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The first time him and Fugo are in the same room after room is three weeks after his return to Passione.
They're in their old team base near the sea, cleaning up the rooms of their friends. Mista held it off for months, not wanting to step foot in the place because it will come with the heartbreaking realization that it's become too big and too empty for just him. The only reason they're there in the first place is on Giorno's request. The house is both theirs now. They get to decide what to do with it.
Fugo has been quiet the entire time, even on the car ride on the way there. Mista doesn't blame him. The last time they saw each other, he pointed a gun at him and threatened to kill him. He's been meaning to tell the truth about it, that he would never kill Fugo no matter how angry he is, that it was on Giorno's orders because Fugo always works best under pressure, that Mista misses him terribly but he is too afraid to say it.
They're in Buccelatti's office, a small, cozy thing filled with books and dried plants and the scent of the sea. Fugo is sorting through paperwork and files. Mista is placing books and knick-knacks in boxes.
A sharp intake of breath. Mista whips his head around, sees Fugo's fingers tight against a small photograph in his hands. He's shaking, tense. His eyes are glazed over.
Mista walks over and Fugo flinches. The ache and guilt returns, swirling an unpleasant mess in his gut. God he never wanted Fugo to be afraid of him.
The photograph is worn around the edges, but it's still clear as day. In the picture is a young, teenage Buccelatti, smaller in his signature suit but no less confident and sincere. There's a boy in front of him, with pale blond hair and familiar red eyes, scowling at the camera even as Buccelatti has a hand in his hair in a gesture of affection. On the bottom of the photograph is Buccelatti's careful script. My First Member, 1998.
"Sorry," Fugo quickly says, voice choked. He tucks the photograph back in the folder where he found it, but Mista stops him with his hand on his wrist. He looks up at him with wide eyes and Mista hates the expression on his face--resignation, fear, sadness. He wants his friend back, the one who returns his barbs just as sharp and affectionate, the one with the small smiles because for some reason loud expressions are difficult for him, but it makes the smiles he can pull from him all the more worth it.
"You're allowed to grieve," Mista says carefully, watching as the mist returns to Fugo's eyes and his hand trembles in his hold. "They were your family too."
Fugo breaks.
He crumples to the floor and Mista follows him, gathering him in his arms as Fugo shakes and wails. Mista can feel his own tears forming, but he holds it back. He's been grieving for months. Fugo didn't know what happened to them until weeks ago. He needs this and Mista will give it to him.
Mista's hands are on his hair and on his back, holding him fiercely, as if afraid that if he looks away Fugo would disappear again. He can't let that happen. He won't lose the only family he has left.
Oh fuck. Why did he ever think he could keep a lid on his emotions? He's not Giorno. He feels the tears run down his face, salty and hot.
"I'm still your family too," he says, voice soft and teetering on the edge of breaking. "That never changed. I'm sorry if you thought otherwise."
Fugo doesn't stop crying, but he does return Mista's hug, arms tight around his middle like he's drowning and Mista is his anchor. Mista sniffs. It builds up into a gasp.
And then he's sobbing, crying into Fugo's ears as his heart pours with grief and loneliness and pain, until he's certain he's drowning in them.
They hold each other for a while. Mista's heart still has missing pieces in them but at least one of them has come back and he'll be damned before he lets go of him again.
When he enters Giorno's office and sees it empty, he knows something terrible has happened.
The little memorial site he's built has been disrupted. The vase is broken in shards, flowers laying on their sides under the sun. The zipper pull is gone from its perch.
This is where Mista is careful. He knows how Giorno handles things. He would not want an unnecessary panic in the villa over something unconfirmed. He sends the Sex Pistols out to search every nook and cranny of the room.
"Mista, over here," Number Five calls out quietly from under the desk. Mista walks over there slowly, masking his footsteps against the carpet, until he's a few inches away. He tilts his head a little and sees a shoe with a ladybug decal poking out. He bends his head the rest of the way.
