Archive of Our Own ^beta

If Giorno was being honest, he had been expecting this romance to be much grander.

He tapped his finger against his desk in frustration. A light breeze through the open window rustled the papers of a proposal from one of the capos spread across his desk, though the information had long slipped from his brain. Instead, Giorno’s mind wandered, spreading roots quietly through his thoughts as he considered his dilemma. It had been three months since he and Mista had confessed and officially “gotten together”, as it were. It felt too immature to call Mista his boyfriend, and yet far too presumptuous to call him Giorno’s lover, especially in light of his current problem.

Giorno had had a plan. Their first kiss admittedly hadn’t been what Giorno had envisioned, but he could work with that. He strived on adapting to fate and shaping it into his own path, and had successfully turned an unexpected opportunity into a relationship with the man he loved.

He prided himself on his ability to adapt to the roadblocks destiny threw his way. But what he hadn’t considered, couldn’t account for, was that obstacle being… himself. He drummed his fingers quickly across capo Whoever’s proposal. He’d pictured it thus: a romantic (relatively) first kiss, transitioning quickly into a passionate romance that outshone any of the cheap paperbacks Mista pretended he didn’t read. Giorno had planned on a grand epic, to waltz in and sweep Mista off his feet with his charm. It was what Giorno wanted. It was what Mista deserved .

And yet, life had marched on, heedless of Giorno’s plans. When Mista had been fully healed, the next day still came. Meetings and contracts and heated discussions over territories couldn’t be postponed for a passionate rendezvous. There were capos to berate and politicians to please; the filthy undercurrent of Italy didn’t stop for any man, no matter his delusions of grandeur. Before Giorno had realized it, the days had slipped quick and quiet through his fingertips, and when he came to, he could only stare foolishly at the sand scattered at his feet. 

He and Mista hadn’t been on a date in those three months--they hadn’t even kissed since that first day. Outwardly, they had barely changed at all. If he were generous, Giorno could count the quick glances they shared between meetings as meaningful, and the lingering heat of the quicker hugs Mista gave him before they parted for the night as passionate. Pathetic, indeed, for a man that had proclaimed himself a fairy tale lover!

Giorno ground his teeth. Fate truly did spite the man that took his life for granted.

“GioGio? You doin’ OK?” Mista’s voice shook Giorno out of his reverie. He glanced up to see the man staring at him curiously, not at the level of worry just yet.

“I’m fine,” he returned quickly, shuffling capo Whoever’s proposal back together. “This proposal by capo…” he quickly glanced down, “...Maiale, is quite poorly put together. It will take some time to thoroughly read through it and respond to him.” He honestly had no idea if the report submitted by Maiale was subpar, he couldn’t recall a word of it.

Mista nodded pensively. “Yeah, I can see that. Seeing as that’s capo Minestra’s report, and you’ve got it backwards.” Giorno quickly flipped the paper around to see Minestra’s name in bold letters across the title page that had been facing outward. Mista grinned.

“Gee Boss, as your beloved right hand man, it seems to me you’ve been working too hard.”

Giorno let out a quiet breath through his nose. “I’d say that’s an accurate perception. What might this allegedly beloved right hand man recommend?” 

Mista leaned back on one of the room’s sofas pensively, eyes closed in thought. “Well, in my professional opinion, I recommend calling it quits for the day.”

If Giorno were truly brave here, he’d respond with some sort of clever, flirtatious line that would catch Mista completely off guard. Something like, ‘would you distract me instead, then?’

“I’m not sure I trust your recommendation. What exactly makes you certified?” Smooth play, Giovanna. 

Mista nodded. “I’ve got a degree in ‘because I said so’, and also, I’m always right.”

Giorno pensively tilted his head. “Can’t argue with those qualifications.” He broke into a small grin. “Remedy me, then. What’s the Doctor’s treatment plan?”

Mista mock-coughed professionally into his closed fist before continuing. “Well, I’d say, toss that,” he motioned at Minestra’s proposal, “and let me make you dinner.”

Giorno stole a quick glance at his watch. Mista, despite being a self proclaimed free spirit, followed a surprisingly strict meal routine, which may or may not have been based on the Pistols. It was currently 7:25PM, coincidentally five minutes before the bullets usually began their demands for dinner. Mista almost always insisted on cooking dinner for them all, and Giorno had begun to find the consistency comforting. 

“I’m afraid I can’t afford to toss this,” he shook the proposal, “but I can follow your second recommendation. Is the chef taking requests?” Mista hemmed over this for a minute, before responding.

“Kitchen’s open for suggestions,” Giorno opened his mouth to comment, “ but you’re getting vegetables no matter what.” Giorno withheld his comment and clicked his tongue.

“I’ve never objected to vegetables in my life. I’m insulted.”

“You’ve turned my carrots into flowers, like, three times!”

Giorno shrugged. “I’m afraid Requiem sometimes acts on its own. Such is the burden of having a requiem stand.” 

“Well keep your burden in check, requiem boy, because I’m slaving over these veggies. Those carrots,” Mista made vague shapes in the air with his hands, “are gonna be good as hell. You’ll be begging me for more.”

There was an easy opening. Giorno Giovanna, self proclaimed greatest lover, would have no trouble switching that line around into something seductive. The opportunity practically spelled itself out. And then Giorno looked up, at Mista’s grinning face, his eyes soft as the gentle light of the evening caressed his tan skin, and felt his knees shake and throat swell up. 

“I’m looking forward to it.” He clenched his clammy hands and cursed his useless mouth. Mista, unaware of Giorno’s pathetic attempt to woo him, dusted off his thighs as he stood up from the sofa. 

“I’ll come get you in an hour or so then, yeah?” Mista smiled again, casually leaning onto one leg and hooking his thumbs through his belt loops.

“Of course, you know where I am,” Giorno responded, and felt a stutter deep inside when Mista tossed him a playful wink.

“See you in an hour, lucky boy.”

And with that, Mista closed the door behind him. As soon as he left, Giorno buried his face into his hands. What a fool, what an absolute idiot he was. Some lover, some grandiose romanticist! He could barely be called charming, his grace falling absolutely flat when he so much as looked at Mista. Where are your charms now, Giovanna? Your flattering and beautiful words?

God, what an idiot.

Giorno glared down at Maisala’s, Minerva’s, whoever’s proposal this was. He quickly whipped a pen from his drawer and clenched it in his hand. He needed to channel his frustrations somehow, and Marsala, the poor soul, was about to get the fine-toothed combing of a lifetime. He snorted when he found the first page littered with spelling errors. He’d bet anything Minestrone hadn’t even proofread the proposal before handing it in. Fool, the sloppy presentation only ate away at the credibility of his ideas. Giorno leaned back and prepared for a vindictive reading session.

Unfortunately for his petty revenge, Giorno was interrupted soon after by a curt knock on the door. Without glancing up from the report in his hands, he called out, “You can come in, Fugo.”

Fugo quietly walked into the room, shutting the door gently behind him. An uneasy feeling began to spread inside Giorno. Fugo only acted this way when he had bad news or some unpleasant task to deliver. Giorno prayed his intuition was wrong--the last thing he needed was some urgent crisis--but the sinking feeling within him only strengthened his suspicions.

