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The first thing Giorno noticed when he opened the door to the villa was the smell.
It felt like walking into his favourite pastry shop, the one that puts their fresh delicacies on display still steamy from the oven for all the kids to admire with big eyes from behind the glass.
He stepped through the door, dropping his keys on the beautiful glass bowl Trish gave them as a housewarming gift. The finest Vetro di Murano, green as his eyes, picked up during one of her travels around Italy.
He took a few steps towards the kitchen, enticed by the warm and sweet smell of just-out-of-the-oven pasta frolla.
Distracted by his belly rumbling and complaining he almost didn't notice that something was off.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
It was barely after 4 p.m and usually at that point in the afternoon there was either the tv blasting from somewhere in the house or you could hear screams and laughter coming from the garden outside.
Giorno toed off his shoes and padded his way around the ground floor, looking for the couple of someones who were being afwully quiet in that mid-october afternoon.
The blonde poked his head in the kitchen and was rewarded with what was indeed a fresh crostata out of the oven, he got closer to the marble island and almost drooled at the sight of the warm steam rising from the golden crust.
He wondered for a while what filling was hidden underneath the pefectly browned frolla but if the red smear on the white dish underneath was any indication he had a pretty accurate guess.
Cherries . He smiled to himself.
His favourite, he knew him so well.
He put off cutting himself a slice in favour to go and look for the amazing Chefs who had surely worked all afternoon to pull that beautiful crostata off.
Making his way into the living room, and just rounding the corner of the huge sofa he could hear the soft noises of someone lightly snoring and a smile escaped his lips.
Sprawled onto the pale blue fabric laid Mista, his head comfortably rested on a fluffy throw pillow, lips slightly parted as he slept soundly.
His hair was a mess from rubbing against the pillow and a few streaks of flour were visible between the dark locks, his features relaxed, long dark lashes fanning out on red cheeks.
Seeing him so peaceful has never been something Giorno had ever taken for granted; the first few years after their fight against Diavolo had them carrying around scars so deep they felt like they never stopped bleeding and nights haunted by horrible nightmares that woke them up in the middle of the night screaming in the dark.
Faces and feelings of the people who they’ve lost were a reccurring dream, that would leave both of them reaching into the dark to try and hold back something that they’ve already lost.
They both had learn that waking up in the darkest hours with their chest heavy and their eyes full of tears and pain was something they had to deal with no matter what.
That had eventually brought them to begin to sleep in the same bed, just to be able to know that they had someone to wake up to when the darkness hit.
Giorno had been reluctant in asking for any help from Mista, he had to admit.
He remembered when, in the morning, Mista would pretend not to notice the heavy bags under the young Don eyes, the skin pale and almost translucent, the hair tangled and the cheeks dry for rubbing the wet streaks off with a tired hand.
They would talk over coffee and Mista would silently make sure that the blonde had at least eaten a bite or two of his brekfast, in-between pushing around his cut up fruit around his plate with a fork.
He would pretend to prefer the bathroom near Giorno's own room, just to have an excuse to take the blonde to his room and linger on the doorframe just to say "I'm on the opposite side of the hallway, if you need anything".
And after a while the occasions in wich Mista lingered multiplied.
He lingered when the blonde would greet him with a hug or a kiss on the cheek, he lingered when looking out for him when going out in public, he lingered when touching his forehead to make sure he was not coming down with a cold.
And he lingered when it came to their goodnight.
He would use any excuse to keep hanging around Giorno for as long as he could, maybe an extra glass or wine, or one more trashy movie on the tv, or maybe just one more chat about life in front of the slowly dying fireplace.
Anything to keep the blonde from returning to his nightmares.
And Giorno knew, he knew too well what Mista was trying to do, and in a silent thank you he would accept that one glass more, he would cross his legs on the sofa to sit more comfortably before the movie started and he would rest his face on his hand ready to listen to Mista a little bit more.
It was only after noticing how hard Mista was working to make sure he felt safe that he eventually gave up and crawled in bed with the brunette, silently asking what Mista had no need to hear.
He was around three in the morning, when the gunman felt his duvet lift up to let a gust of cold night chill enter the warmth of his bed.
He pretended to be asleep, as if he hadn't been listening to the silent crying that was coming from the young Don bedroom for the past few minutes.
He had, like every other night, clenched his fist in the sheets, debating against himself to just ‘fuck it’ and cross the short hallway that separated the two bedroom and scoop the blond in his arms, kiss his tears away and hold him tight until he would stop crying.
But that night Giorno was standing there, at the foot of his bed, hair disheveled and eyes a deep pit of watery blue, hugging himself tight by the waist as an attempt to find some kind of comfort within himself.
The only thing Mista could do was nod slightly, aswering the moltitude of questions that swarmed in Giorno's mind as if he ad actually said them out loud.
"Will this change things between us?"
"Is this crossing a line?"
"Tell me you need me as much as I need you right now"
After eight years Giorno remembers that night like it had been the day before: the way he had tried to stay on his side of the bed in a shy attempt not to make the gunman feel unconmfortable, the way Mista, instead, had reached out blindly under the covers to look for the blonde's hand, the way he held it and the way he pulled his shivering body closer to his own, holding him against his chest.
