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Leone Abbacchio tries to be mean to Giorno Giovanna, he genuinely tries, and for a while he genuinely succeeds. There are few people Leone’s been so mean to within the first minutes of knowing them; Giorno drinking his piss is truly for the hall of fame; truly the thing likely to send him straight to hell when he finally dies.
Once Giorno managed to climb to the position of Don, Leone kind of expected that whole thing to come back to bite him. Damn if it wouldn’t be easy for the kid to have him flayed alive or thrown in the ocean or something, but instead… there’s nothing. Leone remains part of the gang, working next to his friends as if he isn’t the rudest piece of shit this side of the equator.
He still tries to be mean to Giorno though, and he would very much rather not think about why. At this point it’s a natural thing, it would be a normal dynamic between friends – if Giorno returned his snide comments and sarcasm – but Giorno never does. Instead he replies earnestly, as if they’re having a genuine conversation, and it always throws Leone for a loop.
It’s been a long day. The gang is seated in the living room of their villa, drinking coffee or some form of alcohol. This day in particular Giorno’s filled the room with a flower he calls “nemophila”, and Leone thinks it sounds like a disease or some kind of kink, but the Don claims it means victory. It’s apparently a little celebration of their recent success.
Leone snickers, drinking the rest of his wine before looking straight at Giorno. “Why do you know so much about flowers? That’s a pretty gay interest. Were you always this gay?”
Bruno is the first to react, turning to stare at him with those baby blue eyes. “Jesus Leone, that’s a pretty homophobic thing for a gay person to say.”
He shrugs in reply, reaching for the nearest bottle of wine to refill his glass. “Just trying to get to know my friends, Bruno.”
Out of everyone, Fugo speaks up from the end of the couch. “According to science everyone in our gang is gay.”
Leone would very much like to read that science report, because as far as he knows it’s correct, and how on earth would scientists be able to predict that?
“According to science I’ve sucked more dick than all y’all”, Narancia states, a proud grin on his face as he reaches over to pat Fugo’s shoulder.
Mista chokes on his beer at the comment, looking as if he’s seconds from actually opening fire on the orange-kid. “TMI, Narancia, Jesus fuck.”
“I’d fuck Jesus, watch me”, Narancia replies, and Leone truly doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean. Maybe he’s more drunk than he realized.
Then, as the conversation has completely gotten away from him, and as he’s already forgotten what started it, Giorno speaks up.
“I got my stand when I was a child, and Gold Experience doesn’t talk. He was my only friend for a long time, so I studied the meaning of flowers to talk to him. I guess you could call it a secret language.”
Of course – of course – that would be Giorno Gionvanna’s reply to such a stupid fucking comment. God, Leone’s fuming as he raises his glass, and as he does his best to angrily drink his wine, he can so clearly see it. Giorno, nothing but a kid, hidden away in a dark alley, summoning random flowers from between cobble stones, exchanging forget-me-nots with roses, or whatever. Leone truly isn’t good at flowers; he just knows the ones that people mention in movies or books.
There’s something heavy in his chest though, something he won’t be able to swallow down with more wine or purge in the morning, but it’s easy to hide in the crowd; to let the others continue their argument about… who in the gang is the biggest gaylord? Leone doesn’t know what’s going on at this point, and he does not care in the slightest.
The next day he wakes early, his head foggy, but his body going by routine. He puts on shorts and a tank-top, heading for the kitchen to chug as much water as possible before he heads out for his morning jog.
Giorno’s in the kitchen, because Leone’s life sucks. Giorno’s in the kitchen with a miniature cup of espresso in front of him, blue eyes lost to the swirling darkness. He looks straight up apathetic. It should be the perfect excuse to walk past him and get the water in peace, but Leone instead clears his throat to get the Don’s attention.
“Good morning.”
Giorno just nods in his general direction, as if he’s actively attempting to get Leone to do something stupid. He won’t. It’s too early, and besides, last night was… a whole thing.
On his way out of the kitchen, Leone hesitates, and then he turns back. “Hey. If I want to tell someone they’re a rude asshat, what flower should I give them?”
“Why bother with flowers”, Giorno muses, a thin smile on his lips, “when you could just punch them? A broken nose speaks volumes.”
