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“So, when did Mista move in with you?” Fugo asked. The wind came in heavy bursts by the streetside café where they were seated for lunch, and he wrapped his hands around his steaming mug of coffee tighter for warmth.
Giorno blinked once. Twice. Took a long sip of his cappuccino. Smoothed his napkin into his lap. Blinked again. Gently broke off a piece of his biscotti; brushed the crumbs to the corner of his plate; placed the piece of biscotti back down without partaking. Coughed. Blinked.
“Pardon me?” he asked, the casual note in his voice entirely natural and not at all forced.
“All right,” Fugo said, eyebrow quirked, “what the hell was that?” His scarf billowed around his neck, but he paid it no mind, eyes intently boring into Giorno’s with the kind of single-minded ferocity that would have forcibly scattered weaker men.
Giorno was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a weak man. He held his ground, and he did so admirably. And if his feet quaked just a centimeter in his newly released Prada spring collection Saffiano gold leather lace-up dress Oxfords, well, he’d never tell.
“Mista and I…do not live together,” he stated firmly. “And I’m not sure where you came by such an idea.” The sinister curve to Fugo’s lips had him unconsciously adjusting the high-necked collar of his blouse in a return to his earlier nervous fidgeting.
“It’s not so much an idea,” Fugo drawled, leisurely dropping another sugar cube into his coffee, “as it as a hypothesis, formed from a serious of cursory notes and then supported by several follow-up observations made at your home recently.”
Giorno cleared his throat. “Such as?”
Fugo grinned at him, and had his teeth always been quite so pointy? “Every time I go over there’s a different one of his sweaters on your couch. He knows where stuff is in your kitchen better than you do. His foul three-in-one combination manwash crap is in your shower, and he has two keys to the front door on his keyring.”
Logically, Giorno knew there was nothing wrong with him and Mista living together—even though they weren’t, honestly; Mista had a key for convenience sake, for work duties, and he’d only asked for a second one in case he lost access to the first during an emergency—but for some reason, the thought of it sparked a bright bloom of anxiety in his belly that left him practically breathless.
“He naturally spends a lot of time at my house,” he said, and his voice sounded entirely too defensive for his own liking, “because we work together very closely. He is my bodyguard, my second-in-command, and my most trusted advisor and confidant. We have shared several long nights where sleep is not an option, or where Guido returning to his apartment was simply not reasonable. So yes, he has certainly made himself comfortable at my home on more than one occasion over the years. On top of all that,” he finished quietly, “he is my closest friend. And he is more than welcome there. As are you, Pannacotta.”
The tension in the air hung taut between them like a rope, but only for a moment. Then Fugo smirked, more naturally now, and patted Giorno’s hand before reaching for the long-necked bottle in the middle of the table to refill both of their cups with water.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “I do know that, but I…appreciate it, nonetheless. You know, Giogio.”
Giorno knew. Things were complicated, with Fugo: the broken boy who had forcibly glued enough glass shards of himself back together to function, not caring how he cut himself on the sharp edges in the process. Giorno could relate, still couldn’t think of himself as Haruno without flinching—but he and Fugo were both here now, made of glue and glass and survival. And here they would stay, if he had anything to say about it.
He wrapped his fingers around Fugo’s wrist and nodded, knowing no words were needed. Fugo, who would probably put public displays of affection right under stepping on Legos on his list of favorite things to do, nodded once stiffly and leaned back into his chair. A comfortable silence overtook them, broken far too soon by a low snort coming from Fugo.
“Y’know,” he began, evil glint back in his eye, “the last time I was there he was wearing those godforsaken bunny slippers with the holes in the toes.” No response as Giorno busied himself with re-dunking his already sodden biscotti into his now settled cappuccino. “You can’t tell me he just waltzed over there wearing those,” Fugo prodded.
Giorno exhaled a small laugh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t suppose I could argue that, no.” And the thing was, he knew exactly which slippers Fugo was talking about; they stunk to high heaven and he’d washed them multiple times with both vinegar and baking soda in a vain attempt to remove the stench. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to toss them when he pictured Mista’s grin as he danced a silly jig around the living room, wiggling his toes through the rips in the fabric.
