Archive of Our Own

After a swift workout routine, he showers to prepare himself, wearing tight black jeans that hugs his thighs and ass, and a low cut black shirt that dips just enough to teasingly show his chest hair. He looks dashing, and it’s a shame that his fit would be covered by his work apron, turned even lamer with a name tag on it. Sometimes he does go out like that on his own volition, but he admits he dresses up like this as well because of the customer tips it brings him.

He then got to his first job, which is in a cozy, chill bar, bathed in warm lights and wood colored brick walls flourished with hanging pots of different kinds of orchids. It’s a homey bar for the people coming from work or university to visit in order to relieve some of their stress with toxic chemicals in their systems, and sometimes also with questionable things they might or might not regret the next day. Since most customers are just there for the cultural apéritif between 7-9pm to whet their appetite before dinner, the first hours of work are peaceful. It’s when the hour clock’s hands passes midnight that the crowd starts to be noisier.

Then in between the early busy hours and rowdy busy ones of Mista’s work at the bar is at least some minutes of calm interaction with a younger blond man, his hair which length passes his shoulders is pulled back in a low ponytail, and most of the time wearing preppy clothes, but when not, he’s wearing what he wore to classes or his clothes for bed.

Right now is that moment, once the surge of customers that came in for the apéritif was ebbing, the blond walked in wearing a silky green long sleeves that are unbuttoned to show a part of his chest and very ripped black jeans, with his hair in its default ponytail.

Mista immediately moves to mix a bellini which consists 3/10ths of white peach juice combined with 7/10ths of spumante brut instead of the traditional prosecco. As Mista stirred the cocktail and ice on a pint glass, the customer wordlessly seats himself on his most preferred stool at the bar counter unless it is occupied, then he patiently watches as the bartender finishes up the drink he knows is his.

He then transfers the cooled cocktail to a flute glass in a quick pace, having done it for tons of times already. He adds a chilled whole strawberry as garnish on top, very on theme with the slightly pinkish hue of the refreshing drink. He places the glass gently in front of the other, and he hears a silent thanks which Mista nods to in acknowledgment, moving onto yet another customer’s order.

They don’t always have conversations when he visits the bar. Sometimes, the man would just be sitting there, nibbling his strawberry and sipping on his alcoholic pink drink emotionlessly. Sometimes he would be lightheartedly bantering with Mista. He always had let the customer initiate the conversation and the topic, but once, Mista asked him why he orders the same drink at the same time on unscheduled days, and he replied about having work and that ‘this is my pick-me-up.’

Mista leaves it at that, knowing that some people have their own belief or their own routine that should be followed to keep them away from anxiety or to help them relieve it. In Mista’s case it is his irrational fear of the number 4, most of the time it intervenes with his work as well but he tries to get past it, so who is he to judge that this person drinks a Bellini first before his work?

On normal days, the blond leaves straight after he finishes and pays for his drink, on to his so called work, or maybe something more like a side gig. He wishes it’s not anything illegal because he might just be serving elegant bellinis to an assassin or a drug dealer whenever he is tasked with a mission. Mista has heard him complain about university and how being a college student is just a fuck ton of stress and being slaves to deadlines, and it might just be his ‘cover’ so he can keep on visiting this bar, but he saw the undeniable bags of college stress underneath the other’s eyes. Surely, you can’t just fake and act out the feeling of burning out because of your course, therefore whatever the blond’s gig was, it’s most probably for his college life as well.

Mista is way too familiar with all of that, hence he knows when it is genuine and when it is happening. He had the guts to stop hitting himself on the face with his own fist because of forcing himself to go to university, and then decided to work instead. It just wasn’t for him, and he fits better with his new environments. He can use his hands and slight creativity to curate something that gives people emotions and feelings they desire, not having to be validated by numbers and achievements, so he’s happy at where he is.

His loyal customer is silent, not even glancing his way, and though the guy is obviously introverted, he was at least polite, but when nothing seemed to matter to him except for the drink in front of him, his purple irises unfocused, it’s a sign that it must have been a bad day.

Mista doesn’t voice it out, but he hopes this man would be happy at where he is too someday.

Some minutes passed and the blond had placed the empty champagne flute down, expecting for him to leave his payment and tip on the counter like he usually would, but Mista hears him say instead, “Can I get three shots of vodka?”

Three shots of vodka. That was the man’s other kind of pick-me-up drink.

Mista’s hands paused from drying the shot glasses he was cleaning, then he eyes the man and nods affirmatively. He tries for a friendly smile, “No sideline tonight?”

“Yeah.” The blond says, finally turning his head to look at Mista for the first time that night, then he adds, “But I do have one tomorrow so be ready for me.”

Mista takes three shot glasses and lines them up in front of the other, “Always am.” He chuckles, “It’s my job.”

He hears him exhale exaggeratedly, speaking in a monotonous yet jesting tone, “And I thought it was because we were friends.”

“Excuse me,” Mista retorts swiftly, then he sarcastically says, “My amico, but you haven’t even told me your name yet.”

The other groans, “Ah, unnecessary particulars. Such specifics do not matter if the connection is real.”

It was Mista’s time to sigh defeatedly, then he pours him three shots of vodka, “Whatever you say.”

Right after pulling the bottle back up from the third shot, the other grabs the first one and tips his head to consume it posthaste. Mista brings out a small glass filled with pellet ice, then pours clear soda over it before squeezing a lemon on top as the other continued to annihilate his vodka shots.

Once done with the third, Mista offers the non-alcoholic chaser he made and the blond accepts, taking it into his hands. He slurps lots of ice into his cheeks which he chews loudly, the crackling sound of it clear even amongst the buzz of the crowd and the speakers playing bar music.

“Stop, you’re making my teeth and gums hurt.” Mista says, but the other only took another slurp of the drink and crushed the ice even harder with his molars.

Mista rolls his eyes at him, and the younger snickers before he apologizes, “Okay. Sorry. I’m probably just looking for a fight and I’d rather do it with you than—“

He stops awkwardly, then he sighs for the second time in their conversation, though this time it sounded genuinely upset. He shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders as if to physically take his emotions off of himself and asks Mista for another shot of vodka.

“It’s okay. I permit you to fight me instead of your boyfriend.” Mista tried to humorously say, but then he realizes he made some mistakes.

Even with the music playing in the background, Mista felt the silence between the two of them as he poured a fourth shot of vodka for the blond, the air slightly tense as Mista racks his brain to think of anything else to say.