Leone sighs, wondering why he even tries to be decent, and maybe Giorno picks up on it, because he continues speaking after a brief pause. “If you specifically want to go the flower route, petunias or orange lilies might be the way to go.”
“Okay”, Leone says, realizing that he actually doesn’t have a good follow-up to his question. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He doesn’t precisely keep it in mind, but that image of Giorno as a child, that freakish stand with its purple eyes and tear-streaked cheeks his only friend… god, that scene lives rent free in his mind.
Months later they all gather for a movie night, and after a lot of debate, they somehow end up watching Moulin Rouge. It’s not as bad as Leone remembers – anything involving David Bowie gets a stamp of approval in his book anyway – but god is it melodramatic.
Nicole Kidman and Ewan McGregor are singing at each-other about how their love will live eternal, and Leone groans, sinking back into the couch. Who on earth meets a person and then, magically, their life immediately gets better? Fuck, this is why he normally only watches movies when there’s a new one with Monica Bellucci.
He looks around the room, and everyone’s glued to the screen, except Giorno. Leone has to do a second take, because holy hell, the kid is crying. A hand to his mouth, tears streaking his pale cheeks, blue eyes looking out the window. He looks like one of those marble statues, a saint weeping for humanity.
Leone clears his throat. “Knew you were a cry-baby”, he mutters, his voice sounding playful rather than cruel. Shit.
“Speak during the movie again and I’ll shoot you”, Mista stage-whispers.
“Everyone cries at Moulin Rouge”, Trish adds, green eyes fixed on Leone with a glare.
Soon enough, the others turn back to the screen, but not Giorno. His gaze is now fixed on Leone, and fuck, he shuffles closer on the couch until their thighs touch – until he can lean close and talk without disturbing the others.
“Actually, I haven’t cried since we thought Narancia died”, Giorno whispers, his breath hot against Leone’s neck. It’s a reminder that Giorno didn’t cry for him. “My mother was neglectful, and my stepfather beat me. I learned not to cry when I was very young, and I haven’t since.”
Fuck. Fucking hell. Fucking shitbags. Leone tries to take a calming breath, but it runs like a pathetic shiver through him. Who just says that? Who volunteers something so horrible to a person like Leone?
He’s ready to offer something like an apology, but those blue eyes are turned back to the screen, watching intently as Nicole and Ewan kiss. There’s a soft smile on Giorno’s lips, and Leone’s already worried about how he’ll react to the ending.
He’s also worried about how Giorno remains seated at his side, their thighs still touching.
The next day, he busies himself with extortion and whatever else is on Passione’s to-do list, and then he stops by the nearest video rental shop. Returning to the villa he dumps a bag of VHS-tapes in Mista’s lap, fixing him with a stare. “You’re gonna watch all of these with Giorno.”
Mista just stares at him. “Okay. Why?”
“Because”, Leone says, like that’s enough of an answer, and then he groans, because he knows it’s not. “Because you’re the only one with emotional intelligence.”
“Me?” Mista says, looking even more lost. “What about Buccellati?”
“Buccellati dismembers people and licks teenagers and laughs like a psychopath”, Leone replies, and leaves it at that, hoping Giorno gets plenty of opportunity to cry in the presence of someone who’s not a complete asshole.
He never knows if Giorno ever cries again – it’s not like he keeps tabs on the guy. Months, maybe a year passes, and then Leone’s ambushed by the Don in the bathroom.
He’s hunched over the sink, smudging his eyeliner, when the door opens. Leone’s ready to kick Narancia in the face for trying to take a shit while he does his makeup, but instead, there’s Giorno, looking impeccable as ever. He’s in a new suit, indigo and silver, and there’s a nervous gleam to his eyes.
“Yes?” Leone’s voice is still rough from sleep, and he raises an eyebrow, looking at Giorno’s reflection in the mirror.
“Hi”, Giorno says, as if it’s routine for them to hang out in the bathroom together.
“Unless you’re here to drink my piss again, fuck off. I’m in the middle of something.” Leone mutters, almost poking himself in the eye with his eyeliner pencil as he tries to resume his work.
“When you phrase it like that it both sounds like you want me to drink your piss, and that you want me around.”
