picture. Slightly out of focus in a nice way. Here’s where he started fucking around with filters. “And he’s doing a shit job of passing as me, at that.”

“So, if he does a good job of it, we shouldn’t shoot the evil clone?” Narancia asks.

“I mean…” Mista brings the camera down and thinks about it. “If he does a good enough job that you can’t tell the difference and shot me instead, maybe he deserves to live on as his reward.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Fugo says immediately. “You’re so fucking weird.”

Mista laughs, paying no mind, and goes back to the camera. Blurry. Too monotone.

“Hey,” Narancia elbows him. “I can’t see.”

“Oh, right, sorry.” Mista holds the camera out more, and Fugo flinches.

“Can we please move away from the cliff?” he asks. “Why do you insist on being by this cliff as often as possible?”

Mista rolls his eyes. He drags himself a bit away from the edge. Narancia argues, but follows suit. The lighting’s too bright. Blurry. God, why does he ever think the sketch filter will make anything look good? Tilted.

The crunch of footsteps catches Mista’s attention just before: “What are you all doing?”

“Hey, Giorno!” Narancia cheers.

Mista looks up. Giorno slows to a stop just past where Narancia is seated and moves his hands behind his back.

“Yo, Giorno,” Mista greets.

“Hello,” Fugo nods.

“It’s good to see you all,” Giorno says.

“You too!” Narancia smiles. “And thanks for the twenty bucks, by the way. I--”

Mista pinches his side. Hard.

Giorno frowns. “I--”

“Mista called us down here to help him stage some pictures,” Fugo says, gesturing to the camera in Mista’s lap.

Giorno tilts his head. “I didn’t know you were into photography,” he says.

Fugo huffs a laugh.

“You’ve only been here a week,” he says. “I don’t know why you would know what Mista of all people is into.”

“I suppose that’s fair. What were you taking pictures of?”

Mista holds the camera out for him. He smiles. “See for yourself.”

He steps closer and kneels between Mista and Narancia. He takes the camera, but doesn’t do anything for a second, finding the buttons that look right. When he’s satisfied with his button judgement, he starts thumbing his way through the gallery.

His expression stays carefully neutral, eyes darting quickly as he changes the pictures. Mista desperately wants to ask what he thinks, but it’s probably better to let him talk when he’s ready.

Giorno moves to hit the “next” button, but stills instead. His eyebrows raise. He turns the camera around to show them. “This one’s very good.”

On the screen is a shot Mista took while he was fucking around with the shutter speed settings. In it, the waves sort of blur together until it’s impossible to tell which are the waves actually happening and which are ghost forms of their path and which are reflections. The sky is starting to get dark, and the cone of light from the falling sun makes glitter dance across the water on the screen in contrast to the silhouette of trees in the background.

Fugo whistles. He turns to Mista. “I don’t know how you managed to make such an uninspired landscape completely indiscernible, but congratulations.”

“Thank you, it’s a skill,” Mista says with a wide smile. Then, to Giorno: “That’s a personal favorite of mine too.” Giorno doesn’t pull his arm back, and Mista takes the cue to take the camera.

He gets an idea and holds it up, a devilish smile on his face. “You ever thought about modelling?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah!” Narancia springs up. “You’re not in there yet, are you?”

“I’m okay,” Giorno starts, bringing his arms up placatingly, but Narancia rushes forward and grabs his hand, jumping up and down with it.

“Nonono, it’s tradition!” he nearly-shouts. “Mista’s taken pictures of everyone in town!”

“Alright, that’s enough. Leave him alone.” Mista waves Narancia away. “Some people don’t like their pictures taken. Not everyone’s as talented with photos as Abbacchio.”

Fugo snorts hard enough that he doubles forward with it.

“Oh, come on,” Narancia pouts. “We can take it in front of that spooky Community Center.” He makes a rectangle out of his thumbs and pointers and holds it away like he’s framing a shot. “It’ll be a whole Beauty and the Beast thing!”

“Community Center?” Giorno asks.

“You’ve probably passed by it a few times,” Fugo says, “but no one uses it anymore, so I’m not surprised you haven’t noticed it. It has a big, broken-down clocktower on it.”

Giorno frowns. “Why doesn’t anyone use it?”

“Bucciarati still uses it,” Narancia smirks. “I heard he keeps the town’s taxes in the safe in one of the rooms.”

Fugo lightly smacks the back of his head. “That’s just a stupid fucking rumor.” Then, to Giorno: “It’s so broken down by now that it’s dangerous to be inside. You’d probably fall through the floor at this point.”

Giorno hums and tilts his head. “Why did people stop using it?”

Narancia smirks.

“Yeah, Mista,” he says. “Why did people stop using it?”

“Okay,” he starts, “just because you don’t believe--”

“Oh, right! That’s why!” Narancia bursts into laughter. “Bloody Mary over here scared the shit outta all the right people about the place being haunted.”

“Hey, fuck you, man.”

“What happened?” Giorno asks.

“When he was, like, 14, Stephen King over here was inside when a few rats knocked over some shit. He cried Boogeyman, and now we have to keep the place locked up.” Narancia leans back on the grass.

Giorno hums. He glances down the path towards town, a neutral look on his face. Mista can almost see the gears turning in his head, and he raises an eyebrow.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asks.

Giorno shakes his head. “Nothing much,” he says, standing. “I was just thinking that I still have to make my way to Sorbet’s to pick some things up.”

“You better hurry,” Fugo says. He pulls up his sleeve and checks his watch. “Sorbet closes up shop in half an hour.”

Giorno brushes the dirt off the knees of his jeans. “Then I guess that’s my cue. Have a wonderful day, everyone.” He looks at Mista. “And if you could please send me that photo, I’d appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Mista says. He lifts a hand and waves as Giorno starts walking. “Nice seeing ya!”

“You’re going to need to be much faster to make it,” Fugo warns. “Good luck.”

“See ya!” Narancia calls.

They go through Mista’s camera until they’ve seen all the hundred-or-so photos he took at the lake’s edge. Only a fifth of them are usable anywhere. “But hey, that’s photography,” Mista says.

Narancia hefts himself up. “Can we take pictures by the Community Center now?” he asks.

Mista turns to Fugo, who shrugs. Then, to Narancia: “I don’t see why not.”

“Alright!” Narancia cheers. “Let’s get snapping!”

They fuck around with taking pictures until Fugo complains that the flash is gonna permanently blind him. Mista saves all the pictures on his computer at home and starts going through them.

His favorite is one of Narancia scaling the water drain to hang upside-down off the gutters of the Community Center with Fugo leaning on the other side of the window, obviously trying to make it look like he’s not completely prepared to catch Narancia if he falls. The glass of the window is old enough that the reflection of the flash bounces off it weird. It almost looks like little shadows are hanging on the sill, posing with them.

Mista saves that in a separate folder and keeps looking.

It becomes normal tradition for Giorno to stop by.

He visits about twice a week, always with a gift of some kind in tow. Not the best chef out there--Risotto certainly doesn’t have to worry about possible competition--but the thought’s nice. It’s all made of fresh produce too, which is always a bonus. He never sticks around long, but Mista finds himself happily anticipating the short burst of interaction before he leaves to put the cows in or whatever farmers need to do before night falls.

He gets to know things about Giorno in those brief spurts of conversation. He went to a fancy boarding school. His adopted dad sends him cookies in the mail. His other adopted dad sends him newspaper clippings about things tangentially related to farming or news from the city. Giorno shows Mista one with a picture of a tall, broad shouldered professor in a set of robes and heavy looking jewelry being handed a plaque.

“I’d bet money Polnareff closed the bakery so he could go see the ceremony,” Giorno says, carefully folding and pocketing the clipping with both hands. “He’s never been one to miss a party, especially in Avdol’s honor. One of the advantages of owning your own business, I suppose.”

Mista crunches away. “Tell him I said thanks for the cookies, by the way. They’re delicious.”

“I’m glad you like them. He developed this recipe for me, y’know. I like my cookies crunchy. He prefers his soft.”

Mista scoffs and says on reflex: “Idiot.”

Mista blanches. “I mean--”

Giorno’s surprised laugh rips from his throat like a horn, his hand coming up half a second too late to muffle it.

It gets to the point where Mista realizes it’s about time he return the favor for once.

Mista hasn’t tried his hand in the kitchen in a long time, and he’s not even sure he’ll be any good anymore, but back when Pericolo was around and Bucciarati and Mista still lived together, he had a cheesecake recipe that was to die for.

He ends up having to scrap one (for himself. It didn’t look right. But, silver lining, he can still confirm the taste is just as good as he remembers), and spends the rest of the time he has to himself making a second. Instead of visiting on the farm like he planned, he sends Giorno the gift through the mail. It should arrive first thing in the morning just fine, but he writes a disclaimer with a photo of the thing just in case it gets a little crushed in the mail.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” Giorno says the next day.

Mista raises an eyebrow.

“You’ve been bringing me extra gifts for weeks,” Mista says. “If I didn’t know better, I might think you were trying to butter me up to get discounts on renovations.”

“Of course not,” Giorno says, reeling back a bit.

“No, I know that. I’m--” Mista waves away the words. “Nevermind.” He leans forward on the counter. “Let’s change the subject. How did everyone else like the cookies?”

Giorno blinks. “Everyone else?”

“Well, yeah.” Mista frowns. “I assume you gave more people than just me the cookies from the package your dad sent.”

“Not really. I don’t really get the chance to talk to the others as much.”

Mista frowns. “Why not?”

Giorno shrugs. “It just works out that way.”

Maybe the guy needs a little extra push into making friends. It’s not unheard of that people might need that bit of support to feel comfortable in a new environment. Especially one where you’re completely new in a tight-knit community like the valley is.

So when Giorno walks into the Tap in the middle of Friday Night Hangouts, Mista doesn’t hesitate.

“Yo, Giorno!” Mista holds up his drink as a makeshift flag. “Over here!”

Giorno hesitates a second, eyes scanning who all is at the table, but he doesn’t wait too long before making his way over. Mista smiles as he gets close. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen you at the Tap this late, man, but it’s good to see you! What brings you down here?”

“Why are you keeping track of when he’s in the Tap?” Abbacchio asks, face the image of disgust. Mista rolls his eyes.

“We meet here at the same time,” Fugo cuts in. “It’s not rocket science, Abba.”

“Well, in any case, he’s here now.” Formaggio walks over and rests a hand by Giorno’s. “What’ll you have? We’ve got--”

“Oh, I’m not here to drink,” Giorno says, pulling his arm closer to himself. “I’m actually looking for Bucciarati?”

Mista frowns.

“He’s doing town business stuff,” Sheila says, “but he should be along sometime tonight.” She raises her glass of hard lemonade. “He does this to us every Friday.”

“We’d tell you where, but who knows where he fucks off to every night. He’s just like that,” Narancia says. “Pops up out of nowhere. You get used to it.”

“I’m half expecting him to appear just because we’re talking about him,” Fugo says. His hands fidget on the table, and he’s staring at them so hard, Mista can feel the wanting to look around the bar radiating off him.

“Yeah!” Trish pats the table in the direction of an empty chair. “Why don’t you join us until then? It shouldn’t be too long now.”

Giorno offers the table a small, pleasant smile. Mista drags a seat out for him, and he takes it. Formaggio flips open his little booklet and looks expectantly at Giorno.

“Just water, please,” he says. Abbacchio scoffs as Formaggio nods and writes it down.

“What, can’t handle a little alcohol?” He holds a finger up, waiting until Formaggio acknowledges it with another head nod. Formaggio checks around for any other refills, and when no one pipes up, he turns to go check on someone else’s table.

When he’s gone, Giorno shrugs. “I have early mornings.”

“Lay off him,” Mista scolds. “Let the guy drink whatever he wants.”

Abbacchio huffs.

Giorno raises an eyebrow.

“I’ll kick you out of this table, Abbacchio, I swear to God,” Mista says at the same time Fugo tells Giorno: “Ignore him.”

