Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Giorno’s T-Shirt itches. 

His shirt itches and he’s been stuck behind the counter for three hours already. 

His shirt itches and he’s been stuck behind the counter for three hours already and his phone is dead. 

His shirt itches and he’s been stuck behind the counter for three hours already and his phone is dead and his coworkers are being useless useless useless useless - 

No. Stop that. That sounds like not-father. 

Giorno turns back to his phone and presses the button down for a full ten seconds, hoping against hope that it will decide to spontaneously refill it’s battery on its own. No luck. 

Now would be a great time to walk around and find something else to do. He could sort the gummy frogs by color, but then he’d just have to watch all of his hard work be ruined if someone actually decides to come get frozen yogurt on a rainy Wednesday morning.  He could go to the back and play with the tadpoles he’s smuggled past the health inspector for the last two weeks, but he’s tied to the counter until one of his two, or rather four, useless coworkers decide to take over for him. And that’s not going to happen.

Vanilla Ice is too busy being a whore, and ghiaccio is always angry. Repressed furry bitch . Everyone saw the catboy stickers on your laptop. Just accept it.

Giorno’s about halfway done sorting the gummy frogs and a sixteenth of the way done telling off his coworkers in his mind when the door opens. 

“Giorno! My darling baby boy!”

No. Giorno leaves his earbuds and pretends not to notice Dio’s entrance. It’s impossible to ignore him, but Giorno has lots of practice setting a straight face and refusing to make eye contact. 

Dio doesn’t notice Giorno’s not noticing, though. He’s too busy talking to someone else. Giorno recognises the tone of voice he’s using. This is another date. He brought another date to Sweet Frog. Dio Brando, 37 year old lawyer and three-time divorcee, has brought the fifth date this month to Sweet Frog. And judging by the voice Giorno doesn’t recognise, the other four dumped him. 

“Woah. Cert’nly is a lotta green and pink in here. Mighty fancy.”

If he was a kinder son, he would feel pity for how low his biological father has stooped. But he doesn’t. He just feels annoyed at what is clearly another attempt for father-son bonding cheapened by the simultaneous attempt at romantic escapades for his sperm-donor. He’s got three frogs left before he really needs to turn around.

“Yes, it’s a wonderful little venue. And they have such delightful staff, don’t they Giorno? ”

Die .

“Hello, welcome to Sweet Frog. How can I be of assistance today.” Monotone and polite. Facing the customer but not quite making eye contact. Enough to pass for good service with minimal engagement. 

Dio’s new arm-candy doesn’t get the concept of the store, so Giorno goes through his pre-rehearsed speech and hands him a paper bowl to go fill and bring back. Run , he wants to say. Run, or get a prenup . But instead he fakes his most uncomfortable smile and turns back to the counter. Maybe he can sort the Nerds next. Nobody ever uses the Nerds. 

The door opens again and Giorno is snapped out of his thoughts. He turns to look at the door as he hears familiar voices come inside. 

There’s three teenagers walking in from the rain. The two he recognises are both absolutely soaked and dripping all over the floor. Strange, considering how light the downfall is today. They're being just as pushy and noisy as usual as they discuss the benefits of eating pasta raw versus cooked. They show up frequently enough for Giorno to recognise them, but not enough to know their names, so he mentally calls them “Gay-Hat-Guy” and “Can’t-Sit-In-Chairs.”

The third one has an umbrella, and Giorno doesn’t know him at all. He’s pale as all hell, to the point where he looks like an anemic vampire. He’s wearing all red, which probably is only washing him out more, but in a way that feels intentional. Everything from the way he dresses to the way he shakes out his umbrella before leaning it against the wall seems carefully calculated and impossible to look away from. He looks up to see Giorno staring at him, and Giorno panics for half a second before he remembers that it’s normal, no, expected for employees to make eye contact with customers. 

The boy approaches the counter with more grace and dignity than would ever be necessary for a glorified ice-cream parlor. 

“Hello, table for three please?” So he doesn’t know this either. Cute . Giorno’s about to go through his speech again when the two wet boys start laughing. 

“Nah, nah, nah, man. You’re doing it wrong. Watch, watch.” 

Wham!  

A palm slams into the counter in front of Giorno and Gay-Hat-Guy is up in his face again. Please learn the concept of personal space.

“THREE BOWLS, PLEASE, ICE CREAM GUARDIAN.” At least he’s polite. Giorno provides the necessary paperware and waves off a frantic apology from the new boy. He has strawberry earrings. Very cute .

Strawberry-Boy follows the others back to the machines and Giorno puts his earbuds back in. He keeps looking back to them as the two noisy ones try to explain the process of putting frozen yogurt in a bowl and adding toppings. He leans over the counter and pretends to sort the Nerds as he watches. 

“Okay, done. I have aquired ice cream. Now we go back to pay?”

“What? That’s all you’re gonna get?”

 Fugo looks down at the bowl of strawberry shortcake flavored desert in his hands. He’d tried to get the frozen yogurt to swirl nicely into a perfect spiral, but the machine dropped in more than he wanted after he released the lever, so there’s a thick stripe leaning out from the center and ruining the effect. 

“Yeah. Is there something wrong with that?” He’s asking for a fight. And he’s got every reason to be mad. He didn’t even want to come here in the first place. It’s bad enough to be forced to walk outside in the rain while your two idiot friends dare each other to roll in the puddles or jump in a drainage ditch. It’s even worse when they decide to give themselves even worse hypothermia by going to get ice cream. And the worst possible situation is being dragged along with them, humiliating oneself in front of an employee, and then being required to spend the next at least half hour third wheeling.

“BOO. Fuckin’ lame. Live a little.” Third wheeling, or being insulted, apparently.

“Yeah, add something else to it. Pussy.” From there it’s off to the races for Mista and Narancia. 

“Flavorless coward.”

“Bland-ass bitch.”

“Uncreative whore.”

“Basic white Insta-ho.” 

Okay, that last one hurt more than it should have. He should be able to get one flavor if that’s what he wants. They’re both dumbasses and they’ve chosen a stupid hill to die on, but Fugo’s too tired and pissed off to argue right now. He’s not going to get through to them with intelligent conversation anyways. Fugo heads back to the machines and adds another flavor, and hell, why not bring a topping into the mix as well? 

He wanders over to the counter where the trays of candies, cookies, and crumbs are lined up. And lined up in front of the counter are two of the strangest people he’s seen. The first one he notices is some gaudy monstrosity in thick sunglasses and a fur coat, aimlessly explaining the various condiments to his partner with such a snooty, arrogant voice Fugo has to suppress the urge to kick his knees out from under him. His partner is somehow infinitely better and worse at the same time. He’s some kind of cowboy, and at first Fugo thinks he must be a stripper or something, but the mud on his boots suggests that no, this is a genuine ranch hand in front of him. Gross. 

“What’re those little fellers?”

“Those, if I recall correctly, are Swedish Fish.”

“Mighty fancy. What flavor of red are they?” He drawls every word. Every. Single. Word. It makes a sentence take three times longer than it should. Just have your little chit-chat and move on so everyone else can get to the fucking toppings.

“Lingonberry. Very rare. The candies are imported from Sweden, which is why - ”

“No they’re not.” Fugo can’t deal with this anymore. He can’t fucking listen to more lies. “Lingonberries aren’t rare, and the fish aren’t from Sweden. They’re from Hamilton, Ontario, and Lingonberries grow all over the cold regions of the northern hemisphere.”

The ugly fur-coat guy looks fit to murder him where he stands. Good. The cowboy looks a lot more confused about what just happened.

“I thought… I thought Hamilton was on Broadway.” Dear God Fugo’s going to have an aneurysm. 

“For fuck’s sake, just move . Some of us want to get the toppings before they rot .” He shoves his way past them while the fur-coat guy desperately tries to convince the cowboy that Ontario is even further away, and therefore more impressive to be importing from. It works. Of course it fucking works. Fugo finishes his creation as the cowboy reaches over his fucking head to get the peanut butter sauce. For his Apple Pie ice cream. Uncle Sam would weep sweet tears of joy at the patriotism on this fucker. 

Fugo returns to where his entourage of idiots was waiting for him and presents his newly refined bowl. There’s a beat of silence before Mista remembers he can’t shut up for more than ten seconds.

“Is this a fucking joke? Because this might be the first time in your life you’ve done something funny. Narancia, record the date. This Day in History: Fugo let the stick fall out of his ass.” 

“Fuck you, whore.” Strawberry shortcake is a good flavor. So he just… enhanced it. With strawberry ice cream. And strawberries. And a little bit of spite.  It was mainly spite. Okay, it was entirely spite.

“God, I can’t wait to see the look on the cashier’s face when you pay for that.” What . 

“Oh yeah! That’s probably the second weirdest one he’ll see today. But mine is better.” 

“Excuse me?”

“It’s pumpkin pie, cotton candy, mint, and pineapple sorbet, with gummy worms, cinnamon toast crunch, and marshmallow sauce. I think this might be my mast - ”

“Shut the fuck up! Shut the fuck up! Nobody fucking cares about your gross-ass food, you illiterate twink. We need to pay for this?”

“Yes, Fugo, that’s how capitalism works.” Mista is acting way too smug about all this. As soon as they’re back outside Fugo’s going to punch his lights out.

“No, you fuckwad, I thought that… the bowls. You paid for the bowls.”

“You weigh them. You weigh them and then you pay based on that.” 

That would have been great to know before he doubled the fucking weight of his bowl in a fit of stubborn rage. 

“Aw, come on, bro. It would be weirder if you just showed up with one flavor.” Fugo swats Narancia’s hand off of his head before he goes over to the counter again. There’s no salvaging today. He might as well get it over with quickly. 

“Hello again. I’m paying for this.” Yes, he is paying for this. He’s paying for his hubris and his arrogance in the form of frozen yogurt.

“Great! If you could just place it on the - actually, I’ll take it, please.” A very convincing fake smile. Fugo finally takes a second to read the cashier’s nametag. 

Giorno . Handwritten with delicate, looping letters, and then scrawled underneath in sharpie as a translation. Stinks of interference from management. Giorno has pulled out a Sharpie of his own and popped the lid off to write something on Fugo’s bowl. 

He tilts it around for a bit, looking for someplace to write what Fugo presumes is some kind of allergy information or a discount code or whatever they do here. After searching for a few seconds, Giorno has a brainwave and flips the bowl over to write on the underside. The underside is the only part that’s flat, and it’s firmer than the sides of the bowl. It’s a smart move.

Except that it’s not. 

Splat . 

A pink, dripping blur falls all at once out of the bowl. If Fugo had to guess where it landed behind the counter, he’d wager on Giorno’s shoes. The bowl continues to splatter a few meager drops in the silence. Giorno stares down at his feet for a few seconds, dumbfounded. He looks back up to the bowl, and flips it back right side up to check if somehow there would be anything left inside. Nothing but a few drips clinging to the rim. 

“That should not have happened.” It’s not an apology. 

“No. I suppose not.” Fugo doesn’t bother asking for an explanation at this point. Giorno provides one anyways. 

“One of my uncles works at another ice cream shop. This never happens to him.” He’s not making any effort to move or clean himself up. Fugo’s not sure if he should reach over and take his bowl back or just walk out the store now.

“Dairy Queen, sweetheart.” Fugo turns to see the fur coat calling from across the store to them. “He works at Dairy Queen. It’s a special case.” 

Fugo has decided he hates whoever that is. 

“Ah.” Giorno finally moves to toss the bowl in a trash can behind the counter and takes heavy, shuffling steps over to get napkins and a mop. There must still be the remains of Fugo’s ice cream piled on his toes. 