“I thought Mista had roped you into helping him cook dinner?” Giorno asked as Fugo slid into the sofa nearest his desk. Mista often tried to force one of them to help him prepare meals, and on the sliding scale of ‘who was decent enough to help in the kitchen’, Fugo was at the top, and thus usually ended up forced into helping. For the record, Giorno tended to vacillate between ‘could hold a knife on a good day’ and ‘Get the hell out oh my god this is the second time you’ve sliced your hand open.’ His arguments that GER could simply turn the blood on the food into harmless petals or snakes went unheard (dare he say received with disgust) and he’d been unceremoniously banned unless urgent backup was needed. 

“Well, we got into an argument about some dumb hypothetical Mista brought up,” a usual occurrence between the two, “and there may have been an accident.” Judging by the cheerfully patterned band aids adorning Fugo’s fingers, the results of their squabble seemed obvious. Again, a usual occurrence. 

Giorno knew Fugo would only take offense if he offered to heal the cuts on his hand, so he moved back to the purpose of Fugo’s visit. “What unpleasant news have you brought me, then?”

“Hey, I never said it was unpleasant,” Fugo responded, but his uneasy grin said otherwise. He pulled a single folded sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it over. “Here, just take a look at this.”

Giorno quickly scanned the sheet. There were a dozen or so addresses listed, along with a few names and low resolution photos by each location. Some quick mental mapping determined they were all within the same general area of Naples, but far enough apart to be inconvenient. The dots connected in his head, but he still turned to Fugo with a look asking him to explain further.

“I was going through some of the old Passionne bookkeeping records--turns out Doppio was a real shitty secretary, by the way--and found a list of properties that I hadn’t caught beforehand. Sorry, Giorno, they just keep popping up.” Giorno nodded and furrowed his brows. 

One of the unexpected hurdles of overthrowing Diavolo had been dealing with the aftereffects of his all encompassing paranoia. Diavolo had lived his life ruled by the fear someone may discover him, and had spent thousands buying up random apartments and old homes under fake names across southern Italy to serve as his safehouses. Even if they ended up being empty and filled with dust, Giorno had made it his duty as Don to personally inspect and clear each one. It felt like something he needed to do, some sort of closure that only he could gain. He’d spent weeks visiting each location with Mista when Fugo had first tackled the Passione archives a year ago. He’d unfortunately assumed they’d found all of them. 

“This is all of them you found?” Fugo nodded.

“So far, at least.” Giorno resisted sighing, glancing back to look at the list in more detail. He’d just narrowed in on one particular address when Fugo laughed. 

Giorno quickly looked up. “Sorry, you looked like you swallowed a lemon. I know it’s bad news but…” he trailed off and snickered a bit more. Giorno found himself smiling a bit.

“Yes, it is unpleasant news. Regardless, I will formulate a plan to take care of it. What does the schedule look like for tomorrow?” In addition to accountant, Fugo had also become Passionne’s defacto secretary. He looked at Giorno in surprise.

“Tomorrow? There’s only the meeting with capo Minestra about his proposal but--tomorrow? That seems awfully quick for you.” His eyes narrowed knowingly, already picking apart Giorno’s ulterior motives. 

“This is something I’d like to take care of quickly. And frankly, capo Minestra should proofread his reports before he thinks of wasting my time with a meeting.” He rapped Minestra’s lackluster proposal. “I’m already planning to send him my response,” it would take the form of a rather scathing email that Giorno looked forward to writing, “so the schedule for tomorrow is clear. I’ll leave with Mista in the morning.” 

Fugo nodded, though the knowing tint to his expression hadn’t changed. “I guess you won’t be back until late then? If I recall correctly, there’s a place on there with a nice view of the ocean. Never been, but I figure it’d be a good place to watch the sunset.”

Giorno resisted smiling. So Fugo had caught on. “Yes, I plan to return late. I’ll procure transportation, so please don’t worry about arranging anything.”

“Understood, boss. Enjoy your rendezvous, then.” He made to leave before Giorno stopped him. 

“I can heal those cuts, you know, if those bandages become too inconvenient.” Giorno figured he may as well ask anyway. He and Fugo weren’t necessarily close, but Giorno considered him a friend nonetheless. Fugo paused, before smiling and wiggling his fingers.

“Sorry Giorno, these are my last line of defense. I might’ve put on a few extra to guilt Mista into forcing Trish to help him instead.” He then paused to mull something over, before deciding to continue. “Hey...if you cut a sandwich in half, do you get two smaller sandwiches or just two halves of one sandwich?” 

Giorno blinked. “Two halves of one sandwich, obviously.” Fugo muttered ‘fuckin’ knew it’ under his breath, before shooting him a thanks and exiting. Ah, so that’s what the argument had been. Giorno could practically hear Mista’s ‘it’s infinite sandwiches bro!’ from here. 

The thought of Mista’s excited grin and rushed voice as he eagerly explained his latest hypothetical warmed Giorno as he turned back to Minestra’s proposal and the list of addresses. He had quickly worked out a foolproof plan, one that easily pushed forward his plans to woo the other man. All he needed to do was suffer through visiting a handful of dusty, empty apartments and he’d be rewarded. 

The location he’d zeroed in on was located in a small hamlet of Naples, nestled against a cliff overlooking the ocean. Giorno had been there on some negotiation or another years ago. The area was filled with quiet restaurants offering the freshest seafood and breathtaking views of the sun sinking below the water. At the time, he’d shared the view with a few stuffy politicians, and Mista had been separated from him, guarding the entrance to the private room. But alone, together, with nothing but a glass of sweet wine between them? Giorno felt his heart beat slightly in anticipation.

Yes, it was a solid plan. Giorno could make up for his inaction and spend a wonderful evening with Mista in one fell swoop. Thoughts of sweet kisses tinted by seasalt breezes hummed in his chest as Giorno turned back to his laptop. Fate had given him an opportunity, and he couldn’t afford to squander it.

When the evening had officially melted into night and dinner had finished, Giorno found himself again lost in thought in their small dining room as Mista and Fugo cleared things away. Trish quietly sipped her wine across from him, flipping idly through a magazine. Their personal dining room had originally been a small study, before Mista declared (to the unspoken agreement of all) that they needed someplace to eat together, and had shoved a large antique table from somewhere else in the villa into the small room. The table was just wide enough to be inconvenient in the cramped space, and it certainly wasn’t up to any fire code, but the close quarters naturally invited a warm atmosphere that Giorno found comforting. 

Fugo, his ruse found out at some point (Giorno suspected a certain pink haired insider), had been forced into washing the dishes. Their muffled bickering could be heard even inside the dining room, and Giorno smiled at the sound. Mista had made good on his promise from earlier, and the carrots had gone down sweet and pleasant, no help from GER required. Of course, the anticipation of tomorrow’s venture may have added something.

“You seem happy, GioGio,” Trish said lightly, swirling her wine in her glass. “I thought you’d complain when Mista piled carrots on your plate.”