“He’s just grumpy cause he thinks you’re not gonna stick around,” Trish adds on.

Giorno blinks. He leans away from the table with a frown. “What gave you the impression I wasn’t planning on staying?”

“It’s not you,” Sheila says. “The last few people who tried to move to the valley from the city all left within the year. The last person to move here before you is the owner of Vinegar Mart, and that guy’s a dick. Only reason he sticks around is cause they’re trying to run Sorbet out of business.” She nods in Abbacchio’s direction. “He’s only got so much friendliness to give, and he wasted it all on glorified tourists. That shit doesn’t grow on trees, you know.”

“Eat me,” Abbacchio says. Sheila flips him off, shoving the finger in his face. He huffs a laugh, the both of them breaking into slight smirks.

“Well, let me put on the record now that I do intend on staying for quite a while.” He makes unwavering, direct eye-contact with Abbacchio. There’s a fire behind his pupils. “It makes no difference to me if you believe me, but know that I plan on being here for a long time.”

Abbacchio squints. “Plans change.”

Giorno smirks. “Mine don’t.”

Abbacchio snarls, muscles tense like he’s about to reach across the table and grab Giorno. Giorno’s shoulders are square and pressed down, chin lifted. They stare each other down. The others exchange looks.

Mista does the first thing he thinks of.

“You got a lot to learn, then,” he says. Giorno startles when Mista claps him on the shoulder, but Mista pays no mind. Instead, he turns to Narancia and hears himself say: “Poor guy gave me a bouquet as a thank you gift for fixing up his house, and I had to break the news to him that I don’t believe in love at first sight.”

He regrets it as soon as it’s out, but it’s too late. In the still second of processing, he can feel the energy budding behind everyone’s eyes, and he braces for impact.

Narancia and Trish burst out laughing. Fugo spits his mouthful of drink. Sheila slams her glass down, standing up with the force of it, and points at Mista, roaring “I FUCKIN’ TOLD YOU SO” to be heard over the feedback loop of laughter Trish and Narancia have going for them. She hits her chest with both hands and throws her hands up in a “touchdown” motion, yelling something indecipherable now that Fugo’s gasping gut laugh has joined the noise. Sheila turns her attention to them.

Giorno’s eyes are as wide as dollar coins. His knuckles are white against his chair. Mista squeezes his shoulder lightly, and when Giorno looks over, he silently mouths “Sorry”. He nods to the bar, where Risotto is already rounding the counter.

“Risotto!” Trish squeals, waving him over, chair tilting back in her excitement. “Risotto, thank God you’re here. Did you hear the good news?” she asks, tears in her eyes. Risotto raises an eyebrow. Mista groans.

“Trish, no, c’mon--”

“Mista’s got a--”

Trish jolts with an “ow”.

“Sorry about the noise, Rizzo,” Abbacchio says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “We’ll be quiet. If we’re not, I’ll personally help you escort them out.”

Risotto nods. “I’m holding you to that.” He turns on a heel and stomps back to the counter, lighter than air in that strange gracefulness Risotto always carries.

“If you all get us kicked out for the night because you couldn’t keep your voices down again, I will kick all of your collective asses,” Abbacchio hisses.

“Sorry, sorry,” Narancia says, waving. “Won’t happen again.”

There’s an unguilty smile on his face. No one at the table is especially sorry except maybe Fugo and Abbacchio, probably Giorno, and definitely Mista.

“It was a misunderstanding,” Mista grits out, “but we cleared it up, and everything’s set now. It was a nice gesture nonetheless, now if y’all--”

“Well of course it was a misunderstanding. I was gonna say-- Cause-- Listen,” Trish starts, and Narancia breaks again into laughter, though it’s more of a snicker now that he’s been threatened with banishment. “I know Mista seems like a rugged, do-it-yourself type of everyman, and he’s got that classic backroads charm, but honey, you can do so much better than him.”

“Mista, you really just took it right out of his hands?” Sheila whistles. “Damn, you really have gotten desperate since your last boyfriend.”

“Hey,” Fugo says. “Enough. He was trying to not be rude. Something that can’t be said for the three of you right now.” Fugo brings his drink to his lips, and it’s only when they’re partially hidden that he breaks into a smirk. “God knows I know way too much about Mista’s love life already.”

Hurt stabs through Mista’s gut. “Hey. Too far.”

Fugo sobers. “Oh. Uh, right. I should’ve--” He coughs. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Mista waves him off. “Accidents happen.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Trish waves in Giorno’s general direction. “We don’t mean to make fun of you. Him, yes, but not you.”

“It’s okay. It doesn’t bother me.” Giorno shrugs, reminding Mista that he never took his hand off Giorno’s shoulder. He takes the offending limb away and grabs his drink with it. “I know better now.”

“That’s a good attitude,” Sheila says. “There’s not exactly a how-to for adjusting to the valley, so if you need any help, we’re right here.”

“Yeah!” Trish says. “Here, let’s start with… do you have any questions about the town or for us? We’ve got some time still, and it doesn’t hurt to ask.”

Giorno hums. He mouth screws up. “Nothing really about the workings of the town. If there’s questions I should be asking, I haven’t been here long enough to know what they are yet.” Giorno leans forward, resting his cheek in his hand. “I am curious about you all, though.

“Oh yeah?” Trish asks. “What about?”

“Well, you all know where I’m from,” Giorno starts. Mista sees Fugo stiffen out of the corner of his eye. “So what’re your stories? How did you all wind up here?”

Mista wonders if he’s the only one who knows that Fugo’s still embarrassed about being sent to live with his grandmother. He’s never been subtle in his life, but, on the other hand, he doesn’t miss a beat.

“Don’t ask Mista,” Fugo says. “He gives a different story every time someone asks.”

Giorno tilts his head and turns to Mista, but that’s fine. The spotlight’s not a place Mista minds.

“Different as far as y’all know.” Mista leans back in his chair until the front two legs lift off the floor and crosses his feet on the table. Fugo gives him an unimpressed look.

“You told me you ran away from a military academy,” he says. His mouth twitches upwards at the corners, and Mista gives a Cheshire grin that doesn’t help the smile Fugo’s trying to fight down. “And that Bucciarati sheltered you.”

Abbacchio scoffs. It’s the biggest smile of the night. “God, that’s your worst one. Could y’all imagine Mista in the military?”

Mista shrugs. “What can I say? I’m a great shot, but you can’t break in this stallion.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Narancia says with a smile as he shoves Mista, nearly toppling him from his balancing act. “You’re so full of shit.”

“You told me you stowed away on a train to escape police custody and woke up here,” Trish says. “The train doesn’t even stop here, Mista. It just passes through.”

“Why’d they get all the fun stories?” Abbacchio asks. “You told me you were Bucciarati’s cousin.”

“Of a long lost twin of his mother’s,” Mista finishes. “But you didn’t ask any questions, so I didn’t get to tell you that part.”

Abbacchio frowns. “I definitely called bullshit. You and Bucciarati look nothing alike, I asked about it.”

Mista hums. “Nope. Definitely didn’t happen.”

Something shoves his chair forward, tipping the front two legs back on the ground and crunching Mista’s stomach uncomfortably against his propped-up thighs.

“I’m gonna have to side with Abbacchio on this one,” Bucciarati says as he rounds the group of them. “He’s got a photographic memory for bullshit.” Bucciarati throws an arm across Abbacchio’s shoulders. Abbacchio tenses, and he loosens his grip.

“There you are!” Narancia cheers. “We’ve been waiting for you all night.”

“I was busy.” He takes the chair closest to him, on Abbacchio’s left. “The town doesn’t run itself, you know. Even on Fridays.”

“Ah, just the man I was looking for,” Giorno says, chair scraping as he pushes it back. “Sorry to pull you away just as you’ve gotten here, but can we talk in private for a second?”

Bucciarati tilts his head, pushing himself up again.

“Of course,” he says. Then, to everyone else: “I’ll be right back.”

The table offers varying levels of acknowledgement as the two of them make their way out of the Tap.

“What do y’all think that’s about?” Mista asks.

“Nothing good,” Abbacchio says.

“Would you knock it the fuck off?” Mista turns to him. “What are you so worried about?”

“I’m not worried about shit.” He nods in the direction of the door. “Now, if Bucciarati won’t tell us what this is about, then I’ll be worried.”

“Here.” Fugo raises a hand and waves over Formaggio. “Let’s get some food out. That’ll help whatever mood you’re in.”

It’s always a pain ordering food. Narancia likes to say he’s not hungry and snack on everyone else’s shit. Abbacchio and Narancia like salt. Fugo and Sheila like sweet, and Trish and Mista will eat anything. Bucciarati likes bitter, but he doesn’t get a say in what to order unless he’s buying. No one wants to pay. They don’t wanna figure out how to split up the check to buy something for the whole table, but if they each buy their own stuff, fights will start out over everyone wanting “just one bite” of everyone else’s food, and that always ends with Narancia licking everything to claim it.

But Fugo was right. In no time flat, Abbacchio’s forgotten all about Giorno and Bucciarati, lost in the turmoil of whether or not cake pops can count as an appetizer in a dessert shop.

Abbacchio and Mista’s double-plate of onion rings (which Mista knows he’ll be sharing with Narancia before the night’s out), Trish and Sheila’s slice of pie, and Fugo’s vanilla ice cream have all arrived by the time Bucciarati comes back inside.

“Giorno had to run,” he says. “Something about a meeting with Pesci.”

Mista frowns. “If I had known, I would’ve said good-bye when y’all left.”

Bucciarati shrugs. “He seemed sorry he had to leave so fast, if that’s any condolence. And he did say to say ‘bye’.”

To Abbacchio’s credit, he waits until Bucciarati’s completely sitting, with a drink, and had a few bites of his onion rings before he pipes up.

“So what was that about?” he asks.

Bucciarati blinks. “The thing with Giorno?” Abbacchio nods. “He was just asking about the Community Center.”

“The Community Center?” Sheila asks. “Why?”

“He wanted to ask if I’d show him around inside.”

Narancia bursts out laughing.

Mista winces. “I hope you told him no.”

“Of course I did. The old place would probably cave in on him if he tried to set foot inside it.”

“Why don’t we just tear the fucking place down?” Sheila asks. “If it’s dangerous to be inside, there’s no reason to keep it around.”

Mista’s not sure if Bucciarati knows he’s got a tell. He’s not even sure if it’s that obvious or if the years of growing up with the guy made it obvious for Mista.

The wood of the table rings out from the taps of Bucciarati’s fingers as he drums them in quick succession. “It used to be the crown jewel of the valley,” he says, gaze not faltering from Sheila. “Call it nostalgia.”

Abbacchio hums, unimpressed. His eyes are trained on Bucciarati’s hands. “Didn’t know you had such a prideful side, boss.”

“It’s the Italian in me.” Bucciarati smiles that stretched-out grin he does to creep people out. The pads of his fingers are much softer on the table, but their successive beat never wavers.

Mista makes eye contact with Abbacchio, who shakes his head. There’s no pressing it. If Bucciarati doesn’t want to tell the others, then Mista’s keeping his mouth shut.

The rest of the night is spent in good company. Of course, Fugo has to bring up the bet Mista and Bucciarati lost, and the table erupts. It’s loud enough this time that Risotto ends up kicking Mista, Trish, Sheila, and Narancia, the biggest offenders, from the Tap.

They all split ways for the night, and Mista only remembers in the moments before sleep to wonder why Bucciarati didn’t tell the others about Vinegar’s offer.

If there’s one part of Mista’s job he hates, it’s how much fucking wood he has to chop. It’s ridiculous, frankly, but he makes too much from providing his own raw materials to townspeople who can’t collect their own, and it’d be more ridiculous to wait and have it shipped in from a lumber facility. Plus, it’d be ridiculously costly to have to pay for all that lumber every week. Trish’s forge has to be constantly lit during shop hours to stay hot enough to be able to work all throughout the day, and she burns through quite a bit of coal in the process. She mines all she can in her downtime, but Mista gives her a weekly shipment of lumber, some of which she uses to make the difference in her coal needs. He’s happy to do it for her; she pays a pretty penny for it.