“You know I didn’t mean it that way.” The other spoke instead, and Mista was about to respond but the younger cut him off, “And I know you didn’t mean it that way, too.”

Mista leans back to see the other in a better lighting from the bar, and he sees the blond looking back at him with a soft, understanding smile as he speaks again, “Don’t worry about it, Mista.”

Mista clenches his jaw.

I’m sorry, he wants to say. Okay is what he thinks he should, but he’s indecisive, therefore he only nods as an answer.

The blond unexpectedly chuckles to himself, his fingertip circling the top of his shot glass, looking downwards, speaking softly as if it was a conversation he was having with himself, “Funny though because he still hasn’t even called me his boyfriend yet.”

Mista wanted to comfort him, but one of his co-workers came to the counter and commanded for him to make five complicated cocktails. Mista put in an effort to not look back at the blond while he arranged customer’s orders, not wanting to be distracted, and when he finished, the seat where the other was stationed earlier was already vacated and empty.

Later, a rookie staff member amazedly told him that a pretty blond man payed through him with a hefty tip, then Mista let himself get distracted from thinking with the awful amount of workload the after midnight hours had brought together with it.

—

Mista had a short break after 3am of the next Wednesday morning, took a nap for thirty minutes and then refreshed himself before changing into another set of clothes that suits the cafe he works at, this time something more polite. He dragged his feet to his second work, which is a cafe within walking distance from his small apartment. He greeted the owners a good morning even if he was still feeling a little wobbly, so then he took two straight shots of espresso the moment he walked behind the counter, causing the small amount of alcohol and fatigue in his system slowly melt away.

The shop opens for business before 5am, and the place buzzes with the right kind of busyness in the mornings while customers drank their coffees at the counter in a low chatter as they remain standing.

Mista was manning the cashier when another loyal blond customer of his walked in, wearing a baby pink jacket over a white v-neck shirt, light blue jeans and white lowcut shoes, his hair neatly styled in a single braid at the side of his shoulder.

Mista wore a large smile and greeted him as he came close to the counter, saying, “Buon Giorno, Giovanna.”

The other blinked, his green eyes bright but his smile coy at the stupid welcome greeting he always hears from the barista, then he answers, “I’d like to say good morning to you too, Guido Mista...”

There was a pause, and Mista sees him grimace, “But I might be needing my cheery pick-me-up drink. I forgot my tumbler and metal straw too.”

Mista raises a brow, then he sighs: another blond, another pick-me-up order.

Giorno only orders either of the two drinks in the morning which Mista has memorized. His usual is a quad ristretto with extra ice and no syrup. Then in the mornings when he needs a sweeter morning caffeine for a pick-me-up, is a doppio ristretto latte with almond milk, 6 pumps of honey. Therefore, Mista was scribbling something to cheer him up on the cup instead of his order details.

“Did you guys fight?” Mista asks with some humor in his voice while he takes Giorno’s payment, moving slowly to prolong their conversation time.

“It wasn’t exactly a fight.” Giorno says, taking his receipt and pocketing it immediately as he moves along Mista towards the brewing section, still speaking, “I just think that for a person with an IQ of 152, my boyfriend’s pretty fucking stupid.”

Mista choked, and then laughed, “Giovanna, you always say that.”

He hears him sigh, like he always does when he talks about this boyfriend of his, then he says, “He asked me to open a jar of strawberry jam this morning.”

Mista shakes his head while preparing the ice, assuming that this is just because of another petty argument, like always.

“And when I couldn’t open it,” Giorno continued, “He had this look in his face that looked like disappointment then walked away without saying anything.”

Mista faces the espresso machine then pulls a ristretto shot and teasingly said, “So you need a pick-me-up because...?”

“Because I’m lame and weak.” Giorno, tense with intensity, said like he believed it to be true.

Mista waits for the first pull of ristretto to finish before he carefully asked, “Did it trigger your insecurities?”

Giorno nods, watching as Mista makes another pull of a ristretto shot, “Quite.”

“I doubt he meant it that way.” Mista says, pouting as he talks about someone he doesn’t even know the face of, “Maybe he was having a bad day as well?”

He sees Giorno bite his lower lip, “I thought so too, because he likes strawberries a lot and he eats strawberry jam as his breakdown snack sometimes.”

Mista pours in the almond milk, then he takes a quick glance at the younger, “There’s more, isn’t it?”

Giorno nods again, harder this time, then he sighs defeatedly, “Maybe it’s because bio is getting to my nerves too but—“

There was another pause, and Mista does the six pumps of honey while he waits for the other to comfortably open up about it, thinking about how a science major and a music major work it out as a sane couple together, but at times, Mista can see their relationship as this trusting kind but still with childishness all over it because they are still young. Nothing is really harmful in the relationship itself if the outside factors would not be considered, but unfortunately, they’re still youngsters in the university, barely able to get by.

Mista finishes Giorno’s drink, and hands it to him, which the younger grabs with shy hands, “I’m sorry for ranting.”

“Nah, all’s cool. Anytime.” Mista shrugs, a carefree smirk on his lips, and Giorno finally smiles back at him, but then the door swings open and there comes a batch of customers in dire need of their morning fix.

He winks at Giorno before he mans the counter once again, greeting the new comers with an enthusiastic tone. He checks on Giorno for a second, and warmth bursts inside his chest as he sees the other fondly stroking the doodle he made on his cup.

It was nothing amazing, just a character Mista made up out of thin air some time ago with a small body and a head shaped like a football, riding a bullet, and a text bubble on the side for a simple message of Good morning, Giovanna.

It was nothing, really, but he’s glad he was able to at least lift the guy’s mood up, even just for a little bit.

—

Mista’s next day, or rather, Wednesday evening for normal people, started off a little better than yesterday because he was at least in his tiny bed with better cushions and pillows that didn’t give him a stiff neck. He has money, and he’s got enough of it, but that doesn’t mean he’s good at handling it. It doesn’t matter if he asks himself where it goes, because as already mentioned, he has no idea how he manages it. He lives easily, never starves, but he still hasn’t been able to save up enough for a better and bigger apartment so he can have a nicer couch and bed to sleep into.

Nevertheless, Mista drags his ass off the bed. It wasn’t the softest and most comfortable bed but it’s still a bed, and getting out of one would always be a fight for anybody except for morning people. Well, he’s doesn’t fall into that type because he doesn’t wake up in the morning, and even if he did, he would still hate to get out of bed just like this. At least once he’s out, he’s up and ready to do human things.