Giorno is sitting underneath his desk, knees tucked to his chest, eyes looking forward but unseeing. In his fingers is the zipper pull, and it reminds Mista of the sight of Fugo holding the photograph in his hands. They're all haunted, even now.
Mista carefully maneuvers his way next to Giorno. The desk is small so their shoulders, hips, knees and feet end up pressed together. This close, Mista can feel him shaking, though it looks unnoticeable to the naked eye.
They've grown close these past few months so Mista knows he has to wait for Giorno to approach him. When he doesn't speak for a few more minutes, he sends Number Three ahead to tell Fugo they'll be late for lunch. After a few more minutes, he sends Number One and Two to grab a new vase and fill it with water.
That makes Giorno twitch, Mista can feel it where their bodies meet.
"Do you blame me?" Giorno asks, voice unnervingly calm and empty. "For leading them to their deaths?"
Mista feels a spark of anger in him, but he quickly stomps it down. It's irrational and a waste of energy. "The only person to blame was Diavolo and you made sure their deaths weren't in vain in the end."
"It happened when I joined the team. Just one week and half of them are gone." Giorno cracks a bitter smile. It looks so wrong. "You call me your lucky boy, but I can't help but feel that I was a beacon of death for your team."
" Our team," Mista corrects. Giorno looks away. He sighs. "If I'm being honest, I don't know what to say to you."
"Sorry," Giorno mumbles, curling smaller in his ball.
"Stop apologizing for things that are out of your control," Mista snaps. "I can't help that I'm shit at emotions and comfort. We can't help that the boss was powerful and it was a suicide mission. We can't help but be slaves to our fate ," he spits that last phrase out like venom, remembering the premonition of Rolling Stones, Bruno's face morphed against its surface. "If you feel sorry, do me a favor and become the best goddamn don in the history of Passione and Italy. So good that Buccelatti will smile down at you from heaven, that Narancia will cheer you on and that Leone will still hate your guts but respect you anyway." Giorno's eyes are back on him now, clear as day and finally looking right at him. Mista coughs, turns his head away and fights the blush rising in his cheeks. "Promise me?"
"I do." Fuck why did he have to put it like that. Giorno smiles cheekily, as if he chose that wording on purpose. Mista wants to wipe that smirk off his face, but it's a damn good look on him.
He settles for crawling out the desk and standing up. He holds out a hand to help him up, and there's a moment where Giorno is just on his knees, holding his hand as if their roles were reversed. Mista can't help but shudder at the shift.
"I swear on my life and their memories that I will create a Passione beyond anyone's dream," Giorno says it like a vow with Mista as his witness.
Mista clears his throat. The moment breaks. He pulls Giorno up to his feet and they start cleaning the memorial site.
The three of them are in the gardens, walking and talking quietly among themselves. They've changed over the years, shaped by more battles and quiet moments and the shift of the air in Naples. Giorno has grown into his role as a don and he's made do on his promise and then some. He's starting to shoot taller than both of them, building up muscles beneath his fancy suits. As for Fugo, he's looking a lot healthier these days, what with Mista getting more involved and giving him physical training. He wears glasses now and it's a good look on him, paired with longer hair tied in a short ponytail.
And Mista is the same as he's ever been. He takes his job seriously as capo and he does his best to be what Buccelatti was to him for his own team. They're all nosy rascals with one functioning brain cell but when it comes down to it, they're all loyal to each other. He couldn't be prouder.
But for all his maturity, it seems there are some changes that slipped under his radar. They're talking about expanding territory in the Northern regions, when Giorno stops in front of a flower bush.
"The tulips are blooming," he says, bending down to pluck one red tulip from its stalk.
Then, he turns around and tucks the flower behind Fugo's ear, fingers trailing on his reddening cheek. Giorno smiles a smile Mista has never seen before, and he's hit with the realization that something big is about to happen.