It’s a real fucking work-out though. He can feel the ghost of recoil ringing up and down his arms, and the pleasant hum when he rests the axe and grabs his shirt off the ground to wipe the sweat from his forehead makes him consider quitting for the day.

But no. He’s just gonna get pissy about putting it off, and his arms are only gonna ache more tomorrow. He drops his shirt and hefts the axe again. The sooner he finishes this, the better.

He’s almost completely through with the stack when the feeling of being watched creeps up on him.

He turns to find Giorno, sitting on a short table he keeps beside his front door.

“Hey!” Mista waves. “How long’ve you been there?”

Giorno hums, eyes locked at a point on the wood stack at Mista’s feet. “A little while, but it looked like you were doing something important. I didn’t want to interrupt,” he says.

“Sorry. I was focusing.” Mista rubs the back of his neck. “And sorry for being rude, I’d hug you hello, but,” he gestures around his torso, “I’m grossly sweaty. As you can see.”

Giorno covers his nose. Mista tries not to wince, wondering how strongly he must stink if Giorno can smell him from all the way over there. To make matters worse, Giorno still looks as put-together as always, and here Mista is: sweaty, probably radiating stink lines, and only half-dressed.

“Anyway.” Mista switches grips on the axe and drops it by the stump. Giorno startles. “What brings you up here?”

Giorno blinks. “I had a few hours to spare and thought you might want some company.” His eyes flick to Mista’s workstation. “But if you’re busy…”

“Not at all,” he says. He grabs his shirt off the ground and wrestles it on. “I’m at a good stopping place, anyway. I only got one other thing to do.”

Giorno tilts his head.

“I gotta make a delivery,” he explains. “If you want, it’d be a great help if you could tag along with carrying some wood to the smithery? It’d be nice to only to make one trip for a change.”

“The smithery?” Giorno asks. Mista nods. “But it’s…” he rolls up his sleeve and checks his watch “7. I thought the smithery closes at 4.”

Mista nods.

“Yeah, Trish likes to have dinner with her wife, so she closes up early. I slip a note under her door to let her know. She’s good for it.”

Giorno’s face draws strangely blank.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Mista asks, gathering the wood into an armload.

“Oh, nothing much. Just… you could never do something like that in the city,” Giorno says. “That’s all.”

Mista smiles. He digs through his pocket. Giorno blinks owlishly.

“What are you--”

“Guido Mista always keeps his word,” Mista says, pulling out his wallet. He fishes out two pennies and holds them out for Giorno. “I believe I still owe you from last time too, right?”

Giorno takes the pennies out of Mista’s hand and pockets them. Mista raises an eyebrow, smile pulled tight trying to hold back laughing in his face.

“I’ll be honest, I wasn’t expecting you to take them,” Mista says.

Giorno shrugs. “Free money.” He looks at the stack of chopped wood Mista has. “How much do you need me to carry?”

“Uhh,” Mista puts a hand on his hip and scratches at the back of his head with the other. He looks at the giant stack. Wood’s heavier than it looks, but… “Just as much as you can? I’ll pick up the difference.”

“Alright,” Giorno nods. He steps towards the stack and gets to work.

Turns out, he can carry a surprising amount of wood for how small he looks. Mista watches, eyebrows raising in tandem with the ever-growing pile of wood Giorno hefts into his arms.

“Is all that muscle from the farming, or did you have that beforehand?” he asks.

Giorno shrugs, looking away. “I couldn’t tell you. It’s just there.”

Mista whistles a note. “Impressive.” He claps his hands and rubs them together. “Okay, how about you take half and I take half.” He steps forward to grab some of the lumber Giorno’s holding.

It’s always a quiet walk to town around this time. That’s why Mista likes taking these trips right as it starts getting dark.

Giorno walks slower than Mista, so he shortens his pace to keep from getting ahead. They amble towards town together, occasionally hefting the piles of wood higher in their arms. Giorno’s the kinda person who doesn’t mind quiet. Usually, Mista likes to talk, but on these trips, he’s content to let the peaceful atmosphere of the valley getting ready to sleep wash over the two of them.

It’s surprising, then, that Giorno’s the one to break the silence as they step up to the smithery.

“I haven’t seen a single person this whole way.” Mista drops the wood in his arms on the ground and steps back. Giorno follows suit. “I don’t think I’ve walked across town without seeing someone at least once.”

“Yeah, that’s how it usually is.” Mista organizes the wood into a neat little stack. “But I’ve never seen anyone on these drop-offs.”

Even in the growing dark, he can tell Giorno’s eyebrows are raised by the tone in his voice. “You’ve never see anyone?”

“Not a soul.”

“But it’s not even that late. It’s not even 8.”

Mista laughs. “Maybe in the city that’s not late, but… wait… I might’ve seen one.” He stands and looks towards the city square. He squints, but he can’t find any silhouettes. “I think I saw Narancia practicing his skateboard one time. It’s much rarer than you’d think.” He glances at Giorno beside him. “There’s not much to do later than 5, really, except the Tap, but that’s a once a week treat. Not really a regular hangout spot.”

“That makes sense,” Giorno says. He takes a couple steps away from the smithery, pauses, and turns halfway back. “Well? Shall we?”

Mista smiles. “One sec, lemme just--”

Mista reaches into his pocket and grabs his pad of sticky notes. He writes Trish the typical note --”Got wood? ;)”-- and slips it under the door. He jogs the couple steps to catch up with Giorno, repocketing the pad and pen as he goes.

“So,” Giorno starts. “How did you find your way to the valley?”

Mista side-eyes him. “Don’t you remember what the guys said? You sure can trust my answer?”

There’s a small pause. When Mista looks over again, Giorno’s smiling, small and devious.

“Of course not,” he says. “But what if I want to hear whatever lie you’ve got prepared?” His voice is quieter than usual, toeing the water to see if it’s the right temperature. Mista can feel the roots of a smile spreading a crescent-shaped path on his face.

“Are you sure?” he asks. Giorno’s smile deepens.

“Hit me with it,” he says.

“Okay. If you must know,” Mista starts. Ever the showman, he pauses for quick dramatic effect. “I took a boat from my parents’ place with an eccentric rich man to pursue my dreams of impressing a rich girl at home named Daisy. I was in love with her, but I needed to prove that I was good enough by making a fuckton of money, but the man who offered me a job ended up getting me involved in throwing baseball games. Together, we--”

“I’ve read Great Gatsby, Mista,” Giorno says, mouth thin, pressed together too tight and twitching at the corners.

“Huh. Caught on faster than I thought you would,” Mista says. “Good thing you did, though, cause it wouldn’t be half as funny if you hadn’t recognized it.”

“You’ll have to try harder than that to get me to not recognize a classic literature reference.”

“Is that so?” Mista asks, challenge evident in his voice.

Giorno raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t take you for the classic literature type.”

“Oh, usually not at all,” Mista says. “I’m more of a Jane Austen kinda guy. Bucciarati and Dad were suckers for the classics.” He leans in conspiratorially. “Whatever you do, do not ask Bruno about Moby Dick. I cannot stress this enough. I love the guy with all my heart, but he has so much to say about the tragedy of Ahab’s story. Dad was a fisherman, too, so he’s also got a bunch of shit to say about Ahab’s thoughts on whaling vis a vis fishing. It’s a whole thing.”

Giorno tilts his head, smile falling into something cautionary.

“‘Dad?’” he repeats back, a touch slower than necessary.

“Yeah,” Mista says. He can feel a touch of defensiveness fighting its way up his throat, but he swallows it down. “Bucciarati and his dad took me in when I was… I wanna say 14.” He shrugs. “Got in the habit of calling him ‘Dad’.”

Giorno chews on that for a bit. He’s a curious kinda guy, and he’s got a little bit of stubbornness in him. Mista’s gotten used to picking out the hints of a person carefully wording questions to piece together a baby picture of Mista before the valley. More often than not, Mista’s willing to play along, but the tugging at the thin bits of the photo’s edges gets grating.

“That’s awfully young for you to be getting involved in gambling,” Giorno says.

Mista barks a surprised laugh. “Yeah, well. That’s why no one thought they were getting scammed.” He taps his temple. “That rich guy… God, what’s his fucking name in the book?”

“Dan Cody.”

“Dan Cody!” Mista throws his hands up. “That’s right. I can’t believe I fucking forgot that. I complained that parents who give their kids two first names are asking for them to turn into villains.”

Giorno chuckles.

They walk the rest of the way back to Mista’s house with amicable chatter. By the time they arrive, it’s late. If Mista had sprung for the glow-in-the-dark watch, he’d be able to check, but he’s left to guess that it’s gotta be at least 8:30 now.

“You wanna come in?” Mista asks. “You walked all this way back, and you helped me with the delivery… I figure I owe you a ‘thank you’ hot beverage or something. I’ve got hot chocolate. I think there’s some coffee or tea left over too.”

Giorno raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t take you for a tea drinker,” he says.

Mista laughs. “Most people don’t. I order it from some place in the city on special occasions.” He holds the door open, and Giorno passes him to enter with a thank you . “I can’t stand coffee, though, so if you drink coffee don’t worry about using up the last of it.”

Giorno follows Mista towards the kitchen. “If you hate the taste of coffee, why do you have any?” he asks.

Mista shrugs. “It’s from when Fugo lived here,” he says. Giorno helps himself to the cabinet with the cups as Mista looks for the can of instant coffee stuff.

“You used to live with Fugo?”

Mista scoffs. “You could call it that, yeah.” Giorno gives him a confused look, and Mista clarifies: “We were living together because I used to date Fugo.”

Giorno snorts, body bunching up with the force of it. Mista blinks, and Giorno’s hand shoots up to cover his mouth. Mista can see red start creeping onto his ears and peeking out from behind his fingers.

“Sorry,” he says, muffled by his palm.

“Don’t be.” Mista smiles at him. “It was cute.”

“I don’t mean to offend, but I-- I can’t imagine you and Fugo alone together at all,” he says. “Let alone romantically.”

“Hey, I resent that. We were cute.” Mista opens a cabinet and finally sees the red metal container. He pulls it out and shuts the cabinet with his hip. “We only didn’t work because I was so busy.”

That and, although Mista would never admit it, he’d been even more strapped for cash back then. He and Fugo’d been living together in Nonny’s house, and Mista was in the middle of building onto his workshop to make it into a place big enough for the two of them to move to. He’d prioritized paying jobs over hanging out with Fugo, and in the end, he got dumped for it.

“How long ago was this?” Giorno asks. “You don’t seem too torn up about it.”

Mista shrugs a shoulder. “It’s been awhile. Break-ups happen.”

Though it was a shame. Fugo really is handsome, and the break-up had come out of nowhere from where Mista was standing, though that doesn’t count for much with how horse-blinded he’d been. It’s hard dating in a small town. You don’t get too much space. When you get together with someone, everyone knows, and when you break up, you see your ex everywhere. He’s lucky Fugo’s as mature of a guy as he is, that they can still hang out together without things being weird.

“But that’s enough about me.” Mista plops in the chair across from Giorno and steeples his fingers. “My turn.”

Giorno leans forward and rests his chin on his fingers.

“Ask away,” he says.

Mista hums. He rubs his chin and pretends to take this seriously.

“Ah!” He snaps his fingers. “I’ve got one.”

He leans forward, and waits until the last second to let a leer stretch across his face.

“What’s your type?”

Giorno blinks.

“My type of what?” He asks.

“You know,” Mista huffs a laugh, “Girl, boy, what have you! What do you look for in a partner?”

“Oh!” The tips of Giorno’s ears go pink. “You-- right. That’s really what you want to ask?”

“Well, yeah! Why not?” He leans forward. “You too nervous to share? I can tell you a bit of what my type is, if that’d make you feel better.”

Giorno makes a face. “No need,” he says. He picks up his drink and smiles into the glass. “You’ve already told me your type is Fugo, evidently.”

