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There was something inherently soothing looking after another person. Mista wasn’t sure what it was. Perhaps he was an older brother in a past life, engrained with the need to care for others. Maybe he was just in love.
“Where did you learn to braid hair?” Giorno asked.
In the mirror, Mista could see his eyes were closed. When Mista combed his fingers through his hair to gather it all up, Giorno would let out near silent sighs of content. He didn’t do Giorno’s hair often, hardly at all even, but there were mornings when Mista wanted nothing more than to care for Giorno, to treat him right- like how he deserved but never let himself be.
Yeah, maybe he was just in love.
“Don’t know. I just know. Used to braid hair for all the girls when I was little. They’d line down the street for me to do it.”
“Weird way to flirt, but okay.”
Mista gave one of the segments of hair he was braiding a yank. “I was real professional about it. Got one of the chairs from inside and would set it up on the curb.”
“You get paid to do this?”
“One of the girls would bring me tomatoes from her mom’s garden. Another brought me candy. One gave me flowers.”
“Sounds like a shit business to me.”
“I was six!” Mista yelped. “You saying I should be charging you for this?”
“I pay you.” Giorno paused and in the mirror, Mista could see a smirk rise up on his lips. “Actually, I paid you last night. Twice.”
“Unbelievable,” Mista grumbled. He couldn’t help but grin even if his cheeks burned a little bit. “That doesn’t count.”
“Three times?” Giorno asked, melting under Mista’s touch as he began working on the curls next. “Seems a bit expensive now, doesn’t it?”
“I’ve had over twenty years’ experience in the business, Giorno,” Mista boasted. “You are paying for quality.”
“What about ‘family and friends’ discounts?”
“How about I throw in breakfast?” Mista asked. He carefully grabbed the hot iron and began the delicate process of curling, making sure each of the three iconic curls were even and straight across the crown of his head. “You pick.”
“Pudding.”
“I’m not making fucking pudding for breakfast.”
“You said I could pick. Now you are taking it back? Jeez, how is that professionalism.”
“Fine, pudding. You are having fruit with it,” Mista demanded. “You have to eat something healthy. You are 25 for fuck’s sake.”
“I ate healthy yesterday.”
“That doesn’t count.”
Giorno didn’t respond, simply letting out a content sigh as Mista finished up his hair, holding it firmly in place with a gentle mist of hairspray.
“Are you at least coming to help me?” Mista asked as he stepped away from Giorno’s vanity and waited for the blonde to follow.
“It wouldn’t be my ‘family and friends’ discount if I had to do the work.” He still stood from his chair and pressed a kiss to Mista’s cheek. “I’ll watch.”
There wasn’t much to watch. Pudding wasn’t exactly rocket science, especially when Giorno considered the best pudding to be the instant stuff that came in the little paper packages. Mista had tried to make it for him from scratch, but even though Mista had found it delightfully tasty, Giorno still said the packaged stuff was the best. Mista gave up trying to change his mind years ago.
Fruit, on the other hand, was something he had a bit more control over. Every Sunday, he went to the open market in the neighborhood and handpicked the fruit. Giorno was finicky when it came to his food, but there were a few solid contenders from the fruit variety. Strawberries were always a winner and they still had a few from the night before.
In the kitchen, Mista worked in silence while Giorno sat on the counter beside him, watching. It was a nice quiet, the only sound being the slicing of strawberries as Mista cleaned, cut and placed them in a bowl.
Occasionally, quick fingers would snatch a cut half of a strawberry, too stealthy for Mista to stop the thief. On the third attempt, however, Mista caught Giorno’s hand before he could retreat, holding his wrist firmly.
Giorno dropped the stolen strawberry half but Mista continued his hold.
“Want whipped cream with all this?”
Giorno raised an eyebrow. “The homemade kind?”
“What are we, animals?” Mista tsked. He released Giorno and spun around to their refrigerator to grab the heavy cream. “Of course.”
When he turned back, a strawberry or two was missing, but he said nothing as he assembled the blender.
“Do we have cherries?” Giorno asked. “The kind in the jar?”
“We have fresh cherries.”
Giorno’s nose wrinkled. “Too sour.”
“You are the Don of the most feared gang in Italy and you think our cherries are too sour.”
“As the Don of the most feared gang in Italy, I should be able to have as sweet of cherries as I want. I expect my number two to stop at nothing to get that for me.”
His grin was teasing, his eyes bright. Happy was the only word to describe how Giorno looked. Mista could only match that happiness with his own. He was never going to get over how happy they were.
“Anything,” he said, openly and honestly. It was more than cherries and silly childish breakfasts he was referring to. “I’d do anything for you.”
Giorno’s face softened as he crooked a finger, beckoning Mista closer. He spread his knees further apart so Mista could stand between them. Nearly chest to chest, Mista could feel Giorno’s soft hands cup his face.
“I know,” Giorno murmured, voice low despite the apartment empty with just the two of them. “I would do the same for you. Always.”
There was something inherently soothing about being with Giorno. Maybe it was the easy conversation or the gentle kisses, the sugary breakfasts of pudding and fruit or the lazy mornings for just the two of them. Or maybe, it was just love.