“We need to tell you something,” Giorno says with the gravity in his voice that reminds Mista of his declaration of his dream. His hand grasps at Fugo's and that's all the sign Mista needs. “We’ve been dating for two weeks.”
“Is that alright?” Fugo asks, eyes averted, fidgeting with his hands.
“Why are you asking me? My feelings don't matter here. It's your relationship.”
Fugo frowns at him, but the effect is ruined by the flower in his ear. “Of course your feelings matter. You're our friend.” And damn if Mista's heart didn't flip at that. “If it makes you uncomfortable--”
“You seem to forget that I grew up in the same household as Abbachio and Buccelatti.” The names still sting, still makes him ache, but it's getting easier. “There's nothing you two could do that will ever compare to the tension and sappines those two had.” Fugo cracks a smile at that, and that's good. Despite all their sad endings and beginnings, there are happy memories in between. Even Giorno smiles, knowing about those two despite being on the team for the shortest time. “Are you happy with each other?”
Giorno doesn't miss a beat. “Very.” Fugo nods in affirmative.
“Then, that's all I need to know.” Mista grins and ruffles both of their hairs affectionately. Fugo squawks and bats him away, Giorno dutifully leans down so he can reach better.
Happiness is fraught in their line of work. Even when they were working under Buccelatti, their happiness was fleeting and small, crushed underfoot by the larger, grim reality of being in the mafia. But if Giorno and Fugo can find happiness with each other, despite being the don and underboss respectively, then Mista should be the last person to get in the way of that. He is happy for them.
It's like his blessing is the only permission they need. After that day in the garden the two of them are more open with their affections for each other. Fugo always has a hand on Giorno beneath the table whenever they eat or have meetings. Giorno has taken to calling Fugo all sorts of nicknames--darling, amati, こいびと. They're sweet in their little courtship, always taking things slow and steady. Mista has the privy of being an audience to their dance, an adviser and a very enthusiastic wingman.
He doesn't know what went wrong when he realizes somewhere in between he falls for both of them. It's probably the worst feeling he’s ever experienced in his twenty years of living, because despite Fugo and Giorno always being inclusive and accommodating, Mista has never felt like he fits with them. Fugo makes Giorno feel grounded and listened to. Giorno makes Fugo feel seen and adored.
What can Mista possibly offer two beautiful men that's obviously made for each other?
The car door shuts behind them with a note of finality. Mista groans, sinking into the leather seats of one of their cars. As far as missions go, it wasn't too bad. All he had was a nasty burn on his arm that Fugo already treated. Fugo looks better than he does, but he still leans against Mista in silent comfort as their driver pulls them away from the burning remains of a building that used to house a prolific American gang that encroached Passione's turf.
“Where to, boss?” Their driver, a young recruit Mista is working to get on his team, asks as the car starts down the road. Mista can hear their clean-up crew pulling into the scene already.
Mista nudges Fugo who has his arms curled around him as he shivers. “Up for a midnight snack?”
Fugo squints, looking out at the window to see the streetlight and empty roads. “How long were we staking them?”
“Three and one hours. We fought them for only ten minutes.” Mista adjusts the AC so it's less cold in the car. “Is Giorno--?”
“Signora Sheila says she successfully pulled him out of his office,” Affogatto helpfully supplies. “I believe he's waiting for you to arrive.”
“What are you in the mood for?” Fugo asks, yawning into his palm. Mista leans closer so Fugo can rest his head against his shoulder.
“I know a place. It just opened.” It's tradition by now in their famiglia that when missions run long into the night that they go grab a bite to eat before returning home. Whoever is awake in the villa is welcome to join them, and more often than not that includes Giorno who has a shit sleeping schedule anyway. It's a good way to get to know the rank and file in their organization and if Mista's estimate is correct they've eaten half of Naples’ late night culinary scene by now. “They make this excellent double shot espresso that's proven to keep you awake for two days.”