“Hey, tell me he’s not cute. Look me in the eye and try. I dare you.”

“I’ve never really found anyone ‘cute’ in a romantic sense,” Giorno says. Mista blinks.

“Really?” He leans his elbows on the table. “I’ve never heard anything like that before. That’s interesting.” He tilts his head. “Does that mean you’re not interested in dating?”

Giorno shrugs. “I wouldn’t write it out completely, but it’s hardly a priority.”

Mista hums and nods. “Makes sense. You’ve got plans after all, right?”

Giorno smiles.

“I suppose you could say that.”

They lose track of time talking about whatever the fuck comes to mind. By the time Mista remembers that Giorno’s house is a bit of a walk home, the guy looks about ready to pass out.

“Here, you can stay in the guest room,” Mista says, gesturing for Giorno to follow him out of the kitchen.

Giorno shakes his head. “I couldn’t impose like--”

“Nonsense. I’d feel much better having you stay the night than for you to walk home right now. You’re swaying on your feet.”

Mista gestures up and down Giorno’s body, which moves like seaweed underwater.

Giorno frowns. “I can get home just fine,” he says.

“Of course you can, but don’t look a gift horse in the house, man.” Mista blinks. “Mouth. In the mouth.”

Giorno chuckles, but it’s more of a giggle.

“Okay, I’ll stay,” he says. “Thank you very much for your hospitality.”

“Any time, any time,” Mista says. “Now let’s get you all set up.”

~~

Another thing about small towns: nothing ever really happens all at once.

All through summer, Mista gets a scattering of jobs. Narancia’s sink starts leaking, Abbacchio’s barn’s shingles need to be replaced. The usual kinda stuff, but it sucks to be outside in the sweltering heat. Mista charges extra if a job’s outside in the summer. All the villagers know that, so any non-emergency outside job waits until fall for them to get an estimate. Mista worries about it nearly the whole night of the Dance of the Moonlight Jellies. He sits cross-legged on the docks at Sheila’s feet and stays deathly quiet, enraptured watching the soft light of the jellyfish ebb and flow through the water, but the second he stands, he’s back to thinking about how much work he’s going to have in the fall.

He runs the numbers through his head again: how much he’s saved, how much he expects to get, and how much he needs.

Mista clicks his tongue. Same answer he always gets. If things keep going the way they are, he’ll be able to start construction in two and a half years. Until then, it’s all he can do to save up.

Mista’s pretty accurate with how busy he’d be. He moves from job to job with barely a day between. He still leaves Friday night open for hanging out with everyone at the Tap, and he makes time to say hi to Giorno (who still insists on giving him something at least twice a week) and Sorbet and everyone if he sees them on his walks, but for the most part, his days are filled with work. With so many estimates to fill and keep track of, he nearly forgets the valley fair’s coming up until half a week before.

Vinegar Doppio, of course, decides this is the one festival he wants to be a part of. He doesn’t hang around Mista’s stall for long, but he talks to all the visiting tourists around it. He makes a point of asking them about the Community Center.

“It’s a shame the mayor is being so obstinate about selling it,” he tells one. “It’s such an eyesore. Vinegarmart would take much better care of the spot.”

Most of the tourists don’t actual give a fuck about a building that’s inaccessible to them from the fairgrounds, but Mista knows it’s not their minds he’s trying to change.

The only thing that keeps Mista around long enough to hear who won the grange display contest is that Sorbet lets him steal a pumpkin from it after he wins. Sorbet wins every year, and even though Giorno puts up a good fight, this year is no different. Mista packs up and goes home as soon as it’s over, new pumpkin in arms.

He runs the numbers in his head. Two years and one season.

Even with all the work he’s doing, he still gets downtime every now and again. Thank God he got all the materials for the winter rush stocked up in storage ahead of time.

Mista leans back against the wall and inspects the line of stitches.

A lot of Mista’s clothes get ruined while he’s working. If it’s not natural wear-and-tear, it’s shit like nails he didn’t see. He saves a lot of time and money mending his own clothes rather than buying new ones every time. Plus, it means he can make clothes as he likes them without having to pay outrageous prices or wear fabrics that would give him heatstroke.

It’s also calming. A nice change of pace from his usual work.

He’s got a sweater he’s been touching up in preparation for winter in his lap and a basket of thread and needles on the chair beside him. There’s a few patches he’ll have to make on this one: the hem’s frayed, the fabric’s got a hole under one of the armpits, and there’s a few other minor tears and holes he wants to see what he can do with. Worst case scenario, he can cut it into a crop top and wear it for fall, but he at least wants to give fixing it all the way a try first.

He’s halfway through the armpit hole when knocks on the door ring out through the house. Mista looks up without turning his head. He smiles when it doesn’t open immediately.

“I keep telling you you’re welcome here anytime,” Mista calls out. “You don’t need to wait for my okay.”

Giorno enters.

“That’s not how I was raised,” he says, shutting the door behind him. “Always wait for an invitation to come in. It’s good manners.”

Mista huffs a laugh. “Sure thing, dude.”

There’s rustling as Giorno takes off what Mista imagines must be a raincoat and boots. He keeps stitching up his sweater. If he works on it hard enough, it’ll be all fixed up with time to spare to make dinner at a reasonable hour.

“Can I grab some coffee from the kitchen?” Giorno calls.

“Yeah,” he yells back, “Your fancy cups are still in the washer. Grab me my water from the table while you’re at it?”

There’s no reply, which is as good as a “yes” from Gio. Mista hums a tune while he works, some song he overheard on the radio in Bucciarati’s house one day. He’d heard the announcer say “Sway”, but he couldn’t tell if that was the name of the song or some genre he hadn’t heard of.

Footsteps make Mista look up without tilting his head again. Giorno pauses in the doorway and hovers there, eyes glued on the sweater in Mista’s lap.

“I didn’t know you could sew,” he says.

Mista shrugs. He holds out his hand and gestures for his water bottle. “Doesn’t come up a lot. Ain’t a secret or anything, but there’s hardly a time when sewing becomes relevant to the conversation.” Giorno finally steps into the room and hands him the metal bottle. He moves the water to the floor with a thanks and nods at the plastic bin he’s got resting on a kitchen chair beside him. “You can move all my thread and junk off that. I just need it in arm’s length, please.”

“Do you want it to come up more often?” Giorno asks, lifting the basket and gingerly placing it on Mista’s other side. “I feel like it’d come up more if you put your machine somewhere visible.”

“I don’t have a machine.” Mista gets back to the sweater. “I like using my hands better. It’s how I was taught. And it’s more relaxing.”

Giorno hums. “Who taught you?”

“My old man.” Mista busies himself with looking through the bin for the set of needles. He needs a needle just a little bit bigger to sew his button back on. “Showed me as soon as I could hold a needle still. Said there’s nothing manlier than being able to fix your own damn clothes.”

Giorno hums. “Can Bucciarati sew too?”

“Oh, nonono,” Mista says. “Dad didn’t teach me. My old man from before I met him and Bucciarati.”

He can feel Giorno staring into him, soaking in the rare glimpse of info about Mista’s life before the valley. He gets the sinking feeling that this is about to be one of the harder days to hang out.

“I’m glad you have something to remember your father by,” Giorno says.

Mista’s mouth tilts.

“I don’t do it for him. Like I said: it’s more relaxing and it works fine without me having to buy a whole machine. That’s all.” He glances up, and Giorno’s still watching him. “What’ve you been up to today?”

“Nothing, unfortunately.” Giorno sighs and leans back in his chair. “The rain is taking care of the crops, and Trish is working on my pick-axe.”

Mista hums. “She’s making it gold this time, right?”

“I’m surprised you remember.”

“Of course.” He leans down for a new color for the hem. “You were saying you wanted to be ready for the winter to explore more of those mines.” He chuckles as he rights himself, blue thread in hand. “Just make sure you don’t lose it in any rivers, now. Some lady of the lake’s gonna steal it for a moral riddle down the line, and then what’ll you do?”

Giorno clicks his tongue. “I guess I’d have to kill again.”

Mista snorts. “And what a shame that would be, if Abbacchio won the pot because you got dragged away to jail.” He finishes a line of stitches and knots and cuts the end of the thread. He points the needle at Giorno. “Just don’t bring the body here. I’m not getting pulled down with you.”

“Mista!” Giorno’s chest thumps as he smacks his hand to it. “I’m wounded you wouldn’t do this for me. I thought we were close.”

Mista breaks into a smile. “Maybe. Maybe.” He turns the sweater to the other side. “Not close enough for you to know I sew, apparently. I bet you don’t even know I knit.”

Giorno blinks. “I… didn’t. No.” He looks away, towards the main room. “That’s impressive. I’ve patched up a few things before, but I don’t know a thing about knitting.”

Mista feels a smile stretch slow across his face like he’s the Cheshire cat.

“Would you like to?”

Giorno blinks for a second, processing, and Mista knows the moment he sees the light of his smile blink on in his eyes that the afternoon’s shaping up to turn itself around.

Giorno is horribly bad at knitting.

“Stop laughing.” Giorno pouts at Mista’s shaking form.

“I’m not laughing,” he says.

“You--”

“It’s a very good… yarn chain,” Mista says, leaning over to get a better look at Giorno’s uneven row of pink loops. “You’ll get better at it with practice.”

Giorno frowns. “I don’t understand how I’m supposed to do the next row.”

“I showed you--”

“I don’t know what I’m looking for. All of the loops look the same.”

“Well,” Mista scratches his chin. “I guess, yeah. Are you trying to make a scarf?”

“I have no idea what I’m making,” Giorno says.

“Oh, well, we can fix that.”

Mista puts his sewing stuff on the floor. He moves in front of Giorno’s chair and kneels. Mista picks up the free end of Giorno’s chain. “If you loop it to put a stitch at the end, here I’ll show you--” Giorno does as instructed, carefully looping the end of the chain with the start of it, and… “ta-da!”

Mista takes the needles from Giorno and finishes cutting and knotting the yarn. He moves closer, chest between Giorno’s knees, and holds up the soft oval like a prize-winning fish.

“A home-made necklace!” He cheers. He takes both hands and holds it open. Gesturing for Giorno to duck his head. Wordlessly, Giorno does as instructed, and Mista carefully guides the necklace over and down his head to rest against his neck like a medal. “Congratulations! You just knitted!”

Giorno straightens a little and looks down, reaching up to roll the necklace between his fingers. There’s a soft smile on his face, and he looks proud. It’s almost endearing, watching him inspect his creation. “I suppose, though I’m not sure this would win any prizes.”

Mista scoffs. “I’ve never made anything prize-winning in my life, so that puts us on the same level.” He reaches for the bound up yarn on the floor by Giorno’s chair and starts rolling it back up. “But it’s a personal medal, ain’t it? First Thing Giorno Giovanna Ever Knitted. And it looks pretty handsome on you too.”

“Handsome?” Giorno asks.

“Well, yeah. Cute, handsome, whatever you wanna call it. There’s a mirror in the hallway if you wanna see for yourself. I’m no Trish, but I think pink’s your color.”

When he looks up, all the words die in his throat.

Giorno’s staring directly at him. There’s an emotion Mista can’t name in his eyes, but it’s something… surprised. Shocked. Revelatory in a way Mista’s never seen on him before. His eyes stay locked on Mista’s face, and it looks like he can see into Mista’s thoughts.

“Gio--” Mista starts, but Giorno cuts him off.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Mista blinks. “Uh…” there’s an intensity in Giorno’s gaze that Mista’s never been on the receiving end of. It feels like he’s under a microscope, but he doesn’t want to look away, either. “Sure, Gio. Fire away.”

“You said… in your fake explanation of how you ended up here, you said you were following a dream to get rich to seduce a girl,” Giorno says. “Obviously, the specifics were a lie, but… well…”

He chews on his words for a minute, his eyes never wavering from Mista’s. There’s something else behind them. Conviction? Determination? How can there be so many shades of green in one person’s eyes?

