Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Giorno has a car. How it got into his possession isn’t really important. All that matters is, that – after a series of quite traumatizing events – Giorno has a car, and for the first time in his life he has a chance at freedom.

The very same night, he leaves his childhood home, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, leaving his set of keys on the kitchen table. He has no intention of coming back. If anything, his mom and stepdad will be even worse to deal with should he ever decide to return to them after pulling a stunt like this.

The night sky above Napoli envelops the city like a dark void, the stars polluted into nonexistence by the city’s bright lights. Giorno drives along small alleys and sprawling streets, he drives until he makes it out of the city to the serpentine mountain roads. He drives until the first rays of sunlight set the horizon aflame, and only then does he stop by the side of the road.

He exits the car, sitting on the slope of a mountain, overlooking the sea, it’s roiling mass, morphing and mirror-like in the sharp gunmetal light of dawn. He watches the city, feeling like he’s studying ants through a magnifying glass, and as the sun rises, he can’t stop the trembling of his hands, the shortness of his breath. He hasn’t allowed himself to cry in years, but here, on his own, sat in a blossoming sea of poppies and daisies and wildflowers, watching the beginning of a new day, he weeps.

When he returns to the city, he doesn’t exactly have a plan, but he does know that he needs money. He spends some of his savings on breakfast, downloading a rideshare app and setting up a driver profile while he eats. Then he heads into town, window-shopping until he finally finds a costume store.

The wigs they sell aren’t of the highest quality, but if nothing else, Giorno can afford one. He picks out a golden hair-piece, hoping it’ll be different enough from his dark hair. The goal is to not be immediately recognizable – to be able to drive past his mom, and uh, other people that might be out for him, without them recognizing him fast enough to write down the license plate.

In a parking lot outside a small apartment complex, Giorno sits on the hood of his car, watching a youtube tutorial on how to style long hair. He doesn’t really have much equipment, but it turns out that a brush, bobby pins, hairspray and some creativity will get him quite far. He styles the wig with victory rolls on top, liking the retro-vibe, and then he’s kind of at a loss what to do with the long hair in the back. He considers braiding it, but ultimately decides that leaving it curly and wild will probably help with the whole staying hidden thing.

Donning the golden hair, he sets out on his first day as a driver. It goes surprisingly well. Giorno’s still all nerves, still high on the prospect of freedom, and he isn’t sure he’ll make for the best conversation. Thankfully, most people just get in the car, scrolling on their phones, barely paying attention to him at all.

It’s all going smoothly until it isn’t; until a dark-haired man only listed as “B. Buc” doesn’t get in the backseat, instead opening the door to the passenger side, sitting down with a pointed look in Giorno’s direction; until the man puts a hand on the steering wheel, stopping Giorno from starting the car.

“I know this car isn’t yours. You know we can track the license plate through the app, right?”

Fuck. Giorno truly expected it to take longer before this caught up with him. The man has to be a cop or something. He turns to look at B. Buc, and is met with wide, intensely blue eyes, framed by neatly styled black hair.

The man raises an eyebrow, as if the accusative statement should be enough to have Giorno confess. It’s honestly insulting, so Giorno just stares back.

“What happened to Luka?” The man leans in even closer – close enough that his breath ghosts over Giorno’s face. “Will we find him in a ditch somewhere?”

“This is my car”, Giorno manages, finally, hoping that he won’t let anything show on his face if he engages the man in conversation. “I need it to make a living. If I lose it, I have nothing, and when I have nothing, I’ll have nowhere to go.”

It’s enough of an answer to have the man hesitate. He leans back, as if he’s taking Giorno in for the first time. “Can you even drive? Do you have a license?”

“I’m nineteen, of course I have a license.”

“Of course”, B. Buc echoes, something like a smile playing on his lips. “I would’ve guessed you were younger. Fifteen, at most.”

Giorno won’t dignify the comment with a reply, and that only seems to amuse the man even more.

“If you were that young, I would’ve taken you home.”

Giorno raises an eyebrow at that, levelling the man with a look he hopes is both unimpressed and also communicates ‘I will call the cops, perv’. “You’d take me home? What’s that supposed to mean?”