“Honestly, Gio,” Fugo continued, “the thing is, it isn’t weird at all to have a roommate, especially when that roommate is also a close friend of yours.” Fugo gestured towards his fruit salad, picked clean of everything but the honeydew, which he loathed. “Melon?”
Giorno exhaled. “No thank you.” A breath, and then, contemplatively, “You’re right, naturally. It only makes sense—professionally, of course…for Guido to live with me, particularly as my right-hand man, as it were.” He stopped, struck momentarily speechless by the return of the tightness clutching at his chest and gut when he thought of him and Mista, sharing a house. A home. “Not that we are currently rooming together, but perhaps in the future—”
That sinister smile was back on Fugo’s face again, and once again, it gave Giorno pause. Against his better judgment, he decided to broach the subject.
“Was there something else, Pannacotta…?”
Fugo drummed his fingers on the table, looking absolutely like the cat who got the cream.
“Well, I just can’t figure out why you seem so bothered by it, boss. It’s not like there’s any other reason for Mista to live with you, is there?”
Half an hour later, after Giorno had insisted on paying the bill, boxed up the broken biscotti and honeydew for Mista (because Mista would eat leftovers even if Giorno wouldn’t), and was seated in the back of his car on the way home, he couldn’t quite get those words out of his head.
(A giggling Fugo, however, while recounting the conversation to an equally amused Trish on the phone later that night, was pretty sure he understood exactly what Giorno was on about. He only hoped he had been able to plant enough of a seed to finally get the ball rolling—otherwise, he was going to owe Polnareff a lot of money.)
--
The first thing Giorno did when he got home was almost trip over Mista’s shoe, which had been haphazardly kicked off in front of the door, as was his style. The other boot lay tipped over on its side by the mat; his gloves were tossed on the couch next to a patterned blanket he’d brought over from his apartment, claiming that Giorno’s six hundred thread count silk sheets were “too comfortable” in their plushness for him to truly relax.
“Sorry ‘bout that, Gio!” came a yell from somewhere in the kitchen. “Promise I’ll clean up after myself next time!” Giorno could hear oil sizzling, a knife against a chopping board, the bass of whatever rock song Mista had put on to keep himself company while he cooked; and he couldn’t stop a small smile from quirking up the corners of his mouth as he bent over to arrange Mista’s worn work boots on the shoe rack by the door next to his own loafers, a pair of running sneakers, and, of course, the much-maligned bunny slippers.
Now that he thought about it, at Fugo’s prodding, Giorno could see signs of Mista’s presence everywhere he looked in his apartment—in the minimum five pillows he needed to get to sleep piled on top of the couch; in the bedroom drawers reserved for his clothes and the fridge overflowing with leftovers of the rich pasta and soup dishes he cooked. They had been living in a comfortable, quiet sort of intimacy for months now, he thought, the realization like a rush of ice-cold water spilled all down his front. For all his supposed cleverness, it had gone completely over his head.
Quietly, he lowered himself to the sofa, one hand on his stomach as if to quell the nausea roiling in his gut. This had never been a part of his plans. Through all of his scheming and dreaming, his journey from downtrodden kid to Passione Don, he’d never considered the possibility of letting anyone get this close. There were too many reasons to remain alone. It was familiar, comfortable, sure; but also, it was safe, not only for him, but for Mista.
At the thought of the danger to Mista, the churning in his belly intensified. If anything happened to Mista because Giorno had been weak enough to let him in—
But of course, it had to be Mista, didn’t it? The pull between them had always been electric. From the day he’d strutted into Bruno’s gang, fifteen years-old and already tenaciously single-minded almost to a fault, he hadn’t been able to resist that heart-stopping grin and those deep, dark eyes. God, how those eyes brought him to his knees, even after all this time—especially after all this time. How could he go back to the boy he was before, keeping everyone at arms’ length in the pursuit of some noble greater good, when he knew now what it was to be the man who came home every night to Guido Mista’s smile?
