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Mista is the first to ask: after Giorno’s last meeting of the day is ushered out, before going home or getting dinner can be brought up. “Can you help me learn about flower meanings?” His voice bursts, like the question built up in his throat until it popped.
Giorno blinks at him. Despite still processing the question, he's already opened his mouth and blurted an answer. “What makes you think I know anything about flower meanings?”
Mista deflates.
“Oh,” he says. “Sorry, Gio. I just figured… it just sounds like the kinda thing you’d be good at, y’know?”
“I… suppose.” Giorno only learns about the biology of plants for his stand, but he can see why Mista would assume he’d look further into them than that. “Why the sudden interest?”
Mista’s eyes cut across the room.
“I’ve… always wanted to know.” Mista hesitates over his words, a hand coming up and scratching at the back of his neck, right where his beanie would end if he’d worn it today. “I never really got the chance before, and I kinda… need it. For something.”
“For what?” Giorno asks, but his eyes fall over the calendar on his desk. Mista’s cheeks redden, but Giorno already knows. October 29th is coming up, Fugo and Mista’s anniversary, and Mista’s always been a romantic. Giorno’s mouth pulls up at the corners with a soft hum and Mista ducks his head.
“Thanks anyway, Gio,” he says, already backing up towards the door. “Forget I said anything, and don’t tell Fugo I asked, I want it to be a surprise.”
“No, I’ll help. Let me--” Giorno stands from his desk. His back cracks, but before Mista can complain about how much time Giorno spends sitting down, Giorno looks up at him with a smile. “Just because I’ve never learned about flower meanings before doesn’t mean I can’t help you now. Have you been to that bookstore across town? They might have something on it there, and I’ve been wanting to see that place for myself.”
Mista blinks, as he often does. “You don’t even know what I need them for--”
Giorno’s brows raise, but he feels like the warmth behind his eyes cancels it out.
“You’re severely underestimating how often you brag about your first date.” He unlocks his phone screen and taps with his pointer where the phone reads: October 23rd.
Giorno loves when Mista goes hatless. He has a blush that starts on the tips of his ears. Giorno feels like this won’t be the only time in the next few hours he gets to see warmth spread down across his boyfriend’s cheeks.
“Right.” Mista’s voice is strangled. Happy, but strangled. “Of course.” He coughs and says: “Can we go to the library, actually? They have that garden in the middle…”
Giorno smiles wider. He reaches out for Mista’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “Let me grab my coat.” He doesn’t let go of Mista’s hand, tugging Mista along after him.
Fugo comes to him not two days later.
“I have to ask for a favor.” Fugo hurries into his office, shutting the door behind him. “Mista’s not here, right?”
“No, he’s talking with Sheila about their delivery mission.”
Fugo stops short on the other side of the desk. “He has a mission tonight?”
“A short one,” Giorno promises. He gestures for Fugo to move to his side of the desk, and Fugo smiles as he follows. “He’ll be back by tomorrow, but he says not to wait up.”
Fugo hums, mouth twisted. He taps his fingers against Giorno’s desk in a muscle memory rhythm only he can see, and Giorno raises an eyebrow, a smile pulling at his face as he watches Fugo get lost in his thoughts.
“Your favor?” Giorno prompts, and Fugo startles.
“R-- Right. So, as you know, Mista likes to--” He chews on his lip. “Go big. With anniversary presents.”
Giorno keeps his face carefully neutral. He thinks of Mista, talking about a bouquet with bright eyes and words clocking at 50 miles per hour. How he knows Fugo doesn’t like big gestures, so I’m tryna keep it more low-key without taking out the meaning. “I’m aware, yes.”
“I’ve been trying to think of a way to return the romantic favor this year,” Fugo says, “and I was wondering if you had any ideas.”
Giorno’s mouth twitches.
“That’s very sweet of you,” Giorno says. “He’ll love that, but he’ll be back any second. I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”
Fugo deflates. He nods, not looking at Giorno. “I appreciate that. I think he likes surprises better.”
“We’ve got time to talk about it later?” Giorno stands and kisses Fugo’s cheek. Fugo’s free hand comes up and presses his hand to the spot, like he can hold the kiss there. “You should rush out before he catches you.
“Okay,” Fugo stands and returns the kiss on Giorno’s hairline. “Later.”
He ducks from the office with only a few minutes to spare. By the time Mista’s back, Giorno keeps his smile aimed down at his desk, where Mista can only catch the edges of it and not the intent.
When Mista’s out late on a mission, especially one that could turn into a fire fight, Giorno and Fugo will do anything to stay out of the house. It’s not that they can’t stand to be in their house without him; they can’t stand the worry that he might be in danger, or, worse, that he’ll never be home again.
The sand crunches under their feet, the breeze is freezing against Giorno’s face, but Fugo’s hand warms his where their fingers interlock, and Giorno can’t stop glancing to see the slight smile Fugo has aimed at the ground. Fugo’s eyes scan back and forth along the wet sand of low tide, and Giorno’s pretty sure he doesn’t even realize how happy he looks.