Giorno straightens in his chair and leans a little closer to Mista.

“Do you have a dream?”

Mista blinks. “A dream?”

“Yes.” Giorno’s eyes are sparkling. They’re the color of seafoam. Of the jade Trish found in a geode one time while mining. Of leaves with sunlight filtering through them. “Did you come here to chase a dream? And if not, do you have one now? A goal you’ve dedicated your life to?”

Mista looks down and away, and suddenly he can’t stand the way Giorno’s eyes pierce his. The way he looks like he can dig into the pits of Mista’s brain and drag an answer out. The way he looks genuinely interested in what Mista will say.

“Why do you wanna know about my past so much?” Mista asks. “I feel like every time we really hang out, it comes up somehow.”

Giorno blinks.

“I hadn’t realized,” he says. His mouth twists. “It’s just… I feel like I don’t know anything about you.”

Mista frowns. “In what way?”

“It’s been three whole seasons, but every time we talk, I learn something new. Photography, sewing, knitting, your trust in the villagers…”

“My life before the valley isn’t important for that stuff. That’s who I am now.”

“A person’s past is important,” Giorno insists. “It makes them into who they are.”

“True,” Mista says. “But there’s nothing for me before the valley.”

Giorno frowns. “How?” he asks. “How could there possibly be just nothing until you were, what, 14 years old?”

Mista doesn’t want to disappoint him. He’s almost tempted to tell him a few choice words about his old man and his mom. That it’s one thing to deny something that happened in your past but another for it to reject you.

He debates whether he should tell him, but it takes too long. The question withers and dies in the air.

Before Giorno can get upset, Mista takes a deep breath.

“I can’t say I have anything grandiose enough to be called a dream,” he says. Giorno hums, and it’s that disappointed note Mista knew was coming, but it’s the best Mista has to offer. “But… what about you?” He turns his eyes back to Giorno and tries to smile. It feels a little strained. A little tired. A little fond. “What are you living for, Giorno Giovanna?”

Giorno meets his new attention and nods.

“I’d love to tell you.” The chair scrapes across the floor as he moves it back to stand. “But that’s a long story. Your legs will hurt if you have to hold that position the whole time.” Giorno grabs his coffee from the floor. “Do you mind moving to the kitchen?”

“Not at all,” Mista reaches over to grab his water and scrambles up. “I’d love that.”

They relocate quickly, but Mista takes the opportunity to refill his water bottle. He also gets the leftovers from the cheesecake he made the other day from the fridge, just in case. He’s pretty sure that’s what hosts are supposed to do.

Giorno watches all this silently. He smiles at Mista, an excited but professional thing, as Mista puts the plates down on the table and joins him in sitting.

As soon as Mista settles, Giorno starts.

He wasn’t lying. The story is long. He tells Mista all about it. About the life his mother stole him away from, passing between cities like a ping pong ball. Growing up hearing about a father who did the same to the people in his life. The stepfather that he ran away from.

Of the way a barn and a farmer who could see when a child needs someone to lie saved his life. How that man brought him to the woman who brought him to his dads. How Giorno’ll never forget what he did.

About how his dads kept him in touch. How that man became a grandfather to Giorno. How he left the farm to Giorno in his will.

“He said I shouldn’t come here until I was tired of life in the city,” Giorno says. “And, in my defense, I did. It’s just…” Giorno shrugs. “It didn’t take very long after college. I’ve never found much of a home in cities. For a reason, I suppose.”

He talks until well after night falls. It’s only on the third yawn that Mista realizes he has a job tomorrow he’ll have to be awake for.

“You can stay here if you--” Mista starts, but Giorno waves him away. He’s got a cat at home, and he needs to feed her.

He leaves Mista’s house feeling quiet. Empty. In a way Mista hasn’t felt since he built it.

Even long after Giorno’s gone and the sewing stuff is put away, their conversation replays in Mista’s head. It makes him think.

He wonders all through the night what it’s like to have a big goal like Giorno’s want to carry out his grandfather’s vision. Something he’d dedicate his entire life to.

He thinks, remembering Giorno’s voice raise in conviction, the way he leaned into Mista’s space conspiratorially, that it might be nice to have a dream. At the very least, he’d like to know what that feeling is like.

Another thing about small towns: because the days are so uneventful, when something does happen, it’s all anyone can talk about.

Two days after Spirit’s Eve, his first clue that something’s up--the only clue he needs, really, but not the only one he’s given--is when, on his way to the smithery for Trish’s weekly delivery he sees the Community Center. It’s completely surrounded, blocked off by the barriers they use for festivals.

His arms are full, and fuck, timber is heavy , so he keeps walking and makes a note to investigate later.

His second clue is how, even though it’s later than he usually does this, Narancia’s outside. He stops Mista on his way.

“What’re you doing out this late?” he asks, hands in his pockets.

“Are you serious?” he asks, hefting the logs to a more secure grip in his arms. “I’ve got a delivery to make.” He nods towards the smithery. “You?”

“Nothing,” he says too fast. He shrugs and keeps walking past Mista. “Good seeing ya! We’re still on for tomorrow, right?”

Mista blinks. “Uh, yeah!” He shouts back a few seconds later.

Even though the load in his arms is heavy, he watches Narancia walk down the path a bit, wondering what exactly he’s planning.

Well, he can ask the guy tomorrow. For now, Mista keeps going. He’s got a job to do.

He makes it to the smithery without further incident, but, clue three, Sheila and Trish are still inside. Mista drops the wood in its usual pile outside and checks his watch to see if he got the time wrong, but nope. It’s 9.

He knocks on the door and lets himself in.

Sheila snorts. “Did you just fucking knock?” she asks. “I thought only Bucciarati knocked around here.”

“Yeah, yeah. Hi, Sheila. Trish,” Mista greets. “I just dropped your usual outside. Sorry I’m late, Narancia stopped me on the way here for some fucking reason.”

“You didn’t hear?” Sheila crosses her arms. “A window was broken at the Community Center. Bucciarati had Abbacchio check it out--since, y’know, ex-cop--and Abbacchio said it looked like forced entry.”

Mista reels back. “Forced entry?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Trish says, taking her wallet out from her pocket. “Like someone br--”

“I fucking know what forced entry means,” Mista says. “I’m just… a little shocked. Who would wanna break in? Why?” Mista asks. Its only value is in nostalgia and memories.

“I heard there’s a big safe inside where Bucciarati keeps all the taxes,” Trish says. “It’s a dumb rumor, but someone might’ve bought it.”

“Abbacchio thinks it was Giorno trying to break into the safe,” Sheila says.

“And that grudge shit is probably why he’s only an ex- cop,” Mista says. “The guy’s been here less than a year. How would he even have heard that by now?”

Mista remembers the incident with Narancia and Giorno and his camera and freezes a bit.

“I don’t know,” Sheila shrugs. “I’m just telling you what Fugo told me Abbacchio told him.”

“Oh,” Mista presses on, forcing the initial panic. It’s a stupid rumor. Giorno wouldn’t fall for that shit. He’s gotta keep his record clean so he can fulfill his dream. “I’m sure that’s real trustworthy then.”

“Hey, watch what you’re fucking saying, dude. That’s my wife.” Trish pauses her leafing through bills to gesture to Sheila, who smiles back at her.

“Sorry, sorry,” Mista backtracks. “I don’t mean you. I just--”

“Don’t worry about it. I get it.” Sheila waves the apology off. “All news is gossip three people down. I’m not really that invested in the situation, though. If you wanna know, you should ask him yourself.”

“Who said I’m invested?” Mista asks.

They level their most unimpressed looks at him.

Mista frowns.

“Just for that, I’m not gonna ask Abbacchio,” Mista says.

Trish hums and holds out her payment. “I’ll be honest with you, Mista. I couldn’t care less what you do. Just please be safe about it.”

“I promise, Mom,” Mista says, taking the money with a smirk. Trish sticks her tongue out at him, and Sheila chuckles. “Y’all have a good day now.” He nods at the both of them and waves as he leaves.

On his way home, he hears the sound of leaves rustling. When he looks, he can see Narancia’s bag leaning against one of the barriers. Idiot.

“Don’t do anything Abbacchio can arrest you over,” Mista shouts. He keeps walking. “Seeya tomorrow!”

He’s nearly home when he can hear Narancia’s “Seeya!” echo up to him. Mista smiles. Idiot.

He worries about the little guys living in the Community Center, though. The pixies or fairies or spirits or whatever the fuck he knows he saw in there. He hopes they can stand to wait for him to be able to fix the window too.

He runs the numbers again. A little bit more than two years until he has enough.

He gets a call from Bucciarati a few days later. Bucciarati’s quick to tell him after the usual pleasantries that it’s about the broken window.

“Are you wanting me to fix it?” Mista asks.

“I want to ask you a few questions,” he says. Mista pauses. “I know you’re out late sometimes. I’ve seen you out walking around at night.”

The implications catch up with him.

“Wait, you think I broke the window?” Mista asks, and even though he knows for a fact he didn’t do it, the fear that Bucciarati might think so creeps into his voice.

“Of… course not.” Bucciarati says. “I wanted to ask if you had any idea who it could’ve been.” There’s a brief pause. “Was it you? I won’t be mad if it was.”

“No,” Mista says. “No, it wasn’t me.” He huffs a laugh. “Why are you so worried about a broken window, anyway? If it’s the money, I can afford to spot you a discount to fix it.”

“It’s not the window itself I’m worried about,” Bucciarati says. There’s a sigh from the other side of the phone. “It’s the why.”

“That… doesn’t clear anything up.”

“There’s a safe in the Community Center. I know there’s a rumor that all of the towns funds are kept in that safe. If someone broke the window to get into the Community Center, they might’ve done it to get in.”

Mista blinks, the panic from before rising in full force.

“That’s real?” he can’t quite keep the accusation out of his voice. “Boss!”

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous.” There’s rustling on the other end. “You know Dad’s first rule when it comes to money.” Never keep it somewhere you can’t regularly check on it. “But the point is, there’s a rumor around town that it’s in there for a good reason. I’m the only one with a key to the Community Center, and it’s like you said, there’s no reason for anyone to break in so long as they don’t know about that safe.”

“I mean…” Mista ran a hand through his hair. “I guess.” He can feel the confusion creeping into his voice when he asks: “Wait, so what are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying that if someone tried to break in for the money--which, I can’t see another reason why anyone would want to break in--that makes them an attempted thief, and we have to catch them before they go for someone else’s house to make up for their loss.”

“Wait, wait, it sounds like you’re jumping the gun a little, Bruno--”

“Don’t Bruno me right now. As long as we don’t know why the window is broken, we have to assume someone went in there to steal those funds.”

Mista snorts. “Did Abbacchio tell you all this? I heard he said that it was probably Giorno. You know how he feels about that guy, Boss.”

Bucciarati sighs. “I know, I know. I’m not happy that that got out, either, but I’ve looked at the evidence myself. I know what it all points to.”

“Do you really think Giorno’s that kinda guy?”

“Of course I don’t think Giorno’s that kinda guy. No one seems like that kinda guy. But I have to look at the facts and the evidence, and all the signs point to--”

It had to have been Giorno. There’s no way in hell it wasn’t.

“I broke it,” Mista says.

There’s a pause. Mista steels himself to the background of rustling from Bucciarati’s end.

“You what?”

“I was helping Gio with a preserves jar, but I lost my grip and my wrench fell. That’s what crashed through the window. It’s my fault.”

“You just said that it wasn’t you,” Bucciarati’s voice is solid steel. He’s always been good at seeing through Mista, but that means Mista’s gotten good at getting through to him anyway. He doesn’t know if Giorno will try again, but Mista does know this: the conviction in Giorno’s voice when he talked about his dream? That’s not something that can be faked.

“Well, yeah, I didn’t wanna get in trouble.” He scratches at where the hem of his beanie meets the nape of his neck. “But if you’re gonna go around accusing Gio of shit if I don’t? Then, yeah. I’ll tell you. I broke it.”

There’s silence on the line.