Giorno walks past him, and sits down on the edge of the bathtub. Leone absolutely does not stare at him in the reflection of the mirror. He also stays silent, because clearly his brain is too exhausted to think of a clever retort.
“I need your help”, Giorno admits, eventually. Ah, so that’s where the nervous gleam in his eyes came from. “I’m attending a dinner with other, well, families present. I want to look presentable.”
Leone nods. “That must be a struggle, since you’re famous for looking like ass.”
When Giorno actually snorts a laugh at that, Leone does stab himself with the eyeliner. “I’d like some makeup that matches my suit.”
“Ask Trish”, Leone manages to grit out, as he’s trying both to save his own look and not cry because of the whole stabbing incident.
“I’m asking you”, Giorno replies, his voice steady.
Leone sighs deeply, so deeply he might faint from his lungs losing too much oxygen, and then he turns to properly look at the Don. “I assume you’re asking me because you don’t want to admit to Trish how little you know about makeup?”
Giorno simply shrugs. “Something like that.”
And so, Leone ends up kneeling in front of Giorno, blending an azure shade into the crease of his eyes, and complimenting it with a silver eyeliner. It’s not his finest work, but it’s good enough. Unless someone will be as close to Giorno’s face as Leone currently is – unless someone will lean in, only inches apart from the Don, close enough to see the light freckles of his skin and feel his breath on their lips – the rough edges of this look won’t be noticed.
“Why don’t you know how makeup works?” Leone huffs as he applies mascara. “Are you simply so handsome you’ve never thought to try it out?”
“I can’t tell if that’s an insult or a compliment”, Giorno breathes out, a smile on his lips, his eyes closed. “And well, I guess I’ve never had the luxury.”
“You’ve had the luxury of styling your hair to a ridiculous degree.” Giorno doesn’t reply. He just sits at the edge of the bathtub, his muscles relaxed and his face serene, as Leone kind of… thinks of the excuse to apply a little extra highlighter to his cheeks. After all, there’s no such thing as too much highlighter. “Speaking of, why didn’t you try doing this yourself? It’s not that hard to figure out.”
Giorno blushes faintly at that, a pink hue on his cheeks that look elegant enough to be part of the makeup. “Don’t think less of me, but, well… I’ve never had someone care for me, and I was a bit wired thinking about tonight. I’ve always taught myself things, so I thought I’d enjoy someone else doing it, even if I had to ask them to.”
Jesus fucking Christ. Leone actually feels nauseous. He feels like begging Giorno not to share anything else from his life, because it’s as melancholic and cruel as a Scandinavian comedy film. What’s he supposed to do with this info? He’s a depressed former cop who drinks too much. If Giorno’s looking for emotional support he’s truly turned to the wrong guy.
“Anytime you want to look more like a clown than you already do, hit me up”, he says, standing up to put the makeup away. When Giorno opens his eyes, those beguiling blues bright in the dim light of the bathroom, it’s easy for Leone to pretend that he doesn’t notice, even though the mirror offers him a beautiful view. The smart suit, the eyeshadow, all to frame eyes that cut like diamonds – even like this, sat on a goddamn bathtub – the Don of Passione commands nothing but respect. There’s no crack in the exterior, nothing that could reveal the kid that’s lived through a Dickensian childhood. Leone blinks, wondering if he’s actually imagined their conversations of these past years. It should not be possible for a man to carry such a striking duality, and yet, Giorno does.
It’s remarkable, and it’s annoying.
In the rotating schedule of “refilling the fridge”-duty, Narancia, Trish and Fugo are a group, Mista and Bruno team up, and that leaves Leone with Giorno. He can’t complain though; while Leone normally buys the cheapest wine to feel less bad about drinking so much, Giorno always convinces him to buy something more expensive. It’s almost… nice.
They’ve picked up all the usual stuff when Giorno stops at the dairy aisle. “Bruno wants to make carbonara tonight. Let’s get bacon and cream.”
Leone can do nothing but stare. Man, he’s thankful they have a shopping cart; if he was holding a basket, he would have dropped it. “You don’t put cream in carbonara, Giorno.”