He goes to the kitchen when he sees it’s still a little too early to prepare for his shift, and he decides to make himself coffee instead of his early workout routine. And yes, he does have a whole ass set for good coffee in his home, and yet not a bed that can fit him well. What can he say? His list of priorities is smudged with nonchalance and quite messed up because of his happy-go-lucky attitude.

Mista likes a lot of different coffee brews and mixes, even experiments around a lot even before he became a barista, but his usual one to wake him up is a simple freshly ground, black coffee brew. He adds sugar sometimes when he’s in the mood, and for today he is. He poured himself a cup of it and sprinkles some brown sugar into it, stirring it then staring off into nothing as he overthinks about how he’d act in front of his nameless blond customer who will for sure come to have a bellini before his work later.

—

“I thought it was your job to be prepared?”

The man addressed jolted from where he was standing while wiping the counter, and then he rolls his eyes as he turns 180 degrees to face the customer that called his name, “M’sorry, was preoccupied and didn’t see you waltz in, signore.”

With a shrug, he reached for a chilled flute glass and started to make a bellini like he was programmed to do so. He sighs in relief secretly, feeling grateful that the blond did not go to a different bar or bartender to get his routinely bellini instead. He’s also glad he didn’t act awkwardly around him, or guilt him for what happened yesterday.

Mista did the usual. White peach juice, spumante brut, a whole strawberry, ice, then he places it in front of his loyal customer.

“Hey.” The blond calls, and Mista raises his brows while he shifts his eyes from the drink to his customer, seeing his formal look of a white coat and a white dress shirt. Mista raises it up to glance at his face, meeting his attentive violet eyes which are solely focused on him, intense even behind his blond fringe.

Mista had to swallow.

The man taps the base of his cocktail glass, then he says, “You’re silent today.”

Mista closes his eyes and nods, looking away from those eyes that should know nothing about him but is able to read him like he’s a movie poster. Not much cares about a movie poster, but if someone does, they look at it with intent.

“Yeah. Kinda not in the mood right now.” Mista says, sighing because what he said was real. He tried, and he wanted to, but he can’t really act like yesterday didn’t happen.

He’d rather be back on the other side of the boundary again instead of constantly going past the point of being offending, because honestly, they don’t really know each other. Mista had tried lost of times to know his name before only for the blond to brush it off and say it shouldn’t matter, but Mista’s someone that gets attached easily and with nothing to name someone he’s grown fond of is strange and uncomfortable to him.

“Hey.” Mista hears again, then he dared to stare back at those violet eyes once more, and he saw concern in them. It baffles Mista because this man who wouldn’t even give him his name acts like this at the most random moments, looking like he’s actually a friend of Mista’s.

“I’m alright, don’t worry about it.” Mista dryly says, then he gestures at the space, or the literal boundary between them which is the bar counter and grimaces, “You’re a customer, I’m an employee.”

There was a silence that hanged between them.

“You’re mad at me.” The other said, monotonously.

Mista scoffs, his pitch higher just a tad bit, “Why would I be?”

The blond leans back on his set and crosses his arms, his lips in a small pout as he said, “You are, and just now, you tried to push me away.”

Mista takes a deep intake of breath and holds it in, finding himself unable to argue with the man who he had thrown banters with before and yet did not win any of it. So he looks back at him again and exhales slowly, organizing his thoughts for the next time he speaks.

“I’m sorry.”

Mista hears, and his eyes widened at how sincere it sounded.

The younger averts his eyes away from Mista before drinking off his remaining refreshment. He wipes his lips with a handkerchief from his breast pocket and said, “I know I haven’t even given you my name and that bartenders aren’t psychologists, but it was easy to trust you. I purposefully don’t say my name so I can remind myself not to take advantage of it.”

He places his payment and tip on the counter, clearing his throat as if the stillness of the atmosphere is getting to him, then he says softly, “I still ended up doing so.”

His violet eyes find Mista’s again, and he purses his lips to a thin line into a self conscious, apologetic smile as he said, “I’m sorry.”

They only stared at each other for a short moment, then suddenly, Mista chuckles, which jerks the blond from his static position.

“At least you’re aware you’re an ass.” Mista slurs, just silent enough to hopefully not reach the blond’s ears but loud enough to tease the other.

“Hey.” The blond strictly says this time, but Mista can sense a thread of humor in it, “I didn’t say you can go that far—“

“Whatever.” He cuts him off with a wave of the hand, looking away as he sees another loyal customer of his walk in, “If you called me your friend once then I’m acting like one. Friends fight and then resolve it.”

Mista started to make a negroni for his customer with a black, bob cut, greeting the new comer with a salute in which he receives one back.

“You don’t even have my name yet.” The blond twits, thrumming his slender fingers beside his empty glass.

“Are you giving it then?” Mista quickly responds, and the younger looks at him blankly, obvious with his answer, “Then give me a pseudonym.”

“Why not just call me babe?” The blond says, unashamedly with an unbelievably straight face even when the new customer sat just a seat away from him, able to hear their conversation.

Mista’s mouth hangs open, then he licks his lips and squints, his hands in front of him questioningly, “Doesn’t your significant other call you that?”

He hears a sarcastic laugh, “He doesn’t even call me his boyfriend.“

As he finishes the cocktail with an orange twist, he serves it to the other guy in the counter with a wink, “Here ya go, Bucci.”

“Thank you, Mista.” Bucciarati says with his deep, warm voice, “It’s been a while.”

Mista winks at him, then he sees something move in his peripheral vision, and he turns to see the blond getting out of his seat, so he asks, “Leaving already?”

“Yeah. Work.” He indifferently answers with a gentle shake of his shoulders, “Plus, you have new company.”

Mista smirks, then a huff escapes his throat, “Are you jealous?”

Those violet eyes rolled in perplexity before turning his back on Mista and walking away, “Shut up and push me away again, you were cuter that way.”

Mista bites his lips, preventing himself to say another biting remark and just watches him strut, then before he gets out of hearing range, he calls out, “Bye, babe!”

The blond whipped his head so fast to stare again at Mista, not expecting the bartender to play along his silly game. He shakes his head, a humored smile on his lips, then continued walking out of the bar without another word.

“So,” Bucciarati says once Mista looks away from the entrance and goes back to doing his work, “Who was that?”

Mista pauses, wanting to tell the older the full story so he could rant about the blond but he raises a playful brow instead, then he says, “Babe, I guess.”