B. Buc sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. “Not like that.”

“Then like what?” Giorno asks, wondering when this interrogation turned in his favour – and wondering when he got genuinely intrigued by this strange man.

“I just…” the man hesitates again, regarding Giorno with those azure eyes. There’s something unnerving about how he carries himself, impeccably well-dressed with calculated movements, yet something so… sincere beneath it all. “I guess you could say I help kids off the street. If they need it.”

“Sounds suspicious to me”, Giorno murmurs, not meaning it as much as he’s trying to cover how uncomfortable the prospect of meeting a genuinely decent person makes him. “So, are you going to kill me over the whole Luka thing?”

The man ponders his question for a bit, not looking at Giorno as much as he looks straight through him.

As the silence drags out, an uncomfortable heavy thing between the two of them, the thought occurs to Giorno that he might actually die today.

“No. I don’t think I will.” B. Buc sighs, stretching in his seat, a crack from his spine loud enough to fill the silence. “It’s going to take some effort cleaning this up, but Luka was a bastard, and well… let’s call it karma.”

Giorno lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, shaking his head slightly and immediately regretting it when he realizes that the wig isn’t nearly secure enough. He can feel it tugging precariously on his hair, scratching at his scalp, and the last thing he needs is to have his pathetic disguise fall off in front of this strange man.

“Thank you.” The words feel almost unnatural, but he manages them all the same, even if he doesn’t manage to match them with a grateful smile.

“You’re welcome. Good luck with this career path.” The man reaches for the door, then stopping to look at his phone. “I’ll pay you for the time I wasted, of course.”

Instead of paying through the app, the man reaches into his fitted blazer, pulling out a suspiciously large stack of euro bills. He hands Giorno enough money for a days work rather than a single ride, and then he exits the car.

Giorno is drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, his pulse racing, and he’s ready to get out of here, but the man lingers, one hand on the door still. “Can I have your name?”

Giorno’s first thought is absolutely fucking not, followed by any fake name will do, and then he says “You can call me Giorno”, because his subconscious has apparently decided to just trust this man who clearly works for the mafia or something equally bad.

“Nice to meet you.” Finally, the man moves to close the door, and then, at the last moment changing his mind. “I’m Bruno Buccellati. I’ll see you around.”

The second the car door slams shut Giorno speeds off, and only when he’s parked by the shore ten minutes away, the car radio blaring, does his speeding pulse catch up to him. He sits on the hood of the car, hearing it creak beneath his weight, and he hides his face in his hands, listening to the rolling waves blend with the heavy base of the music.

It’s not even relief. A thousand thoughts rushes through his head, and at this point he’s just overwhelmed. It’s like he was just cornered by an apex predator and somehow left the encounter alive against all odds. When he closes his eyes, he sees that intense gaze, the knowing blue eyes of Bruno Buccellati, and part of him refuses to believe that this is over.  

It’s still fairly early in the day though, and despite Buccellati’s generous payment he needs to get back on the road. Giorno’s not even close to afford a place to live, and unless he wants every workday to be an ebb and flow of making money only to refill his tank, he can't allow himself any downtime.

Once it’s past midnight Giorno has been too tired to drive for a few hours. He’s about to go offline for the day when he gets a notification; a guy by the name “M. Mista” is close by, and he’s only going to an apartment complex ten minutes away.

Giorno only hesitates for a moment before he accepts the ride.

Minutes later he rolls up to the location of the king of alliteration – M. Mista, as if the guy has actually tried to spell out a cheesy “mmm”-noise – and at first, he doesn’t see anyone. Only when he’s come to a full stop does he notice the man lying on the ground.

This is the point where he should just keep driving. Napoli is a mess of a city, and whatever lead to this guy lying in a bleeding heap on the sidewalk, Giorno certainly doesn’t want to get involved.

Of course, he exits the car instead.

Approaching Mista, he sees a man around his own age. A white crop-top and tight black pants revealing a muscular build and tan skin. A purple beanie pulled down to dark eyebrows. The man has his eyes clenched shut, but he’s breathing deeply, a hand clutching his side, fingers reaching up beneath the crop-top to press against a wound.