“Oh!” barely a breath, and he tugs on Giorno’s hand. They move together, and he squats and picks something up off the sand. A green piece of seaglass, light as foam.
“For the collection?” Giorno leans his head against Fugo’s shoulder as he watches him brush the sand off with his gloved thumb. Fugo sighs.
“We’re running out of places to store them.” He pockets the smooth glass anyway. “I have to find something new to keep them in.”
It happens every three months or so that Fugo has to find a new storage place for his treasures. Mista teases him about it constantly. Giorno should just build him a showroom, they have plenty of space.
Giorno thinks about Mista, en-route between the drop-off point and their inside man at the post office. He feels the space besides him where Mista’s missing for a second and squeezes Fugo’s hand. Fugo leans over and kisses the crown of Giorno’s head.
Giorno thinks of storage and glass, of Mista and his flowers, and the clarity of an epiphany jolts up his spine.
“I think I have an idea for what to do for Mista’s anniversary gift,” Giorno says, leaning further into Fugo’s warmth to escape the knife-cold wind. Fugo hums, lilting and interested, and Giorno tugs incessantly on his hand in the direction of home.
When the date actually rolls around, Giorno kisses them both in the morning, but gives them their space at home when he gets out of work. He’d love to be there to see how the gift-giving goes, but it’s their celebration, and Giorno’s been excited to look at the bookstore on the other side of town for a while.
Giorno stays out until it’s dark. He doesn’t mean to. The bookstore closes, and after he texts Fugo and Mista that he’s on his way home, he realizes he hasn’t eaten yet. He texts them not to wait up for him, and makes a detour. He stops by a French cafe in the neighborhood to grab a bite and a box of macarons for breakfast.
He tries to be quiet walking into the house, but the hinges creak. A snore cuts off from the living room when he closes it behind him. Giorno frowns. He makes sure to drop off the box in the kitchen before moving to investigate.
Fugo and Mista lay tangled on the couch, but Mista’s eyes meet Giorno’s as he walks in. The light from the kitchen is far enough away that it softens Mista’s features, making his hair into a cloud and his eyes into halos around Giorno’s reflection in them.
Mista croaks a stage-whispered “hey”, and Giorno feels like his heart is about to burst through his throat. “How was the bookstore?”
Giorno watches his fingers card through Fugo’s hair, and Fugo hums and pushes into the touch.
“Quiet. I missed you both,” Giorno answers. He kneels by Mista’s head. Mista scrunches his eyes when Giorno kisses his cheek. “How was your anniversary?”
Mista hums. “Nice.” Giorno rests his hand on Mista’s cheek, rubbing his thumb across his cheekbone, and Mista closes his eyes, leaning into the touch. “We have the thing-- the gift, uh--” he gestures with his head behind him.
The light from the kitchen is soft enough that the stained glass pieces of their new vase seem to glow from inside-out. Dark-red carnations (“ It says here each color means a different thing, and I think if it’s too light it means friendship” ), forget-me-nots, hydrangeas, and zinnias nearly overflow from it. Giorno huffs a laugh. They both should’ve expected that he’d go all-out on a bouquet.
“Thanks for the vase, by the way.” Mista’s voice is smiley and sleepy and Giorno thinks again: I love him. “Had a whole laugh when we realized that we both went to you for help.”
“Did he cry?”
“Turns out he doesn’t know flower meanings either.” Mista pouts. Giorno hums his sympathies. “I don’t know why I expected him to, it’s not like either of you have a romantic bone in your body.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Giorno’s tone is lighter than air. “He used a good chunk of his seaglass collection to have that vase made.”
“I heard--” Mista gets cut off when a yawn bubbles up.
“You should come to bed.” Giorno pushes back from the couch and stands up. “The couch isn’t good for your backs.”
“I don’t wanna wake him up.” Mista’s hand cards through Fugo’s hair again. “You know how hard it is to get him to go back to sleep.”
Giorno hums. “Maybe I can--”
It turns out: Giorno can not lift Fugo up bridal-style and carry him to bed. It takes Giorno and Mista about twenty minutes to seesaw Fugo back and forth to maneuver him somewhere where Mista can pick Fugo up.
When Mista makes to lay next to where he put Fugo on the bed, Fugo immediately throws his arm across Mista and starts the process of tangling back into him like ivy. Mista chuckles, both breathy and out of breath, and pushes his hands up the back of Fugo’s shirt.
“Are you gonna take a shower?” Mista’s voice is softer; his eyes never leave Fugo.
“Tomorrow.” Giorno switches into pajamas as fast as he can, throwing his clothes and narrowly missing the hamper.
He sidles up to Mista’s other side in bed. He puts his arm under Mista’s head, kisses Mista’s shoulder, and it’s not too long after Mista’s “Love you too. Goodnight, Gio” that he’s out.