“Should I… Should I take a new bowl?” Fugo’s already reached over the counter to grab one. The question is just a formality. He’s taking a new bowl and nobody can stop him. He doesn’t even know why he cares so much. He didn’t ven want ice cream in the first place, but if he’s had to suffer this much today, he might as well get the fucking ice cream so it wasn’t all for nothing. 

“Wait! Wait, please, let me - ” Fugo’s already halfway back to the machines when the reply reaches him. He executes a perfect eye-roll-heel-turn and walks back over. Giorno leans so far over the counter he’s practically laying on it, snatches the bowl out of Fugo’s hands, writes something on the underside, and shoves it back to him. 

“Now you can go.” 

“ Thank you. ” He really shouldn’t be so sarcastic right now. People who are mean to retail workers go to Hell. And this one seems very sweet, if a bit confused on the concept of gravity. It’s not nice to be mean , says a voice in his head which sounds like Narancia. Shut up, dipshit. 

Fugo refills his bowl with just the strawberry shortcake flavor. He adds the strawberries back on when he realises Giorno is busy cleaning and he doesn’t want to pressure him into panicking and working faster by existing too close to the counter. 

Once he’s done picking out the strawberries that look the best and arranging them nicely on top of his frozen yogurt, he walks back over just in time for Giorno to put the mop away and flash that fake smile again. Ready for checkout.

Fugo ignores Mista and Narancia snickering from behind him as he places his bowl on the scale and pays. If he was a good friend, he would feel bad about making them wait so long for the treat they spent all morning chattering about. But he’s not. So he doesn’t. He can barely be bothered to tune in to listen to whatever they’re talking about as they find a table to sit at. 

“ - and I think if I went to the cops and called it a hate crime, they’d agree with me.”

“Ha! Wrong, bitch.”

“No, fuck you. I’m not backing down from this. Anyone with half a brain knows that mixing pumpkin with mint is a crime against humanity.”

“If y’were looking for a brain, you shouldn’ta gone to the cops, huh?” Narancia gurgles his way past an upsettingly colorful spoonful of dairy and brandishes his spoon like a switchblade towards Mista’s face. “Fuck blue lives!”

“I’m telling your dad you said that.” Mista flicks the spoon back with his own and goes back to eating.

“Who’dja think taught me? Fucker.” A dribble of blue leaks out the corner of his mouth, quickly followed by his tongue as he tries to thwart it’s escape attempt. He only smears more around the borders of his mouth.

“God, please. Just get a napkin.” Fugo’s begging at this point. He’s had to deal with too many idiots already. He can’t handle watching someone older than him struggle with manners most toddlers respect.

“Suck my nutsack.” Narancia stabs his spoon into his bowl and leaves it upright as he heads back to the counter. 

A deep, woeful sigh from beside him directs Fugo’s attention back to his remaining tablemate. Mista’s got his head propped up on the heel of his hands, staring longingly back to the counter. It’s the same expression as a widow waiting for the return of her husband eight years after the war ended.

“Disgusting. He’s been gone for three seconds.” 

“Fuck off. It’s normal to miss your bros. We were on a roll before you interrupted.” 

Fugo knows better than to push it. He’s too deep in his pining to do anything about it. He’s never going to change so it’s not worth the energy. But Fugo’s pissed off today, so he might as well drag someone else down with him. 

“Admit you like him to his face or I’ll send him those screenshots of your wedding plans.” 

“ You wouldn’t. ”

“I would.” Narancia’s coming back with a fistful of napkins. “Hey, how do you think he’d react to your Pinterest board?”

“Hey, how do you think that cashier’s gonna react when you throw out his number?” 

“Don’t try to change the subject, fuckboy.”

“Look under the bowl. It’s there. Oldest trick in the book for flirting at work. Surprised you didn’t recognise it, oh Master of Romance .”

“Who’s a master of what?” Narancia sits back down and flings the napkins across the table like snowfall. 

“Fugo’s a master of baiting if you catch my - AH!” Fugo shuts him up with a sharp elbow to the ribs. “Agh, fucker. Fugo’s getting hit on and he doesn’t know how to deal with emotions without violence.”

“Ha. Same.”

“Nah, you’re better than him. Anyways, the ice cream guardian wrote his number under Fugo’s bowl and now he’s gonna check it.”

“Oh, no. No I am not . I’m not gonna flip the bowl upside down for you fuckers. Nice try.”

“Hold it up over your head, then, smoothbrain.” Getting called a smoothbrain from someone who thought the Pink Panther was a lion cuts deep. 

“Fuck you, Narancia. Go eat some more chalk.” Fugo lifts the bowl up anyways. With his arms straight over his head, it’s not heavy or unbalanced. He squints against the contrast of the deep shadow on the bowl and the blinding lights behind it. And now that he’s looking, yeah, there are definitely numbers under there. He’s holding it so the numbers are upside down from his perspective, but if he gives it a second he can - 

“ TASER! ” A sharp poke to the side of his neck provokes an involuntary flinch away from Mista’s hand. As soon  as he begins moving he realises his mistake.

“ SHI - ”

A wave of cold, slimy fluid washes over his head and most of his shirt. It’s probably going to stain, and definitely going to smell rancid if he leaves it in his laundry hamper for more than a day. He freezes and considers spontaneous combustion as he feels a chunk of… something slide down his neck. Strawberry . It’s just a strawberry. Thank God.

Fugo doesn’t dare open his eyes, lest they be infected by artificial flavorings and sugar, but he can feel napkins roughly wiping down his face and tangling his hair. Narancia is laughing hysterically in the background. There’s a clatter and a momentary pause for a gasp that signals him falling out of his chair.

“Aw, fuck, dude. I’m sorry. That was intentional. I’m really sorry. I meant to do that. I’m so sorry. It was on purpose.” 

“How the fuck is that meant to make me feel better.” 

“It’s not. Nara, go get some more napkins, kay?”

Wheezing and the patter of footsteps fading into the distance are all he gets as a response. 

“Okay, I genuinely didn’t expect you to flinch that hard. I was just tryna scare you, cuz of the, uh, wedding thing . Why’dja have to bring it up outta nowhere, huh? I shared those things with you in confidence , man, and you shit in my face with this. Whatever. Let’s move on.”

Not the best apology Fugo’s received. If that even counts as an apology. He’s not accepting it. 

“Yo. Got those napkins for ya, wet- ” Fugo snatches the outstretched wad of paper from Narancia’s hand and scrubs at his face and hands before throwing the soggy remains at Mista and standing.

“Mista has a crush on you.” He doesn’t wait for a response before he storms out, making sure to grab his umbrella on the way. 

“Huh?”

“ DUDE! ” Fucker. Serves him right. Fugo can’t slam the door, but he certainly tries.

It’s still raining outside, so he puts up the umbrella and starts walking a bit faster than normal. Not because he’s trying to leave an awkward situation. It’s the rain. He turns a corner and allows himself to slow down a bit. 

Nobody’s rushing to catch up to him, which is good, but he’s also desperately curious to know what’s going on back inside. Not curious enough to go back though. He can imagine Mista desperately denying it all, Narancia’s stupid brain trying to figure out how language works again, and the two of thm both deciding to pretend none of it happened because it was clearly just Fugo being a jackass. 

Fine. He can be a jackass. He can be the jackass that blows up Narancia’s notifications with screenshots or mood boards of wedding dresses and skateboards as proof. Or both. Definitely both. Fugo grabs his phone out of his pocket, selecting every single screenshot he has of this bullshit, and scrolls through the list of contacts until he sees Narancia’s number. 

Number. 

FUCK . 

Fugo turns on his heel and sprints back to the Sweet Frog. If he can get the timing right, he can be in, out, and gone by the time anyone realizes what’s going on. He yanks the door open, doesn’t even bother shaking out his umbrella. It’s already closed to mitigate the aerodynamic disadvantage it puts him at. 

Giorno’s pulled the mop out again and is on his way over to the table where Fugo’s mess is. Narancia is staring at his phone with an expression that reads like his brain just fell out his ass. Mista has vanished into thin air, which suits Fugo fine. He grabs the bowl before Giorno can throw it away and runs back out. 

He keeps running longer than he needs to. It just feels like he needs to move as fast as possible or else he’ll have a panic attack right now, so he runs until that feeling is replaced with exhaustion. Once he's about five steps from an asthma attack, he slows to a job, and then a walk. 

His clothes are just dried out enough to be sticky. HIs shoes are wet and the cold is seeping into the toes of his socks. There’s a strawberry slice sliding down his ribcage with every breath. Everything smells like fruit. 

But when Fugo looks down to the crumpled, stained, and sticky bowl in his hands, he can’t help smiling.

Chapter Text

It’s been a few hours since Fugo got home. The rain cleared up at some point, but he didn’t notice. He’s been busy staring at the new contact he just added to his phone, desperately trying to figure out what to write as his hello. It’s not exactly like he lacks options. He’s got three real winners off the top of his head.

“Sorry I spilled an entire bowl of frozen yogurt for you to clean up and made a scene in front of other customers. I am not associated with the two noisy idiots I came in with, sat with, and spent the entire time talking to.”

“Please tell me this is actually your phone number and not some kind of horrible prank I might have ruined my two closest friendships over.”

“Look you’re super cute and very nice but Sweet Frog is a Christain franchise so I’m worried you’re going to try to convert me to evangelicalism or something and I dont want you wasting your time trying because I’m gay as fuck.”

They’re all equally horrible first impressions. Technically, you already made your first impression by dumping a bowl of ice cream over your head. Shut up, brain.

Mista’s good with stuff like this. He has a database of horrible pick-up lines he keeps hitting Narancia with. They’re all stupid, but in a way that’s funny, and it’s better than the serious pick-up lines by a landslide. Mista’s also just good with people, and knowing how to recover from social disasters with more grace than could be expected from someone who nearly broke his nose trying to combine a handstand and a kickflip. Fugo could normally just text him, deal with five minutes of teasing, and get good advice once he’s had his fill of dumbassery.

That’s no longer an option today. Maybe ever. So he’s gotta find someone else to help him out.

Bruno is not a good option. It’s the same as asking your mom for advice on finding a date. He’ll make it into a big deal, get all parental, and Fugo’s going to end up with the useless advice to “be himself” and a two-hour long lecture on relationships, dating and everything that comes with the territory. Which he really doesn’t want or need right now.

Narancia… might actually work. He at least remembers Mista’s pick-up lines. There’s a good chance Narancia will just go to Bruno or Mista and he’ll get advice from both of them without needing to sit through the lectures and teasing. And he’s probably the most emotionally cognizant person Fugo knows. Yeah. Narancia will work just fine.

Fugo switches contacts and is about to ask for Narancia’s advice when he sees the messages he sent earlier that day. All read almost as soon as they were sent. No response. That’s not a good sign. Fugo had been so caught up in revenge against Mista he didn’t think about how it might affect the other side of that crush. Shit. How badly did he fuck up their little gang?

Screw it. They’ll reach out to him if they want to. He’ll handle this message on his own.

“Hi.”

Moron. How the fuck is he going to know who you are? He keeps typing to fill up the box with letters more than to try to convey any real message.

“Hi, this is the guy from Sweet Frog this morning. I was wearing red. You gave me your number on the underside of my bowl.”

He presses send before he has time to change his mind. Which is a horrible decision because he immediately regrets it and throws his phone across his room. He wraps himself up in an anxiety cocoon and waits for the telltale buzzing from across the roo-

Oh. That didn’t take long.

“hi im giorno im glad you got my number your hat friend is still hiding in th abthroom please come get him”

Hat friend? Who the - oh. Shit. He doesn’t wanna go deal with that right now. But it would be worse to refuse to respond now that he’s made contact. He can’t risk it.

“Oh. He does that sometimes. I’ll go get him.”

“Also I’m Fugo.”

Strawberry Boy has a name, now. Giorno changes the contact information to suit this new development. He considers writing something back in reply, but if he’s going to be here so soon, they can just talk in person.