“Long hair, witty personality, and a bonus of him being blond?” His friend gives a deep laugh, “Sure does sound like your kind of babe.”

“Hey, he’s taken.” Mista shakes his head, because even though he is quite interested and curious of the nameless stranger, he’s not indecent.

“He doesn’t even get called as boyfriend.”

“Signor Bucciarati, do you mind shutting up and not listening to other people’s conversations? Weren’t you the one that beat me into being a good man?”

—

“Hi, Guido.” A soft voice called, and Mista looked up to see bright green eyes peaking to see what Mista was rummaging about under the counter.

Mista smiles and stands up, stretching his arms up a little over his head to pop his spine soothingly. He sees Giorno‘s eyes on his biceps with an unmoved face and he immediately pulls it down on his sides, embarrassed about his unprofessionalism, then he says, “Hey, babe.”

Shit. Another mistake. What happened to Buon Giorno, Giovanna? So then without missing a beat, he asks, “Usual?”

Giorno huffs amusedly before smiling, “Yeah, usual, and I got my tumbler this time.”

Mista accepts the tumbler Giorno was handing him, thanking the gods that Giorno decided not to poke fun of his slips for the morning, but then he hears the blond speak teasingly, “What’s with you being unusual today though?”

Mista makes a clicking sound with his lips and shows him an awkward grin, “Not sure. Might have had too much cocktail last night.”

He doesn’t always drink the remaining mix of alcohols in his shaker or a pint glass after filtering it onto a different glass for the customer, but last night, almost all the cocktail orders were his favorite ones, and he felt like he deserved to have a healthy buzz in his head too. Though honestly, at the moment, he’s fully sober. He just needed an excuse that’s a little close to the truth.

“I’d like to drink some time too, but these professors and papers are killing me.” Giorno says, serious but lighthearted as he pays for the drink.

With a snicker, Mista tells him, “You can come by my bar counter anytime. Your first drink’s on the house.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Giorno nods, an enthusiastic smile on his lips.

Mista puts ice and some extra of it into the tumbler then moves to the espresso machine, pulling four shots of ristretto with a heavy heart. He makes another one to make a caffeine shot for himself so he ends up doing as anything but four, and also because maybe he did have a bit too much cocktail last night.

“So.” Giorno starts with a serious tone, then he adds, “Babe.”

Mista chokes on air as he raises his eyes to meet Giorno’s humored green irises, sneering at him. Mista’s brows knot together in a silent inquiry and disbelief so then Giorno answers, “I just wanted to see you flustered.”

“Ha.” Mista monotonously says, “Nice, but you’re committed. What are you doing?”

“Hmm.” Giorno contemplates, and Mista looks away to continue assembling the drink, “My boyfriend was sweet today, and we were both in a good mood, so I’m spreading it before doom looks over us again.”

“Well, you can send good vibes without calling someone babe all of a sudden.” Mista nags jestingly as he hands Giorno his needed coffee. The younger’s brain synapses must be either having some traffic or an overload without the help of caffeine yet, hence this weird behavior.

“Yeah, I know. Won’t do it again since it’s not really in my personality.” Giorno says, reaching for his drink and immediately taking a sip of it, then he offhandedly says, “By the way, I’m not flirting with you.”

Mista chokes again, but this time he had to cough it out and gulp some water. Giorno concernedly looks at him, but a new person comes up to the counter and he had to nod at Giorno as a good bye before saying a greeting with his customer service voice despite the burn in his throat. He tried to focus on the person’s orders, but he can still feel Giorno’s gaze on him. Then he hears a tiny ‘actually, maybe I am?’ which makes him look at Giorno one last time. He was met with a civil expression and a formal smile before the blond turns his heels to leave.

Mista tiredly sighs.

People get even more strange when they’re high with serotonin.

—

Thursday night to Friday morning passed and nothing special happened except that he saw a blond man wearing his hair in a bun, his outfit consisting a spiderwebbed coat and a low collared inner shirt and tight slacks. Bucciarati seemed to know the man since they sat on the same table, and Mista almost thought of asking to be introduced to him but another guy with a buzzcut and a better management on his muscles or steroid injections came to sit beside the blond, an arm over the back of his chair. Mista knew he’d better back off because he’d prefer not to be punched by that kind of person.

So it was the norm. At night he made tasty and pretty cocktails, then in the morning he curated perfectly brewed and invigorating caffeinated drinks.

—

Mista wakes up and he finds himself groaning when he sees the calendar beside his bed. It’s a Friday night, and it’s going to be very busy later in the bar. Lots of office workers and students releasing their pent up stress and hormones.

With an incoming headache and noise that’s surely coming, Mista strode to his kitchen and poured himself a homemade kahlúa. One of his friends at the bar is Mexican who showed and taught him how to make one. Mista does not only have barista tools and beans in his apartment, but also bartending equipments and liquors despite not having a mini bar. It’s all just there on top of his decently made kitchen counter. As already established, he’s in a tiny, shitty apartment, but his barista and bartending hobbies would not be hindered.

After his drink and shower, he chose to throw on a blue button up longsleeves and slacks, then he arrives to the bar and checks in for his shift, the place filled with a healthy buzz of people about to have their apéritif. Mista greets his co-workers and the staff whose shifts they are replacing, and then gets to work as swift as he could.

The bar didn’t have a lot of customers and it was nearing dinnertime when his loyal blond customer with violet eyes arrived, wearing a deep red suit and slacks, a black inner dress shirt, and a neck tie embroidered with three strawberries at the center. His hair was not tied today, his locks just elegantly flowing behind his back, and his fringe that have always covered his face was swept upwards to the side, presenting his beautiful purple irises more, soft but strong at the same time.

The man seats himself on his usual spot, and Mista greets after he stops himself from staring, “Almost didn’t recognize you.”

“Huh?” The other responds, sounding bored, then he asks, “Why?” then he places a palm beneath his chin and tilts his head to side.

“I guess you look better.” Mista says, moving to make his customer’s drink, “Seems like something good happened to you today.”

The man nods and makes an impressed hum, “You’re right about that.”

“You also showed your face more.” Mista says with a smile, “Not gonna lie, you’re pretty dapper today.”

The man gingerly smiles into his palm, “I tried. My not-boyfriend’s coming to see me at work later.”

“Hmm? Coming to see you?” Mista asks while he starts building a bellini.

“Yeah.” The other answers nonchalantly, sighing,

“It’s the first time he’s coming to watch after being together for almost a year now.”