When Giorno meets his gaze, there’s nothing but confusion in his eyes – at least now Leone knows that he’s not messing with him. “You don’t?”
“No, and you don’t use bacon either. It’s fucking egg yolks and Guanciale, and you call yourself Italian? Dumbass.” Leone sneers, heading for the charcuteries. Giorno follows at his side, silent and attentive, those turquoise eyes stealing glances at Leone as they walk.
“I don’t even know what Guanciale is”, Giorno admits, and he speaks slowly, as if he’s sorting through his mind this very moment, trying to figure out if he’s ever heard the word before.
“It’s like pancetta, only made from pork cheek. It’s heaven in a carbonara.” Leone explains this to Giorno while rummaging through the charcuterie section in a frenzied hunt for that very thing.
“Sounds expensive”, Giorno muses. “I had to start cooking for myself early on, and well, bacon and cream were cheap enough. I could also make a lot of servings out of very little. It’s the only way I’ve ever made carbonara.”
Of course. Of course that would be the reason. Leone should know better by now. He clenches his jaw, making sure not to say anything, because if he speaks, he might actually cry. Does he need to make a chore chart, but for emotions? To help the gang visualize who’s the best to talk to about feelings, because it sure as hell isn’t him.
They wrap up the shopping round, and the second they get back to the villa Leone stalks through the hallways until he finds Bruno.
“You’re cooking with Giorno today”, he says, pointing in the general direction of the kitchen. Bruno just stares at him, those wide eerie eyes looking at him like they don’t see Leone’s physical form, and instead peer at his very soul.
“Sure”, Bruno hums, pausing by Leone’s side as he’s heading out the room. “Any particular reason you’re ordering me around like you’re the Don?”
“You’re the one who wanted to make carbonara”, Leone huffs, not meeting Bruno’s gaze. “Besides, he’s never had the chance to cook it properly before.”
Bruno doesn’t say anything, he just walks out the room, one final look thrown over his shoulder, and fuck if that isn’t worse than inquisitive questions.
Months later, on Giorno’s twenty first birthday, they eat carbonara that the Don cooks himself. It’s delicious. Leone tries to not take credit for it, because he didn’t actually teach Giorno how to make it – Bruno did all of the heavy lifting.
The night devolves into drinking games and dancing, and Leone takes part in the drinking and avoids the dancing, but then Mista finds a football and it is on. Leone hasn’t played in years, but he’ll take any excuse to tackle Fugo, and he’s drunk enough to enjoy how Narancia loses his mind when Leone dribbles the ball. He’s so lost in the game that it takes a while for him to notice that Giorno isn’t part of it, and when he notices, he can’t continue playing.
“Hey”, he says, as he sits down next to Giorno in the grass.
“Hi”, Giorno replies, smiling bright. There’s a blush on his cheeks from the alcohol, and his golden hair is curly in the humid night-time air.
In the distance Leone can hear the unmistakable sound of Spice Girl’s punches, Narancia screaming, and something suspiciously like a zipper being summoned. It’s tempting to turn and look at what the game has devolved into, but Giorno is right in front of him, slightly dishevelled yet very reserved, and Leone could never look away.
“You’re not going to join us?”
Giorno shrugs, not looking as he reaches for his bottle of beer. His hand searches through the grass for a while, and then he finally finds the bottle and brings it to his lips. Leone watches him drink. Watches as the bottle is handed to him; he accepts it without a word, taking a swig.
“I don’t know how to play”, Giorno says, and he doesn’t look sad, but he doesn’t have to.
Leone hands him back the bottle, rolling his eyes. “It’s not that deep, Giorno. You literally kick the ball with your feet.” He considers adding “idiot”, but can’t bring himself to. Fuck, he’s gone soft over the years.
“Hah, I guess.” Giorno doesn’t look at Leone. He turns to look at the stars, bringing the bottle of beer to his lips, and he doesn’t drink. For a moment he’s almost frozen in time, soft lips pressing against the bottle Leone just drank from, some form of bizarre kiss. “I never had the chance to play as a kid. I didn’t have any friends until a gangster forced other kids to play with me.”