Giorno pokes him with the tip of his shoe, watching Mista’s eyes snap open. A warm amber gaze finds Giorno’s azure, and the night air has no right heating up at something so simple.

“Yo, did I bleed out or what?” Mista’s voice is rough and his gaze is intense, something like a delirious smile on his lips. Now that he’s talking it’s clear that he’s not only injured but also drunk.

“I hope not”, Giorno replies, not knowing how to go about asking if he should bring the guy to a hospital.

“Wow, you’re an angel.” Grimacing, Mista sits up, but he doesn’t look away from Giorno. “How did you get here? Holy shit, did I order you online?”

Giorno wishes he didn’t laugh at something so ridiculous, but he does, a snort escaping him. “You kind of did. Get in the car?”

“What car?” The man looks around, his gaze unfocused the second it leaves Giorno. When he finally sees the beat-up fiat idling nearby, it’s like he sobers up, slowly putting the events of the evening together. “Ah right, you’re gonna drive me home.”

“That’s the plan.”

Giorno wonders if he’s expected to help Mista to his feet, and he wonders if it’s wise to get smeared with a stranger’s blood, but ultimately the guy manages on his own. He’s swaying where he stands, slightly hunched over, but standing all the same.

“Fuck no, wait, I can’t go in that car.”

“I promise you, it’s perfectly safe”, Giorno says, knowing very well that the scratched-up paint and shattered side-view mirrors don’t exactly support his claim. In fact, the car could probably fall apart at any moment considering what it’s been through, but as long as it lasts him until he can afford a place to live, he doesn’t give a shit about its appearance.

“Safe my ass, with a license plate like that.”

Giorno can do nothing but stare. “What?”

“It’s got two fours on it!” Mista points at the plate, affronted.

“Okay?”

“I go way back with that cursed-ass number, man”, Mista says, shaking his head. “I would never risk my life by getting into a four-mobile.”

Giorno runs a hand through his hair, nearly tearing the wig off in the process. He adjusts it quickly, hoping the guy is… too upset about his license plate… to notice. “Okay, but if you add four and four together it’s eight. Is eight any better than four?”

“Not really.”

“Could you consider riding in an eight-mobile, since it’s past midnight and you’re drunk and bleeding on the side of the road?”

Mista levels him with a glare, but there’s no heat in it. “Fine.”

Giorno lets out a sigh of relief, and truly, he should be wondering why he’s so invested to get this man in his car. He won’t earn near enough money from the ride to motivate actually caring for his passenger.

“Get in, and please don’t bleed on the seats.”

Mista offers him a salute before falling into the passenger seat with a loud groan.

For a while, there’s nothing but blissful silence. Mista stares out the window, the city lights sharp over his chiselled features, all shadow and neon. Giorno is too tired for this. He can feel his focus slipping, can’t keep himself from stealing glances at the strange man.

Maybe Mista notices, or he’s just a talkative bastard, because he suddenly turns, catching Giorno looking at him, an easy smile on his lips. “So how old are you? Like… a thousand?”

Giorno splutters at that, trying to decipher the question. “A thousand what?”

“A thousand years old? Wait, no, how long has the earth existed…”

Giorno rolls his eyes, turning back to the road. “I’m nineteen.”

“Huh, I expected angels to be, like, eternal, ageless beings…” and Mista drifts off, either in thought or from blood loss. Giorno will check on him in a second, he just needs to be alone with his thoughts for a little longer. He thought the wig would be a simple cover up, but this reaction is a bit extreme. He’s starting to regret his choice of hair colour; no one, not a single soul, told him he looked like an angel while he had dark hair.

He’s startled from his thoughts when Mista sits up suddenly, hitting his forehead on the windshield from the force of it, and then falling back into his seat moaning in pain, pressing a hand against his injury. “Fuck! Shit. Uh… I need food. Could you drive to McDonalds before you take me home?”

Giorno sighs. “You’re paying. I can drive you anywhere.”

And Mista beams, a wide grin, actual stars in his eyes, as if Giorno is doing him an incredible favour. As if Giorno is the kindest person he’s ever met, and has descended from the heavens to bless him with hamburgers. It’s… a bit much. A bit intimate. Giorno keeps his eyes on the road until they reach the drive-thru.

