Archive of Our Own

Taking a seat at the table, Giorno frowns. Unfortunately, he shares an early-bird habit with the one gang member that hates it the most - Abbacchio. Sure, Fugo will be up soon to balance out the odd rivalry from opposite sides of the table, but until then, they ignore each other’s existence. It works up until Giorno realizes that they do own fresh fruit, it’s just that Abbacchio hordes the bowl on his side. The boy frowns again.

Abbacchio groans and tosses his head back before Giorno can even ask.

Somehow, he drawls towards the ceiling, you don’t even have to open your mouth to make my head hurt.

It’s not that Giorno wasn’t expecting Abbacchio to insult him, it’s that he was expecting to be insulted after he attempted diplomacy. Apparently, Abbacchio’s hatred has advanced.

Footsteps approach, and both let out a sigh of relief. Any sort of mediator will do. Giorno’s stomach rumbles at the idea of a nice orange. Surprisingly, the shuffled footsteps give Mista away before he slouches into the kitchen. Abbacchio raises an eyebrow at his disheveled appearance. Usually Mista is the messiest morning person, but seeing him this early is startling.

Buongiorno, Mista, sleep well? Giorno prompts, tilting his head. As far as he’s aware, they slept quite soundly. No nightmares kept them up, the temperature in the room with the window cracked open was perfect, and Giorno’s preferred silk sheets have upgraded Mista’s taste as well. A rare glare flashes out from under Mista’s hat, still not straight on top of his head. Giorno blinks, and Abbacchio smirks.

Well? the older man asks, earning Mista’s focused glare. What? Not my fault if you two stay up too late.

While Mista’s cheeks warm at the insinuation, his eyes narrow. And yet, he resigns to flopping into the seat next to Giorno, reaching across the table to steal the fruit bowl and pass it to his boyfriend without being asked. Now Giorno sports the victorious smirk as Abbacchio’s eye twitches with intent to murder.

Wrapping his arm around Giorno’s shoulders, he leans into his space as the younger boy pops a strawberry into his mouth. A warm sigh tickles Giorno’s blonde locks as Mista nuzzles into his neck.

Stop waking me up in the middle of the night, he groans tiredly. Giorno pauses peeling the orange. He thinks back to last night, wondering just what could have kept Mista up. Mista is a heavy sleeper while Giorno sleeps rather lightly. If anything, it would be the other way around.

You keep like, silently screaming in your sleep. It’s creepy, amore, Mista sighs, still leaning into Giorno’s neck. Now the blond remembers, thinking back to his dreams. There was a point where he recalls flying around, feeling on top of the world and letting out a victorious cry wrrryyyyy.

Ah. I’m sorry, Giorno turns to peck Mista’s temple. Next time I’ll keep you up with a different sort of screaming. Preferably your name.

Mista’s face turns as red as his hat as he leans away from Giorno, whimpering in embarrassment. Another groan from Abbacchio signals his departure. He bumps shoulders with Narancia and glares down at the small gangster before continuing his proud stride. Fugo chuckles, causing Narancia to turn his fury towards his boyfriend.

It’s not funny! It’s Abbacchio. There’s a difference, Narancia insists. He, too, flops down into a seat without a care of where he sits.

I can attest to this, Abbacchio is only funny when he falls, Giorno adds. Narancia sputters on his sip of water, laughing and choking at the same time. Rolling his eyes, Fugo grabs an orange with Giorno’s permission before sitting on the other side of Narancia.

Fugo, how scandalous! Narancia points at the orange as Fugo eats a slice. You’re not even hiding the fact how much you want me.

What? Mista lifts his head, clearly late to the happenings around him.

What is there to want? Fugo quips back. It’s not like there’s much there. With a pointed glance at his lap, Narancia screams in indignation, covering his crotch.

Hey! You’re my boyfriend! You have no right to say that!

Well, he might have a point, Giorno unhelpfully contributes. You are the shortest gangster.