Giorno felt unfairly attacked. He tolerated vegetables, respected them even, and couldn’t fathom where this reputation came from. His affinity for sweets and eating whatever he could quickly grab in the heat of work did not amount to being a picky eater. Yes, he’d probably never eat healthy if Mista didn’t cook for him, but honestly.

“Mista told me he worked hard on this meal, the least I could do is eat without complaint.” Trish snorted.

“Yeah, he spent so long slaving over the stove. And yet he still found time to ask me some dumb question, and then talk about you for the rest of the time.” Giorno felt a pleasant buzz when he heard that. 

“And what was your answer?”

“What, he asked you too?” Giorno shook his head. “No, but I heard from Fugo.”

Trish groaned. “Come on, GioGio, it’s two halves of one sandwich. I can’t believe Mista’s even arguing otherwise.”

“WELL, Trish, if you’d even considered my point of view, you’d see I’m right, actually,” Mista returned, juggling a few shallow glasses filled with almond pudding in his arms. Fugo followed, carefully balancing the rest in his hands and sliding them across the table.

“Alright Mista, I’ll bite. Give us a second round of your bulletproof argument,” Fugo egged Mista on and Trish groaned a ‘not again’.

Mista grinned, deposited himself next to Giorno, and leaned back confidently in his chair, arms spread behind him. “Well it’s simple. You’re both coming at this arguing that if the crust of the slice is broken, it’s a ‘half sandwich’. But consider! You go to a deli,” he quickly leaned forward, hands moving in front of him. “You approach the deli man. You tell him, ‘I need a sandwich. That good shit, the freshest pastrami, my man.’ He goes and makes you the sandwich, throws it on the counter. And you look at this sandwich and it is clearly,” he then jabs his finger on the table to enunciate each following word, “one half of a bigger slice of bread. What are you gonna do? Make a scene, in the middle of this deli, because you asked for a whole sandwich and he gave you a half ? No!”

He folded his arms and tipped his head confidently. “You accept that this, this half a slice, is a full sandwich ! In that moment, your argument is irrelevant!” 

Fugo ground his teeth. “First, it’s invalidated . Second, that’s purely anecdotal! You can’t base an entire thesis on one example! Everyone here disagrees with you, you haven’t even accounted for all of our arguments.”

Mista blinked in confusion. “I didn’t ask GioGio?”

“Well I did. Tell him Giorno.” Fugo looked at him expectantly.

“Actually, I think Mista makes a valid point. I retract my previous answer.” Giorno took a small bite of the almond pudding and Mista’s face lit up. He threw his arm around Giorno’s shoulder and pulled him close, laughing triumphantly. The vibrations of Mista’s chest and the warmth seeping from his shoulder as he gloated made Giorno’s ears heat up.

Fugo knocked his chair back and banged his hands on the table. “That’s--that clearly doesn’t count! This is just the damn Mista Bias all over again! Giorno’s clearly biased!” 

Mista Bias? Giorno frowned in slight confusion as Trish elbowed Fugo in the side. “You’re gonna spill my wine. Besides, you know you can’t argue with him. He’ll drag you down to his level and beat you at it.”

Mista, ignoring Trish’s insults, gave off a few more obnoxious ‘wahahahas’, only growing louder at Fugo’s visible frustration. His head, thrown back in joy, a smile splitting his face, was the only thing Giorno could see in that moment. He could listen to Mista’s laugh forever. Trish cast him a knowing look before turning and tugging on Fugo’s arm.

“Cheese boy,” Fugo, thrown off guard, only looked at her in confusion. “I need your help with something. It’s in the archive.”

Fugo adapted quickly, smoothing his rumpled pants and slicking back down his hair. “Sure, Trish. I’ll help you find that thing you were looking for. Some people ,” a pointed glare at Mista, “can’t be argued with.” With that, he scooped up his almond pudding and sped out of the room. Trish silently followed, grabbing her wine glass and magazine.

After Fugo had left, Mista’s laughs quieted into a few chuckles before petering off completely. “He’s still so easy to mess with.” He turned and grinned at Giorno. “Thanks for agreeing with me, though. ‘Precciate it.”

Giorno smiled as the air around them quieted. “I’ve got an obligation. We’re together, after all.” Mista stared a little, before turning his face to the table and rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, we are, huh?” His face seemed a bit dreamy as he smiled back. 

As Mista rubbed his neck, Giorno caught sight of a small curl peeking out from under his hat. It must have been knocked loose earlier. He was surprised it was even long enough to curl--Mista usually snipped it off before that point. He reached forward to tuck it back in.

Now, what Giorno had meant to say as he did this was ‘You’re beautiful.’ Unfortunately, his brain apparently short circuited, because what actually came out was, “Your hair’s getting long.” 

Mista looked at him with wide eyes, his mouth slightly open. “Uh, y-yeah? Ya think so?” 

Giorno could only foolishly nod back. Superb, Giovanna, an absolutely stunning line. He could only hope Mista wouldn’t take it as an insult. Mista quickly adjusted his hat on his head, shoving any stray hairs back in. “Well, guess it needs to be cut soon anyway. Kept forgetting about it.”

Giorno wanted to protest, he liked Mista’s hair at that length, just long enough to curl and occasionally peek out from the brim of his hat. But he felt locked up again, too stock still to say anything of the sort. He was at last able to force out, “You should sleep early tonight. There are some properties of Diavolo’s Fugo found, and I’d like to check them all out. We’ll need to get an early start.”

Mista nodded, used to quick changes in their schedule. “Sure thing, GioGio. Um,” he paused for a moment, as if considering his next move, before quickly reaching forward and pulling Giorno close into a quick hug. The sudden movement knocked back Giorno’s chair, but the sound barely registered to him. “I’ll, I’ll see you tomorrow then.” If Giorno had been brave, he would’ve turned Mista’s face towards his, kissed him slow, maybe even asked if they could spend the night together. Unfortunately, Giorno was a coward, and he could barely hug Mista back before the other man separated from him. 

“Night, GioGio.” 

“Goodnight, Guido.” Mista left the dining room, and Giorno felt very cold. The warm atmosphere had evaporated, and he was suddenly very alone. His arms ached with longing, mocking words swimming in his mind. Why didn’t you sweep him off his feet? Channel those grand words you’re so proud of, and keep him with you? Useless, useless, useless.

No, Giorno couldn’t give up. He had an ace up his sleeve, a bulletproof plan. Tonight may have been a failure, but the bright hope of tomorrow glimmered in his future.

Giorno sighed, pushing off the covers and clicking off the alarm. He had been wide awake for the past hour, head buzzing and body thrumming with nervousness. The weak light of the morning barely pushed past the crack in his curtains, and he impatiently turned to check the time again. 5:30AM. Was that too early to get ready? He hadn’t specified a time for their departure; would Mista even be up at this point?

The thought that he could just wake Mista himself occurred to him. The man had almost a sixth sense for his surroundings--he could sleep like a log in Giorno’s office, only to be jolted wide awake by him quietly opening the door. The blond, however, was a light sleeper and had never been able to rid himself of that habit, nerves wired even when he slept, leftover memories from a distant childhood he preferred to forget. He shook his head to clear his mind. He wouldn’t wake Mista--he may as well use the little time before they left to prepare himself for that evening.