“Well, I don’t know who he is but maybe it’s because your work’s pretty late at night and, wait—“ Mista stutters, his hand hovering over the bottle of spumante brut as he stops to think about it. He always had a hunch that the blond’s work involved some kind of performance, but only now did he realize the usual kinds of performances that happen at night.

“Signor Mista.” The blond says flatly, “It’s nothing indecent.”

Mista opens his mouth and says a soft ah, embarrassed that he was caught thinking and assuming such a thing about his customer, so he just continued working on the bellini, but he shudders when he heard, “Though if it was, would you have come if I invited you to?”

He looks at the blond, gaping, while the other gazed back at him with a naturally indifferent expression. Mista opens and closes his mouth, wondering how he can answer the question. After swallowing the shock that was latched on the side of his throat, he decides to finish making the drink first, stirring the concoction in the pint glass a little longer than it should be minimally. Once he placed the complete drink in front of the blond, he straightens his back and blows air, then he says, “Honestly, I don’t go to such places.”

After another gulp, Mista sucks in a breath, “But if it was a personal invitation from you, maybe I would have considered it.”

The blond’s fucking poker face finally breaks, and Mista relishes the fact that the other looked utterly surprised. It was worth it saying something humiliating.

“I was joking when I said that. I don’t have the courage to do both of those things.” The blond chuckles after recovering from the bafflement, “I don’t even know if you’re a part of the community or not.”

“Well,” Mista starts, and the blond eyes him with a poorly masked intense attention as he takes a sip of his drink, “I am bi.”

The other takes a huge breath as the bottom of his glass makes a clinking sound on top of the counter.

“Thank you for sharing. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure if you really were fine with interacting with someone like me.” He sighs again, sand this time he sounded like one of his concerns were lifted off of his shoulders.

“Hey,” Mista calls, wanting those purple eyes to look into his genuine ones as he tells him, “You’re accepted here. I know it’s easier said than done but don’t worry about it.”

The blond closes his eyes and nods, breathing in to compose himself, “Okay, thanks. I understand.”

Mista smiles fondly, but it goes unseen as the other focuses on his drink so he can gulp down half of its contents. As he puts it back down, he says, “Your outfit’s actually suited for my actual work coincidentally. Would you like to come along?”

“Hmm.” Mista squints his eyes, because if the audience of his work requires formal clothes, then just what is it?

“Tonight immediately? My shift actually almost just got started.” He asks with a disappointed tone, already aware that the younger’s work happens in the span of his shift.

“Oh. That’s a shame.” The blonde says, just a hint of being upset laced in his voice, “I would have treated you to a good dinner.”

“Dinner? Also, wouldn’t your partner be coming to watch you?” Mista says, confused. The other picks up on this and falters, “About that, I’m not sure if he’s really coming.”

Mista was going to ask why, but he didn’t have to as the younger continued to explain, “He promised me once that he would come, but he texted me last minute that he had to fucking tend some goddamn plants, and I never tried to ask him again after that. He used to come with me sometimes before we got together but he hasn’t since then. He was the one to ask if he could come by tonight and watch me, but I’m not getting my hopes up again. ”

With the tone quite low, Mista didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t reassure the blond that his asshole of a partner would come to watch him for sure, so he tries it with a jest instead, “What if we were both there though? Would I still have gotten a good dinner?”

It worked, even though it was quite lame, but at least the younger was amused again, “Mista, I play the piano in luxurious hotels while the privileged eats their dinner. I can have you on one table, and my partner on another as you both enjoy a lavish meal while listening and watching me play.”

Oh. Mista was taken aback. A pianist. The information led Mista to subconsciously look at the other’s fingers — slender, long and delicate. It must be even prettier on top of the piano keys.

A snap of fingertips brings him back and he hears a slightly nervous voice, “Say something, will you? You’re always babbling and it’s scary when you’re not opening your mouth.”

Mista waggles himself to the right focus again, then he responds with a humorous jeering voice, “Never would have predicted that, pianista.”

“What did you think then?” He asks, sipping on his drink before tipping the glass to place the strawberry at the edge of the glass and rests it on top of his waiting lips. The pink fruit’s pointy end protrudes on his lower lip, and he slowly opens his mouth to capture it between his teeth. Mista watched as the other lowered the glass back down on the table before gently holding the frozen fruit in place between his full lips, biting down to half it while his lips were still wrapped around its edges. After it, he takes it away so he could chew and lick the excess liquid that coated the exterior of his lips.

Mista blinks, and he felt like being honest so he admitted, “I thought you were an assassin or associated in something shady like that, but I did think you might be some sort of performer too.”

The blond giggles, eating the remaining half of the strawberry, “You assumed I’m either killing people or entertaining them?”

“I mean, yeah, but not in a lewd way. I only had that thought earlier.” Mista says, bringing a hand to scratch his nape.

“You’re a bit easy to read, Mista.” The blond said, his voice sounding endeared, “It’s adorable and refreshing.”

He proceeds to finish his drink, and Mista awkwardly says, “Thanks, I guess.”

“I’m leaving now.” The pianist says while he makes his usual payment and tip on the counter. He was readying himself to leave but suddenly sat back down properly, “Oh, by the way, does the scent of alcohol stick to your fingertips? Do you have a tip on how to get rid of them, because mine smells like coffee beans.”

Mista’s forehead muscles raise in a pleasant surprise, then he snickers to himself, “How’d you end up with coffee fingertips? Do you grind coffee beans for the guests in those expensive hotels by morning?”

The other laughs sarcastically, then he drops it as he speaks with a coy tone, “I’ve been making freshly brewed coffee for my partner at our apartment since yesterday’s lunch. We were having a good day but he suddenly became very stressed and frantic because of a surprise huge exam. He needed so much coffee while he reviewed from yesterday afternoon until today’s. He said it was tough and that he’s exhausted when he came home, which is the reason why I don’t think he might be able to come tonight. The coffee that’s been keeping him alive might be fading away now and he needs to catch up on some well deserved sleep.”

Mista realizes that no matter how much of a shitty ‘boyfriend’ this stranger always talked about in a negative light, he’s still absolutely whipped and very much in love with the man. There must be something worth it that makes him stay in the relationship, and he takes a mental note to always remember of the fact that one side of the story is never the full one. They might be telling the story as way too pessimistic or way too lightly that it’s barely close to the reality of the situation depending on how the person speaking interprets it from their point of view.