Home. He’d never had a home, just lived in run-down apartments and dorm rooms, never letting himself become attached. But now, all it took was a deep inhale of the smell of fresh pasta, the heavy noise of clumsy feet pattering around in his kitchen, the sight of Mista with a tomato-spattered apron and flour on his nose coming around the corner to greet him and suddenly all Giorno could think was, yes. I’m home.
--
“Thank you for dinner,” Giorno murmured. “It was delicious.”
It had been. Mista had made spaghetti aglio olio e salsiccia; even the noodles themselves were from scratch, and he’d topped it with fresh basil from Giorno’s small garden by the kitchen windowsill. The sausage was served on the side, knowing how little Giorno cared for meat; and Giorno, whose appetite could usually be described as ‘minimalist’ at best, and more realistically ‘terribly neglected,’ had actually had seconds.
“Ah,” Mista said, grinning softly, “no problem, boss.” There was a slight pause as something settled between them—something heavy, thick as molasses, but not unwelcome. Giorno was more familiar than he would admit with Mista’s eyes, given how often he’d caught himself lost in them, but tonight something different and unreadable shone in their depths. Wanting to speak but unsure of what to say, Giorno busied himself tracing the dips in Mista’s collarbone with his gaze, desperately wishing he could do so instead with his fingers.
“Gio?”
“Hm,” he sighed. Across from him, Mista raised his eyebrows.
“Guess I just wanted to ask if everything was okay,” Mista said, scratching the slight overgrowth of hair visible past his hat and tucking it behind his ears in what Giorno had come to recognize as a nervous tick. “You were real quiet at dinner, is all. Business stuff, or?” He frowned. “Those Carvaggio guys still giving you trouble?”
Giorno blinked once at him, then smiled. Trust Mista to pick up on his mood before he had even finished parsing his own feelings. God, this man was—
Everything.
“No, that’s all sorted now,” he replied. “Thank you, Guido.”
“Oh, that’s good,” Mista said, a bit stiffly. He was much more perceptive than people gave him credit for, and doubly so when it came to Giorno; he had an innate sense that something was going inside Giorno’s head, and it bothered him. Bothered him that he didn’t know what it was and bothered him that he couldn’t just pump it full of bullets and make it disappear. “Is that all?”
Briefly, he considered leaving it at that. After all, Mista would support him and remain by his side regardless of circumstance; this was a simple fact of the universe, unchanging and true in the same way as the value of the gravitational constant and the inevitability of death. He could keep his entire self tucked away inside as he’d always done, separate out the Giorno face he put on every day from the Giorno he took to bed every night, and Mista would never, could never fault him for it. Even if Giorno desperately wanted him to.
But perhaps, if he could give Mista an opening, then Mista could reach in just enough to grab Giorno’s hand—the real Giorno, the one who stared into his eyes every day and wanted—and pull him out.
So he met Mista’s eyes, bit his lip, and said, “There was one more thing.”
“Yeah?” Mista asked, cocking his head. “What’s buggin’ you, Gio?”
Leaning over the table, Giorno placed his hand on top of Mista’s, warmth rising in the skin of his palm at the contact.
“You have some flour,” he murmured, pressing two fingers against the bridge of Mista’s nose. “Here.”
A beat, then two. To Giorno’s utter delight, Mista flushed bright red, from the tips of his ears and down past his neck.
“I, ahh, I guess when I was making the pasta,” he stuttered, and Giorno realized he was shaking like a leaf. “I got some—on my…I’ll clean it—”
Mista’s words died in his throat as Giorno’s fingers trailed down to press against his lips. He gently popped his thumb against the bottom one before pulling his hands back and folding them, one atop the other, on his lap.
Mista gaped.
“Gio…?”
The sight of Mista dazed from tip to toe what was did it. In one fluid movement, Giorno was up out of his chair and around the other side of the table. He cupped Mista’s bright red cheeks in his palms, leaned in, and pressed their noses together.