He crept out of bed and looked at the clothes he’d laid out the previous night. Suit the color of red velvet, subtle floral patterns embroidered into the fabric. It was one of his favorites, and it gave him a little bit of confidence to put on something so familiar.

It’ll be fine. I’ve handled worse things , Giorno thought to himself as he sat in front of his vanity to braid his hair. What was one romantic evening compared to a shootout with a rival family? What were a few sweet words whispered to his companion compared to a speech he’d delivered at a banquet in front of dozens of politicians and capos? How could a kiss possibly hold a candle to the uncertainty of piercing himself with the arrow?

Giorno knew he had faced and conquered more difficult things in his life. And yet, he knew that this was entirely different. Giorno had done those things with confidence, his path shining in front of him like a golden road leading him to his destiny. Those decisions had come to him as naturally and assuredly as the sun rose in the East. Here, there was no path, no life or death decisions. The only thing at stake was the love and friendship of the man he adored most. It was simultaneously the most nerve wracking yet frustratingly mundane thing he had ever done, and the realization of that gutted him from the inside out.

He placed his quaking hands back on the vanity and looked at himself. The clenched lips and pale skin of mirror Giorno certainly didn’t inspire confidence.

“It’ll be fine.” He told himself. Mirror Giorno looked unconvinced.

The first property on Fugo’s list was a dingy one bedroom on the south side of the city. After stopping for a hurried breakfast at a nearby bakery (much to the Pistols’ complaints), they’d taken a taxi over to the tiny, dilapidated complex that contained the small apartment. The two story building looked even sadder in the early morning sunlight, with peeling gray paint and a faded, sagging roof the color of mud (though Giorno suspected it was once green).

Mista whistled as they exited the taxi and approached the building. “Diavolo sure had a real eye for this stuff.” Giorno couldn’t help but agree. 

He scanned the building for the correct apartment, finally settling on the door on the farthest side of the second floor. Even from this distance he could tell the wooden door was bloated and sun bleached from consistent exposure to the elements. “Kinda get the feeling this place isn’t up to code,” Mista commented dryly as they made their way up the crumbling stairwell. 

“I agree. I’ll have Fugo look into the building's records when everything is wrapped up.” While housing quality wasn’t exactly in Passionne’s jurisdiction, Giorno wasn’t about to turn a blind eye to a landlord taking advantage of desperate people. He’d lived in enough ramshackle, seedy apartments as a child to have a personal stake in the matter. 

They made their way to the last door on the floor. Mista automatically moved to the left side of the frame, ensuring Giorno would be blocked by the opening door if someone happened to be on the other side. Giorno lifted his hand to the doorknob and called out Gold Experience. Unfortunately, they’d never been able to find the keys to most of the properties that Diavolo had hoarded. Giorno had always pictured an amusing little bag hidden underneath a storm drain or buried inside a city garden, filled to the brim with house keys, waiting to be discovered by a curious passerby. Thankfully, they didn’t need keys for their job.

Gold Experience’s ghostly hand shimmered into being above Giorno’s own and reached out towards the doorknob. With one touch, the chipped iron knob immediately transformed into flowering vines, spreading quickly over the front of the door. He stopped the vine’s growth when the knob--and the lock--had been entirely transformed. He gave a silent nod to Mista, and grasped one of the vines to quietly pull open the door.

Mista quickly flew in front of it, gun drawn. The apartment inside only greeted them with silence. As expected of a property that had sat empty for years, but neither of them wanted to chance an encounter with a wandering squatter. He quickly summoned two of the bullets. “No. 2, No. 6, scout it out.” “Roger!!” With that high pitched response, the Pistols shot off into the dim apartment.

Only when the two Pistols had returned and confirmed that it was empty did Giorno and Mista enter. The large dusty window in the main room, caked in filth from neglect, let in a faded muddied light, casting the room in a color that reminded Giorno of dishwater. He glanced at the floor and grimaced, noticing the thick layer of dust coating his shoes a dirty gray. He couldn’t say if the apartment had been in the same state when Diavolo had used it, but the thought of him huddled fearfully alone in this sad, dirty room was somehow fitting.

“Oh shit!” Giorno quickly turned to see Mista bend over and pick something off the ground. He flashed a faded flyer at Giorno that must have been shoved under the door at some point. “Fish fry this Friday!” He turned it over to read the back. “Oops, the date was back in 2000. Think we missed it?”

Giorno laughed lightly. “I’m sure we can make it if we hurry.” He raised his eyebrow as Mista folded the flyer into sixths and stuffed it in his back pocket. “You’re keeping that?”

Mista nodded and grinned. “Like a cool souvenir, you know?” Giorno just nodded back and returned to the main room. Mista had a habit of picking up ‘cool’ items, usually whatever caught his eye, and bringing them back to the villa as trophies. Flyers, a couple of ‘neat’ rocks, a few flowers that Giorno had been able to preserve indefinitely with GER, and one signed, torn copy of some vampire romance novel they’d found in a musty library were just a few of Mista’s prized souvenirs, all stored in a box somewhere in his closet. If he were being honest, Giorno found it immensely endearing, but he felt the same about most of what Mista did.

Flyer aside, the apartment was barren. Giorno thoroughly searched all three rooms as Mista trailed behind, but each was empty. Not that he’d ever found anything of substance in any of Diavolo’s safehouses, but he considered it worthwhile to check.

As soon as he’d concluded his search with a look through the molding bathroom, Giorno nodded to Mista and both headed back to the front door. He quickly resummoned Gold Experience, and returned the door knob and lock back into its original form. When they left the crumbling building, it was as though they’d never been there at all.

The bright sun beat down overhead, grass wilting and asphalt boiling beneath its rays. Giorno lightly tugged at his collar in an attempt to escape the oppressive Italian afternoon heat. He stood under the shrinking shade of an overhang of an empty shop, waiting for Mista to return after quickly feeding the Pistols. He glanced at his watch--they were still on schedule. Six properties down and five more on their list. If their luck kept up, he could even squeeze in a seaside walk with Mista before dinner.

He itched idly at his wrist, his nerves returning as if becoming aware of the evening drawing near. The sweat that pooled on the back of his neck felt uncomfortably cool, and he cursed that none of the properties they visited had working A/C. They couldn’t afford to turn on any lights or air conditioning while they visited each property--the chance it could draw unwanted attention was too great. He’d used this excuse when Mista asked why Giorno seemed so determined to end their search before dark, but he now regretted keeping the truth from him. Giorno had intended it as a surprise, but now wondered if Mista should have had some say in it as well. It was his date too, after all.

Giorno was startled out of his thoughts by Mista’s voice.

“Boss! Sorry it took so long.” Mista joined Giorno under the small overhang, shoving his hands in his pockets and sighing. “They were reeeal complain-y today, I think it’s the the heat getting to ‘em.”

Giorno nodded sympathetically. “I understand. It’s been a long day for them as well.They can take a break for the rest of the day, you know; I don’t think we’ll be running into much trouble.” Mista snorted.