Glancing around, there’s not much for him to do except wait. He’s finished cleaning. There’s no customers. Gay-Hat-Guy has refused the bowl of stale animal crackers he pushed under the stall door as payment for his phone charger. Giorno settles on aimlessly scrolling through wikihow guides on exotic pet care. The one on skunks is very interesting, but he doubts the legitimacy of a lot of its claims.

The door swings open and Giorno gives his best smile as he’s greeted with… not Fugo. But seeing his old babysitter is nice too.

“Hello Enrico! How can I - ”

“Where’s your father.”

“He left a while ago, but I can - ”

“Call him saying he left a tube of ugly lipstick here and it’s a health hazard.” Consider it done. Shit’s about to go down. Watching Not-Dad get his ass handed to him twice in the same day is going to be great.

A few quick texts later and Dio is on his way back, thanking Giorno for letting him know and calling him pet names. If Giorno needs to look at the hideous signature he puts at the end of every single message again he’s going to punch something. A lot.

“How are you holding up here, then? Is that coworker of yours still a talentless whore?”

“Yes.”

“Shame. I’ll keep him in my prayers.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Too true.” Pucci walks to the nearest table and sits down, legs crossed in the most threatening way he can muster. Good pose, but not the right place for it.

“He’ll see you through the window. He won’t come in if he knows you’re waiting. But if you crawl under the table - ”

“Is there somewhere I can hide with my dignity intact?”

“There is someone hiding in the bathroom. You will need to share or find somewhere else.”

“Let me behind the counter.”

“That’s a violation of company policy.”

“Giorno, I taught you to tie your shoes.”

“I will not be made to repeat myself.”

Pucci glares at him before taking a deep breath and examining his surroundings. “Fine. I will be in the bathroom. Let me know when he arrives.”

“You’ll hear him, don’t worry.”

Pucci storms into the bathroom and lets the door slam behind him. Giorno returns his attention to his phone. Fugo should be here soon. Or maybe not, Giorno has no idea how far his commute is. The article about skunks calls him back in, and he lets himself be sucked down the rabbit hole of WikiHow articles. He’s halfway through learning the proper method of trapping an armadillo when the door is flung open again. Please be Fugo, please be -

“DARLING!” Oh, fuck off.

“Hello, welcome to Sweet Frog. How may I - ”

“Cut the shit, Gio - dearest. There’s nobody here, you can be nice to your father, can’t you?”

“Die.“

“Ah, teenage angst. I remember when I was your age. Don’t worry, you come by it naturally.”

“You tried to kill Grandfather.”

“And I expect you’d do the same to me if we lived under the same roof.” Bold of you to assume I’m not already trying. “Anyways, enough small talk. Where did I leave my - ”

“Hello, Mr. Brando.” Dio screeches at the voice coming from directly behind him. “Ah! Enrico, you should know better than to - ”

“You didn’t pay me for babysitting on Wednesday. I worked five hours. That's three more than we agreed on. I want double my normal price for overtime.”

“You must be mistaken, I would never - ”

“Mr. Brando. Are you going to lie to me? In this, a house of the LORD?”

“Oh, bull-shit. This is a fucking ice cream parlor with Christian flourishes. Would you hold Mass in a goddamn Chick-Fil-A?”

“I can’t hear you over the sound of your greed, sinner.”

“What happened to the spirit of charity?”

“What happened to paying me my fucking money for not letting your brats stick forks in the outlets while you’re out gargling ballsacks and spitting in the face of the Lord.”

“Whoo!” A new voice joins as Gay-Hat-Guy apparently gains the courage to leave the bathroom. Or maybe he just loves drama.

“Kick his ass, Pucci!” He just loves drama. “Fight, fight, fight - ”

The door opens again just as it seems like Dio’s either going to run away or bet his ass beat into the fifth dimension. Fugo stands awkwardly at the doorway as he takes in the scene in front of him. Giorno helpfully points towards Gay-Hat-Guy, in case Fugo has somehow missed him chanted and slamming a chair on the ground like a particularly rowdy hockey fan. Fugo stares at him for a second before snapping back to nod in Giorno’s direction and rushing over to grab his friend before a fight breaks out. He’s bright red, and Giorno can’t tell if he’s embarrassed and hiding it with rage, or angry and hiding it with embarrassment. Either way, it’s endearing.

Fugo grabs Gay-Hat-Guy’s arm, and he shuts up instantly as Fugo drags him back to the door, throwing another apologetic nod over his shoulder as he leaves. The door closes behind him, and Giorno is left with a feeling of disappointment. He would have liked to talk to him longer. He would have liked to talk to him at all. Instead, he’s stuck watching Enrico condescendingly explain the concept of a direct deposit to his not-father.

A chirp from his phone breaks him out of his self-pity.

“Sorry I had to leave in a rush. Do you need me to call the police?” How romantic.

“no its fine theyre calming down now”

“how is your friend by the way i think he knows my old babysttier”

“He won’t shut up. I believe that your babysitter was his old Youth Group Leader.”

Giorno scrambles to think of something to say that will keep the conversation going. He can’t talk about his old babysitter, Fugo doesn’t know him. His brain can’t think of anything so he just lets his fingers decide what to say and presses send without even reading the message.

“did you know you can legally own a skunk in some states but they arent good pets its not beacuse they stink they fixed that but they are not nice creatures :(”

Fugo did not know that. It’s not surprising, but he didn’t know it.

“ - and Larry is the cucumber. He’s pretty cool because he sings songs and stuff, plus he’s funnier, but Bob is nice too. Are you listening to - ”

“No. I’m not. Shut the fuck up and let me answer this text.”

“Oh? A text? And it couldn’t be from - ”

“Shut the fuck up, okay?” Jesus Christ. The last thing he needs right now is Mista peering over is shoulder or getting on his case about the hypocrisy of it all.

“I’m happy for you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Then beg.” Mista walks ahead of Fugo. “I already lost one friend today, I’m not keen on losing another. I apologised already, so let's just move past it. What’s your boyfriend saying?”

“He’s not my boyfriend”

“Engaged already? Can’t say I’m surprised, but - ”

“How’s your fiance?” Shit. That sounded a lot meaner than he intended.

“Oh, you know. He’s not said anything to me for the entire afternoon and I think he’s filing for a restraining order. Eet eez what eet eez.”

“Talk like a normal human or I’ll beat your ass.”

“Suck my left nostril. Clownfucker.”

“I’ll strangle you with your own entrails.” Fugo jogs a few steps to catch back up. “And I’m sorry I sent the Pinterest board. You’re right, that was uncalled for.”

“Eh. It’s done now. Anyone who doesn’t like my wedding plans isn’t worth marrying anyways.”

“Ah, yes. Who wouldn’t want to get married in converse?”

“Exactly.”

They stop at the edge of a crosswalk, waiting for the light to turn. Mista presses the button. Fugo takes in all the nothing that changes as a result. He’s pretty sure those buttons don’t even connect to anything. Mista is unaware of this, and presses it again. And again. And again and again and again again again -

“Jesus Christ just stop. I’ll fucking call Narancia and figure out what’s going on. Just dear God, be patient for ten fucking - ”

“Light’s green! We’re on the move.” Mista dashes across the street before Fugo can change his mind. “I’ll help you text your betrothed if you get Nara to agree to a spring wedding.”

“Fuck off. You do realize betrothed is just another synonym for fiance, right? Find something creative.”

“What’s cinnamon got to do with anything?”

“I swear to - ”

“Dude. I know what a synonym is. And unlike you I know enough about cooking to make my own grilled cheese sandwich without lighting something on fire.”

“I’m sorry, do you put cinnamon in your grilled cheese?”

“Irrelevant. Tell me the text.”

“It’s about keeping skunks as pets.” Fugo reads the text verbatim, including the frowny face at the end. “How do I continue the conversation from here?”

“A pet skunk, you say.” Mista muses over this information for a second. “An excellent cover story if you’re gonna smoke weed.”

“No. I want him to actually like me. Next idea.”

“Just shoot back another weird animal fact. Boys swoon over the whole ‘otters hold hands when they sleep so they don’t drift apart’ thing.”

“Everyone knows that one, you normie. But I can’t expect better from a Pinterest user.”

“How about I go back to the Sweet Frog and complain to the manager about an employee breaching conduct to harass my underage friend?”

“Die.”

Giorno stares at the clock. He has eighteen more seconds until he can leave. If he leaves as soon as the minute changes, he technically gets paid for 37 seconds of work he didn’t do. That’s about ten cents, but he can’t be bothered to do math right now. His sanity is already at its limit after today.

He’s counting down the last ten seconds when his phone buzzes. He snaps his head down to read the new message.

“That’s very interesting. I suppose it makes sense, given that skunks aren’t domesticated. As far as animals go, my favorite is the komodo dragon. When I was younger, I loved the idea that they use their own bacteria as a sort of venom, but apparently that was untrue. The reason so much of their prey dies from bacterial infection is because they try to flee through the water, and infect their wounds from there instead.”

Any thoughts about an extra 10 cents of unlabored pay fly out the window. He texted back. He texted back about lizards. This is a sign.

“i keep tadpoles back in storage in the sweet frog would you like to come feed them with me we need to boil lettice for them and rip it up into tiny pieces for their mouths because they normally eat algae”

Send. Grab backpack. Leave before getting roped into un-sorting the m&ms.

Mission accomplished. At some point when he was stuck indoors, it stopped raining. It’s still cloudy, but there’s that wet-asphalt smell everywhere, and if he looks closely, he can see steam rising off of the sidewalks.

Today is already looking up.

Chapter Text

Giorno must be single-handedly keeping the local pet supply store in business. That’s the only way to explain how he has so many glass enclosures lining the walls of his room. Fugo looks around at some of the nametags helpfully taped to the bottom corner of each container. 

Pancake and Spike are bearded dragons, one basking on a rock under the lamp and the other submerged in the water dish. Fugo can’t tell which one is which.

A few beta fish, all named for letters of the greek alphabet which are not Beta. 

A few ball pythons, each named something like Base, Basket, Beach, Gum, and, Fugo’s personal favorite, Foot.

One enclosure in the corner catches his eye. It’s a considerable deviation from the usual cute and funny names he’s come to expect. Fugo needs to know. NOW. 

“Why is your tortoise named Jean-Pierre?” 

“He was the first pet I got. I was two, so I named him after the uncle who gave him to me. People name their firstborn after themselves or their parents, and I followed tradition.”

“Is this the same one who works at Dairy Queen?”

“No. My family tree is very complicated. Please do not ask more. It would take a long time to explain.”

Fair enough.

“May I ask why you have so many - ”

“I have a YouTube channel for reptile rescue. It is very fun, and also the only reason I have a job. My sperm donor has offered to help me buy supplies, but I know he’s just trying to win back my affection after he bought me a spider ball python and I slashed his tires.”

“That’s a real shame. Do you still have it?”

“Her. I named her Dizzy.” Giorno points over his shoulder to another container as he keeps digging around in his backpack for… something. Fugo spends a while looking for Dizzy, but she must be under her hide-away right now. Or the cage is empty and he’s being pranked. 

Fugo pretends to keep searching while he plans his next move. He’s going to feed the tadpoles boiled lettuce, in very small amounts, with tweezers located somewhere in Giorno’s backpack. That much is clear. What is unclear is how exactly he is going to turn this into a date, or something akin to a date. 

If Fugo had shame, he would be embarrassed by how frequently he seeks dating advice from the most romantically unlucky person he knows. But Fugo does not have shame. He has Mista’s phone number, and he has the intention to put it to use.