“I need to know this is all right with you,” he breathed. “Not as your boss. Just…me.”
Their eyes met and Mista chuckled throatily. “You really need to ask?” When Giorno’s only response was to bite his lip and wait, Mista threaded a hand through his braid and said, “You have no fucking idea how goddamn alright this is, Giogio, so for the love of God—”
A microsecond later Giorno’s mouth was on Mista’s and Mista’s tongue was licking its way past his teeth in the messy, desperate kiss he’d only been waiting his whole life to for Mista to give him. The world around him was a blur; nothing else mattered but Mista’s sinfully plush lips finally moving against his own, Mista’s tiny little whines escaping into his mouth, Mista’s hips grinding against his thigh and God, his hand in Giorno’s braid tightened and Giorno really thought he might die but it would be all right as long as it happened right here, right now, while he was totally tangled up in Mista, Mista, his Mista.
When Mista finally pulled away, gasping for air, Giorno began kissing down his chin, stopping to mouth at the taut lines of his neck.
“Mista,” Giorno hummed. “Does it bother you, sleeping on the couch?” He pulled Mista’s sweater to the side with one hand and pressed tiny kisses to the exposed collarbone, lips barely brushing the sweat-slick skin.
“’Course not,” Mista said, a shiver running down his back. “I like it. I got my pillows, and I—” He gasped quietly as Giorno replaced his lips with his tongue, gently licking over the flesh.
“What’s that?”
“I like being close to you, so I know I can protect you if anything happens.”
“Well,” Giorno said, his thumbs tracing identical circles into Mista’s hipbones, “that’s all well and good, really, but...there’s just one thing.”
Mista leaned deeply into Giorno, pressing their bodies flush together. “What’s that?”
“See,” said Giorno, “to be honest, Guido, I don’t like you sleeping on the couch.”
Mista’s face fell. “Oh.”
“In fact,” Giorno continued, stroking slowly from Mista’s hips up his back to his shoulders, “I don’t want you on the couch anymore.”
Mista’s eyes dropped from Giorno’s to the floor. “Right. Okay.”
“Sleep in my bed with me.”
“What?” Not for the first time tonight, Mista looked utterly dumbstruck. Giorno found it a painfully adorable look for him, but he supposed he was biased.
“Move in,” Giorno said, mostly succeeding at keeping the imploring note out of his voice. “Officially. It would…mean a lot to me.”
Mista blinked at him, eyes dark and wide, silent for a moment. Then he broke into a grin.
“Right, boss,” he said; the joy in his voice made Giorno’s heart soar. “Sounds good—”
“No,” Giorno replied.
“No?”
“I’m not asking you as your boss,” said Giorno, and if Mista didn’t know any better, he would say Giorno was being shy about it. “I want to make that very clear. I’m asking you as Giorno Giovanna, the man who plans on keeping you in my bedroom for a least a solid twenty-four hours once you enter it. Do you understand?”
There was that blush again, pink and bright and all down Mista’s cheeks and neck and fuck, did Giorno ever want to kiss his way down every inch of it.
“Yeah,” breathed Mista. “Got it, Gio.”
“Perfect,” Giorno purred, settling his body into its earlier spot between Mista’s thighs and pressing a single gentle, closed-mouth kiss against Mista's lips. “Now where were we, Guido?”
--
When they finally separated an eternity later, Mista brushed a stray curl from Giorno’s face and immediately burst into giggles.
“What?” Giorno asked, mentally vowing that he would never go a single day again without making Mista make that exact giggle as he tried to save a mental snapshot of those dimpled cheeks and that nose all scrunched-up.
“It’s just—” He took a deep breath, leaning forward to press a kiss to Giorno’s chin. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen your hair come loose. Not even when you fight. It always stays in place.”
Giorno shot him a look. He reached up to feel around for a loose bobby pin, but Mista swatted his hand away. “I like the way it looks,” he explained with a sheepish grin. “Keep it that way.”
For you? Anything, Giorno thought. He grabbed Mista’s hand and, heart full to bursting, led him to their bedroom.