And as Giorno felt the tears starting to stream down his face once again he held onto the warm hand pressed against his stomach, where Mista held him securely, his own tears staining his cheeks buried in a mass of blond curls.
They hadn't spoken a single word that night, but for the first time both of them had fallen asleep in a deep dreamless slumber.
Giorno smiled and reached out to place a hand on the warm cheek of the man he had fallen in love with so many years prior, way before he had actually realized it.
Mista asleep was a sight his eyes would never tire to see, but what he had not expected to see when coming into his livingroom was the other body lying on the gunman's chest.
The tiny form of Gioia Giovanna was curled up on his father's chest, chocolate curls spread all over her back, green eyes closed and lips slightly parted in a identical, but softer, version of the man she was resting on.
The two of them slept soundly curled on one another, one of Mista's hand securely locked at he small of her back as if trying to hold her and protect her even when asleep.
Gioia was the only name that could ever befit her.
Happiness .
That’s what she was for them.
The little girl had came into their life just six years prior, and before that day Giorno had never known how much a heart could ache when filled that much with love.
The first time he had held her into his arms, those big green eyes looking up at him from behind dark lashes, he hadn't even realized he had started to cry until his husband had kissed his tears away, holding them both as tightly as he could, a promise to protect them for the rest of his life.
Gioia had been what had been missing from their life, and the moment Mista had laid eyes upon her in the arms of his beautiful husband, he knew that that was what his life had led to.
That moment, that perfect instant was worth everything, every fight, every loss and every scar on his body.
He had his family in his arms and nothing would ever be more important than that.
Giorno leaned down to place a soft kiss on her forehead, tucking a curly lock of hair behind her ear, smiling at how peaceful her features looked.
There was a smudge of what looked like flour on the little girl cheek and the blonde wiped it away with the pad of his thumb.
Kissing Mista's forehead as well, he reached on the back of the couch to take the soft blanket and drape it over the sleeping form of his husband and daughter.
With one more look at the two of them he left the room, deciding it was time he tried a slice of that oh so inviting pie.
He was halfway through the second slice (They were tiny, so no judging) when he felt a couple of warm arms sneak around his waist and the familiar scent of Mista's bodywash suddenly mixed itself with the sweet aroma of the pastry he was enjoying.
"Do you like it? I wanted to make some biscotti but Gioia insisted we made something for you so..." the brunette said, leaving a trail of kisses along the expanse of the young Don's neck.
Giorno reached out to thread a hand in the gunman's hair, holding his lips in place, shivering at the sensation the warm kisses left on his body.
"It's perfect. You might have ruined my appetite for dinner though" he replied, turning in his stool to come face to face with his beautiful husband.
Mista chuckled, "Well nobody forced you to eat two slices" he teased.
Giorno huffed and jabbed a finger in the other man's side, earning a stare from him that ment‘ No tickling ’
"You know I have a sweet tooth" he then replied.
"I know, that's why Gioia wanted to make a crostata for you, she knows it's your favourite and said you look happy when you eat sweets. And maaaybe you would finally let het get a puppy". Mista smiled, dragging out the 'maybe' just as their daughter would do when trying to convince them to do something.
Giorno smiled, that kid had them already wrapped around her little finger.
"We'll see about that" Giorno said, forking the last bite of the pie and holding it out in front of Mista's face.
The brunette gladly accepted the sweet offering, leaning in to leave a tender kiss on the corner of the blonde's lips, still stained from the red of the cherry marmalade.
"See it like this, at least she would stop asking to play with Polnareff" he said, and Giorno giggled.
She did have a hard time understanding that the turtle was not indeed just a house pet, but after all she was only six.
"Is she still asleep?" Giorno asked, reaching out to drape his arms around the gunman's shoulder, toying with the hair at the back of his neck.
"Soundly, she was pretty tired I think she's gonna be out until dinnertime. I just put her to bed" Mista replied, letting his hand trail along the sides of the blond's body, sneaking their way under his crisp blue shirt.
He leaned down to kiss the blonde's cheek, coming down his jaw and neck in a line of open mouth kisses that sent a shiver down Giorno's spine.
"You think the Pistols could..?" He trailed off, too distracted by the way his husband's lips had started to suck tiny lovebites all over his neck, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.
"Keep an eye on her while she sleeps so I can take you upstairs and ravish you on our bed?" Mista concluded, feeling the familiar pool of want tighten in his belly when the long fingers of Giorno's hand had disappeared behind the waistline of his joggers.
"..You know me so well Guido Mista." He teased, reaching out to capture the gunman’s lips in a passionate kiss.
"Let's go before she wakes up, then you would have to do much more than just buy her a puppy".
Mista scooped the blonde up by reaching underneath his legs and grabbing a hold of his ass, hoisting the man in his arms and making his way to the stairs as fast as he could without dropping the both of them in the process.
With the faint sound of laughter disappearing upstairs the villa fell back in a comfortable silence, the smell of pie still lingering in the air.