“ How does romance happen. Answer. Urgent. ”

“ The number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable. Please try again once you have provided the following information: 1. The current mental state of Narancia, 2. The current opinions of Narancia on his Best Friend, and 3. More information about the situation at hand. If you refuse to participate, you may hang up, or dial 1-800-FUCK-OFF for more options. ”

After hovering his thumb over the block button for much longer than someone so desperate can really afford, Fugo caves and goes to the next contact over.

“ Mista is freaking out so he sent me to check up on you. What are you doing. ” 

“ This is time sensitive so answer quickly. ”

“ Also I’m sorry. ” 

There. He’s done his due diligence. Now he can go back to paying attention to -

There’s definitely someone right behind him, breathing down his neck. Fugo is pretty sure he can feel the body heat radiating off of Giorno from behind him. He turns very slowly, just in case. Girono is staring at him from about three inches away. 

“I did not read your text messages. That would be an invasion of privacy.”

“Did you find the - ”

“Yes. Follow me.”

Fugo finds himself being led by the hand back to the kitchen, where the pot of lettuce sits cooling on the stove. It looks gross. It smells gross. And the texture of it when Giorno plucks a section with the tweezers makes Fugo shudder. 

Giorno does not notice, and drops the slimy clump of green sustenance into the container, where it is promptly swarmed by a mass of wiggling tadpoles. The process repeats a few times before Girono apparently remembers he has company and wordlessly offers Fugo the tweezers, which he politely refuses. Giorno seems completely unfazed, maybe even a little happy that he gets to continue feeding the tadpoles. He continues pinching off soggly leaflets for them and watching the frenzy they stir up with glee.

Fugo’s phone buzzes in his back pocket. He discreetly checks to find a one word answer from Narancia. Normally he rambles when he’s asked what he’s doing. 

“ Packing ”

Fine, then. If we’re only sending one word answers, Fugo’s game. 

“ Why? ”

“ Running away ” 

About a million questions run through Fugo’s mind. Most prominently, why the fuck am I friends with you, but he ignores these out of his own selfish desire to get more info for Mista, and therefore more info for himself. 

“ WHY. ”

“ Dad said I cant get married before Im 18 so im leaving now fukoff im busy ”

No. No, this cannot be the fucking reason. 

“ You will be eighteen. IN. A. MONTH. ”

“ Not w8ing gudbye ”

He can’t deal with this bullshit right now. Giorno is running out of lettuce and it’s only a matter of time before he turns around, and then Fugo’s going to be stuck with trying to figure out what to do because they’ve completed the task of feeding the tadpoles and if he can’t think of something to do he’s going to have to leave and then he might as well lay down in the street and die. Fugo quickly screenshots the messages and sends them to Mista.

“ This is your problem, not mine. Romance. Now. ”

The clatter of something in the sink alerts Fugo to the fact that he is now crouching on the floor, alone, in front of a plastic bin of well-fed tadpoles.

“We’re done? There’s still more lettuce, I thought you - ”

“If they eat too much, they die. I would prefer if that did not happen.” Giorno coolly washes off the tweezers and slaps the remainder of the lettuce into the trash can before returning to sit on the kitchen floor next to Fugo. 

Shit shit shit. Think of something to say. Think of something to do. Now now now now now -  

“I have Planet Earth on DVD.” Giorno fills the silence before Fugo can react. “Would you like to watch the episode about the Birds of Paradise?”

“Yes. Yes, I would love to.”

“Good. It is already set up.” Giorno grabs Fugo by the wrist again and drags him to the sofa, pushing a few buttons on the remote before stopping dead in his tracks. “One moment.”

Giorno runs back to his room. Like, really runs. Fugo briefly wonders if he left some kind of fire hazard unattended before Giorno runs back in just as quickly with his arms full and a balloon trailing behind him. Fugo does not have time to react before a snake is shoved into his lap and Giorno sets the balloon’s anchor on the floor to roam around. It seems Jean-Pierre needs his exercise. 

As the orchestral score before the episode reverberates through the room, Fugo inspects the snake in his lap more closely. Another ball python, with a very distinctive wobble and pattern. 

“This is Dizzy?”

“She likes to watch with me. So does Jean-Pierre.” Giorno sits cross-legged on the couch, focused intently on the screen. “It would be rude not to include her.”

Fugo sits back as comfortably as he can, crossing his arms and leaning slightly into the armrest. It’s not comfortable at all, actually, but it looks casual and aloof, which, if he remembers correctly, is a desirable trait for men to possess. 

“Are you cold?” Fugo pulls his eyes away from the shots of the jungle to refocus on Giorno. “I’ll go get you a blanket.”

Before Fugo can protest, he’s running away again. Running away. Mista should have gotten back to him by now. He checks his phone again. 

“ Just follow your heart or whatever. You’re both nerds so it’s gonna be fine. More importantly whose best man are you going to be? Choose quickly. ”

“ Neither of you. Now give me some better advice before I trash your ugly wedding. ”

“ Listen I already got my old pastor on board to officiate the wedding so now you gotta pick which one of your two best bros you love better. Right now. No pressure .”

“ Flip a coin. I hate you both. ”

“ Fine, fuck you. Trish is replacing you as Narancia’s best man bc he didn’t want to look short. You’re stuck with me, now, so keep talking shit and your dress code includes 6-inch heels. ”

Fugo’s halfway through an extremely witty retort when another message comes in.

“ Btw your boyfriend is invited too. Must really be hard, not being engaged and all that. ”

“ SIMP .”

Fugo doesn’t get to see what the next message is, though he can guess the length based on how long the ‘typing’ bubble was up, because a folded blanket is placed gently on top of his head. 

“If you are having a family emergency, you may feel free to lea- ”

“No! No, no. No family emergency. My friends are idiots and they’re having a shotgun wedding. You’re invited, too, but don’t feel pressured to - ”

“Sounds like fun. Should I bring a wedding gift? Do they have a blender? Or a rice cooker?”

“No - I mean, no , they don’t have them, but also no , don’t buy them anything. I’ve known them long enough to know that this wedding isn’t actually happening anytime soon. They’re gonna get caught up in planning and forget they’re actually meant to follow through on it.”

“Oh. That’s a shame.” Giorno goes back to watching the TV, noticeably disappointed. Why would he be upset about not needing to waste money on kitchen appliances he’s not even going to use? Fugo scrambles for something to say to cheer him up. 

“You should come meet them.” Giorno perks up at the notion. Good. Fugo can work with this. “We have movie nights on Saturdays. You’re more than welcome to join us.”

“Yes. I would like that.”

If there’s one thing Fugo has learned from Mista, it’s to keep rolling with good luck as far as it will take you. Except gambling. Dizzy coils herself around Fugo’s arm, and he takes the opportunity to unfold the blanket and drapes it over his lap before turning back to Giorno, lifting a corner in a silent offer to share. Your snake thinks I’m good enough to cuddle with. Trust that she has good taste. 

Sure enough, he does slide over closer and pull the blankets over himself. It's a respectable distance away, which means not even close to actually cuddling. But it's a massive improvement to be sitting close enough now that, if he wanted to, Fugo could rest his arm on the back of the sofa, and then let it 'accidentally' fall onto Giorno’s shoulders. But he's not nearly bold enough for that. 

"I would feel bad about not bringing a gift. Do they like tomatoes?" 

"I believe that everyone likes tomatoes."

"I will bring some tomatoes, then." Giorno nods assertively and sets the most determined look Fugo has ever seen across his face. It disappears just as quickly as it arrives as Giorno turns back to Fugo. 

“Thank you for inviting me.” His smile is so warm Fugo can feel himself melting palm-first into a puddle. Something cold brushes the back of his hand, and for a second he thinks he stands a chance of hiding how sweaty his hands are. Wrong. So wrong. 

Cool, comforting fingers slip between his own, and Fugo dies a little at how warm and moist his own hand must feel in comparison. But only a little. Every brain cell is zipping electrical shocks through him so quickly he's fairly certain he’s vibrating. The only real rhythm he can latch onto is his heart firing off a 21 gun salute a hundred times a minute and completely drowning out the soothing tones of David Attenbourough in the background. 

Look at the birds, Fugo. Look at the birds. 

That one is tap dancing. What brightly colored feathers, too. It looks like a smile. It looks like the emoticons Giorno sends when he texts that are so endearing and sweet he can overlook the spelling errors and shit he’s sweating again. Again. Hah. As if he stopped at some point. Giorno’s poor hand is probably drenched by now. There’s going to be a damp spot on the seat cushion where Fugo’s hand is. 

The only thing keeping him from ascending to the astral plane is Dizzy bonking her head against him as she tries to climb his arm and wrap around his neck. Thank you, snake. Fugo continues staring at the screen in dead silence and complete stillness like some kind of poorly-evolved defense mechanism, grateful for the pretty pictures distracting him enough from the fact that he was holding hands with - 

“Fugo?”

“Huh? Yes?”

“The episode is over.”

“Oh.” The screen had gone back to the main menu without him even realizing it. “I see.” 

Without anything to distract him, it becomes more and more obvious how long they’ve been holding hands. They’re still holding hands. They’re still holding hands. They’re still holding hands. 

Fugo’s halfway done convincing himself to just let go when Giorno starts talking again. 

“I realized about half an hour ago that I do not know where movie night with your friends would be. I did not want to interrupt to ask.” 

Yes. Yes, thank God. This is something Fugo can handle. Or rather, something he can make someone else handle. 

“Well it would actually be at my friend’s house, so if you would like me to give you his number so you could sort out the details…” 

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

Giorno reaches over to grab his phone and Fugo follows suit. He has a lot of notifications. He quickly glances past about 20 from Narancia ll begging Fugo to explain why won’t Pinterest let him see things without an account how does he make an account Fugo please help, and a very, very lengthy message from Mista he doesn’t bother reading. He does see the word “soulmates,” in there though. Twice. Save that one to return to later for a good laugh. 

He sends a quick warning text to Mista before giving Giorno the necessary contact information. 

“ Hey, there’s going to be another person at movie night this week and I gave him your number to sort everything out. Your advice was useless so you still owe me. ”

“ Also, go explain Pinterest to Narancia. I refuse to lower myself to that level. ”

Fugo watches as Giorno patiently and meticulously inputs the digits into his phone and sends a quick hello as a test. One bitchy reply later they have confirmation that it worked properly, and Giorno seems completely unfazed at the semi-rude response. Smug is too impolite to describe the look on Giorno’s face. Satisfied isn’t quite strong enough. Triumphant. That’s the word. 

“If you don’t have anything else to do, I can set up the one on the deep oceans. I like all the weird fish.” Giorno points back to the TV and Fugo pretends to follow along. Giorno could ask him to slam his head against a wall for eight hours right now and he would be elated. 

“Yes.” Giorno’s hand slips back into his own. “I would like that a lot.” 

Chapter Text

It’s Saturday. The day of reckoning. It’s three in the afternoon and Fugo’s already showered twice, with time allotted before he leaves for another quick rinse, shampoo, condition, shampoo again, thorough scrub, and slather with the strongest scented lotion his house has just in case his deodorant fails. He has everything under control and is not nervous at all.

He has no reason to be nervous. Giorno has the proper date, time, and address. Narancia has guaranteed that there will be food available for Giorno, which is a marvel, given how 90% of their snacks are either blatantly covered in cheese or contained some kind of secret hidden animal product, like gelatin. Or marshmallows. Which means it’s a bitch and a half to find stuff that they’re certain is edible for him, but Fugo’s gotten some very determined feedback that the situation is under control, please stop texting, and it’s a good idea to stop texting Giorno too unless the goal is to freak him out.

So he’s spent the last hour pacing his room until he gets paranoid enough to check, in order, his phone for the new messages he hasn’t received, the backpack for the toiletries that have stayed exactly where he left them twenty minutes ago, and his alarm clock to debate whether it’s still too early to head over. Which it is. And has been. And will continue to be for at least another hour.