“Whatever happens, just talk to him about it. It might not be a solution but at least you’d be aware of the variables at hand.” Mista says, hoping he’s not insensitive or offending, because it’s always better to communicate with your significant others, or, in fact, anybody that you are in a conflict with.

“Yeah. I will, and I do talk to him. I despise the miscommunication trope a lot, but sometimes it’s simply just not easy when words aren’t enough to explain it.” He says, then he raises his arm to look at his wristwatch, and nods at Mista, “I’m really going now. Thank you for not answering my question and acting as my shrink again instead.”

With a mirthful laugh, Mista calls out to the blond man striding off towards the exit, “It’s coffee scent! You don’t have to get rid of it!”

As his back was still facing Mista, the only response he gave were a thumbs up and a wave.

—

Mista yawns as the cafe doors open, he wasn’t able to take a nap because he was asked to stay for a little longer by Abbacchio, their wine enthusiast goth manager, since it’s Friday, or rather, a Saturday morning, therefore he wasn’t able to greet his caffeinatic loyal blond customer enthusiastically as he always had before.

“Hi.” He says, then with a tired smile which he hoped looked better than it felt, he adds, “Buon Giorno, Giovanna.”

“Hi, a pick-me-up, please. Looks like you also got yourself a heavy Friday night?” Giorno asks, a fatigued smile on his face too, and only then Mista realizes that for once in Giorno’s visits to the cafe did the younger looked like shit. Like awful, very sleep deprived, in need of a fucking cuddle kind of looking like shit.

Mista was stunned, and he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “What the fuck happened?”

Despite his huge concern for the younger, Giorno chortles in front of him instead of telling him what went down, and Mista’s worry for his mental stability only grows.

“Nooo.” Giorno singsongs, waving his hand in front of him, “A surprise major exam happened because professors are sadists, but my boyfriend coddled me with homemade coffee, cuddles and kisses while I reviewed.”

Mista squints, and he felt his brows knot towards each other when he hears more from Giorno, “His fingertips smelled like coffee and I— wait, that’s TMI.”

With the chemical reaction inside his brain being slowed down by the exhaustion, desire for a healthy nap, and worn out neurons, Mista’s synapses freeze at the point wherein he can only feel déjà vu.

He’s heard this somewhere before, but a bit different.

Where though?

Mista can hear Giorno still talking excitedly out of his usual character and present image. He hears something about a dinner date, a song called il vento d’oro in a cocktail jazz style dedicated to Giorno, formal attires, a wine bottle, smooth and happy evening... Mista’s brain panned out. He probably went to his auto hum-groan-affirm mode reserved for shifts and customers he couldn’t stand anymore, in which the unique case right now is information overload. He only rebooted when he was finally handing Giorno his drink.

“Thanks.” The blond gleams despite the pitiful bags underneath his eyes. Mista forces the widest smile he can show him, wishing that Giorno’s own brain rot would better their ugly interaction for the morning. He promises he’d do better next time, make it up to him. If he remembers.

Once the blond with a messy ponytail still in his dark blue silk pjs with pink lining gets out of the cafe, Mista awards himself the deepest and longest intake of oxygen he can give to his lungs because his brain is in dire need of it to maybe boost it to functioning. With the odds against him though, he’s got myelin shits instead of sheaths at the moment. His skull is just filled with poopy thoughts like he’s high off of something, so he wiggles his whole body to relax, which bewildered his grandpa boss by his sudden vibration, so Mista bows a little to the old man in apology, but as sweet as he is, he only warmly chuckled at him and offered Mista breakfast. Mista’s stomach grumbled, and he accepts the offer as he wills himself to think about what just transpired once he gets a wink of some damn sleep.

—

Tomorrow, or Saturday evening comes and Mista, for the life of him, could only remember how completely bad Giorno looked and yet it was one of his best days. Mista racks his brain to remember, but he passed out face first like a drunk on top his couch in his gross work clothes when he came home, and he wasn’t even able to brush his teeth before ultimately blacking out. Fridays kill him so much, and now the single brain cell awake inside his head can’t remember whatever happened in his conversation with Giorno.

Fuck it. Might have been nothing important if he was able to forget it so easily.

Mista, even if he was feeling so beaten up, gets his ass up his hard couch, stretches the kinks out of his sore muscles and pops his bones because he’s got work. More or less another heavy one like Friday, so he prays to somebody up there, (his ancestors, his dead beloved ones, aliens, or god himself, whoever,) to send him some strength.

—

It was a little chaotic.

Screw that. It was chaotic. Mista doesn’t even have the energy to fucking list off the mess that he had seen. At least one of them was entertaining; Narancia, his young and lively co-worker, drove out a rude and handsy man with a red toy fighter airplane in hand, threatening him to never come back or even take a glance at their pink haired customer. He learns that her name was Trish after a while, and Narancia befriends her fast. Mista had not even said anything yet but Narancia was already sending fighter airplane bullets towards his way with a simple glare.

Then just before midnight, his bellini loving customer came in a loose white shirt and sweatpants, taking wide steps towards the counter. Mista chuckles at how in need the man is of his pick-me-up drink, so he was reaching for the ingredients to make a bellini but he heard him say, “Three shots of vodka please.”

Mista stops and closes his fists. He sighs and obeys the order, making the chaser first this time. The blond was just quiet while he worked, once he presented the complete order it to the man fidgeting on his seat, hands clasped together as he chews on his lower lip anxiously, he couldn’t help but inquire, “He didn’t show up last night?”

Purple eyes looks up at him, looking lost and searching, very jerky, and Mista holds his gaze to help him stabilize his emotions, but the man laughs and waves a hand in front of himself, saying, “No, no, no no no. He came, he came.”

Mista tilts his head to the side. There it is again: déjà vu. Where did he first feel this?

“He looked so beautiful last night, he even arranged his hair in in this old fashioned style which oddly suited him so well. He wore an all pink attire with a blue ladybug pin on his breast pocket and it was so fucking adorable because he’s such a biology nerd.” He rambles uncharacteristically of him, and Mista listens despite the busy noise around the bar, seemingly able to focus on just the pianist’s voice.

“We had a great dinner then we brought our bottle of wine home and drank even its last drop. It was fun, it reminded us of how it felt like when we first knew each other.” Ironically, after he said such great things about yesterday, he drinks the three shots of vodka in front of him one after the other, not even minding the chaser as he asks for another three.

Mista obliges, but he pours slowly, “Why are you so eager to get drunk then?”

