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Knocking, doorknob turning, footsteps, bed sheets slightly rustling, and the unfamiliar warmth of another person in his bed. That’s all that Mista was groggily aware of at 3:30 AM, when he was awoken by someone sneaking into the blankets with him.
Shaking was next. Then came the half-swallowed whimpers and hiccups of restrained tears. Maybe it was this person’s anxieties not allowing them to cry outwardly, or maybe it was the fact that they thought Mista was still asleep.
Mista, now awake and aware of the situation, questioned every possibility of who it could be before consoling them. There were only two people living in this mansion who he wouldn’t try to shoot if they climbed into bed with him: Trish and Giorno. He’d be open to consoling either of them, but seeing either of them cry would be a strange occurrence. Giorno was… less emotional than Trish, and it would be weird to see his boss shake and cry like this. Trish may be… Well, she was Trish. She could always stand on her own. After hearing the mystery crier start to hyperventilate, Mista decided that regardless of who it was, there was no point in letting them cry anymore.
Steeling himself, Mista turned over, trying his best not to scare off… Giorno. It almost physically hurt to see him like this; he was a complete mess. Eyes shut tightly, forcing tears inwards, barely keeping air in his lungs long enough for Mista to blink.
Mista had no clue how to deal with this. He could start talking, he could say a million words to try to help, but honestly, Giorno seemed to be in a world of his own. A terrifying one, at that.
Maybe due to some suppressed instinct, Mista wrapped his arms around Giorno, pressing the younger boy’s head into the older’s chest, lightly stroking his blond, unkempt hair. And he waited. Slowly, Giorno’s breathing calmed, his heartbeat returning to normal and all that was left was small hiccups and salty tears.
“Mista, please… Tell me I’m a good leader… Tell me I’m a good leader, as good as Bucciarati was…” His broken and cracking voice trailed off, trying his best not to sob out every word.
It was like Mista was hit by a train. Giorno, the ever-so-confident Giorno, had he been suppressing this the whole time? While Mista had been enjoying life, simply doing jobs when his boss asked (which was, to say the least, not very often), Giorno had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Just a kid, just 15, inheriting all of this. His closest friends dying right before his eyes. He sacrificed everything for this dream, this was what the kid wanted, right? Just 15…
“Yes…” Mista said, forcing his closest friend to look into his eyes while he spoke, “Giorno, yes, you’re the best leader this gang has ever seen.” There was a moment of silence, before Giorno’s tears spilled out again and his head was against Mista’s shoulder.
Soft and muffled, a small, “Thank you, Mista…” was let out between sobs. He repeated it, over and over again, before finally relaxing against Mista’s body. Soon, the rise and fall of the younger boy’s body slowed, and no more tears came from his closed eyes. And so Giorno slept, comfortably laying in Mista’s arms, unaware of the light goodnight kiss placed on his forehead.