“You know I’m not an idiot, right?” he asks.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mista insists.

Silence.

“What?” Mista asks.

“Alright. Fine.” Bucciarati sighs. “You’re just sticking your neck really far out for him. If there’s another--”

“I won’t work so close to that cliff anymore. There won’t be.”

“You better hope so. All I’m saying is, I can’t protect you if something else happens. But If you’re sure that’s what happened--”

“It is.”

There’s an angry breath. “Are you finished cutting me off?” he asks. Mista waits for him to keep going, but it’s clear after a few seconds that he won’t.

“Yes. Sorry, Boss.”

“Good. Then, since you’re being so honest about the window, you won’t mind fixing it for free to make up for wasting my time with this investigation.”

Mista groans.

“No, I don’t wanna hear it. Stop by my house when you can and pick up the key. There’s supposed to be a snowstorm tomorrow, so I’ll pay the extra for a rush job, but that’s it.”

“I’ll be right over,” Mista says.

The end of the call is business-like. When Mista finally flips his phone closed, he takes a deep, calming breath and lets it out in a loud groan.

He runs the numbers in his head. Glass is hard to get in the valley. Trish is a metal-worker and doesn’t exactly have to tools to make it, so he has to order it in bulk from out of town.

Minus the cost of the free window repair…

Two years, one-half season. Not too bad, but bad enough that Mista sulks the whole time putting his boots on.

Bucciarati gives him the cold shoulder when Mista’s there. Which, fine. Whatever. He’s just gonna have to trust that Mista knows what he’s doing.

“Don’t spend any longer in there than you need to,” Bucciarati says. “You’re in. You’re out.”

“Yes, boss,” Mista says.

“Don’t stray off the paths in there. I don’t know what all has been living in there while we haven’t been using it, but if you stay on the paths, you won’t have to deal with it. That means you won’t be able to leave the lobby, but you won’t have to.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And…” Bucciarati huffs. “Why take the fall for him? Aren’t you worried about why he broke the window?”

Mista keeps a blank expression. “I don’t know what you mean by that, but of course not. I already told you: I’ll work further away from the edge so this doesn’t happen again.”

His expression sours.

“Fine.” Mayor Bucciarati’s tone is solid steel. “Forget it. I’ll see you later, then.”

Replacing the window takes a bit longer than Mista would like, but it’s not entirely his fault. Shadows keep moving at the corners of his eyes.

“I know; I’m sorry,” he shouts to the whatever-the-fuck they are. “I’ll be out of here soon, I promise.”

The place is, understandably, more rundown than the last time he saw it. He’d love to go see what else is different, but he knows enough about the fae to not tread off the beaten paths already in the place.

“I’ll be able to fix up your house in a little more than two years,” he shouts as he fixes the pane in place. “Then it’ll be like before, with Dad, where we can all share the Community Center.”

Another shadow flicks across the floor, but Mista’s finished up. He wants out of this house as fast as possible.

On his way out, he has a thought.

Why did Giorno break the window into the Community Center?

Mista stands in one spot and looks, really looks, around the place.

Giorno had to have used something to break the window, but there’s not even a rock out of place inside that looks new.

The implications about that catch up with Mista. Not one thing looks out of place inside. Where did all the glass go? Did Bucciarati pick it up? Or Abbacchio? But that doesn’t make sense.

That’s gotta be why Abbacchio thought it was breaking and entering. Giorno had to have been inside to pick up all the glass.

Mista looks around on the floor and only gets more confused. No one told Giorno the rules for the Community Center. Why are there no footprints off the paths in the lobby? Did Giorno just… know?

But, no. Mista looks closer. There are bits of the floor where the dust looks different. Thinner. Like it’d been disturbed and then covered over again.

Mista huffs a laugh. “Y’all are covering for him too, huh?” he asks the room at large.

He doesn’t expect an answer, and he’s rewarded in kind.

But if the whatever-the-fucks want him inside too, then…

Mista walks over to the door and takes his drill out from his bag.

He unscrews the whole lock from the door and puts the whole thing back without the bolt. He picks the bolt off the floor and, standing, slips it into his bag.

He’s about halfway to the town before he realizes that there was a theft at the Community Center now. He’s pretty sure the fae don’t usually take kindly to thieves, but if the pixies/fairies/whatever let him take the lock, then he’s probably in the clear. He doesn’t know why they want the Community Center left open, but, for whatever reason, he trusts them.

He goes to Bucciarati’s house first to return the key, but he’s not home.

That’s when Mista remembers it’s Friday. He checks his watch.

He’s already late, so Mista takes a quick detour to his house to drop off his tools and the bolt. Mista’s the last one to make it to the Tap, and, when he does, he sees that Giorno’s joining them this time.

“There you are,” Bucciarati says. “That took you longer than usual.”

“I went to your house, but you weren’t there, so I dropped off my tools at home before I remembered what day it is,” Mista says.

“Wait, what were you doing?” Trish asks.

“Fixing the Community Center window,” Mista says hoping to God they don’t ask why.

“To make up for the fact that he broke it,” Bucciarati finishes, making eye contact.

Narancia bursts out into laughter.

“I should’ve figured when you were acting so uninterested in it yesterday that you had a hand in it,” he shouts. “What’d you do?”

“He was working on a preserves jar for Giorno by the edge of the cliff looking out over the town.” Bucciarati, still, doesn’t break eye contact with Mista. “He lost his grip on a wrench, and it went careening through a window.

Fugo groans.

“I tell you every time that it’s dangerous to work so close to that cliff,” he scolds. “You could’ve killed someone.”

“I know, I know.” Mista ducks his head and rubs at his neck.

“Apparently not.”

“Well,” Mista shrugs. “What’s done is done. I won’t do it again.” He fishes the key out from his pocket, holding it up for Bucciarati to see. “Here’s this back, but it won’t do you any good.” Mista drops the key on the table. “Did you go in yesterday for the investigation?”

Bucciarati squints. “Of course we did. Why?”

“The lock busted as soon as I went in. Rusted through and jammed.” Mista scratches at his nose. “I can order the parts from out of town, but there’s only two options to fix it. The first is pricey, cause I gotta change the whole locking mechanism, and the other’ll take some time since I’ll have to hunt down specific parts for a lock made forever ago.”

Abbacchio narrows his eyes.

“Are you sure?” Bucciarati asks.

“I can show you if you want,” Mista says. “The bolt’s completely stopped moving.”

“If you don’t use it often, it might not be worth it,” Fugo says, resting a cheek on his palm. “No one goes there anyway. It’ll be fine unlocked, right?”

Bucciarati drums his fingers on the table. “You’re right. It’ll be fine unlocked.” He sighs. “That’s a shame, though. I don’t like the idea of racoons and pests having the door wide open for them.”

“I can check on it once a week or so, if you want,” Giorno says.

“Why the fuck would you want to poke your head in that dusty old place every week?” Abbacchio spits at him.

“I can do it,” Narancia says. He shrugs. “I’m not doing anything else anyway.”

“We’ll settle this later,” Trish says. “Not at Friday Night Hangout. Pull up a chair, Mista. We were just about to order.”

Giorno catches him on his walk home.

“I don’t get you,” he says.

Mista blinks, taken aback. “What?”

Giorno steps in close enough for Mista to hear his now-hushed tone.

“I know you’re not the one that broke into the Community Center. Why did you lie to Bucciarati?”

“He thinks you broke in to steal some shit cause of the rumors about the safe.”

Giorno’s face goes rigid. Carefully neutral. The thought hits Mista like a sucker punch to the ribs: What if he really was trying to steal from Bucciarati?

“Who said I was the one who broke the window?” Giorno asks, and then Mista realizes, with a breath of relief, that no. He didn’t want to steal anything. He’s just under the impression that he’s sneakier than he ended up being.

Mista chuckles, and Giorno frowns.

“Alright, fair enough. I was worried that someone might get accused of trying to steal something, and that Abbacchio would finally have the excuse he’s been looking for to kick them out of town.”

Giorno’s entire body goes rigid. “You can get kicked out for that?”

“Well, we don’t have a court or a jail here,” Mista explains. “I don’t know much about it, but if you have to go to trial, they hold you at the next town over.”

Giorno’s eyes dart to the side. He nods slowly, soaking this in.

“I see. I didn’t realize how serious this situation was.”

“Exactly.” Mista steps back. “But, because I broke the window on accident, I only had to give a job for free. Easy as pie.”

“Unless they have a new reason to suspect someone else,” Giorno says.

Mista blinks. He hadn’t thought of that.

“I mean… yeah, but there’s nothing left to suspect.”

“Doesn’t mean Abbacchio won’t look.”

Fuck. He’s right. Mista can feel himself tense up at the thought of Abbacchio giving him a God damned game of 20 questions for the next few seasons.

“Unless, of course…” Giorno trails off.

Mista tilts his head. “Unless what?”

“Unless his main suspect and his suspected accomplice weren’t seen together at all for a little while.” He crosses his arms and looks away. “Then there’d be nothing for Abbacchio to question.”

Mista blinks, frowning. “Well, no, but he can go fuck himself. We don’t gotta uproot our whole lives just for one fucker with a grudge.”

“It won’t be for long. Just until suspicion dies down.”

“Suspicion isn’t enough for Abbacchio to--”

“I have to restore his farm to its old glory, Mista. I have a dream. I have to surpass every expectation my grandfather had for me and then some.” Mista can make out the glow of the fire in his eyes, even in the ever-increasing dark. “I can’t take that risk.”

Mista searches his face. For any trace of a joke. Of a doubt. Another way.

He takes a deep breath in through his nose and lets it out as a sigh.

“You’re right,” Mista concedes. “If it makes you feel safe, then, yeah. Okay.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, slouches to be a little more on Giorno’s eye level. “When can we start talking again?”

“As soon as the coast is clear, I’ll come to you. Is that alright?”

Dread slips down Mista’s throat like cold medicine. He thinks about the powerlessness of this whole deal. How much it’ll suck to not be able to talk.

But it’s not about Mista. This is about Giorno feeling safe. This is about trust.

“Whatever you need.” His throat closes a bit, and Mista clears it. “But if you need anything, run and get me, alright? My door’s still always open.”

Giorno nods, stepping back. “I appreciate it. Thank you, Mista. I’ll… Good-bye. For now.”

He turns to leave and starts walking down the path back to Joestar Farm. Mista stands in place, frozen.

Giorno slows, though, and stops. After a quick pause, he turns halfway back.

“Before I go,” he starts, “I just want to say… it’s touching that you consider hanging out with me so important that you’d say Abbacchio is uprooting your whole life.” He smiles, small and sad. “I might even call it cute.”

With that, he starts walking again. Mista watches him leave, brain replaying what just happened to make sure he didn’t hallucinate it.

Mista remembers at the last second to turn before Giorno disappears from sight. If you watch someone until they drop out of your field of vision, you’ll never see them again. Mista doesn’t need to tempt fate with that shit right now.

Sure enough, Giorno’s visits run dry. Not that Mista notices too much. Winter’s one of his busiest seasons, and it takes a lot of focus to make sure that people’s shit is built right.

The worst is when they find each other in the same place. It’s torture seeing Giorno and not being able to call a hello. Mista ends up hiding whenever he sees Giorno to avoid the awkward will-he-won’t-he eye contact situation: ducking into aisles at Sorbet’s or taking the long route to town when he sees Giorno on his way to the mine.

No, that’s a lie. The worst is when he has a job he needs done. He’ll drop by, and Mista’s hopes will skyrocket, only for Giorno to keep a completely straight faced, all-business approach. It makes him feel invisible in the strangest way. Helpless. Like a coin-operated machine instead of a person.

He doesn’t let that affect the actual work though. Mista builds him a barn for bigger animals and a grain silo. While he’s fixing up Giorno’s silo, he hears cows mooing from the barn, where they’re sheltered from the frigid winter air. He also sees the dozens of chests Giorno has lined up. He’s got no idea what Giorno needs all that space for, but it’s not really his business to ask anymore.