The man combs his hands through his laid down hair and places his elbows at the sides of his vodka lineup, staring down at the clear hard liquor as he mumbles mostly to himself, “Everything was fine. It was even more than fine. Things were finally going right, and yet...” He sucks in an inhale then groans, “Ahh, my head is about to burst.”

“Hey.” Mista gently calls, “Talk to me about it. Guess you can treat your tips as payment for the psych session with me but, hey.” Mista smiles as the blond scoffs in mirth before looking at him, so then he finishes, “You can talk to me, signore.”

Purple eyes stayed locked with his, and he hopes he can share at least some of his optimism to this person with just a stare.

“Fugo.” The blond says out of the blue, and Mista did not understand so he hums, “Huh?”

“Fugo.” The blond reiterates, then a soft smile blossoms from his lips, “My name’s Fugo.”

Oh. Mista was shocked and honored at the same time. He thought he’d never be able to put a name on someone who made some of his nights interesting and fun. He thought he’d never be able to break through the walls that this former nameless man had built around himself, but here he is, looking at Mista with warmth, introducing himself at last.

“You’re not shitting me, right?” Mista asks, for caution in case he’s being made fun of or being fooled, but the blond shook his head and huffed,

“No. It’s real. You’ll be more effective as my shrink if you address me by my name.”

Mista makes an incoherent noise in his throat, finding it comically ridiculous, but he grins soon right after, “Fugo, huh?”

It felt nice in Mista’s lips, and he says it again in his head: Fugo.

“Yeah, nice to meet you.” Fugo says, holding a hand out for him to shake and Mista grasps it tightly, pleased at their progress as friends.

“Well, then. Mista.” Fugo says, back to his flat tone, grabbing a shot and downing it without the help of a chaser, “Are you willing to listen?”

Mista eyes the bar for a while, thankful that Pesci, the other bartender in shift, was eager to do all the work since he saw Mista looking like a zombie earlier and mothered him back to health. Pesci was a momma’s boy, therefore it was a shocking new side of him that he showed to Mista earlier. He guesses he’s lucky to be around the most bizarre people, never knowing what’s about to commence, but sometimes it does get frazzling.

Mista meets Fugo’s gaze again once he confirms that Pesci can handle the customer tide, and it feels different this time simply by knowing his name. Mista nods, “Yeah. ‘M all ears, Fugo.”

The right corner of the blond’s lips quirk upwards as Mista said his name, likely feeling the same queasy feeling of having revealed something he has made a secret for so long, but he speaks and starts with a sigh.

“It wasn’t perfect yesterday,” He says, licking his lips anxiously, “But it felt right. We knew we fit together, we just had to find the right angles, give the right spaces and understand how to fill them.”

Mista saw Fugo’s adam’s apple bob, his voice wavering, “It felt like we were finally whole, but then he...” Another swallow, and Mista patiently waited for the next words, “Before he fell completely asleep an hour ago, he whispered that he thinks he likes someone.”

At the pause, Mista’s mouth opened but no words came out, and Fugo only continued, “I’m not even sure if he was conscious or if he was only sleep talking, but I know what I heard. It was clear. He went on a full on rant about who he is.”

Mista clenches his teeth and blinks, so unsure of what to do and say. Apparently, a bartender and a university drop out cannot be a replacement for a real psychologist, because he’s tongue tied and idiotically rummaging through his brain’s panic department looking for ways on how to handle such an emergency. He comes up with none.

“He said he was a barista. Bronze skinned, quite tall, a little buff, has sexy chest hair, short and curly dark brown hair.” Fugo lists off, sounding absolutely devastated, “He said he was cheery and always greets him good morning when he buys his coffee...”

Mista was listening. He swears he is, but he literally can see the details about this mystery person floating in the air and it just brushes through the surface of his understanding, getting mushed up and squeezed into something unrecognizable.

“Guess who he sounds like?” Fugo asks which snaps him out of his trance, and his only answer was a noncommittal shrug.

“He sounds like the total opposite of me, Mista.” Fugo says, emphasizing every word, “Total opposite from physical attributes and down to his personality. Someone I would never be.”

Fugo sighs for who knows how much already, and Mista forces himself to focus and not fall into a daze again.

The blond took his fifth shot of vodka, then he slurs, “Honestly, he sounds a lot like you too, but I think Giorno said Guido and not Mista.”

A fucking alarm went off inside him, and it felt like it was nighttime and all the lights inside the house, even the moon was fucking off then suddenly everything was fucking turned on. Even a car’s headlights was blinding him as he looked out the window.

“Giorno said if I’d be open to having a third person in the apartment. It feels like I’m not enough, like how he was enough for me.” Fugo says, his eyes downcast.

“I mean, I get it. Sometimes I wish I can add someone in our life too since we’ve actually grazed the topic before, but I never had the courage to ask Giorno. Now I think I lost my chance to propose someone.” Fugo continues, not noticing how buzzed Mista is on his feet, barely able to withhold himself from screaming.

“Honestly though, I hoped he was talking about you, but you’re Mista the bartender, not Guido the barista. Plus, I’m not aware of your opinions on polyamory, but I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.”

Mista bites his tongue to stop himself from screeching and tries to be cool about it, hitting a laid back pose as he leans on a high stool behind him, “You thought Guido is a different man?”

Fugo looked at him questioningly, and Mista smirks, a thumb pointing to himself, “But it’s me, Mista.”

—

Fugo’s reaction was boring. Or so he had thought because there was only silence at first as he told Fugo what he knows about Giorno. He started with the other blond’s surname, Giovanna. His eye color. His two favorite drinks. His fascination with ladybugs. His favorite colors which are blue, pink and green.

“Okay, if you still don’t believe me then this should.” Mista brings his hands up in front of Fugo, and he only gets a silent stare saying what do I do with it?

Mista grins, “Smell it. You’re familiar with this, but for me it’s not a problem.”

Hesitant at first, Fugo leaned down with a warning glare towards Mista, cautious in case the older was playing tricks on him like he did some weeks before. Mista scrunched his nose and raised his hands higher, enough for Fugo to get a waft of the lingering coffee smell on his fingertips that has not faded away for the past years. He’s learned to live with it, the same way as he worked these calloused hands everyday, curating drinks and living with a carefree mentality.

Fugo’s eyes brighten, and his despondent expression lightened up like he couldn’t believe such a coincidence, because Mista couldn’t as well, but maybe if he focused more on it, he could have put two and two together way earlier, but he didn’t. Hence this revelation as if it was all on cue.