Then he has to relay the order for the guy; two milkshakes, two cheeseburgers, three large fries, a coke, and two cookies. Giorno isn’t sure how he manages not to comment on the sheer amount of food, but he stays quiet, trying to think of anything else to say as they wait for the food.

“So, is it Mista like mister, or Mista like the salad?”

The man snorts, side eying Giorno with a gleam in his eyes that could be anything from annoyance to excitement. “Like the salad.”

Giorno can’t help but to smile. “What’s wrong with your parents? That’s a ridiculous name.”

“Well fuck you”, Mista laughs, the giggles not matching how he widens his eyes dramatically to play up how wounded he is. “I bet your name is like… spaghetti, or capelli d’angelo.”

“You know it’s Giorno.”

“I do?” Mista looks genuinely lost, but Giorno can excuse him not being all there considering that he’s still drunk, and well – the blood loss.

“Yeah, my full name is in the app.”

“Huh.”

There’s a lull in the conversation, Mista hunching over, trying to be subtle about how he presses his hand against the wound beneath his shirt – as if he could possibly hide how splotches of red are seeping into the white fabric of his crop top. He’s breathing heavy, that broad chest rising and falling with every strained breath, and Giorno’s starting to get genuinely worried.

He’s not sure what’s custom here. Should he just drive Mista to an ER even if he doesn’t ask for it? Should he talk to keep him distracted?

Kicking him out and leaving him in the McDonalds parking lot is obviously an option, but it’s not like Giorno will seriously consider it.

For a moment longer, Giorno just watches Mista sit there, eyes closed, jaw clenched, breathing through the pain. Then he clears his throat.

“Is that it? You’re just called Mista?”

Mista’s eyes immediately open, something challenging in those warm amber depths. “Well, since you think my name is so stupid, I’m not sure I wanna tell you my first name.”

“It is an exceptionally stupid name, though”, Giorno replies, not really sure why he’s chosen this hill to die on. However, the conversation seems to light a spark in Mista, and he turns in his seat with a smile, as if all he needed was a playful insult to forget all about the whole bleeding out thing.

“Come on, everyone in this town has a stupid name and mine certainly isn’t the worst.”

Giorno snorts a laugh, not even caring if it’s undignified. “Oh really?”

The smile disappears from Mista’s face. In a second his expression goes from jovial to deadly serious, and he maintains eye contact with Giorno, looking like he’s about to confess a deep, dark secret. “I literally work with a guy called Risotto Nero.”

“No”, Giorno whispers, covering his mouth with a hand, trying to keep his laughter contained. “You’re kidding me.”

“He dates a man called Prosciutto!”

When the McDonalds worker knocks on their window, Giorno’s howling with laughter, and he doesn’t even feel particularly self-conscious about Mista seeing him that way.

The drive from the drive-thru to Mista’s apartment complex is less than fifteen minutes, and for the first five of those, Mista devours a burger and milkshake while Giorno focuses on staying on the road.

Then the silence gets to him, and perhaps, there’s something about Mista’s playfulness that makes him long for more. Any form of conversation, be it verbal sparring or conversations about the weather.

“No, but for real”, Giorno starts as he pulls into Mista’s street. “What’s your first name? I promise not to laugh.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, and then Mista replies. “It’s… Guido.”

God, Giorno tries. He bites his bottom lip, kind of choking on the giggles bubbling up his throat.

Guido Mista glares at him, a smile tugging at his lips all the same, as if seeing Giorno laugh is enough for him to forgive this absolute insult. “Fuck off.”

Giorno supresses more giggling with fake coughs, struggling for air. Thankfully they’ve reached their destination, and he can stop the car before he accidentally crashes it in a giggle-fit. “I’m sorry! It’s a lovely name.”

“Ah, thanks. I totally believe you”, Guido says, flinching when he reaches for the door, his face twisting with pain. Even an uninjured man would have a problem carrying this much food to his apartment, but Guido seems stubborn enough that offering to help would be seen as rude.

Still, when he pulls his phone out to pay for the ride, the crop top slick to his torso, his breath hitching at the pain of moving his arm at all, Giorno leans in a bit, trying to get his attention.