Fugo’s on his fifteenth lap around the room and in the middle of plotting out when to leave and when to shower for the maximum hygiene duration when his phone finally fucking buzzes.

Yes, dear God. An Update.

“Hey. No big updates here. Just a reminder to bring extra pajamas. Just in case.”

“Fuck you. If this is another bullshit prank you saw on YouTube or whatever I will slit your throat while you sleep.”

“And leave my dear sweet fiance a widow? I’ll haunt your bitchass and scare off any chance of (p/b)ussy you get until you die.“

“Did you just try to make pussy gender neutral.”

“And then I’ll beat up your ghost bc I’ll still be young and buff as fuck and you’ll be some wrinkly old man and yah it’s called gender equality maybe if you were married you’d understand.”

Fugo’s halfway through typing out a lengthy series of “You’re not married, you’re not married, you’re not married, - ” when he gets interrupted by a message from Narancia.

“Brng xtra pjs. C u l8r.”

“Already got the memo.” Fugo considers for a second before deciding to allow himself to be an asshole, just for the stress relief. “Also, it’s *Bring. *Extra. *Pajamas. *See. *You. *Later.”

“Suk m nutz. Grammer cop.”

“Spelling. And it’s *Grammar”

“Oink oink, bicth.”

Okay, so that didn’t accomplish anything except pissing him off even more. That’s a valuable lesson for him to ignore learning.

He shuts off his phone and grabs a second set of pajamas from his drawer. He’s got too many anyways, so he grabs a pair that he doesn’t mind getting ruined. They’re a little small on him, but he’s skinny enough that they fit, technically, they just look fucking ridiculous. And of course, if they fit him, he’s not allowed to get rid of them. So he has ten fucking pairs of pajamas he never fucking wears.

Whatever. He stuffs the selected pair in his bag and stares at the clock again. 3:15. Time for another shower.

Giorno reviews his mental checklist before he rings the doorbell. Unless somehow, every single text message he got regarding the address had the same typo, or he somehow fucked up copying and pasting it into his navigation, this is in fact the correct house.

And unless Fugo somehow had several friends who fit the description of “feral twink with no taste in froyo or men,” and “skater boy who looks like he uses 3-in-1 shampoo as facewash,” Giorno knows exactly who he’s going to be in the company of this evening. As annoying as they are as customers, now that he doesn’t need to clean up after them or use his retail voice, it’s probably going to be fine.

“OY.” A voice from above calls out to him. “Quit fuckin’ around and open the fuckin’ door! ‘S unlocked, donworry!”

The window slams back shut before he can register who was talking to him. Not that they plan on letting him actually open the door, anyways, judging by the tumble of footsteps down the stairs he can hear from all the way outside. The door is ripped open with so much force Giorno takes a step back to… actually he has no idea what he’s doing.

“The fuck you waitin’ round for?”

Can’t-Sit-In-Chairs, no, Narancia, is standing in the doorway with a toothbrush hanging out of the side of his mouth. He’s already in his pajamas. Which is a bit weird, considering it’s barely past five, but then again, this is his house, so he can wear whatever he wants.

“May I come inside?”

“Are you a fuckin’ vampire or sumthin?”

“Not that I am aware of. I have never been tested.”

“Then you don’t need to fuckin’ ask, bro! Get in here!” Giorno doesn’t pull away fast enough and gets trapped in a too-tight hug that pins his arms to his sides and almost stabs him in the face with the handle of the toothbrush. Not pleasant, but the gesture still stands. He’s yanked inside by the wrist and paraded over to the living room.

“He’s not a vampire, guys! Sorry, Fugo, you’re gonna hafta reenact Twilight later.”

The living room is… cozy. None of the furniture matches, but in a way that feels like none of the pieces could ever be part of a set anyways. There’s snacks spread out over the coffee table, and some on the floor as well.

Giorno is observant. If there's anything his mother and actual father have taught him about himself, it's that one of his best traits is his attention to detail. And right now, he's definitely seeing the benefit.

Fugo is sitting on the sofa across the room, looking like a grumpy strawberry and for the life of him, Giorno couldn't find it within him to look away. Standing in the middle of the floor staring is probably not the most polite course of action, but that's not what matters right now. Right now, all Giorno wants to do is focus on the red-eyed firecracker next to him as he absentmindedly taps at his phone and pretends not to make eye contact with Giorno every three seconds. He’s about to smoothly walk over and ask what he’s looking at when he’s interrupted. Rudely.

“What the fuck is that and why is it in my house.”

Giorno turns to see what must be living proof that vampires are real and Narancia’s fears were justified.

“This is Jean-Pierre, he’s - ”

“I know what a fucking turtle is, I’m asking why - ”

“Tortoise.”

Oh. Okay. Giorno is about to be murdered. Not the ideal for tonight, but if he goes down making a stand in front of Fugo, maybe he can come back as a ghost and they can kiss.

“Listen here you little shit - ”

“Calm down, you old fart, I said he could bring it over.” Thank you, Narancia.

“Why the fuck would you tell him that.”

“Because turtles are cool as fuck.” They are, but that’s not relevant right now. Giorno tries to pipe up to correct this.

“He’s a tortoise, there’s a diff- ”

“Shut. The fuck. Up. Now. Why the fuck is this pest in my house.”

“His name is Jean-Pierre, he’s not - ”

“Not talking about the fucking scaly roomba anymore. Who is this kid?”

“This is Gio. He’s Fugo’s boyfriend. Ya know, the vegan one.”

Fugo snapped his head over and quickly flushed so red he looked like a tomato. Tomato. Tomato, tomato, why does that seem important?

“He’s not my - ”

“You’ve got shit taste. I expected more from you.”

“I brought a tomato.” Oh wonderful. Now everyone is staring at him. “I grew it myself. It’s a thank-you gift for having me over.”

Giorno calmly presents the tomato to the not-vampire in the hopes that the redness and juiciness will somehow satisfy his bloodlust. And it works. Sort of.

“Oh, Jesus Christ. Fuckin’ Hell. You, blondie. Go sit down. Don’t let the tortoise piss or shit on anything. Thank you for the… gift.”

Giorno places Jean-Pierre down on the floor. He’s not worried about him making a mess by accident. Tortoises don’t excrete waste often, in either form, and Giorno tracks Jean-Pierre’s schedule well enough to trust that they’re in the clear. He sits next to Fugo on the couch and listens to Narancia’s apologies.

“ - and I don’t think he really hates you, he’s just mad because he doesn’t like keeping animals in the house, which is stupid, because I’m way more high-maintinence than a turtle, but - ”

“Tortoise.”

“Jinx! You both gotta shuddup now. Anyways, don’t worry about it. He’s just grouchy but he’s a good dude. Cept for the career choice, but I’m working on getting him fired, so soon he’ll be all better. Anyways, we spent all afternoon finding snacks for you, so I’m gonna go grab those.”

Narancia dashes into the kitchen but keeps yelling back to them over his shoulder like he has something important to say.

“Vegans are frickin’ weird, noah fence, so we spent like an hour in the grocery store tryna find food for you, but then we realized hey! Fruit and shit. So we spent all fuckin’day making a fruit platter and - what are you doing.”

Giorno stares back innocently around the mouthful he was halfway through chewing. He quickly swallowed and offered an, admittedly pretty weak, excuse.

“Oreos are vegan.”

Chapter Text

“I’m honestly shocked to see you eating that.”

Narancia doesn’t bother swallowing or covering his mouth before he responds, because he’s a fucking disgrace of a human being. 

“Wuzzat?”

“I said I’m honestly shocked - stop slurping your fingers, it’s disgusting - I’m shocked - I SAID KNOCK IT OFF! ”

Narancia stares back at Fugo with one finger still lingering in his mouth, but at least now he’s shut the fuck up. 

“I’m shocked that you can - ARE YOU FUCKING SHITTING ME.”

Fugo ignores the wheezing laughter coming from the floor behind the coffee table where he knows Narancia slumped over. “I’m shocked that, with all of the horrendous food choices available to you right now, you ate a slice of pineapple.”

“Shit’s good, bro. Tastes like a Capri-Sun.”

“You’re a fucking idiot, first of all. My point was that you’re not combining it with some gross shit, like… like a Chips-Ahoy or sour cream.”

“Eh. It’s no fun without my best bro here.”

“Pick a fucking side. Either you’re just friends or you’re engaged to be married. You can’t be both.”

“You couldn’t marry someone who was your friend? Huh? You’d like to be miserable once the romance wears off? Can’t imagine spending your life with someone you actually enjoy being around, Fugo? That it? Sounds like Gio here is in for a tough mar- ”

“YOU KNOW WHAT I FUCKING MEAN. Either you’re a couple or you’re not.”

“We are a couple.”

“Thank y- ”

“A couple a’ bros!”

Fugo strangles the urge to commit murder, in front of Giorno at least, and changes the subject for the sake of his precious few braincells that aren’t screaming in rage. 

“What are we watching tonight?”

“Fuck should I know. I just provide snacks and somewhere to sleep, not the actual fuckin’ - ”

“Somewhere to sleep?” Fugo quickly turns back to Giorno, still sitting next to him, and immediately regrets not noticing how quiet he’s been until now. Shit, he’s a horrible friend. He’s a horrible conversationalist. He needs to make up for lost time. Now .

“You don’t have to share a bed with anyone or something, we’ve got plenty of options. There’s beds, the couch, some sleeping bags, or I can always sleep in the bathtub if necessary - ”

“That is not the issue which concerns me.” He’s sitting straight as a rod and plastering a fake smile so wide Fugo can feel how painful this attempt at diplomacy is. “I was not aware I would be spending the night.”

Oh.

Oh no. 

Shit! All the things he’d thought to check through. All the clingy, annoying messages he sent making sure Giorno knew the address. All for nothing. At least if things went smoothly he could have learned that ‘ oh, there was no reason to be worried at all! ’ Now the message stuck in his mind is ‘ if you had been more careful this wouldn’t have happened .” This is all his fault. Jesus Christ. Any chance he had of ever being happy is ruined. He’s going to live a sad, lonely life, with his closest friend being the Wall-Mart greeter who smiles at him because it’s her job. 

“It’s all good, bro. Just wear Fugly’s jim-jams.”

“No, I couldn’t ask him to - ”

“He always brings a second pair , just in case. It wouldn’t be a big deal for him to lend one to you, right, Panini? ”

Oh, fuck you. Fuck you BOTH for setting this up. This is a fucking betrayal on every front and right now it’s totally justified to commit murder and -

“WASSUP FUCKERS!” The front door slams open.

“BRO! We were just talking about you! Whassa fuckin’ movie tonight, huh?”

The speed at which Narancia dashed across the room to Mista may have been perceived as cute to some, adorable to many, but to Fugo? Deplorable. Throwing yourself into your lover’s arms and clinging on for dear life is just… inappropriate, unless at least one of you is returning home from a war, not the local Blockbuster. It’s not like it was a huge change from the usual over-enthusiastic, bromantically overblown hugs from before, but still. Get a fucking room. 

“It’s judgement night, babe. It’s a surprise.” 

Fugo sees Giorno freeze up from the corner of his eye.

“Ignore them, they’re just asshats. There’s no judgement or whatever, it’s just a fun movie night. Right, guys? ”

“ Wrong , bitch. If he doesn’t like what we’re watching you gotta dump him for having shit taste.”

“I already fucking told you, we’re not - ”

“You realize I can just lie, right? I could say I loved it even if I thought it was complete garbage now that I know the consequences.”

“Well, duh. But that’s like… against the bro code.”

“Yeah! You can’t disrespect the bro code in my house! I gave you food, and this is how you repay me?”

“You come to me on the day of my fiance’s wedding and ask me for a favor?”

“Stop making fake Italian hand gestures. It’s offensive.”