Fugo laughs weakly against his shoulder, which makes Mista feel warm inside. “Even if I drink that I have a feeling I’ll drop before I can make it to the stairs.”
“Good excuse for me to carry you to bed,” Mista says automatically. His words catch up to his brain and he quickly backtracks. “Or Giorno. I know he has a thing for lifting people now ever since he found out he can carry Trish with one arm.”
“Oh don't even get me started with that. I thought I almost lost my boyfriend that day. I’ve never seen Trish look so embarrassed.” Right. Boyfriend. Mista holds on to that reminder, even as his mind wanders at the idea that he can probably lift both Fugo and Giorno up if he tries hard enough. “You said something about coffee?”
“Affogatto, take us to LP70. It's at the same block as Libeccio. Know where that is?” Affogatto says an affirmative and the car speeds up with the destination now in mind. “You’ll like it. It's very private and cozy and they have a front garden that Giorno's gonna swoon over. They have this strawberry waffle speciality too. Two stacks of waffles, strawberry rose ice cream, whip cream, fresh strawberries, chocolate syrup.”
“I can see you drooling,” Fugo teases as he reaches up to close Mista's mouth. Mista hopes he doesn't feel how he tenses at the contact. “It sounds perfect, Guido. Thank you.”
“No problem.” His voice sounds choked. He hides it with a cough. There's always something about Fugo in times like this, when he can drop his facade as Passione's underboss, when he's soft, warm and pliant against Mista's side. Mista likes seeing him like that, unguarded and relaxed. “You should probably start asking around who wants to eat with us. Affy?”
“No can do, sir. I need to drive Signora Sheila to the airport at 6am sharp.”
Misra expected Fugo to pull away to send the message, but to his surprise and satisfaction, he stays firmly against his side, pulling out his phone and typing with one hand.
He catches sight of his wallpaper, a candid photo of Giorno sleeping on his desk with the sunlight streaming through the windows, and fights back the sick feeling of jealousy and longing in his heart.
Giorno is waiting for them at the cafe when they exit the car. He’s dressed down, no fancy designer suits, just a pair of navy blue sweats that somehow works. There are dark bags under his eyes, but he's smiling softly at them. Fugo greets him with a kiss on the cheek while Mista briskly walks past them to enter the cafe.
It's empty, save for the barista at the counter who greets them. They take a seat in a corner, and Mista finds himself sandwiched between two blonds. It's odd. Usually the two of them sit together and Mista sits across from them.
“I want the Rainbow Waffles,” Giorno says, pointing at a monster of a dish covered in cereal, syrup, marshmallows and fruit.
“You won't be able to sleep,” Fugo points out, flipping the menu to the drinks section. “Get some tea, maybe a small platter of something sweet.”
Giorno tugs the menu and flips it back to the page with the waffles. “How about just the strawberry waffles? Mista says you might like it.”
“Mista doesn't have to wake up early tomorrow morning to start paperwork. I actually need to sleep, GioGio.” Fugo insistently pulls the menu back towards him, but Giorno keeps a firm grip on it.
“You can sleep in tomorrow. It's the weekend.”
“Gangsters don't take days off.”
“Funny, considering you always remind me to take days off every other week. Bit hypocritical, don't you think?” Mista watches Fugo melt, but if he knows him as well as he thinks he does, the argument isn't over yet.
“We can get the waffles another time, on our next date. Right now I just want something light, okay?” Fugo tries to look pleading. Mista doesn't call it a pout, but it looks close to it. He can see the moment Giorno folds.
“Fine. If I accept your terms, will you accept mine? We eat something light, but you still sleep in tomorrow. Both of you,” he adds, nudging at Mista.
“Fine,” Fugo replies, finally taking the menu back. “A pot of lavender tea and cookies to share. Is that good enough? Great.” Fugo stands up swiftly and makes his way to the counter.