Before he’s done speaking, Leone’s standing up. “Shut the fuck up, Gio”, he mutters, offering a hand the Don. Giorno doesn’t even hesitate. He allows Leone to pull him to his feet, and then they join the others – the earlier mayhem seemingly having been subdued by Fugo summoning Purple Haze.
It’s a bit awkward at first. The roughhousing from before turns very timid around Giorno, so Leone tackles Mista to the ground and literally lifts Trish off the grass to allow Giorno to steal the ball from her. For a split second he thinks he might be overdoing it, but then he sees Giorno; awkwardly kicking the ball ahead of him, laughing breathlessly, that styled hair completely undone in the midnight breeze. Fuck. Fuck. Leone might actually have to think deeply about this, because things are getting out of hand. He’s mesmerized – unsure if he’s ever heard Giorno laugh like this – and then Fugo and Narancia kick him to the ground, freeing Trish from his grip. He remains in the grass, staring up at the evening sky, blinded by the distant stars, shouts echoing in the distance.
They don’t talk about it, because to the others, nothing particular happened on the night of Giorno’s birthday… except that they convinced Trish to wear the clothes Mista used to wear as a teen, and Narancia won’t shut up about it. No one talks about Giorno joining the others to play, because no one else realizes how monumental it was.
Leone truly feels like he’s going insane.
Within a month or two, he knows he’s going insane.
They’re meeting with a low-level gangster. Some guy who’s tried to sell on Passione’s turf – something that would normally get punished by death, but apparently Giorno knows the guy. With wording like that, Leone expected a mysterious family member or an ex. Not a shitty ass bum that Giorno knew for five years during childhood.
They spend too long listening to the guy talk, and they spend even longer on a worthless negotiation that doesn’t accomplish anything.
The guy must think the same thing, because this is when he cracks, standing up to scream in Giorno’s face.
“Oi, Haruno, you think you’re better than me now? Just cause you’ve dyed your hair and pretend to be an actual Italian? Fuck off.”
The man stares at Giorno with a triumphant smile, as if something like that would be enough to coax a reaction out of the Don of Passione. Leone can’t help but to snort – this “old friend” truly doesn’t know Giorno at all.
“You think I’ll listen to you cause we used to hang? Dude, we only hung out with you because we were forced to – just like these guys only hang around you cause you’re a fucking Don.”
Giorno still doesn’t react to the taunts, but Leone… well, he has never priced himself on being level-headed, but he surprises even himself by the sheer force he elbows the man in the face. Once blood is spilled and the guy is on the ground it’s not like he has a reason to stop, so he kicks him a few more times before turning to Giorno for direction.
Instead of hearing the Don speak, the asshat on the ground splutters something like a laugh, a wet, gargling sound. “Oh, I see, you’re a whore just like your mom? Fucking these guys to keep them loyal, eh?” Leone can feel a weak hand grip the sleeve of his shirt, the man trying to get his attention. “With those lips he’s gotta give good head, right?”
Fuck, there’s has to be a good pun in there somewhere, because Leone falls to his knees and actually headbutts the man so hard he’s seeing stars. He reaches for the bloodied neck of the guy, his clenched grip already cutting off air. “Permission to kill this man, sir?”
Leone doesn’t get a reply, and he doesn’t want to take his eyes off the shithead… but he also needs to read the room. When he turns around, he’s immediately met by Giorno’s azure depths – those eyes fixed on Leone, the Don’s face unreadable. The room is silent, a suffocating pressure, and Leone doesn’t know how long it lasts, him still on the floor, his hand around the asshole’s neck.
Then Narancia apparently grows bored of the situation, because he walks over and shivs the man. Leone only let’s go off the body out of pure disgust.
The rest of the gang is high-fiving and hollering, and Leone’s still on his knees and Giorno is still staring.
Mista laughs, coming up to look at the body and give Narancia a high-five. “We should do something weird to his corpse.”
From somewhere in the room comes Fugo’s muffled voice. “Like what?”
Mista shrugs. “I don’t know. Pull down his pants. Draw dicks on his face. Kick him around a bit.”
“We could dismember him”, Bruno offers, helpfully “and then I could put the body parts inside his family.”
Trish snickers, sounding like she’s seriously considering Bruno’s suggestion. “That sounds perfect… or I could soften him up, and then we could tie him up somewhere. Like a outside the Palazzo della Borsa, or his mom’s house.”