“They’re not fake. I’m a pure-bred Italian Stallion, ergo, they’re legit Italian hand gestures.”

 “Your wedding is today? That must be so exciting for you.” No, Giorno, please don’t get involved with this.

“Well, I mean, not today today, but like, soon. My perfect honeybun’s special day.”

“W-wouldn’t that also be your special day?”

“No! What the fuck is wrong with you? You think I’m gonna act all selfish on my fiance’s wedding day? I get my day later. Once we’re married. Every day.”

“My apologies. I meant you no - ”

“Bruh. Chill. We’re joshin’ ya.”

“Yeah, man. Joshin’ and Drakin’.”

“Of course. Before you came in, I was actually going to ask if I could call my parents. I need to alert them that this is apparently a sleepover, and I’ll be coming back to pick up some supplies.”

“I mean, we got extra toiletries and shit. And Fugo always brings his second set of PJ’s, right?”

“Yes, I’ve been made aware of that. I won’t force him to share unless he’s comfortable with it.”

All eyes turn to Fugo. 

Fuck it. His shitty wingmen got him this far, he might as well use the opportunity to prove them wrong.

“Fine by me.”

Chapter Text

“May I please open my eyes now?” Giorno patiently waits on the couch as Narancia slaps a hand over his still-closed eyes. He wasn’t even opening them. 

“Hell naw, cheater! You little cheater, you! Tryna cheat n’ shit.”

“You’re not missing anything, Giorno, don’t worry. Just Mista’s hairy plumber’s crack while he gets it set up.”

“You’re just mad because you’re angry. Alright, she’s all set. Let’s fuckin go!”

With that eloquent rebuttal finished, Giorno feels the hands remove from his eyes at the same time as an impact slamming into the right side of the couch with enough force to slide it backwards a few centimeters and send Giorno’s life flashing before his eyes. 

His life is pretty boring. 

So he feels weirdly relieved to finally open his eyes and see himself surrounded by friends. It’s not that he’s never had friends before, but those friends were chosen for him.

And sure, he loves going over to his sperm donor’s house and bonding over foolproofing their plan for patricide with his fellow ‘littermates,’ but there’s only so many times you can be left to execute a hit-and-run alone at the last minute before it gets tiring. And Giorno’s not gonna do the whole thing by himself, so it’s lost some of the thrill. It’s like a group project but worse.

So it’s nice to have friends where he doesn’t need to do anything. He can just sit on the couch and bring a tomato and he’s all set. He doesn’t need to speak up to fill any awkward silences, or worry about interrupting someone, or being rude, because everyone here is just as stupid and weird as he pretends not to be.

And Fugo… Fugo’s a nice change of pace. Having someone to talk about things in a slightly more serious manner is a godsend when things get a bit overwhelming. Plus, watching him get worked up over nothing is kinda funny. But not in a mean way, in a “everyone knows you’re taking this too seriously but that’s part of the fun,” way.

Giorno tries to look to his left as casually as possible. Out of the side of his eye he sees… nothing. Fugo is literally doing nothing right now. He looks like an angry strawberry, and Giorno likes strawberries. So, it was only natural he liked Fugo, right? As Fugo was zoned out, Giorno took the time to really examine his face as best he could. His white hair is so perfect it's almost alien, and his red eyes are just so enrapturing. He had the slightest frown lines already, but there were also hints of a smile at his mouth. Giorno wondered what he was thinking about. Not a lot seemed to make Fugo happy, so it must be something important. 

There’s a moment of eye contact so quick it might have been a trick of the light flashing from the screen, but it’s enough to send him reeling. In a moment of panic, Giorno considers jumping underneath the couch. The logistics of it are a little ridiculous when he thinks about it, but being caught staring by a cute boy is infinitely worse than having his body semi-trapped beneath a piece of cheap furniture. 

The previews finally end and the music of the menu jolts Giorno back to attention. 

“I love this movie. Remy is my favorite.”

“Shit, now we gotta call off judgement day. He’s already seen it. We’ll get him next time, boys.”

“What do you mean, next time? I passed.”

“Ope. Got ’im there. I vote he stays. He’s got a turtle and that’s rad as FUCK, plus this is my house so I make the rules.”

“Can’t argue with that. Welp, congratulations, Gio, you’ve officially earned Fugo’s hadn in marriage.”

“Fuck off. I’m not some kind of prize.”

“Sure you are, bro, have some more self-confidence.”

“Yeah! Once your acne scars clear up you’re a solid contender for ‘handsomest nobel prize winner.’”

“A solid second place after Jacobus Henricus van 't Hoff. I mean, just look at his wikipedia profile pic. The man was stylin’ all the way back before people invented soap.”

“Oh wow, he knows what soap is now. Good job, Nara, you’ve taught him more about hygiene in three days of being engaged than he’s learned on his own in eighteen years.”

“I love soap. Tastes good and doesn’t leave crumbs in the bedsheets.”

“Fugo is a wonderful prize. I would like to watch Ratatouille now, please.”

“Shit, yeah. Shutting up.”

“Shut upping.”

But Giorno doesn’t really want to have everyone shut up. He just wants to change the subject away from Fugo’s self confidence issues. If Fugo feels scared or insecure then he won’t hold hands under the blanket like Giorno’s been waiting for him to. Giorno leaves his hand at the midpoint between where he and Fugo are sitting on the couch and waits. 

And waits.

And waits.

Fuck waiting. Waiting is bullshit. Giorno pulls out his phone and drafts the most subtle plea for help he can manage.

“ fugo wont hold hands with me i need you to do something so he holds hands with me plesae ”

There’s an agonizingly long wait before Narancia tears himself away from gazing longingly at his husband-to-be and looks at his fucking phone. This is an emergency, have some priorities. And why even bother putting a movie on if you’re not going to watch it? Narancia reads the text after he turns the brightness on his phone down from ‘blind everyone in the room’ to ‘just blind yourself.’ Giorno can literally see him sounding the words out in his brain before it clicks and he sends a message back. 

“ y33t ”

Giorno doesn’t have time to ponder the many meanings that phrase might have before he finds himself being kicked in the side. Except not really a kick, more like a push with a foot. Narancia fakes an exaggerated stretch and pushes harder as he very, very slowly shoves Giorno across the sofa until he’s literally pushing against Fugo. Giorno prays that this would be the moment he stops, but he doesn’t. 

Because why would anything go right?

Fugo is not freaking out right now. He’s completely calm and in his element. Tonight is nothing special, just another movie night with the boys. And one other boy. One other boy wearing his dinosaur pajamas from two years ago. One other boy who makes those pajamas look better than most people look on their wedding day. Not that anyone is thinking about marriage, of course not. 

Fugo can just watch Ratatouille and enjoy the story of a rodent learning to cook. Or maybe he’s learning to have confidence in himself? Fugo can’t pay attention. Nobody would be able to in this situation. 

Especially now that Giorno is being shoved into him with so much force he’s practically in Fugo’s lap. Fugo decides to take action before things escalate past the point of no return.

“ALRIGHT, WE GET IT. You wanna make out with your boyfriend. You could just ask us to fucking move, you shit.”

Fugo grabs a cushion from the back of the couch and throws it onto the floor before dropping down onto it as hard as gravity will allow him to. He crosses his arms and legs in a way that makes it clear he’s pissed off but in a mature, totally-not-a-temper-tantrum way.

And he definitely doesn’t start sweating like some kind of… like Mista , when he feels the cushion sink down on his right side with the weight of Giorno joining him. He just calmly slides over to allow him more room. Not that it matters, Giorno pulls him back to where he was, completely ignoring the fact that they’re now sitting exactly as close as they were on the couch when it was so uncomfortable they left to sit on the floor, completely defeating the purpose and - 

Giorno is holding his hand again. 

Every neuron in his brain decides to fire off at once, and considering the majority of neurons are inhibitory, he ends up frozen in place like a termite caught in amber for 3 million years. Thank you, brain. How helpful. 

With the newfound knowledge that his fight-or-flight reflex wants him dead, Fugo slowly works his way back to consciousness. Apparently Giorno has taken his newfound privileges as Fugo’s arranged husband seriously, and fully intends to spend the entire movie using Fugo’s shoulder as a pillow. Bad choice. It’s all bone. But, considering how Giorno’s thumb keeps stroking over the back of his hand, Fugo’s inclined to believe not a single fuck is given by him. 

This is easily the most romantic thing he’s ever experienced, which is amazing because earlier this week he thought he’d never get past “holding hands while watching nature documentaries,” or as Mista would call it, second base. Here he is, already on third base, holding hands while watching a children’s movie with a romance subplot. Where’d his innocence go? How’d he get here? Why is he saying something?

“Remy is gay.”

Giorno lists his head to look at him. Fugo is certain that if he could read minds, he would hear a chorus of confusion and regret coming from Giorno’s brain cells. 

“Duh. Lil’ fucker loves food. Straight people don’t like food, bro.” For once in his life, Fugo’s grateful for Narancia saying dumbass shit and interrupting.

“No way, straight people like food. He’s still gay as all hell, but it’s because he’s got limp wrists.”

“Straight people like shitty food, like, Jello Salad or mayonnaise or something. Not the good shit. That’s why the lesbains always win at cooking shows.”

“But the judges would be straight, so how would they know what good food is?” Giorno, please, don’t try to bring logic into this. You’ll get yourself brain damage.

“They don’t. They just play rock paper scissors behind the counter.”

“How do the lesbains win at cooking shows then? It should be random.”

“God works in mysterious ways.” Giorno seems to ponder this wisdom from Mista for a second before turning his attention back to Fugo.

“Brown rats are a member of the list of mammals known to demonstrate homosexual behavior.”

“Oh?”

“Remy could be gay. It is scientifically possible.”

“Good for him.” Giorno nods solemnly before resting his head back on Fugo’s shoulder. Fugo waits for Giorno’s hand to go back to his own, but instead he finds a pair of wiry arms wrapping around his torso in a side-hug as Giorno goes back to watching Remy throw shit into a pot. 

Third base be damned. 

Chapter Text

Narancia always falls asleep during the movie. It’s never an issue though, because even before the whole shenanigans of ‘ ooh, let's have a shotgun wedding just for the fun of it, ’ Mista would simp himself into oblivion by staying on the couch all night with Narancia on top of him instead of just shoving him off and going to sleep in an actual fucking bed. But it never affected Fugo, so he never cared that Mista would rather spend his night getting drooled on and his morning complaining about how much his back hurt than risk mildly inconveniencing his closest platonic friend.

Except now it does impact him. 

Normally he would just fuck off and sleep in the guest room, but now that he’s also got to worry about where Giorno is going to stay, he needs to ask where the Hell he’s meant to sleep. And he can’t do that now that the host is comatose.

“ Hey. HEY. MISTA! ” Fugo ducks under the pillow that gets chucked with extreme prejudice towards his head. 

“ Shutthefuckupyouregonnawakehim .”

“ That’s why I’m fucking WHISPERING, dipshit. ”

Another fucking pillow gets thrown to him. Huh. Throw pillow. Hardy fucking har. 

A flash of light draws his attention back just in tme to see Mista fucking blind himself as he opens his phone. After fumbling around to unlock it, turn down the brightness, and flip Fugo and Giorno both off for laughing, he starts typing something now that he’s not squinting so tightly his eyes look like two dried apricots embedded into his skull. 

Fugo finally gets his message.

“ Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. ”

“ Where the fuck are we supposed to sleep. ”

“ Oh wow! I had never considered that! God, what a tricky question. If only the guest room had a fucking queen sized bed. ”

“ Cut the fucking attitiude. ”

“ A bed large enough to hold two scrawny little pukes for a night would be real good right now. What a fucking shame we don’t have one of those. ”

“ I thought you were on my side for this. You fucking betrayed me. ”

“ Well, I suppose there’s always the bathtub. A patch of floor with the welcome mat as a rug. Mayhaps your bony ass could crawl under the sink with the rest of the pests .”