Mista watches Giorno watch Fugo with a soft look in his eyes. They're good for each other, he thinks. Giorno knows how to rein in Fugo's anger when it gets the best of him, and Fugo knows how to pull Giorno out of his shell when he becomes reclusive. He likes watching them, satisfied as an observer of that happiness instead of being part of it.
“Mista?”
“Hm?” He fidgets with the placemats on the table, cute pastel things that look like biscuits. He hears Giorno sigh.
“Guido.”
Mista snaps his head up, knowing Giorno only uses their first names when he's serious. He can't identify the look on his face, but Giorno doesn't look happy at all. His mouth is turned into a frown, eyebrows drawn together and eyes searching. Mista feels something creep up his spine. He calculates everything that led to this point, trying to figure out which moment flipped the switch. They were happy up until a few moments ago. What went wrong?
“Sorry, should I have ordered for us? I know you haven't seen Fugo in a while so you must be itching to catch up.” Mista tries to stand up and get to Fugo, but Giorno grabs his wrist and pulls him back down.
“That was by design. Fugo decided that I should be the one to approach you with this.” He looks grave, like a judge about to deliver a sentence in a court hearing.
“Approach me with what? You can tell me anything, Gio.” Mista sees the moment Giorno tenses. Their corner of the world suddenly feels fragile, on the precipice of a great fall.
“Let me begin by saying you mean everything to us. I know how Fugo feels about you and he knows how I feel about you, and we've been beating ourselves up for a while because we never noticed it until now.” Giorno is rushing his words in a manner unbefitting a don. That's when Mista knows it's not a Passione problem, it's a personal problem. “We were always planning on bringing this up, but we were never sure of it, because for someone with his heart on his sleeve, you can be unbelievably difficult to read, Guido.”
Mista wants to tell him to slow down, to process the confusing words, and even more confusing feelings.
But then, a shiver runs up his spine. The roar of his thoughts die down to a whisper. His senses honed to one point beyond the glass windows of the cafe.
“Guido, are you even listening to me?”
A flicker of an aura, gold against the dark sky. Sex Pistols emerges from him on instinct.
Fugo returns to the table, looks confused at the scene. “Mista?”
Mista snaps to action. Grabs Fugo by the hand and Giorno by the neck and tugs them down the table as an arrow flies through the air. It embeds itself into the wall where Mista’s head was and starts melting, eating up the wall with a sickly green acid.
“Sex Pistols!” Mista fires a volley of bullets through the window, all six of them thrilling as they fly. Behind him, he hears the barista screaming in terror and a door slamming shut. He quickly reloads his revolver.
“Shit!” Fugo exclaims, looking at the arrow with terrible familiarity. “It's from the American gang we wiped out!”
“I thought we cleared them!”
“One of them must have survived!” A whistle in the air. Mista knocks the table down and it stops three arrows in their paths. There's a sizzling sound and the table starts to deteriorate before their eyes.
They hear a yell outside, followed by a thud and the Sex Pistols cheering. Mista shoves the destroyed table aside and starts making his way outside, Fugo and Giorno trailing behind him.
The enemy user is on the ground, curled up as the Sex Pistols float around him. Mista kicks him in the back and he cries out, rolling over to his back. His clothes are littered with scorch marks and soot, the remnants of Fugo and Mista torching their base to the ground.
Mista points his gun at him. “Oi asshole. You interrupted a very important conversation. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“Don Giovanna,” the enemy spits out, bloody. “I’ll only speak to Don Giovanna.”
Giorno comes up on Mista's side, looking down at him coldly. “I believe I was perfectly clear in our terms. Any signs of drug trafficking in your organization and I obliterate you and your entire operation.”
“Bullshit!” he tries to stand up, but Gold Experience punches the ground and the grass binds him around the legs, arms and neck. “Drugs are the most lucrative income in gangs. Everyone knows that! Get with the program, you runt!”