Abbacchio tells him that he heard from Trish that the cows’ names are Margaret and William.

He thinks a lot about their conversations. He’d never realized how much he was used to having Giorno talk to him on a near-daily basis before.

On some days he worries that maybe he’d been too strict withholding information from his past. That Giorno felt pushed away, especially with how strongly he feels about that stuff. Or that Giorno found himself wishing that he didn’t feel obligated to Mista so often and found the first opportunity to cut off contact and ran with it.

Those moments don’t happen often, but they increase in frequency as time passes and Mista gets distance from the events of the Community Center.

Then Mista starts wondering why it matters so much to him.

It’s like when Fugo broke up with him and moved out all over again, but that’s a rabbit hole he’s not sure he’s ready to go down, yet.

At the Feast of the Winter Star, drunk on the punch Prosciutto spiked, Mista finds himself staring. He has the urge to grab Giorno by the shoulders and ask “Who even cares at this point? Does it even really matter? Just talk to me.”

But he’s sober enough to know that’s not his call to make. He’s not the one who goes to jail if Abbacchio has a reason to press charges. Even if Mista’s right and it’s not enough evidence, it’s more important for Giorno to feel safe, to feel like Mista respects his wishes, than it is for Mista to be right.

He gives Illuso his secret santa present early, citing an upset stomach before heading home. He starts the new year knitting. Another new year gift, though he imagines it might be some time before he gets the chance to gift this one.

A lot starts changing in what feels like a very short time, but, looking back, swept across the whole season.

“Now that the bus is up and running,” Narancia proudly tells the table, leaning back in his chair and arms crossed across his puffed out chest, “I can finally get back to work. If you ever need a lift to the desert, it’s yours. I’ll even give y’all a discount!”

Things that’ve been considered past the point of repair for years start working. Months apart, but, each time, the damage is gone seemingly overnight. One day disrepair, the next, brand new.

“Y’all have no idea how much easier my job will be now that the mine carts are up and at ‘em again,” Trish says, spinning her bottle between her finger and the table. “Takes me straight from the smithery to the mines in seconds. That’ll cut hours off my trips.”

No one’s seen anyone actually work on these, but it’s too useful to have them running again for anyone to care.

“Hey.” Sheila pulls Mista aside. “I don’t know why you haven’t bragged to everyone at the table about it yet, unless this is another weird clause to your pride that no one’s noticed before, but thanks for finally fixing the bridge to the quarry. It’s so much safer for Trish to be getting her ores there than from in the mines. Don’t even try to deny it was you, either. We all know there’s only one person in town who could be repairing this shit left and right, and we’re all gonna make it up to you. Promise.”

Mista sees Giorno standing by the rock that blocks most of the flow of the river from the mines. No one uses that old thing anymore, so Mista doesn’t know if he’s the only one who notices when it’s cleared two days later.

He’s making potato soup for dinner. Enough that he’ll have leftovers that he can reheat for the next couple of days. He’s just finished checking on it when the phone starts ringing.

Bucciarati doesn’t even wait for his hello.

“He fixed it,” he says. “I can’t-- did you know about this?”

Mista blinks.

“I-- what?” he asks. “Who? What got fixed?”

“Oh, someone-- Giorno completely fixed the Community Center. It’s almost like new.”

Mista blinks.

“What?” he asks.

“I went to go do my rounds, and he walked up to me and said ‘Something’s happened with the Community Center’, so we ran over and… Mista, it’s beautiful. It’s completely fixed.”

Mista pulls a dining chair to him and sits.

“He said he fixed it?” Mista asks. He had no idea Giorno even knew anything about renovation.

“Well, he didn’t say as much himself, but… it’s pretty obviously him.” There’s a pause. “Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.”

His tone is careful. Prodding.

“No, I… my situation’s still the same,” Mista says. One year and two seasons.

“Say no more.” There’s shuffling. “You never answered my question. Did you know he was fixing the place up?”

“No, I had no idea. Why?”

“Really? Huh. I thought for sure that you were repairing the stuff around town to keep everyone’s attention off of the Community Center. At the very least that he might’ve mentioned something to you given how close y’all are.”

Mista side-eyes his soup.

“Close?” he asks. “How so?”

There’s static on the other side.

“Well, I know you both have probably been trying to lay low, but… it’s fairly obvious, Mista.”

Mista blinks. “What’s obvious?”

There’s a pause. “Oh. I lost that pot then.”

Mista pinches the bridge of his nose. “Bruno, I’m cooking. Please, just--”

“Everyone at the table thought you took the fall with the window because the two of you were dating.”

Mista blinks. “What?”

“Well, everyone but Narancia and Sheila. And Fugo. But in my defense you were very upset when I started to imply Giorno might’ve broken in, and everyone knew how much more he hung out with you compared to everyone else in town.”

Huh.

That’s interesting.

He’ll… think about that more later. When there’s not business to attend to.

“But nevermind that. We’re having a celebration tomorrow. A big party in the Community Center around noon. Can you make it?”

Mista thinks of how much this winter sucked. He smiles, wide.

“Yeah. Yeah, I can do that,” he says.

“Wonderful! I’ll see you then.”

Usually, it’d be a hint that the caller was about to sign off, but something about Bruno’s tone makes Mista pause.

“Y’know,” Bruno says, “you were right to defend him. There’s something… special about that guy.”

Bruno’s voice is probing and cautionary, waiting for Mista to elaborate. Mista rolls his eyes.

“Your ‘Older Brother’ is showing,” he says. Bruno snorts. “But… yeah. He really is.”

“Alright, well. That’s all I called to tell you about.” There’s rustling on the other end. “Seeya tomorrow.”

“Seeya then. Bye, Bruno.”

“Bye, Mista.”

He flips his cell shut and pockets it again.

All through dinner, Mista’s chest gets more and more filled with static excitement thinking about the celebration. About how he’ll finally (hopefully) talk to Giorno again. At the very least, all his doubts will get answered.

He wonders what he should wear, thinks that’s stupid, then really wonders what he should wear.

Mista sets an outfit out before going to bed that night.

Giorno catches Mista in the garden area of the Community Center. The grand reopening rages on inside.

“Long time no see,” Mista says as he sits.

He smiles. “It’s good to see you,” he says.

“I see you’ve been busy.”

Giorno gives him a confused look.

“Remind me that I owe you one for this.” He gestures towards the Community Center.

“You don’t owe me anything,” Giorno says. “It would’ve been a pain to fix up by yourself.”

Mista’s smile falters. “It’s not the amount of work that was stopping me.”

The town was never rich enough for Bucciarati to be able to pay Mista for the work, and he couldn’t afford to do the repairs for the amount of money Bucciarati could afford to set aside. The town had let it fall into disrepair on its own, even before the doors were locked for good. There was no way to justify spending so much money to fix the place, but it hurt to see it like that, knowing how much it meant to people--to Bruno and Dad--and not be able to do his own damn job and fix it for them.

“But,” Mista continues, stretching his arms to crack his back, “guess that doesn’t matter now, huh?”

Giorno leans back, resting his head against the fence behind him. “I guess not.”

There’s room for the white noise of wind rustling through the leaves to take Mista’s attention. It chills the space over his stomach where his sweater’s ridden up, but he doesn’t make a move to cover it back. Mista doesn’t mind the cold.

Another question of Mista’s nags at the back of his mind.

“How did you do it?” Giorno looks up, confused, and Mista nods past him at the Community Center. “How did you fix the whole thing without anyone noticing? I didn’t even notice, and I pass by the place every day.”

Giorno smiles.

“I’ll admit, it was only a partial effort on my part,” he says. Mista gives him a questioning look. “Let’s just say I got some help and leave it at that.”

“I figured,” Mista says. “What’d you have to give them?”

Giorno looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “They called them bundles. Some raw materials, some dishes. Different things.”

“Did you get to see them?”

Giorno tilts his head. “A little. More at a distance than anything.”

“What color are they?” Mista chuckles. “I’ve always wanted to know what color they are.”

There’s a smile on Giorno’s voice. “Yellow.”

It’s quiet except for where the party inside leaks around the windows.

“How’s the farm doing?” Mista asks.

“Margaret and William had a calf,” Giorno says. “A baby girl. I got a couple goats too. Named them Audrey and Seymour.” He shrugs. “I’m not a fan of goat cheese myself, but it sells really well.”

“Oh, Ghiaccio really likes goat cheese,” Mista says. “Be careful, though, cause if you give him even a little you’ll be fighting him off with a stick for the rest of your life.”

Giorno cracks a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind, thank you.”

“Any time.” Mista crosses his legs.

“What about you?” Giorno asks. “How’ve you been?”

“Same as I’ve always been. Taking blurry pictures and fixing shit. I got a pretentious-looking shot of my clothesline in a snowstorm I think you’d like. Oh, and some really good pics of a rock at the quarry.”

“I missed this,” Giorno blurts suddenly. His face is intense, but Mista can’t read any actual emotion out of it.

“Yeah.” Mista smiles. “Me too.”

He remembers, suddenly, that he forgot something.

“Oh, damn it. I meant to bring your present.”

Giorno reels back, blinking. “Present?”

“Yeah! For your first Winter Star feast. I made you a scarf, cause I figured you were a scarf person, but I left it at home. Sorry about that.”

Giorno lets out a disbelieving huff of a laugh, eyebrow raising. “A scarf person?”

“Yeah, you know,” he circles a hand. “The necklace you made looked good on you, so I figured the natural follow-up is a scarf. It’s, uh, pink. That same shade that you were using.”

“Thank you. I can’t wait to try it on.”

Mista stretches. His shoulder pops.

“I’ve been thinking about our conversations from before we stopped talking,” Giorno says. “Especially what you said about me always bringing up your past somehow, and for the longest time, I’ve wanted to say that I’m sorry. I don’t need to know why you’re here,” Giorno looks at Mista, gaze intense, “and I shouldn’t have pressured you into telling me about parts of your life that you’ve moved on from.”

And it’d be so easy to tell Giorno then. That he’d been thinking over the same things too. That he doesn’t want Giorno to feel pushed away. The anticlimactic truth about how he found himself alone in the valley, parents having taken the bus without him, with no money and no way to get home.

“But, for the record,” Giorno continues before Mista can make the choice. He scoots closer on the bench and leans over to bump his temple into Mista’s shoulder. “I’m glad I got to meet you here. That you’re here with me. I missed you.”

Mista swallows.

“Yeah,” Mista says. “You’re--”

He opens his mouth to say more, but the words gum at the bottom of his throat. He has a vague idea of what he wants to say, but it’s like his chest and his head are warring against what that is. Like he’d rather say a feeling than words, but he doesn’t know how to put that into words. He can only think about the warmth on his face.

“I’m?” Giorno prompts. The tips of his ears are turning pink in the late fall air.

“You’re shivering,” Mista blurts out. He can feel trace echoes of it with Giorno’s head on his shoulder, and he can see it more clearly now. Giorno’s body is shaking. “Are you cold? We can go inside,” he says.

The tension releases from Giorno’s back like a puppet cut of its strings. He sits up and pushes away.

“I’m fine,” he says, looking away. “Unless you want to go inside.”

Mista gets the distinct impression he did something wrong, but for the life of him, he has no idea what it is. He’s been looking forward to this moment for a season, but of course, now that it’s here, he’s blown it.

He rolls with this before the tense air can get too noticeable.

“Sure,” Mista says, slapping his hands on his knees and standing. “I’m starving anyway. Whatever Risotto’s got in there is torturing me.”

He replays that conversation in his head for the rest of the day, wondering where he went wrong. He knows what sentence he started feeling that way, but was it a snowballing feeling that he hadn’t noticed until it bowled into the air between them, or was there something he was missing in that one part? A question he got wrong on the test that ruined the rest of the section?

He goes to sleep restless.

The feeling builds every time he sees Giorno. There’s a level of something under the surface of every conversation, but he doesn’t know how to drag it out to examine it.