“The universe is fucking with us, ain’t it?” Fugo mutters, taking his last shot of vodka before he laughs deeply and sincerely which Mista heard clearly for the first time, and puts his hands on his waist.

“Yeah. It sure is.” Mista laughs, wholeheartedly, then he adds, “Giorno said you have an IQ of 152 and yet you’re stupid, but it wasn’t just you. You both fucking are.”

“Is the insult really necessary?” Fugo says, his tone sounding like he’s not enjoying the conversation but his smile says the opposite.

“Yes, because the two of you are absolute fucking idiots.”

Fugo huffs and just stares for a while, but he nods in agreement, “We’re aware of it.”

Then his eyes shone as if he just had a bright idea, so he spoke, his pitch a little higher, “Can’t you finish your shift earlier today?”

Mista feels like he knows where this is going, but he still asks, “Why?”

Fugo raises his shoulders, playing coy, “I don’t know.” Then his voice changes into that of someone who is planning something at the back of his head, “Would you like to surprise Giorno with me?”

Fuck it. Just minutes after some easy convincing, Mista acted sick and begged his strict goth manager to make him go home early for this shift. Pesci was there right beside him to support his claims, and it guilted Mista that he used the innocent man’s sweetness against Abbacchio’s resting bitter face, but he ought to give himself some well deserved fun and bullshit once in a while for working so damn hard ever since he dropped out of school.

At the moment he got permission from Abbacchio, Mista messages his kind old man at the coffee shop that he won’t be able to come today, not needing to make up an excuse because the man had always tried to force Mista to take breaks from the cafe but still didn’t anyway. So he knows the man would even be happy for him with this decision.

Again, he thanks whoever is up there for bringing the most bizarre people into his life, and though it wasn’t a smooth and pretty ride, he’s truly having the time of his life.

—

They went to an amazing apartment, and Fugo gently woke up Giorno who was sleeping on a king sized bed in a room that’s three times bigger than the bedroom of his apartment. Giorno rubbed his eyes and drowsily turned his gaze to where Fugo was pointing. When Giorno understood what he was seeing, he looked like he just took a shot of a very strong espresso, fumbling for words. After that, a swift introduction was done, and they proceeded to something more physical.

Needless to say, the first night he spent together with his loyal blond customers were a tangled mess of limbs and giggles and crazy experimental bullshit, but they felt warm on Mista’s skin. Their kisses felt nice. Their hands soothed him in a way he hadn’t felt for a long while. Even the bed he was on felt like it was telling him that he had made the right choice and that he should stay, but he didn’t think about that for now. He held both of them close in each of his side as the three of them fell asleep in a satisfactory cozy slumber.

—

Mista wasn’t used to waking up with the sun shining, therefore it was a different feeling when he saw sunlight filtering in through the slight openings of the curtains, painting the room alight with a subtle glow. The two blonds were still huddled up to him like he’s their personal heater, and maybe he would be from now on. Hopefully.

If the universe was fucking with him, it’s been dicking him good then.

Unfortunately, once Mista wakes, he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep immediately so he opted to get out of the bed and grab a glass of water. Somehow he felt dehydrated. Thankfully, the two were deep sleepers and didn’t rouse as he left the mattress.

Mista finds the kitchen and pours himself a room temperature water. He gulps it all down as if he has been thirsty for a while now, but maybe it was the nerves. He rarely gets this much of it, but when he’s anxious about something, he starts to feel his skin crawl, his throat gritty and hoarse.

He pours himself more water and attempted to even out his breathing, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Would a rich music major and a rich biology major really have an overworked regular employee university dropout as their third partner? Is he even really wanted or is he being used as a toy? Are their issues resolved? If not then would he be able to help resolve that or at least not add to it? Would he ruin this relationship someday? Or would he be thrown away?

Mista didn’t know how long he stood there on the kitchen counter, the glass empty once again, when he felt arms snaking around his bare waist from behind.

“We woke up at the same time and you weren’t there.”

A chest flushes close against his back, a breath on his shoulders, and Mista discerns whose voice it was and knowing it was Giorno’s.

“I’m sorry.” Mista says, swallowing when his voice sounded weak, “I was thirsty.”

Giorno hums, and it seemed like he unconsciously swayed as he tightened his hold on Mista while he said, “Fugo panicked, thinking he was just drunk, and I thought it was just a dream or a shared hallucination with him.”

Mista felt a little guilty, but he had no chance to apologize again because Giorno asked a question.

“That wasn’t a dream, right?” Softly. Meekly.

“No. It wasn’t.” Mista answers. Strong. Pillared.

“This right now isn’t a dream.” Softer. Meeker.

Mista sighs, holding the wrist that was on his waist.

Firm. Confident. Then he said, “No. This isn’t a dream.”

After some seconds, someone entered his peripheral vision, so then he turned and saw Fugo, rummaging through the cupboards and bringing out coffee beans. He feels Mista watching him so he looks back, and says, “I’ll make coffee.”

Mista gives a tense nod, and he sees Fugo notice it with the way the corners of his eyes crinkled. Giorno loosens his embrace and steps away a bit, slightly entering Mista’s field of vision as well, leaving him feeling a little cold.

Fugo sighs loudly, then he lands a hand on top of the counter before he relaxes his posture, and only then did Mista realize that the other was also just as tense as him.

“We’ll talk about it, don’t worry.” Fugo slowly says, his eyes boring into Mista’s, genuinely looking like he wants Mista to believe in him.

“We’ll talk about this thoroughly.” Fugo says, more emphasized this time, then he gestures at the coffee beans, “It’s going to be a long conversation, hence the coffee. Let an amateur make you one for now, Mista.”

It urges a chuckle from Mista, and Fugo smiles at him, satisfied with the reaction he got. Giorno then entangles their fingers together and pulls Mista away from the counter, walking off with him as he leads them to the living room, “Though Fugo’s an amateur, he makes really good coffee. Let him do his thing in the kitchen and wait on the couch.”

Mista was pushed down on the couch and was told to cool down and organize his thoughts, because as Fugo already mentioned, this morning conversation would be lengthy.

If the universe was fucking with him, Mista prays that all of this is not just about that. He hopes this thing would be for the long run and not just a one night thing.

Later that morning, Mista pops open the strawberry jar, wishing it brings him extra points that showcases the pros of having him forever and preventing a petty fight over sealed containers.