Giorno snorts, stepping forward to plant a foot against the man’s throat. He sputters as Giorno grinds down, looking every bit the powerful mafia boss despite the casual clothes. “I don't know if you’ve noticed, but Passione has not had a speck of drugs in its system for years, yet we are still the most powerful gang in this country. I will not tolerate anyone besmirching the city we’ve worked so hard to protect.”
Mista suddenly feels a tight grip on his forearm, Fugo entering his space and looking grim. “Mista, I read the profiles. He's not the Stand user.”
“What?!” Mista quickly surveys the surrounding area. The tiny front garden and the other shops surrounding it. He hears the whistle of an arrow flying in the air just as he spots the shadowed figure lurking atop a tree.
“GIORNO!”
Mista tugs Giorno away from the man on the ground and shoves him and Fugo behind his back.
Something sharp stabs him in the chest and an excruciating pain rivalling Gold Experience’s healing fills all his senses.
He screams as he falls to the ground. The last sight he has is of Giorno and Fugo’s look of terror as his vision darkens.
Giorno has Gold Experience grab the melting arrow and turns it into a woodpecker. “Fugo!”
“On it!” Fugo starts following the speeding bird, summoning Purple Haze out as he runs.
Giorno drops to his knees next to Mista as he writhes on the ground, screaming and crying. The arrow has melted away the front of his sweater and green acid is eating away at his skin and muscle. Gold Experience lays his hand on him and starts turning the acid to new skin and muscle faster than it can spread to the rest of his body.
The pain doubles. Mista’s scream cuts off with a choke. The burning acid and the deep healing from Gold Experience is overwhelming all of his senses. He can't process anything beyond the pain he is feeling, two forces trying to rip him apart with him helpless in between them.
“Mista, look at me. Mista!” His head is turned. Eyes pried open by fingers. There's a yellow blur in front of him. “Hang on, okay. Please hang on!”
Somewhere in the back of his mind Mista wonders what changed. When he was on the verge of death against Ghiaccio, Giorno was calm and composed, but now he's practically begging him to stay awake, shaking him and screaming at him. What changed over the years that Giorno was this scared of losing him?
“I can't lose you.” His ears are ringing. Something hot and salty drops on his skin. “Gods, we can't lose you Mista. Not now. Not after everything. Not ever if we can help it. Please, you have to stay awake.”
He wants to say something cheeky, something along the lines of ‘you're the boss’ but Mista feels as if someone is squeezing his windpipe. All he can let out is a pained wheeze.
The sound of footsteps, blurry red in front of his eyes. A second voice. Mista feels his eyes growing heavy, his ears ringing with the sound of two voices yelling at him. He doesn't know what they're saying, but the sound of them together is a comfort in the haze of pain he’s fallen into. He holds on to them like a man might to a plank as he is thrown in the unforgiving sea.
He feels himself drown.
On particularly bad nights, Mista entertains himself with the idea of what it will be like to be in a relationship with Fugo and Giorno. He sits down in front of his TV with his favorite romance movie and pops Cinque out so they can share a gallon of ice cream. As far as their personalities go, Cinque represents his heart the most so having a night just taking care of him is the closest thing to self-care he has.
When he sees the main couple go on cutesy dates, he imagines it were the three of them. Giorno under a parasol as Mista rows them in a canoe down a river in a park. Fugo under a flowery archway as Mista twirls him around in dance. A picnic with all three of them while being serenaded by street musicians. Maybe they can do without the large scale flash mob, but he supposes he can arrange a carriage ride through the park and get birds to deliver some flowers.
He stops those daydreams before they can fester. He doesn't want to hope. Hope implies an emotional investment, and if you get too invested only to be let down in the end, it will be him picking up the pieces of his broken heart.
Cinque tugs at his curls, whining pitifully. Mista shoves his emotions away and pats at his Stand.