He’s not stupid. Mista’s had plenty of crushes before in his life. He knows the feeling of having an interaction that you want to mean something more than it does. He won’t do that to Giorno. Giorno and him have finally gotten the chance to hang out again, and he’s not going to waste it on his bullshit feelings that he probably wouldn’t have even thought about if Bruno hadn’t told him that everyone thought the two of them were dating.

It doesn’t help that it’s been making its way into his dreams, too. Mista doesn’t know what he dreams about, specifically, but he remembers a name and waking up sweaty and soaked through his underwear.

Mista doesn’t know if there’s some weight behind his thoughts that there’s something more to their conversations or if it’s wishful thinking, but he needs to clear his fucking head before he goes insane.

Thankfully, he gets his chance half a week into Spring.

There’s no prettier sight than rain hitting the ocean. The sand. Mista wouldn’t pretend he’s a writer by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s like watching the hitch of a button as a loop closes and starts again. It’s quiet in the way only a rush of white noise can be.

It’s much too cold outside for it to be good for Mista to be soaked through the bone the way he is, but he pays it no mind. Mista’s never minded the cold. Or being wet. Not like he has any option about it anyway. He doesn’t own an umbrella.

He certainly doesn’t mind it now, though it’s annoying having to rub the rain out of his eyes every few seconds. He watches the waves--usually a careful rhythm--break in fragments of drops.

He wonders if there’s something to that. If he could hire Ghiaccio to sculpt something to capture the way it feels like he can see the whole water cycle in this moment. Some way to stage a photoshoot out here sometime to capture the beauty on the shore. More than anything: he wonders why he hasn’t tried before. If it’s even worth trying, or if it’s a phenomenon that can only be experienced in real-time. If he’s a good enough photographer to do it, or if it’ll take a lot more practice first.

He idly notices that he hasn’t had to rub rain out of his eyes in a while. With a jolt, he realizes he’s not alone on the beach anymore.

“You shouldn’t be out here without an umbrella,” Giorno says. He’s holding the handle so it blocks half of his face. The eye Mista can see is locked forward, out over the ocean. “You’ll freeze.”

“I’m tougher than that,” Mista says. Giorno glares from the corner of his vision. “What brings you down to the beach?” Mista asks.

“Looking for you,” he answers. “I’ve seen you come this way a few times, and you said you like to go to the beach to think.”

There’s a pang in Mista’s chest. He doesn’t remember telling Giorno that. “You remember that?” he asks.

Giorno smiles at him, and Mista feels like the most important man in the world.

“Of course,” he says.

There’s something burning in how warm the smile is, and Mista flinches away before he even realizes it: eyes turning back to the ocean so he doesn’t have to see. Giorno turns his head in kind. The hum of rain is nice with the pitter-patter of it hitting the umbrella above them.

“Why did you break in?” Mista asks. “I never got the chance to ask you that.”

“I wanted to see what’s inside and why you called it haunted. How was I supposed to know there was some big rumor about the safe? I didn’t know what was in there, that’s why I broke in.”

Mista laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “I can see how that’d devolve into an ‘oh shit’ moment real fast.” He looks from the corner of his eye. “But for the record, Narancia did tell you about it.”

Giorno frowns. “When?”

“Uhhh,” Mista thinks back. “We were taking pictures? He said you should take them in front of the Community Center?”

“Ah. Right. Well, regardless.”

Mista huffs a laugh.

“I can’t fucking believe you just broke in.” He feels Giorno’s eyes on him and ducks his head to hide his growing smile in his palm. “That’s so stupid, Gio. You asked Bucciarati to let you in and then just fucking… what did you throw through the window?”

There’s shaking in the corner of Mista’s eye. It’s Giorno’s shoulders. He’s kissing his teeth trying not to smile, looking resolutely away from Mista.

“I used my pickaxe. Why? What were you hoping for?”

“I don’t know what I thought it was gonna be. Just-- You just broke a window and let yourself in.”

They laugh together for a bit, Giorno covering his mouth with his free hand and Mista’s ringing out loud enough to echo off the rain-splashed waves.

His laughter peters out with a happy sigh.

“Hey,” he says. Giorno tilts his head up. “So, I’ve been thinking about our old conversations too, and… do you remember when you asked me about my dream?”

Giorno’s attention piques. It’s a physical feeling on the side of Mista’s face.

“I’m trying to find an answer for you,” he says. “I don’t know how long it’ll take, but… I just felt like you should know. That I’m looking.”

Giorno smiles.

“That’s good to hear, but, really, you don’t have to.”

“Nah,” he says. “I want to. I think it’d be nice to know what I’m about.”

Giorno nods. “I understand, and, if it helps, I found mine by looking back on things--big things--I’d done and how I felt and asking myself ‘why’.”

“Thanks. I’ll try that.”

A cold wind blows under the umbrella’s protection, splattering rain from the shin down. God it’s freezing outside. He can’t wait for the Spring weather to finally get here.

“Now that we’re in Spring, I’ll have a lot more free time,” Mista hints.

“I’m jealous,” Giorno says. “It’s the start of one of my busiest seasons.”

They watch the rain just a little bit longer. It’s peaceful. Comforting. Giorno radiates heat, and Mista starts feeling the effects of the near-freezing end of Spring air on his soaked-through skin. The kind of cold where Mista can feel it in his bones but not his skin.

Giorno starts. “You’re shivering,” he says. His hand comes up, and hovers in the space between them.

Mista sniffs, rubbing at his arms. “A little bit,” he responds.

“Come on.” Giorno drops his hand and nods towards the road back to town. “I’ll walk you home.”

The hot shower is Heaven after freezing over in the rain. It also gives him the white-noise to think.

The first night after their talk on the beach, he thinks about Giorno. About cutting off contact for a whole season. He thinks: Why?

He thinks about getting Bucciarati’s phone call about the broken window. About taking the fall for the damage done. He thinks: Why did I do that?

He dreams about the day Sheila asked him to help her with asking Trish out.

“Finally,” Fugo had said when Mista told him over dinner that night. “It’s about time they stopped dancing around each other.”

He thinks about saving every penny he could. About counting the days to be able to use money out of his own pocket to fix the Community Center. He thinks: What would I have gotten out of it?

He dreams about when he taught Giorno how to knit and the indefinable look Giorno had given him when he’d looked up. Like Mista was a secret passage he’d found in his house. Or a long-lost artifact.

“Do you have a dream?”

“A dream?”

“Yes. Did you come here for a dream? A goal you’ve dedicated your life to?”

He has another dream about Giorno. About what he’d have done if Giorno had finished reaching out and touched his cheek that night on the beach.

He wakes up from that in the middle of the night, covered with sweat and underwear soaked through.

Through his morning routine, he forgets everything about the dream. In its place, the echo of something Giorno said rings out through his mind.

“A goal you’ve dedicated your life to?”

And he realizes.

Mista’s fingers fidget nervously on the strap of his bag as he knocks on Giorno’s door. The heat of summer is starting to creep up early. It’s supposed to be 33 degrees by the Egg Festival.

It’s not warm enough yet to justify how much Mista is sweating, but whatever. At least he wore a dark shirt and plenty of deodorant.

It’s way earlier than Mista usually gets up on days where he’s not fulfilling a job, but he’s wide-awake.

The door creaks as Giorno opens it. He blinks against the sunlight with a yawn. As soon as his eyes open again, he freezes.

“Mista?” he asks. “What are you doing here?”

“I, uh, wanted to talk to you really fast. Do you have a second? I can come back later, or--”

“No, no, I was just surprised.” He steps outside and closes the door behind him. “What did you need?”

“I think I have an answer now.” Giorno gives him a confused look. Understandable. “About… the dream thing. From the beach?”

Giorno’s eyes light up. He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Well?” he asks.

It takes Mista a second to swallow down the knot trying to collect in his throat.

“I’m gonna warn you right now, it’s not as pretty as yours is,” Mista says. The hand resting on his bag fiddles with the zipper.

“I’m sure it’s just as meaningful.”

“Well, about that. That thing you said about dreams…” Mista scratches at the nape of his neck. “See, I just don’t think I can relate to that. I don’t make a lot of plans, and I don’t… really care enough about what’s gonna happen to try to influence it one way or another. The only plan I’ve had more than a year in advance was saving up to be able to afford to fix the Community Center, and I did that because of how meaningful it was to Dad and Bucciarati.”

Giorno tilts his head and straightens, leaning closer.

“It’s just… enough to know that I can help with other people’s plans, and even when I can’t help, it’s just great to be alive. And then I started to wonder about that, like… why a dream had to be just about myself, if what makes me happy is helping other people. Then I thought about the other thing you called it. Do you remember? ‘Something you dedicate your life to’?”

Giorno nods. His eyes don’t break contact with Mista’s. There’s something like hope and something like fear in his eyes, and it might as well be a mirror of how Mista feels right now.

“If I want to dedicated my life to one thing, it’d be what I’ve already been doing. Leaving people’s houses and their lives better than I found them. I guess if I had to put it in your special little dream terms, I’d say… uh…”

Mista unzips his bag with one hand and reaches in. There’s a crinkling noise as his hands wrap around the stems, and he pulls his hand from his bag to show Giorno. A bouquet. Wildflowers that Mista picked from around his house. Sheila helped him arrange it.

He holds it towards Giorno. He offers (what he hopes is) a charming smile.

“To be someone who deserves to have their bouquet as your new centerpiece.”

Giorno blinks.

He brings his hand up to cover his mouth. The tips of his ears bleed red down and across his cheeks.

The corners of his smile peak out from behind his hand, but it’s completely on display in his eyes.

“That was so cheesy,” he says, voice strangled.

“Hey,” Mista says, somehow, past the fact that he can’t breathe right now, “I resent that. That was a good line.”

Giorno huffs a laugh. He brings his other hand up to join the first in covering his face.

“I can’t believe you did this at 7 in the morning,” he says. “I just woke up.”

“Hey, what do you think I just did?” Mista couldn’t help the smile on his face if he wanted to. It’s earsplitting. His chest feels like the way soda bubbles up when it’s poured. Giorno hunches forward a little and Mista can see that his whole face is red through his fingers. Mista can’t help but tease. “Please do something, Gio, I’m dying here.”

Giorno takes a deep breath, steeling himself, and drops his hands. He reaches for the bouquet, but at the last moment, his hand clamps around Mista’s wrist instead. Next thing Mista knows, he’s being pulled. He stumbles into Giorno’s weight, who throws his arms around Mista’s neck.

“Of course I’ll take it,” Giorno says. “You were always good enough, Mista. How dare you do this when I just woke up, though.”

Mista blinks, huffing a laugh. He wraps his arms around Giorno’s waist and hugs him, tight enough to feel his heartbeat. The flowers stick a little on the back of Giorno’s head, but neither of them are willing to deal with that, so Mista buries his nose in the side of Giorno’s neck instead.

They stay pressed together like that while Mista takes deep breaths, calming the fluttering in his chest from something anxious into something overjoyed, disbelieving. Giorno reaches up with one hand and cards his fingers through Mista’s curls, and he’s pretty sure he’s in Heaven.

They stay pressed together like that for a few minutes. When Mista gets better control of himself, he can’t help but tease.

“Now, just to be clear, we are dating now, right?” His question gets muffled into the warm skin of Giorno’s neck. “I don’t want to get all dressed up for what I think is a date only to find out there was a whole other misunderstanding with us about bouquets.”

He feels Giorno’s puff of laughter on his ear. He pulls back enough to look Mista in the face, Mista’s hands resting on the small of his back. Giorno drags his hands until they cradle Mista’s chin.

“That’s a fair question,” he says. “Maybe this will help clear things up.”

Giorno reaches up on his tiptoes and pulls Mista down, and Mista finds out with a moan that Giorno’s chapstick is peach-flavored.

Giorno pulls away with a smack.

“Did you brush your teeth for this?” he asks. Mista doesn’t have to open his eyes to know Giorno’s smiling. He steps forward until Giorno’s back presses against the door.

“I don’t know,” he teases, leaning in again. “You tell me.”