“ Don’t make me do this. I’m begging. ”

“ Begging is for pussies. (Wo)Man up and take a nap like the rest of us. ”

And with that, Mista made a great big deal of shutting off his phone, pulling his hat down over his eyes, and flipping them off one last time as he settled in for the night. 

Well, fine. Fuck you too, then. 

Fugo shuts off his phone and looks up to see Giorno half an inch from his nose. Jesus fucking Christ. It’s like if an owl was human. Just silence and big beautiful eyes in a way that’s either creepy or wise. Or both. Probably both. 

“ Where are we supposed to sleep? ”

“ Guest room. Follow me. ”

“ I need to brush my teeth. ”

“ Bathroom’s just down the hall on your right. I’ll show you when we pass it. ”

“ Understood. ”

It’s completely silent as they walk over to the guest room, and Fugo’s not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse. He’s pretty sure people halfway down the block are going to wake up from how loud his heart is beating. His only real pause on the way over is to gesture towards the door of the bathroom, which is already open, so he doesn’t need to explain that the room with the toilet and sink is, in fact, not a closet, or a strangely decorated bedroom. 

The bedroom door creaks open and Fugo waits for death to free him while Giorno inspects the room. But instead of breaking down crying at the thought of needing to share a room with Fugo, or climbing out the window and running away, or calling his mom to come pick him up, Giorno just points to the right side of the bed. 

“Is this my side?”

“I was going to sleep on the floor, actually, so you can - ”

“Don’t worry. I don’t snore or hog blankets. I share all the time with my half-brothers, and they would tell me. I think.”

There’s no polite way to say ‘ that’s not the fucking issue here, ’ so he doesn’t. He just stands out of the way so Giorno can go back to the bathroom to brush his teeth. But he doesn’t leave. He just stands right next to Fugo and stares at him like he’s waiting for something.

“Are you not coming too? Dental health is important, and it can lead to long term health issues and expensive treatments if - ”

“I’m coming too! I’m coming too! I was just… waiting for you.”

“I was waiting for you too.”

“Yep. Great.”

“Mhm.”

“We should go then.”

“Yes.”

Tooth-brushing with someone else in the bathroom is even more awkward than usual. It’s not just “whoever brushes longer has better hygiene and is therefore superior in every way,” its “whoever brushes longer delays the inevitability of needing to share a bed for a few more precious seconds.” Couple that with the knowledge that if he brushes for much longer than the full two minutes his gums will start bleeding, Fugo is trapped with a countdown timer until the end of the world. As soon as he tastes blood it’s over. He’ll die in that bed and Giorno will wake up next to a corpse. God, he hopes his corpse doesn’t shit itself. That would be embarrassing. All the other angels would laugh at him up in Heaven. Or Hell. Honestly, either would be better than right now.

“Fugo?”

“Mmph?”

“You are bleeding from the mouth. I think you should stop brushing now.”

Fuck .

As soon as it’s pointed out, yeah, his mouth does hurt, but he politely nods and ‘finishes up’ for a few more seconds for the sake of appearances. Because the only thing that can make brushing your teeth until you bleed and your crush points it out better is to keep fucking brushing and make it seem intentinonal. Like some kind of psychopath. 

The walk back to the guest room can’t be more than a few steps, but it feels simultaneously much too long and much too short. It’s the horrible balance of not having enough time to fully prepare but just enough time to panic, and it’s a panic Fugo’s never felt before in his whole life. 

Sure would be nice if Giorno could at least pretend to be a bit nervous. Or exasperated, or hell, even just tired. But the sheer confidence, borderline, comfort, that exudes from him is only making everything worse. Giorno takes the left side like it’s no big deal. Doesn’t try to look around for an extra blanket so they don’t need to share one. Doesn’t try to build a replica of the Berlin Wall out of pillows down the middle of the mattress. Doesn’t even scooch all the way over until he’s practically hanging off the edge of the bed. 

So Fugo does it for him. 

There is no second blanket. 

There’s only two pillows so either he gets the wall or he gets neck support. But if he’s already hanging off the edge of the bed, the pillow’s not doing anything anyways. It’s an easy choice. 

And so, there he lays. Right asscheek about three milimeters away from being entirely off the fucking bed. Flat on his back. And staring at the ceiling in the dark. His nose whistles every time he exhales so he has to breathe through his mouth like some kind of… Mista.

He can the covers next to him rustle and feels the mattress shift a little. Giorno doesn’t fucking whistle when he breathes. Of course not, he’s perfect. He breathes slowly and quietly. So fucking quiet and slow it’s almost hypnotic. But not enough for Fugo to sleep. 

 How long has he been laying here? An hour? Two?

“Goodnight, Fugo. Sleep well.”

Less than thirty fucking seconds?

Sure. Why the fuck not.

“Goodnight to you too.”

Chapter Text

Giorno is a man of science, and as such, he’s done plenty of research on the quickest way to get a boyfriend. WikiHow is a great starting place, but after expanding his horizons for the sake of research, he’s come to the conclusion that sharing a bed is the easiest and quickest way to get a boyfriend. So finding out he was going to get to do just that with Fugo was like a gift from above.

Until Fugo ruined it by being an affection-prude.

All those nice stories online were a lie. There’s nothing romantic or cute about staring at the ceiling for half an hour. Five minutes in Giorno was hoping for Fugo to move in closer so they could snuggle, and it would be so cute, right? But no. He didn’t. So now he’s hoping Fugo falls out of bed entirely, which gives Giorno the chance to act as his nurse and kiss it better and then they get to snuggle and it would be so cute.

But Fugo has excellent balance, and while Giorno has no qualms about enforcing gravity with a sharp kick for the sake of true love, that’s a last resort. 

“Fugo? I can’t help but notice you’re practically off the bed.”

“Oh? I hadn’t noticed. I’m perfectly comfortable, don’t worry.” 

“I see. It’s always fun to learn something new about the people you love.” Like the fact that they’re shitty liars. “I just worry…” 

“You worry…”

“I would just feel so guilty if the reason you’re hanging off the edge is because I’m hogging the bed, or making you uncomfortable somehow.” Take the bait. Take the bait. TAKE. THE. BAIT.

The spluttering and rustling covers from his left tell him he’s on the right track. Just a little bit more pushing. Or, pulling? Because it brings him in closer?

“I’d just feel awful with myself if you couldn’t sleep because I was disturbing you somehow. After all, you’re the one who would usually be here, and I’m just encroaching anyways. Maybe I should just lea- ”

“NO! NO, no, no. You’re fine. You’re not doing anything wrong.”

Bingo.

Giorno feigns getting up to leave. “I’m not sure, you just seem so nervous around me.”

“What? NO! I’m not nervous! Nobody’s nervous.”

“Am I hogging the bed? Or the blankets? Do I smell bad or something?’

“NO! No no no no no no no no. I said you’re fine! You’re fine! I’m just perpetually socially awkward.”

“Oh! Well then that’s no issue at all! You can move in as close as you’d like, then.”

Checkmate. Can’t get out of this one now, can you? Fugo cautiously slides in closer and Giorno tries very hard to maintain his poker face. He feels like he might go supernova at any given moment he’s so happy. He should have believed those cute stories after all. The internet never lies. 

As Fugo gets within target range, Giorno can feel himself practically ascending, astral projecting as the pedantic, strawberry-obsessed boy grew closer until they were mere inches away. Giorno would get his cuddles, no matter what! Everything was coming together, it was time to spring the trap! 

“Fugo?”

“Yes?”

“Can I call you by your first name?”

“What makes you think this isn’t my first name?”

“Answer the question, Panna.”

“God, that’s creepy. Why even ask if you already know?”

“Common courtesy.”

“Fair enough. Yes, you may call me by my first name.”

“Good.” Giorno paused to consider how to delicately word his next proposal. Screw it. Easier just to say exactly what he means. 

“You are my boyfriend now.”

“H-how did you know - ”

“Your friends told me you wanted to get married, but I think it’s better to take it slow for now and then once we’re older - ”

“I DON’T WANT TO GET MARRIED!”

“Oh.” Shit. “You… You have my sincerest apologies for - ”

“NO, I mean, I don’t want to get married now . Later. When I’m older. Yes, what you said. Boyfriend is good.”

“Okay. Yes, agreed. Boyfriend is good.”

Boyfriend is good. Forget maintaining his poker face, Giorno is beaming. He has a boyfriend . A boyfriend who can help him name his reptiles and foolproof his patricide attempts and come visit him at work and hold hands with whenever he wants. 

Like right now. 

Giorno very sneakily slides his hand to the middle of the bed, waiting patiently for Fugo- no, Panna , to reach over as well and take it in his own. 

But his patience runs out too quickly and he ends up rolling over to trap his new boyfriend in a hug. Giorno wraps his arms around Panna’s ribcage and clings to him like a koala while Panna lays there flat on his back like the tree. Giorno doesn’t care. He gets to snuggle with his boyfriend and nobody can stop him. Because he can do that now and he’s drunk off power like not-father gets during a divorce settlement.

“Goodnight, Panna.”

“Goodnight.”

“Sleep well.”

“I won’t.”

“I can hear your heartbeat.”

“I have clinical anxiety.”

“I figured.”

“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you’re my boyfriend.”

“Same here. Go to sleep now.”

“Yeah. ‘Kay.”

“WAIT!”

“What?” Fugo must have started panicking because his heart was dancing a quickstep in double time. Or something. Giorno doesn’t know dance things. 

“Goodnight kiss?” 

“Huh - ” 

“If you’d rather not I’ll hold off.” 

“NO! No, that’s not what I meant.” 

“Okay, good.” 

Giorno manages to crane his neck enough to plant a quick smooch on Panna’s temple before he settles back down to rest his head on Fugo’s chest again, listening as his heartbeat eventually slows back down to something close to normal. 

“Night.”

“Night.”

Chapter Text

It’s a moderately nicer Wednesday than when all of this started now. Still rainy, but a whole centigrade warmer than it was a month ago. And much, much less boring. Giorno now has: three tankfuls of fully grown frogs hiding in the back, ready to be released into the wild, three new friends to keep him company during work, and one. New. Boyfriend. 

They never order anything, because why the fuck would they pay money and support the business when they can instead buy dollar store ice creams and eat them at the tables, and support Giorno instead. Nothing scares off white soccer moms like three teenage loiterers sitting by the entrance, dressing like thugs for the world’s gayest gang, and saying swear words without caring about whether young ears are nearby.

“Elitist scum ass bastard.”

“Okay, okay. I’m not saying I love Remy more than you, I’m saying your food combinations are not on the same level as him, and that’s okay because he has training and - ”

“NOT THE SAME? Oh sure, when the rat eats cheese with a strawberry it’s Art and it’s Cuisine , but when I do it, it’s gross.”

“There is a difference . Between. Fresh - artisan - fruits and cheeses. And . A strawberry fished from your yogurt cup and a dollop of spray cheese.”

“Nope. You’re a food racist. You’re a food racist and I’m ahead of my time.”

“You know what? Fine. I’m elitist. All that means is that I have great taste.”

“You got shit taste in everything, stinky.”

“Even in my beloved and dearest? In my sweetest darling? Hmm?” 

“Yes.”

“Wrong. So wrong. You know why? Because I wuv you so much and I wuv you even though you make me wanna puke with your yucky widdle food combos. ”

“Bro. Don’t do the voice.”

“What voice? All I’m saying is how much I wuv you and wanna kiss your widdle face. Just a widdle kissy-wissy for the woad. A widdle snuggle before we head out.”