His dream slips away like sand through his fingers, easily forgotten, but the ache it leaves persists. Mista registers the dull pain in his chest and briefly wonders with a note of hysteria, that that clusterfuck of pain and screaming is nothing compared to what he would have felt if he’d let Fugo or Giorno get hit.
There's something warm curled around his hands. Mista summons the energy to open his eyes, squinting up at the familiar ceiling of Passione’s infirmary. When he turns his head, he sees Fugo, clutching at his hand with a death grip as he sleeps in a chair beside the bed.
Mista tugs at his hand, trying to shake him awake. Fugo startles, head shooting up and whipping around until they land on Mista.
“...hi,” he says, voice raspy. Fugo grabs a water bottle off the bedside table and helps Mista sit up to drink it. The water is cool to his parched throat and Mista easily chugs the whole thing.
“How are you feeling?” Fugo asks, not meeting his eyes as he fiddles with the medical bracelet on Mista's wrist. He's never really liked any medical setting.
“Like I’ve been shot.”
“So like any other Thursday.”
Mista snorts. It jostles his ribs and he groans, looking down to see bandages wrapped around his chest. “What happened?”
“You passed out. Too much pain in your system from the acid and Giorno's healing.” He taps a rhythm against his wrist. Mista waits. “It was scary as fuck. You were twitching and screaming.”
Mista turns his palm upward to rest it against Fugo's. “Sorry you had to see that.” Fugo sniffs. It's the closest to tears he’s ever going to pull out of him. “What happened to the arrow Stand user?”
“Haze got to him. His partner is being interrogated as we speak in case we missed any more stragglers.”
“That's good.” Mista leans back against the pillows, looking at Fugo worriedly. His fidgeting has stopped, but his hand is shaking in Mista’s, needing to find an outlet of his energy. “I’m sorry.”
That gets Fugo to finally look at him. “What?”
“I was supposed to send the Pistols in to make sure we got every member of the gang. It's my fault those chumps probably followed us."
"Why are you apologizing? You're the one who got shot." Fugo's emotions are shifting, less desolate and more in the familiar realm of his hair-trigger temper. "Which was really fucking stupid. You're not a human shield. Shooters are supposed to be behind the lines."
He doesn't rise to the bait, instead honestly saying, "Better me than either one of you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"If either of you die the other one will be lost in grief. If I die at least you have each other." Later on Mista will blame it on the meds for being too honest with his feelings.
Fugo's face contorts, a mix of anger and concern. "Mista you fucking moron. That doesn't comfort me the slightest. I care about you, Giorno cares about you. We care about you and you would see that if you'd take your ass out your tacky pants for once."
"My pants are not tacky!" he argues, trying to change the subject, but Fugo is adamant. He's squeezing Mista's palm in a vice grip that's hard enough to bruise.
"We can't lose you!" Fugo cries and to Mista's horror there are actual tears in the edges of his eyes. "You...you're... you're all I have left of the old team. You're the one who helped rebuild Passione with Giorno. If you think for one second that we'll be okay if you just died, then you don't know much about feelings, do you? Mista, I'll be devasted."
Mista doesn't have anything to say to that. It's always a weird feeling, hearing Fugo speak so honestly. It's disarming. Makes Mista want to pour out his own feelings, hold Fugo's hand and never let go
Fortunately, or not, he is saved by the door to the infirmary opening and Giorno peeking his head inside. His shoulders relax when he sees Mista awake.
"Good morning, Guido," he greets as he approaches them, a bundle of daisies in his hand and a paper bag in the other. He sets both of them down on the side table. "I brought breakfast."
"Great considering our meal was rudely interrupted last night." Mista tries to grab the bag with his free hand, but Giorno takes it in his, both of his hands now occupied by a blond. "Uhhh…"
"That wasn't the only thing that was interrupted." The smile is gone from Giorno's face. He looks as serious as he did last night. "I must confess that I've been standing at the door for a while now. I didn't want to interrupt you and Panna, but I heard everything."