“You spoil them too much. They’re just dramatic.” He reclined against the shaded brick wall for a bit, gazing up and down the empty street. “And hey, where’s that concern for me, huh? I’m usually taking a nap right now.”

“My apologies to interrupt your hectic schedule.” 

“Damn right! I’m making sacrifices to be here.” Mista turned and grinned at him. “Actually, you know, you could make it up to me.”

Giorno felt his pulse quicken. Was Mista purposefully giving him an opening? He hadn’t expected the other man to take the lead. He felt his mouth dry (must’ve been the oppressive summer heat). 

“Yeah? And how might I repay you for this inconvenience?”

Mista hummed. “Well, I saw this little gelato stand when I was running to that deli earlier. I’m feelin’ generous today, so you could buy me a few scoops and I’ll call it even.” Ah, so that was his game.

Giorno would like nothing better than to relax with Mista on a shady park bench and eat gelato together until the afternoon heat abated. But he had a grander path he couldn’t deviate from. They could get gelato any day; the opportunity Giorno had carefully planned out only existed today. He couldn’t afford to lose it.

Mista must have glimpsed Giorno’s furrowed expression as he quickly backtracked on his previous statement. “It’s OK, boss, we don’t have to. I was just joking, I know we’ve got like, a schedule and all.” He scratched at the back of his neck and grinned sheepishly. “I’m not gonna be heartbroken if we don’t go, you know.”

Giorno was grateful Mista was so understanding. Even if it was something small, he didn’t particularly like turning the other man down. It was a habit he tried not to let show, lest Mista’s ego get too inflated, but he liked seeing him happy. Perhaps Fugo had a point when he mentioned the ‘Mista Bias’ the previous evening. Giorno smiled.

“Really? You aren’t too upset we aren’t getting ice cream?”

“Giorno, c’mon,” Giorno was amused to hear a slight whine in Mista’s voice, “I’m not five, I’m not gonna cry if we don’t go to McDonald’s or whatever.”

“Really? I seem to recall you crying about something similar when we first met. Something about really wanting strawberry cake?” Mista flushed lightly.

“That was, like, four years ago! And it was really good cake!” He tugged roughly at the base of his hat. “God, how do you even remember that? You were barely there.”

“It’s hard to forget someone serving you piss in a teapot.” He shuddered lightly. He wondered if, had Abbachio been able to finish the journey with them, he could ever have gotten an explanation for that. The thought made him slightly melancholic, if conflicted. 

“Yeah, well,” Mista mumbled, “I assure you I’m all grown up now, like, a real adult.”

“Glad to hear it, considering my life is in your hands.” He smiled gently at Mista. “If we finish up quick, we could grab gelato before we head back.” Mista perked up despite his previous arguments.

“Ooh? Giving in after all huh?” He shot Giorno a playful wink and a finger gun. “I’ll hold you to it. Let me go call a taxi.”

Giorno smiled as he watched Mista walk towards the nearby payphone. Sure, he’d caved and agreed anyway, but sue him. Sometimes it was nice to just make someone else happy. His path forward still shone brightly, unchanged in any case. Only a few more hours to go.

The cool sea breeze tossed Giorno’s hair lightly as they walked up the hill to the final property. The small house was built into the cliffside, with a below-ground basement that overlooked the ocean. The white paint had flaked with age, but the house still stood out against the setting sun like a broken seashell against the sand. Unlike the rest of the properties they had visited, this was the only one that struck Giorno as a place someone might actually want to live in. He vaguely wondered how Diavolo had even gotten his hands on it.

As Mista walked down the small path to the entrance, Giorno checked his watch again. There had been a few delays throughout the day. As expected of a man that made sure to buy only the trashiest, seediest apartments, most of them were located in the mazes of the alleyways of Naples and had been difficult to locate. Unfortunately, they’d lost more time to that than Giorno had realized, and were now running late. Well, to Giorno they were. Mista would be unaware they were behind schedule, and he needed to subtly hurry them both up before the restaurant gave away their reservation.

He walked up to Mista, in the middle of summoning a few of the bullets, and waved him off. “Every property today has been completely empty, and you said they were tired earlier, right? It’s fine.” Mista looked a little surprised, but shrugged and unsummoned them with a quick “right-o, boss.” Even if the man hated to admit it, Giorno knew the bullets represented a part of Mista’s mental state. If they’d complained that much, Mista must have been more exhausted than he let on. Giorno could understand, and could admit that perhaps he had bitten off more than he could chew by vowing to visit and clear a dozen different addresses spread across the city in one day.

The process was routine by this point. He summoned Gold Experience, who transformed the knob and lock into vines, and reached forward to pull the door open. Mista moved to the other side of the frame, but his stance wasn’t as tight. Maybe Giorno could find a nice hotel for them to stay at. There were plenty of lodges overlooking the sea, and they could spend a night together, away from the duties and pressures of the villa.

Distracted by thoughts of a passionate night, Giorno was startled when hot, musty air rushed out of the entrance. Mista quickly glanced inside and gave him the all clear. Giorno joined him and walked into the house. He was surprised to see it was furnished--well, furnished for Diavolo. A musty sofa lay near the far wall, and a pile of equally dusty blankets was spread near the center. Like the others, it was clear no one had been here for quite some time, although some of the dust had been kicked about by wind rushing in through a large hole in one of the windows. 

Giorno's thoughts were conflicted. On the one hand, if Diavolo had bothered to move furniture in here, there was the possibility that he’d left Passionne related documents around as well. There were still blank spaces in Passionne’s history they had never been able to fill in with the records they had, and such documents would prove invaluable. On the other hand… Giorno was impatient. The thought of spending an hour checking each room while his reward lay tantalizingly out of reach grated on him. He pulled at the sleeves of his suit in annoyance.

“It’s hot as hell in here,” Mista mumbled, and Giorno couldn’t help but agree. The air outside had been hot, but the temperature in here was practically boiling. Mista looked about before motioning his gun upwards.

“Looks like there’s a loft up there. I’ll check it out.” Giorno nodded, turning back to survey the main floor. There were a few doors that he could assume led to a bedroom, bathroom, and a staircase to the walkout basement. He began calculating  the most efficient way to search them as Mista walked towards the stairs leading towards the loft.

It happened fast. Mista had paused in front of a shoe closet next to the stairwell when the temperature suddenly soared. Giorno was overcome with a sudden fatigue, and his body felt like it was swimming through syrup as he turned to look. The doors to the closet rattled once before crashing open, and a high pitched whirring noise shook the house. A dull thud resounded as something bright and silver burst forth, quickly spinning across the room and smashing against the opposite wall, leaving an ugly gash along the floor in its wake.

It took Giorno a few seconds to realize what had happened. Mista had turned his head in shock, looking dumbly at the closet. No, not at the closet. Giorno’s eyes trailed slowly to the ground. Mista’s arm, still clutching his pistol, lay on the floor. Blood began to burst from Mista’s severed shoulder, as he slowly raised his hand to the wound. Giorno made to run over to him, but his limbs felt separated, as though he were trying to command someone else’s body. Why couldn’t he move faster? Why wasn’t Mista reacting?