Not only does Narancia instantly flush completely red, but steam filters out of his ears. The phantom ghost of his radar starts to slide over his eye. Thankfully, Fugo rests a hand on his shoulder. Narancia whips his head over, lifting desperate eyes to his boyfriend. It concerns all of them, however, when Fugo actually gives Narancia a loving smile and a peck to the top of his head.

Any shorter and you’d probably fade out of existence.

WHAT?! Slamming his fists down on the table, Narancia stands on his chair to loom over them all. A blade flashes in his hand. Fugo defensively raises his butter knife.

Before any knives are thrown, Bucciarati steps into the dining room. With a raised eyebrow, everyone settles back down. Narancia steps back off of his chair and disappears into the kitchen momentarily.

While normally any one of the others would take turns cooking for the rest, there are certain few members they let skip the responsibility. Narancia and Trish have tried, and failed, and no one has ever seen Bucciarati cook. Maybe it’s because he’s capo and too far above it, but no one has ever bothered to ask him to take kitchen duty.

A concerning amount of cupboards slamming and dishes clattering-almost-falling, curses in between, Narancia returns with two bowls. He sets one in front of Fugo and then the other for himself. He glances back over to Fugo hesitantly, as if seeking approval. Fugo’s brows lift with a nervous smile.

Cereal? the blond tilts his head to the side, laying his cheek on his fist to meet Narancia’s hunched eye level. He stares blankly ahead.

I fixed you breakfast, he announces, simultaneously proud of himself for his accomplishment and disappointed at Fugo for not recognizing it. I know it’s just a bowl of cereal, but it’s the only thing I can’t burn.

Romantic, Fugo nods in understanding. Mista returns to nuzzling Giorno at the idea of romance, taking his hand in his when he stands. He takes the invitation to leave and follows Mista as he leads him by the hand. In no time, they have returned to their now-shared bedroom.

What’s up? Mista frowns, crossing his arms at Giorno. The blond hesitates from stepping closer. Was he still upset with Giorno sleep talking? Or sleep screaming, he supposes. I mean, like, what’s wrong?

Is something wrong? Giorno clarifies. He looks to Mista for answers, which isn’t useful as Mista averts his gaze to the side, pink dusting his cheeks.

No, I guess not. Neither of them quite believe it, however.

Why would you think that, Mista? Giorno prods, genuinely concerned. What was it that gave off the impression that he was upset? Mista shrugs as Giorno steps up to him. Lazy fingers trail around his waistband with the skin exposed from his crop top.

Sorry, he chuckles, his blush darkening at the intimate touch. He scratches under his hat. You just give off the impression that you want to murder everyone you look at.

Giorno blinks. Another flash of his dream passes in his minds eye. Wryyy. A familiar call for when Giorno absolutely demolishes an enemy. In a visceral sense, it almost feels good, having a frightening cry that sparks terror into the enemy as Giorno brings them to justice. It’s satisfying.

He attempts to return to reality, only to realize that perhaps while he is usually a friendly character, there are times when his ambition calls stronger within him than his compassion. Most notably with Abbacchio, but that’s a given.

Instead of directly answering, Giorno lets his eyelids fall before looking up to Mista. Hooded eyes, a hungry look, and wandering fingers has Mista a shivering mess before Giorno has even started anything.

It’s a half an hour later that Bucciarati finally decides to see if the teens are finished getting ready for the day. While it isn’t huge, they need specifically Mista for a small mission. However, it’s these cases that Mista usually puts up some sort of fight. If he isn’t paired with Giorno, Mista becomes very uncooperative. It’s been that way soon after Giorno joined the gang.

He knocks on the door, and a panicked sort of silence falls in the room beyond. Bucciarati doesn’t bother waiting for an answer.

Mista? Still no response.

Skipping out on work again?

Mista swallows the lump in his throat, trying to keep his ragged panting quiet. Giorno lays on top of him, their bare skin sticking to each other uncomfortably but so romantically. Swallowing again, Mista makes sure his voice is steady before he replies.

No, boss, he squeaks, I’ll be out in a sec!

Bucciarati shakes his head and leaves before he accidentally eavesdrop on anything else.