The morbid discussion continues, but Leone can’t pay attention to it, because he’s still kneeling by the body, his skull aching from headbutting the man, and Giorno is still staring at him.
They get rid of the corpse by turning it soft and launching it into the stratosphere like a rubber band. It would be amusing if Leone didn’t still feel that gaze on him, blue eyes burning hotter than they have any right to.
That same evening at the villa he paces the garden, waiting for the others to go to bed. He knows that there’s no risk Giorno will turn in early – the Don only sleeps in the early morning, getting four hours a night, tops. Bruno’s worried about it, and he makes Leone feel like he’s supposed to deal with Giorno’s sleeping schedule.
Fucking hell. He should quit the mafia and join a monastery – the nuns will probably ask less emotional labour from him.
He’s thinking he’ll find Giorno in the villa once everyone else is asleep, but Giorno comes to find him. Suddenly he’s there, looking like an angel painted by Giordano. The normally styled hair undone, left in wild curls, and he’s dressed in a too big t-shirt, the thin white fabric sliding off his right shoulder. Leone would pretend that he doesn’t look, that he doesn’t notice the freckled skin and the muscles beneath, but he’s not a liar – would never lie to himself or anyone else – and so he doesn’t try to hide that he does look.
“Want to tell me why you beat that man within an inch of his life?” Giorno asks, voice even, face not giving anything away. This is not the Don act, Leone can tell – Giorno is curious, this has nothing to do with Passione business.
“I didn’t kill him”, Leone says, as if that would explain anything.
“I know”, Giorno runs a hand through his hair, looking tired. He sits down on the ground, Leone following suit, just to stay close.
“I’m sorry”, Leone starts, not feeling sorry at all, but knowing he should say it nonetheless. “When he started spewing that shit I just… I couldn’t stand hearing it. You didn’t deserve to hear it. So, I had to shut the fucker up.”
Giorno snorts a laugh, looking at Leone through dark lashes. “That’s nice. I still don’t understand why, though. You, if anyone, should know I can take that kind of stuff, right?”
“Okay, that’s not…” Leone protests before actually knowing how to put his thoughts into words. He would just like to say that Giorno’s wrong, but then he’d be fabricating things. How long have they known each-other? It’s coming up on six-seven years now, and they both know how this started out, and they both know of every single nasty conversation they’ve had between then and now.
The night is cold and humid, and the velvet skies above are empty, not a single star in sight. Leone can focus on nothing but the brilliant person next to him; the man who deserves better than what this life has given him; the man who deserves more than Leone’s pathetic reassurance.
He swallows thickly, watching Giorno as he speaks. “I’m so fucking sorry, you know? I’ve been a horrible person to you, and there’s no excuse for it. I guess… I guess I saw a lot of myself in you. The person I used to be – and this only makes sense looking back – but I think I wanted to scare you off. Keep you out of the shitty fucking mafia life. You didn’t deserve any of it, and you don’t deserve more of it from other people, so… yeah; I would’ve killed that shithead if Narancia didn’t beat me to it.”
Giorno’s silent for a long while. He tends to do this, simply staring into space as he processes his thoughts and emotions. It should be annoying – Leone still found it annoying a few years ago – but these days he just thinks it’s… sweet? God, he’s pathetic.
“This is a whole new level of self-hatred, Abbacchio”, Giorno says, some of the words almost lost to a breathless giggle. “You made me drink piss because I reminded you of yourself?”
Leone punches his shoulder, not hard at all, and he considers leaving his hand there, a point of contact, but he doesn’t.
“Oh, shut up.”
He’s not sure how long they sit in silence. The night is still disgusting, and his pulse is all over the place, but Leone refuses to speed things up. He won’t have this conversation at a pace that Giorno’s uncomfortable with.
Every now and then he glances at the Don, this larger than life man, curled up in a t-shirt that looks one wash from falling apart, hair wild in the breeze. Like this, he looks like a young man, his life ahead of him, and knowing what he’s already been through, Leone’s heart aches.
“I know what you’ve been doing for me, you know?” Giorno says it suddenly, and Leone’s so close to punching his shoulder again, harder this time.