The whirring noise reached his ears again and he quickly leaned back as something rushed in front of him, though his head spun and he found himself knocked to the ground. Black spots played at the edges of his vision he turned to look at the opposite wall. The same gash had torn into it, yet the silver creature remained unseen.

Creature? No, it was… it was a stand. It felt like it had taken him ages to piece that together, but it was obvious. This was a stand, and there was a stand user. Users…? 

He tried to clear his mind and focus but he couldn’t think. His thoughts slid against each other, slipping through his hands and melting into fog as he desperately tried to tie them together. He knew he should scan the room, find the user, but his eyes settled on Mista. Mista, the man he loved, hunched over with gritted teeth and clutching his shoulder. He needed to help Mista, he needed to help him. His pulse hammered in his neck as he struggled to stand, but his arms felt like sandbags. What was happening? Why couldn’t he stand?

Stand… stand! The whirring reached his ears again, and he felt a strange pull as GER appeared and grabbed his collar. Though it had reacted quickly, it wasn’t quick enough. Giorno’s hand flew in front of him as he fell back, and the sound of something slicing reached his ears. He looked down dumbly at the wet, bloody nubs on his right hand, the digits falling to the floor with a light pop pop pop. 

‘There are two.’ The ghostly voice of GER resounded in his brain. Shouldn’t GER have been affected as well, if Giorno was like this? Was this the power of a requiem stand? No, no, that’s not the point. The point is there’s two. Two what?

Two… two stands. Two stand users. There’s two somewhere, attacking them. There’s the fast one that makes a whirr whirr noise, and, and what was the other one? What was the other one?

There’s the quick fast spinny whirr whirr noise one that must have hurt Mista. It hurt Mista. Oh god, Mista! He needed to help him, he needed to help him. 

‘You must focus. What is the second one?’ GER’s voice sounded strangely like his own, if he’d thrown rocks into a lake and his rippled reflection spoke back to him. What is the second one? What couldn’t he do, right now? What was wrong, right now? What was wrong was Mista, oh god, Mista! He felt tired and heavy and his breaths were labored. He needed to help Mista, Mista would bleed out otherwise. An impatient tug on the back of his collar forced his thoughts back. No, he needed to find the second one. The second stand user. What did the second stand user do??

The whirr whirr very fast very spinny noise burst into his ears again, and he lurched back. GER supported him so he didn’t fall again. He saw it then, in front of him, a silver blur, no a spinning, a spinning blade. It was a blade! He clenched GER’s fists and shot them forward, slamming them into the side of the spinny whirr whirr blade. It was like a round cutter, he thought, just like the circular blade that his sweet Mista used to cut the pizzas he made for them. Mista, who was bleeding out and on the ground, oh god, Mista! He needed to help Mista!

‘Focus!’ Giorno tried to clear his thoughts. His guess had been right. GER’s fists remained unharmed, and had slammed into something solid. The stand laying on the ground in front of him had mottled gray skin and reminded Giorno of a big armadillo. Sharp protrusions lined it’s back, like it could curl itself and form into a sharp round blade. No it DID do that, it did that to him. It sliced his fingers! It hurt Mista!!

He reeled back to punch it again, but his movements were too slow. The armadillo shot out from under him and raced to the other side of the room. It was going to curl again and come at him! No!! Where was the user? Where was the user ?

He felt like that was important, like there was a big reason why the user wasn’t there with them, but he couldn’t piece it together. His thoughts scattered like pebbles thrown onto a lake. Why couldn’t he think? Giorno’s breathes came out in laborered chunks. His pulse beat so hard he thought it would burst from his neck. Why couldn’t he breathe? He couldn’t breathe.

He… he couldn’t breathe. He glanced at Mista, who had grabbed his pistol from his severed arm and was trying to reload it with one hand. He must have shot at some point, but Giorno couldn’t remember. There were flecks of gold around him that must have been the Pistols, but he couldn’t hear them. He focused on Mista. Mista, whose mouth was open, panting, like he couldn’t get enough air, couldn’t breathe. Mista couldn’t breathe either, even though the Pistols were fine.

Stands don’t need to breathe, but stand users do. Stands don’t need to breathe but stand users do. “GER,” he called out, through his mouth felt like it was filled with syrup, “I need, I need leaves.” 

GER seemed to implicitly understand, and suddenly the shoulders of Giorno’s suit burst into bloom. The plants settled around him, pulsing with life. He felt the static begin to clear and his mind return to him. The life GER created was powerful, and it grew quicker than any natural flower. But it still fundamentally functioned like any other plant--by consuming carbon dioxide and exchanging it for oxygen. It was air, the second stand user controlled the air. Specifically, Giorno assumed it increased the amount of carbon dioxide in a given space, weakening those caught in it to be taken out by the bladed stand. The other stand’s user had probably hidden himself to avoid the effects of his partner's ability. 

Giorno, mind cleared with the oxygen GER’s plants produced, heard the whirring noise from a mile away. The stand was loud, and couldn’t possibly catch anyone off guard if they weren’t weakened by something else first. He stepped back and curled GER’s fists. When the stand rushed at him, GER slammed into its side. Knocked off balance, it toppled to the ground and skidded across the floor, landing right below the broken window.

He didn’t waste any time, and quickly crossed the room to get to Mista. Mista’s shoulder hadn’t stopped seeping blood, and his eyes were dazed and panicked when Giorno approached him. He clutched his pistol tightly and choked out, “There’s, there’s two of ‘em. You need to, be careful Gio…” 

“I’m fine.” Giorno quickly glanced at Mista’s wound and severed arm. He didn’t have time for the delicate work it would have taken to reattach it now. He’d have to make due with something to stop the bleeding. He knelt down and reached around Mista to slide his good hand in the gunman’s back pocket. Ignoring the wink Mista sent him, Giorno pulled out the flyer Mista had grabbed from that first apartment. He unfolded it and quickly pressed it to Mista’s shoulder. The paper morphed into flowering vines that rapidly furled around him. It would be painful to change everything back later, but it worked well enough for now. 

The flowers’ effect was two fold. As the bleeding ebbed away, clarity returned to Mista’s eyes, and he turned to Giorno. “Did you find the blade stand’s user?” Giorno shook his head.

“No, though he may not even be in the house. The second one…,” he trailed off, unsure. There was a shuffling sound to their left--the stand was recovering from the shock of GER’s attack. 

“He’s up there,” Mista motioned loosely with his pistol to the loft room above. “How did you…?” Giorno’s question went unanswered as the armadillo stand began to stand up. Another attack was inevitable. He quickly helped Mista up, and the other man shakily stood and shot him another wink.

“I can handle him, GioGio. Take care of that one.” Giorno nodded as a few of the Bullets chorused ‘Leave it to us!’ Mista ran for the stairs as Giorno turned to face the bladed stand. It hunched over and reared up. He suspected it was an automatic type, able to act independently of its user but unable to follow anything but the most basic of orders. Unfortunately, that meant the user himself could be miles away by now. 

Giorno stood back and strengthened his stance. The stand seemed to only focus on him, and had only one attack at its disposal. If he could trap it somehow, taking care of it would be easy enough. The stand let out a screech and curled in, rolling towards him quickly. He acted fast.