“ I’m gonna muwdur you in your sweep. I’m gonna smuvver you in a piwwow. ”

“See, you took the voice too far and now it’s incomprehensible. You gotta weel it back in a widdle and twy again. ”

Giorno watches as Fugo decides he’s going to have an aneurysm if he keeps listening to this and speaks up for the first time since arriving. “I fucking hate both of you. Jesus Christ, just shut the fuck up for thirty fucking seconds.”

“ Pwetty pwease don’t use the Woahd’s Name in Vain. ”

“See? Much better that time, babe. I knew you had it in you. It’s so fun, right?”

“Yeah! If it makes Widdle Fwugo angwy, it’s a whowe wotta fun! ”

“Go suck three dicks at once. I’m never talking to either of you again.”

Panna drags up a chair to sit as close to the register as possible and props his head on his elbows to mope. Or sulk, or whatever. It’s cute. He gets all pouty and pretends to be mad but Giorno knows that he’s not really that upset. And it’s hard to take him seriously as a dark, emotional, brooding figure when he’s still wearing his scented strawberry earrings Giorno bought him from Claires for their one month anniversary. 

Part of Giorno knows that it’s bad to feel excited as he watches Fugo leave his friends all upset. 

A bigger part of him doesn’t give a fuck whether it’s bad or not because now he gets to talk with his boyfriend . He has a boyfriend now. And a large part of talking with Panna is just listening to him vent about things and either getting mad with him or calming him down with Frog Therapy. 

Or kisses. Giorno is hoping this is a kisses scenario. 

“What are our options for shutting them up? I’m willing to try anything with a jail sentence under five years.” 

Or crime. Crime is fun.

“Contaminate their chapstick with superglue so they can’t talk anymore.”

“They’ll just make out or something and pretend it’s romantic to need a surgical procedure to get off of each other. Do you think we could get them jinxed and then just refuse to let them go? You know they’d respect it.”

“Probably, but they’d also keep it up in private, and I wouldn’t want Narancia’s dad to hate me any more than he already does.”

“Yeah, he’s overprotective. And stubborn. And an asshole.”

“I think he’s nice.”

“You just said he hates you.”

“Irrelevant. Maybe if we threaten to crash their wedding and change all the songs to be Mozart or Beethoven or something.”

“That… that could work. I’ll be back.”

Giorno is not a clingy boyfriend. He’s not a clingy boyfriend. And he’s definitely not going to lean all the way over the counter to the point where he’s basically just crawling on top of it so he can watch Panna for longer. He just wants to see the drama because he’s nosy. Yeah.

In the few minutes since he last looked over to check on his friends, Narancia, wonder of wonders, somehow ended up in Mista’s lap. Again. Even though they were threatening to break up over a fucking children’s movie just a few minutes ago. They’re perfect for each other, in a weird, stupid way that makes Giorno feel all warm and fuzzy. 

Panna sits down in another chair he pulls from a table to the side. Giorno’s going to have to move that back once they leave, but if they stay for his entire shift he can dump it on his stupid coworkers. Another good reason to stay longer, then. 

“Babe, you got something on your face.”

“Is it my nose? Because I’m not falling for it again.”

“No, it’s - ”

“My skin?”

“No, if you would listen - ”

“Is it - ” Narancia is cut off very quickly with a full hearted smooch right on the mouth. Maybe a little off target, but you need to be nice to Catholics because they’re still trying to leave room for the Holy Spirit and it’s the thought that matters or whatever. 

“It’s a kiss. And you ruined my pickup line, by the way.”

“Oh no. What a shame. Guess we gotta try again.”

Thankfully, Panna seizes the opportunity to interrupt before any more poorly aimed attempts at canoodling can take place.

“Okay, first of all, cringe. Second of all, gross. Third of all, premarital kissing? I’m ashamed of you both.”

“It’s not.”

“It is cringe, and denying it only makes it more so. At least have the dignity to do things like that ironically like everyone else.”

“It’s not premarital , whore. And premarital kissing is the real cringe, right buddy?”

“Unless it’s kissing the homies goodnight.”

“Okay, duh.”

“I’m sorry, can we get back on topic? Because I don’t think you understand. Premarital literally means ‘before you get fucking married,’ so YES, actually, it IS still cringe - and why the fuck am I focusing on whether or not it’s cringe - YOU’RE NOT FUCKING MARRIED.”

“Okay but we are though.”

“Yeah, we got married on my birthday.”

“NO YOU’RE FUCKING NOT! I know you two dipshits and I know your dumbasses wouldn’t leave me out of your stupid fucking wedding even if I was in the middle of brain surgery - ”

“OHHH. So that’s what’s got you so worried.”

“I’m not worr-”

“It’s chill, little buddy. We didn’t have a wedding.”

Panna is going to have another aneurysm so Giorno takes it upon himself to slide the rest of the way over the counter and join in on the conversation. Not like anyone is going to come in anyways. 

“I was under the impression you two spent a lot of time planning your wedding. Did something happen?”

“Okay, so we went out to see if we could get free birthday slushies at the 7/11, right? And the chick there said no, because we’d done the same thing earlier that month, and so we were explaining how childbirth can take a really long time and is it really so hard to believe Nara’s mom was in labour for two weeks when who should walk in but everyone's favorite Priest?”

“This is… the one who started a fight in here. My babysitter.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“No. No, no, no no no.” Panna must have forgotten about being mad, because he looks horrified. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

“WE GOT MARRIED IN THE PARKING LOT!” 

“THAT’S STILL NOT A LEGAL MARRIAGE. YOU’RE NOT LEGALLY MARRIED UNLESS YOU SIGNED THE PAPERWORK AND THERE’S NO WAY YOU - ”

“Well damn, you hear that, Nara? We’re illegally married. We’re criminals, now.”

“Partners in crime.”

“Unlawfully wedded.”

“With a history of criminal engagement.”

“Mister and Miss Demeanor.”

“Til death sentences do us part.”

“Common Law marriage? More like, AGAINST the Law marriage.”

“Ayyy, I’m gonna get locked up and then knock-”

“THIS IS A HOUSE OF THE LORDT. Mind your fucking language, babe.”

“Shit, sorry bro. You’ll always be my most wanted criminal.”

“No homo?”

“No homo.”

And, with a hand-clasp-bro-hug which smoothly transitioned into an impromptu make-out session, the conversation ends. Or at least it would, except Panna still has questions. At least his thirst for knowledge is cute. 

“There’s no way you scrapped all your wedding planning for a parking lot ceremony. Beyond how stupid it is, your dad would kill you if you didn’t invite him to your wedding.”

“Oh, we’re still having a wedding, bro! We’ve got it all planned out!”

“Yeah. Right now we’re married in the eyes of God, and that’s what really matters, but it would be rude not to have a wedding, so when you and Gio get married, we’re gonna tag along.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah! We’re your best men, you say your vows, smooch, the whole deal, then we swap out! We’ll already be all dressed up and everything, so why bother trying to get everyone together for two ceremonies when we can just jump in while everyone is still in the same place? It’s genius!”

“It’s not genius, its stupid. Everyone is going to catch on once they see that there’s two wedding cakes and you two are dressed like idiots.”

“I think it could be fun.” Giorno speaks up without even realizing it until it’s too late. “I think… I think knowing that it’s not something we’re going through alone would make it a lot less frightening.”

“YEAH! See? Toldja this shit was gonna be cool.”

“So as far as decorations go, we’re thinking classic, but with hints of bowling alley thrown in. Tastefully, though, tastefully.”

“No. If you’re gonna hijack OUR wedding, you get to fucking deal with whatever decor WE want.”

“And what do you have in mind, Fugly? Huh? How much thought you been giving it now that you’ve actually got someone in mind.”

“N-none.” Panna’s turning all red again. And sweaty. But in a cute way, like a nervous little tomato. Or probably a strawberry. “I’m sixteen. It’s too early for me to be thinking about this kind of stuff.” 

“BULLSHIT! You were doing SAT prep in 7th grade. Don’t try to tell me your nervous little brain isn’t cross referencing all the venues with their crime rates or evacuation plans or whatever you do.”

If Panna turns any redder he might pass out, so Giorno takes mercy on him by placing a hand on his shoulder and relieving him of his place in the conversation.

“It’s good to plan ahead. And we’ve got lots of time now. Can Jean-Pierre be the ring-bearer?”

“The turtle or your uncle?”

“Tortoise.”

“Fuckin’ sick. I vote ring-tortoiser. Geddit? Cuz he’s not a bear?”

“Think we could teach him to ride a skateboard? Like not any fancy tricks, but maybe just like steering so we can give him a push and he can ride down to us.”

Giorno lets the two of them talk it out, knowing full well that none of their discussion will amount to anything. But it keeps them off of Panna for a few minutes, which is all he really cares about. And so when they’re busy with post-marital wedding planning, Giorno is going to get in some pre-marital hand holding. Maybe a solid side-hug if he’s lucky. He’s already done his part to wrap his arm around Panna’s shoulders, which is great on it’s own, but until he gets some kind of reciprocal arm-wrapping, it’s not really a hug. It’s just an armrest.

“I want you to know,” Panna eventually gets the courage to speak up again. “That I am not planning our wedding.”

“I don’t expect you to.”

“Popcorn’s done.” Giorno pulls the bag out of the microwave by the corner, keeping it pinched between his fingers before filing it back down to the counter.

“And by done, you actually mean burnt?” Narancia’s voice calls back from the living room.

“Yes, very. Almost on fire.”

“Perfect. Bring it in, Gio.”

No way in Hell is he going to touch that bag again. Not until it’s cooled off. So he stalls for time by getting two small bowls and one larger one. Because getting four small bowls last time was… a mistake. 

Once he’s burned off his fingerprints opening the bag and unceremoniously dumping very unequal amounts in each bowl, he carries them back out to the living room and sits on the ground next to Panna. 

“What movie are we watching?”

“ Garfield: A Tale of Two Kitties . And no, it’s not any good.”

“Oh it’s awful. It’s amazing.There’s a drunk ferret.” Narancia snatches the larger bowl away and goes back to sitting in Mista’s lap. “Dad refuses to come in while we watch this movie, so like, we’re free to hold hands and shit.”

“The scandal.” Mista falls back over the armrest of the vouch in a swoon. “I’m a married man, I could never .” 

“You sit in his lap every time we hang out. I don’t think hand-holding is going to offend your father.”

“Nah, he just gets jealous cuz he’s a lonely old bastard. Now shush, Garfield’s on.”

Giorno's hand is warm. Not because of popcorn burns, but because it's in his boyfriend's hand. Fugo is seated right next to him, the two squished together on the couch under the spiderman blankets Mista had lent them. Being so cozy is a nice break, and every time he and Fugo got to spend quality time together, he got to save memories of their fun in photos that he's hung up across his wall. 

Real-dad and Mom are very approving of his boyfriend, so he knows that when they eventually reach that special summer when Fugo will claim he proposed, even though it will all be exactly to Giorno’s plan, and the two will be engaged. 

Resting his head on his boyfriend's shoulder, giorno decides to push his luck and lean in for a quick smooch. Turning his face to Fugo's smooth cheek he purses his lips l and closes his eyes as he leans in.

"Huh-mmmmph?" 

Oh. 

Oh .  

Panna had turned his head at the last moment.

Turning bright red as he started to pull away, Giorno was surprised as Fugo chased his lips to continue the sweet affection.

"Panna?" Turquoise eyes sparkled far too much, given that they were only illuminated by a Garfield movie. God, Giorno was gone for this boy. 

“Mhmmph.” 

Fugo didn’t seem capable of forming a complete sentence. How sweet. Gently reaching an arm behind his boyfriend’s back, he pulled him in a little closer to snuggle. This seemed to settle him down pretty quickly, and within minutes Giorno felt fingers interlace with his own. 

Giorno’s never letting go of this one.