“What have I been doing for you?”
Giorno smiles – a soft, intimate thing – and he doesn’t look at Leone. “The others report in to me.”
Oh, for fucks sake. Can’t he be allowed to live his life in peace? Are these assholes really ratting him out every time he attempts to be a decent human being?
“I’m gonna murder them. All of them”, Leone mutters, watching Giorno the entire time, not knowing if he’s hoping for a laugh or a frown. “I’ll start by slitting Mista’s throat as he sleeps.”
A laugh. He actually gets a laugh, and then Giorno turns to him, giving him a dramatically stern look. “Don’t murder our friends, Leone.”
That name on his lips, fuck, he’s never said it before. Not like this. A shiver runs down Leone’s spine and his first instinct is to tell himself it’s the chill of the night air, but he knows it isn’t.
Again. Silence. It’s not uncomfortable, but so many things pollute the air; years of words left unsaid. Leone doesn’t know where to start. He doesn’t know what’s appropriate, and it’s not like he’s a master at introspection – he hasn’t exactly worked through his own emotions to just know what he’s feeling right now.
All he can do is look at Giorno, because what else would he look at in this godforsaken garden? All he can do is breathe calmly, and wait for the golden-haired Don to speak again – but Giorno doesn’t speak. Instead he raises one of his hands, the air shimmering with flecks of gold, the energy of his stand enveloping the both of them, and then he’s holding a flower – a white marguerite.
Leone narrows his eyes, all the same reaching out to accept the offering. Giorno’s fingers linger, brushing against Leone’s knuckles as he grabs the stem.
“Is this flower telling me to fuck off?” It’s not really a bad attempt at humor, if anything it’s genuine curiosity; orange lilies Leone remembers; this flower he has no idea what it means.
Giorno smiles again, and god, how can someone so beautiful smile so innocently? How can a mafia Don smile at someone like Leone with heart-breaking tenderness, like he’s never gotten close to a person before?
“I’m sad to hear you don’t speak flower”, Giorno says, and it takes Leone an embarrassingly long amount of time to realize it’s a joke. “And no, it’s not telling you to fuck off… and neither am I.”
Fuck. Leone swallows thickly, because he genuinely doesn’t know what to do with that. His pulse picks up, and his mouth is dry, but this is Giorno, and he’s done with doing stupid, impulsive shit in front of this man.
Instead, Leone clears his throat, only managing to meet Giorno’s gaze out of sheer stubbornness. “Can I, uh… hug you?”
He sounds like a shy teenager, but it seems Giorno doesn’t mind. He nods, golden curls falling forward and covering his face. They’re sitting close together, but Leone still takes his time, turning to the Don, wrapping his arms around him. The ratty t-shirt is soft beneath his fingertips, and Giorno’s hair softer still. Enveloped by the chill of night, Giorno burns in his arms, an all-consuming heat. He hugs Leone back like his life depends on it, hands tangling at the back of his shirt. Goddammit, Leone wishes they were inside, on the couch, on his bed, and… no. He’ll cherish this. Whatever this is, he’ll stay in the moment. He’ll burrow his face in Giorno’s shoulder and hold him close to his chest as he breathes in that scent of lavender and myrrh and Gio.
He’s unsure of how long they stay like this. After a while, one of Giorno’s hands comes to rest at the back of his head – fingers combing through his long hair, sometimes tugging on it as if to tease.
It’s comforting, it’s exciting, it’s new.
When they part, it’s a slow process, like trying to hang up a phone call when neither wants to let go of the other’s voice. Leone allows himself one thing. He presses a chaste kiss at Giorno’s temple, feeling soft golden hair against his lips, and had he stayed but a second longer, he might’ve noticed the quickening of Giorno’s pulse.
Instead he pulls away, needing to do this right, and he’s met by an impossibly warm gaze.
Giorno clears his throat, smile not leaving his lips. “Would you have dinner with me sometime? I’ll make you carbonara… with cream and bacon.”
Leone snorts a laugh, and it’s ugly, but it’s genuine. He leans in, pressing a quick kiss to Giorno’s forehead before pulling away again. If he involuntary smiles, no one will know but Gio.
“I’d love to.”