Mista gulps. "It's nothing, alright? I just overreacted. Don't make a big deal abo-"
"You know we love you, right Guido?" Giorno interrupts.
"Yes? I love both of you two, dude." Fugo sighs, mutters something unintelligible. "What was that?"
"I said, we love- love you."
"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"It means that I love you the same way I love Giorno," Fugo says. Mista's heart lurches. A small spark of hope that refuses to die no matter how much Mista stomps it out. “And no, it's not a platonic ‘i love you like a brother’ kind of love, it’s the ‘i want to take you out on dates and kiss your stupid face for hours’ kind of love.”
“What he said,” Giorno confirms. “We were going to ask you last night, you know, before you got shot and made us worry for the past few hours.”
“Sorry,” he says weakly. Giorno tuts and raises his hand to his lips, kissing his knuckles.
“We should be the one who are sorry. We waited too long because we weren't sure. I don't know what we would have done if you had died before we can tell you how we feel.” Mista feels like he's going to be sick. He's thinking back over the years together, looking into every missed opportunity just because they were all too afraid. Huh. It's almost funny. Fearless members of the mafia chickening out over human feelings. He's sure Narancia is laughing at them in Heaven.
“I suppose it's a good thing you never give up on anything you want, huh?” Mista sighs softly, closing his eyes for a bit. When he opens them, Fugo and Giorno are staring at him, and he’d like to believe they look hopeful too. An emotional investment. “You want me? Both of you?”
“If you'll have us,” Fugo says quickly, as if Mista will change his mind anytime. Fat chance. Mista will never do that, he was satisfied being just an observer after all. “I know it's not the most conventional relationship, but I’ve been reading up on it. I think, no, I know we can make it work.”
“Of course you read about it, nerd.” Mista wants to laugh, and maybe ask Fugo for the same books. “Are you sure though? I’m not exactly boyfriend material. I’m messy and loud and I’ll probably force you to watch the same movies every week.”
“And Giorno is intimidating and clingy and eats too much sweets and doesn't like the dentist. But I love him anyway.”
“Hey!” Giorno doesn't look the least bit offended. “And Fugo is uptight and moody and drives like a madman. But I also love him regardless. Can’t you see Mista? There is nothing you can say that will convince us that we don't want you. Not unless you tell us you don't love us.”
“But I do ,” Mista says, returning their holds on him. “So much. You have no idea. I love you so much I accepted the consolation prize of just being your friend.”
“Is there a chance we can upgrade that?” Giorno is smirking, but Mista can see a hint of shakiness to it. A crumbling composure. “From friend to boyfriend?”
Mista smirks up at him. “At least buy me dinner first.” It's as if a great weight was taken off their shoulders. He can see the joy slowly growing on Fugo and Giorno's faces, like they can't believe what's happening right now. Mista doesn't blame them. Even he feels as if he's still stuck in a dream.
“How about we go back to that cafe?” Fugo suggests, “Giorno can get that ridiculous diabetes-inducing waffle and we can...talk.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Mista says before a thought occurs to him. “What happened to the enemy users?”
“Taken care of,” Giorno says ominously with the grace of a man who’s been Italy's most powerful figure for the past years. “We paid for the damages too so our return is still assured.”
Mista hums noncommittal. “Looking forward to it.” He feels tired now, eyelids growing heavier the longer they talk. It must show on his face because Fugo starts adjusting the bed so he is more reclined against his pillows.
“We’ll leave you to it,” Giorno says as he begins to stand up, but Mista latches on to him. He knows now that his feelings are very much requited, still there's a selfish part of him that wants to see them longer just so he can make sure it's real and not a dream.
“Can you stay with me for a while? At least until I fall asleep.”
“As long as you want,” Fugo says. Mista closes his eyes and surrenders to the exhaustion creeping up on him. He feels something warm press against either of his cheeks before he falls asleep.
He knows without saying that they’ll be there when he wakes up.