GER reached out and pressed its hand against the wall. The top layer quickly began to turn into soft green vines, spreading rapidly over the paint. The whirring noise reached a deafening level and Giorno leapt back as it shot past him and into the wall. The vines were quickly crushed by the force of the blow, and the stand lodged further past them. 

He quickly slammed his hand onto the vines. The now dead plants responded to him, and he watched in satisfaction as they began to morph into tree roots. The stand, apparently realizing it was stuck, began to struggle, bucking roughly at the wall to back out. The rapidly expanding roots blocked its exit as the paint around it changed to bark. Branches burst from the wall, clawing upwords and sprouting leaves with the life GER had gifted it. Creaking filled the air as the wooden stairs groaned and heaved with the weight of the tree pressing into them. Giorno only stopped when the stand had been completely blockaded by roots and branches.

The stand jerked roughly, attempting to pull its arms from the encircling roots. The tree held firm, and it could only struggle, useless as a rabbit trapped in a snare. He stepped back, curling GER’s fists in preparation. If they were lucky, the user would be somewhere near the house, and they could identify his body after the fight. If not… oh well. 

Two shots rang out in the air above him, and Giorno smiled.

Their search afterwards was quick. After a (according to Mista, excruciating) healing session, Giorno had gone up to the loft to see their enemy. He had briefly looked over the air-controlling stand user’s corpse, but the woman was no one he recognized, and apparently salient enough to carry nothing identifying on her. Even the tags on her clothing had been removed. Unfortunately, as Giorno had feared, the remains of the other user were nowhere to be found. Depending on the range of the automatic stand, the body could be miles away, and there was no guarantee it hadn’t been found already and reported to the police. They didn’t have the means nor time to search for it; all they could do was wrap up the sweep of the house and head out.

Now, they’d moved on and taken refuge further in the city. Giorno leaned his head back against the cool steel of the bench, sighing. Things had rapidly spiraled out of his control, though perhaps he should have expected it. They had missed their reservation by a mile by the time the battle had wrapped up, and Giorno didn’t feel right throwing his weight as Don around to get them a new one. Now he sat outside some cramped family deli, waiting for Mista to grab food for them. 

The harsh fluorescent lights from the shop windows cast odd shadows on the small stone street. Giorno had been the one to suggest they move farther into the city proper. There was no guarantee the two users in the house didn’t have allies to back them up, and it was too risky to stay by the coast. His dreams of viewing the sunset with Mista had dissolved like paper in water, and even if he had been the one to suggest it, Giorno still grit his teeth that they couldn’t even see the ocean from here. He curled and unfurled his fingers that just hours ago had been nothing but bloody stumps. 

In the best case scenario, they’d stumbled upon a hideout of some unaffiliated stand users squatting in what they perceived as an empty residence. In the worst case, Passionne could be looking at the beginnings of a rebellion. And… perhaps it was immature, unfitting of a man that had been the ruthless Don of Passionne for four years, but he was disappointed. Upset, even, that his romantic evening had been stolen away by two people whose faces he didn’t even know. 

He unclenched his fist when he realized his fingers had dug into his skin. Possibly more than a little upset, then.

“Yo.” He looked up to see Mista in front of him, a small smile on his face. “Wasn’t sure what to get you, but the pastrami looked hype, and the Pistols liked it, so…” He handed Giorno a sandwich wrapped in greasy butcher paper. 

They ate quietly. Mista attempted to lighten the air with a few jokes, but even if Giorno’s darkened mood didn’t kill Mista’s enthusiasm, his silence certainly did. 

When they’d finished up, Mista went to walk towards the nearby payphone, but Giorno stopped him. The drive back to the villa would take an hour at best, and he certainly didn’t feel in the mood to make the journey tonight. May as well spend the night on this side of the city, and head back in the morning. After a quick check-in with HQ, Mista motioned towards a nearby hostel.

It was a far cry from the rustic seaside lodge Giorno had envisioned spending the night in with the gunman. He bit back his bitterness, though, and kept his mouth shut as Mista charmed the clerk at the front desk into overlooking the blood on their clothes and lending them a room. The ‘lobby’ was nothing more than an oversized parlor, stuffed with torn, tacky furniture. The shabby lights cast a slight green glow over everything and lit up the clerk’s pungent cigar smoke as it trailed to the ceiling. 

The room wasn’t much better. One musty bed, old, trampled carpet, and a veranda that had seen better days. He felt exhausted.

Mista headed into the small bathroom as Giorno walked to the veranda. He had tried to brush it off, but his thoughts circled endlessly. If he’d been more careful, more thoughtful, he could’ve prevented the attack. Even if he couldn’t have stopped it entirely, if he’d put in a modicum of critical thinking, he could have shortened it significantly. But he hadn’t. He’d fucked up, and single handedly ruined his own carefully laid plans. Useless, useless, useless.

He grit his teeth and clenched the railing. The seaside view he’d pictured had been swapped out for an unenviable view of a trash-strewn alleyway. Cigarette smoke wafted up from somewhere below them and filled the air. A fitting end for a fitting man that couldn’t even treat his partner correctly. Perhaps this was retribution for his inaction during the last three months.

“Hey… you doing okay?” Giorno was snapped out of his thoughts as Mista’s concerned voice called out to him. He turned to see the other man leaning awkwardly against the doorframe to the veranda. 

“I’m fine,” he responded, but his tone was too clipped. Mista saw through him immediately. He came out onto the veranda and laid his arms over the railing, awkwardly looking out into the alleyway. 

“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it, but, you’ve been kinda… on edge, for the whole day, ya know?” Mista scratched the back of his neck awkwardly before continuing. “If there’s something on your mind, you can always, you know, talk to me.” He hastily added, “or not, if you don’t want to, I can just. Be here.”

Giorno let out a shaky breath. “Thank you. I appreciate it. It’s nothing serious, it’s just…” He trailed off. He couldn’t weigh Mista down with all of his inner turmoil. “I had planned something, and it fell through. That’s all.” He startled himself with how upset he sounded. He quickly shoved those emotions back. He was the Don, for God’s sake, not some pitiful teenage boy.

Mista bit his lip. “Well uh, if that’s really all, that’s fine.” His face took on a bright, if concerned, smile. “There’s always tomorrow, you know. You’ve got plenty of time to try again.”

That was the thing, Giorno had had time. He had endless amounts of it, a million times to try and show Mista how much he appreciated him. And he’d waste a million more, his thoughts too drowned out by the day to day minutia of his life, taking solace in the fact that Mista would be there, forever, until Giorno could again work himself up to making some grand gesture. It wasn’t fair, to either of them, but certainly not to Mista.

“I’m sorry.” Mista looked up, surprised by Giorno’s sudden declaration.

“For like, what happened at the house?” Giorno shook his head. “Then… for what?”

“For,” he resisted saying ‘everything’, “for all of this.” He gestured around them.

Mista laughed. “GioGio, c’mon, it’s just a shitty hotel. I’ve slept on the streets before, this is a step up from that.”

“Not… not just the hotel. I mean everything up until this point. I’m sorry, Guido.” Mista seemed to sober up hearing his first name, and instead looked at Giorno with fresh confusion.

“GioGio, I really don’t think you have anything to apologize for? Like, yeah, today kinda sucked, but we’ve had way worse than this.” Logically, Giorno knew this. They’d had far worse happen to them, but the fresh sting of today struck deeper than any of them.

“No, Guido. I need to apologize. I’m sorry, I…” Holding back at that point would have been useless. “...I’ve treated you terribly. I’ve taken you for granted, and that’s unfair to you.”

He paused, before powering on. “When we got together, I had all these grand, big ideas. I was going to sweep you off your feet. I had planned out all these huge gestures, but when it came down to it, I backed out. I was too cowardly to move forward with my own plans, so I stuck my head in the sand until I could muster the courage to do any of them. And I must have just… accepted, at some point, that you’d be okay with that. That you’d wait for me. And that’s not… that’s not how you deserve to be treated.”

Mista met him with shocked silence. He averted his eyes for a bit, seeming to mull something over, before eventually responding. “GioGio, I didn’t know that you thought that. I, I mean, I really don’t care about all that, you know? I’m a simple guy, you don’t need to do anything special. Just bein’ with you… just seeing another day with you, that’s fine with me.”

Giorno let out a bitter laugh. “It’s not fine with me, Mista. I don’t want to treat you that way. Do you think I wouldn’t want to whisk you away to some villa on the coast, far away from all of this?” He gestured to the alleyway around them. “I wanted to do all of that, but I couldn’t even muster up enough courage to kiss you.” He sighed. “I love you, Guido. Of course I want to do all of those things for you. I’m sorry that I couldn’t.”

Mista leaned forward on the railing, and they stayed in silence for a bit. After enough time had passed that Giorno began to feel like an idiot for exposing so much of himself, Mista finally spoke up. When he did, his voice had a thoughtful tone that Giorno hadn’t expected.

“You know, when we got together, I didn’t expect a grand romance or anything. Even… before, when I thought about what it’d be like, I didn’t think it’d be like that. I knew it wouldn’t, I guess couldn’t, be like that. I was just, happy you’d want to be with me at all. And I kind’ve expected things would be slow. So I’m really not disappointed, or anything, that you couldn’t do everything you said. I’m not settling, or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. What I really want is just, I just, ugh,” he rubbed the back of his neck.

“I just want to spend as much time together as we can. That’s dumb, sorry. But I, I love you too, like a lot, so that’s why.” He grinned sheepishly. “Though I’m happy to hear you say all of that. Kinda thought I was fucking things up on my end.” Mista quickly looked away after his speech, but he slid his hand shyly over Giorno’s, lightly squeezing it.

Giorno felt like the rug had been pulled from under him. He felt...no, had been foolish. He still regretted those three months. He was still frustrated his plans for the day had fallen through. But maybe he had been approaching it from the wrong direction. Maybe… it was okay. Mista’s warm hand on his own brought Giorno back to the present, reminding him that they had tomorrow, and  any day after that, to try again. A million opportunities to spend together across a million different days. He couldn’t keep waiting until the perfect moment. They had both chosen dangerous paths in life, but as long as he was trying, maybe it didn’t matter.

Hell, he could try right now.

“Hey...come here.” He gently tugged at Mista’s wrist to pull the man closer. Mista turned back to face him and Giorno was surprised to see his cheeks lightly flushed. The speech had apparently embarrassed him more than he let on. Giorno smiled, and brought his hand to Mista’s shoulder.

If Giorno were eloquent, he would have uttered something charming then, something grand and beautiful.  

But he wasn’t, so he pulled Mista close to him and brought their lips together instead.

The dog days of the Italian summer had arrived, and the villa heated up in the afternoon sun. Fugo had once made a lengthy proposal that air conditioning the entire villa with only four people and one turtle inside would be too costly to justify, so on days with no visitors they made do with fans. The wind ruffled the curtains of the office, but the air remained hot.

Mista groaned from the couch. “Holy shit, I’m going to kill Fugo. We need A/C in here, I can’t believe he convinced you not to.”

Giorno hummed, glancing over Minestra’s second draft of the proposal he’d submitted. “I can show you the PowerPoint he made sometime. It had a lot of convincing graphs and pie charts.” They had been very colorful, meticulously labeled, and had gone completely through one ear and out the other. The sheer effort put into the presentation had pushed Giorno to agree to it.

“Pass, Fugo’s PowerPoints are boring as Hell. I’d fall asleep in the middle and then he’d be all ‘Goddamnit Mista, again!’ and stab me or something.” It sounded like something Fugo would do. Mista glanced up from the sofa to look at Giorno. “What’re you working on anyway?”

Giorno sighed. “Minestra’s second proposal. I think he merely corrected his spelling and didn’t pay attention to anything else I said.” Barely any of the questions he’d brought up had been addressed. The idea had potential, but far too many ambiguous points to seriously consider.

Mista perked up. “Can I read it?” 

Giorno raised an eyebrow. “Guido, you hate paperwork.” Mista had once described himself (possibly while drunk) as ‘a real rootin-shootin’ kinda guy, GioGio, can’t type for shit’, so Giorno tried to avoid assigning those tasks to him.

“Figure as your beloved right hand man, I should take a look at that stuff sometimes.” He made grabby hands, motioning for the blonde to pass him the report, but Giorno shook his head. 

“Pull a chair over here if you’re going to look over it. I need to make sure your feedback is appropriate.” Mista threw a hand over his heart in offense.

“GioGio, please. You’ve called me the most eloquent man in Italy before!”

“That sounds like something I’d say.”

“See? And here you are, implying I’d be anything less than appropriate. I’m insulted.” He pounded twice on his chest for emphasis. “Absolutely insulted.”

Giorno hummed. “Perhaps I’d like to keep an eye on you anyway, just to have you close. You’d grant me that, wouldn’t you?”

Mista snorted. “Consent to your observation? You ask too much of me, GioGio.” But he was already grabbing one of the oak chairs from the meeting table at the other side of the room and pulling it over. “Scooch.” Giorno obediently moved his chair over as Mista slid his in.

He hummed pleasantly as he looked around the room. “So this is the big man’s view every day, huh?” Giorno smiled.

“Like what you see?” 

“Yeah, I feel real important just sittin’ over here.” He turned to look at Giorno. “Hey, can I throw my feet up on it? It’d look really cool.” He gave Giorno the patented Mista wink.

Giorno hemmed over this for a moment. “I’d say no, but I could be persuaded otherwise.” Mista grinned back at him.

“You’re accepting bribes now? For shame GioGio, for shame.” But Mista slid his seat closer anyway, and put his arm over the back of Giorno’s chair to steady himself as he leaned in. Giorno smiled as their lips met, and hooked his thumb through one of Mista’s belt loops to pull him closer like he’d always wanted to.

Maybe tomorrow he could try planning another date. Maybe they could finally revisit that little suburb of Naples, see the ocean and enjoy the sunset together, cooped up on a small private beach.

But today they had this. And that was enough.