“Hey, can you promise me something?”

Guido’s eyes immediately snap to Giorno, lingering on his lips for but a moment, and then he meets Giorno’s eyes, attentive and eager.

“Okay?”

Giorno levels him with a stare, trying to be serious about this despite the conversations from before still sparkling through his mind like fireworks. “Don’t die – take care of that wound first thing when you get home. I genuinely don’t understand how you’re still standing.”

And just like that, like the pain is just magically gone, Guido doesn’t smile – he beams.

“Don’t worry. I have an amazingly high pain threshold.” He says it like he’s bragging, like this is something that is bound to impress Giorno. “And yes, I’ll be fine, this ain’t my first time.”

Giorno rolls his eyes. “That’s not reassuring at all.”

He does feel slightly better though. The possibility of one day meeting Guido Mista again – hopefully when Giorno isn’t working – warms his heart to a degree that is probably inappropriate considering that he’s known the man for about an hour.

Mista looks at his phone while paying, raising his eyebrow at something on the screen. “Brave of you to comment on people’s names, Giorno Giovanna.”

“Shut up, Salad”, Giorno hisses, going for exaggerated drama rather than apologizing, only getting a chuckle in reply.

Then Mista searches every pocket of his pants until he finally pulls out a couple of crumpled euro bills, and Giorno doesn’t even think to refuse them. He figures he’ll spend the next couple of months living off tips and the generosity of strangers, and he might as well get used to it.

Getting out of the car is a whole ordeal, Guido swearing and groaning until he’s standing on the sidewalk, slightly hunched over, eyes gleaming with what could be tears. Still, as he tilts his head to look at Giorno, he smiles widely and winks. “I appreciate you worrying about me, Giogio.”

Giorno doesn’t blush – absolutely not – and he certainly doesn’t murmur a hurried “take care, bye” before he steps on the gas, driving off into the night. God, his pulse has picked up to a silly degree, and he’s pretty sure he’s smiling despite his slightly panicked breathing.

The city is asleep, and he doesn’t really have a plan for what to do between now and sunrise. Obviously, he’ll need to sleep, but it’s not like he has anywhere to go. Ultimately, he drives to the outskirts of town, finding a quiet suburb to park his car. At worst he’ll get chased away by some snobby house-owner in the morning, but it’s unlikely the cops will be called. He should be fine.

Just as he’s crawled into the backseat, taking off his jacket to use as a makeshift blanket, his phone vibrates. Glancing at the screen, he sees a notification for a new review. Already suspecting who wrote it, Giorno opens the message.

“I wish I could give this man more than 5/5 I would give him all of the numbers in the universe he is a beautiful angel and he saved my life and gave me hamburgers”

Giorno stares at his screen. He stares until he can decipher the horrid run-on sentence, and then he can feel his lips pull into a smile. God, it hurts, like he has forgotten what a genuine smile feels like. He screenshots the review, telling himself it’s for, like, business purposes, and then he curls up in the backseat.

It shouldn’t be easy to fall asleep in the back of a beat-up car, but his mind feels calmer than it has in years, and if, when he closes his eyes, he happens to envision warm, amber eyes and an easy smile, well that’s his secret to keep.

Chapter Text

Giorno quickly realizes that driving at night is preferable. Less customers reject his beat-up car. Everyone’s just kind of drunk or in a hurry, and as long as he can get them from point A to point B in a timely manner, they couldn’t care less about the chaotic state of his ride.

Of course, drunk people are chatty, so he also has to deal with excitable customers asking him questions about his life, his hair, or what he’s studying at university – because he’s so young, he has to be doing this to support his studies, right? He’s found that being honest and straight forward no matter the question works great, because no one believes him anyway. Where do you live? This car. How has your day been? I snuck into a hotel to shower in their pool area and then got chased by security. What’s your favorite food? Anything at the bodega that costs one euro or less. People just laugh, like he’s a skilled comedian. Sometimes he gets extra tip because he’s just such a funny guy.

It's past midnight when a customer named R. Nero books a ride from a nearby club. Giorno stares at the screen for quite some time, because there’s no way, no way that Guido Mista told the truth about there being a man called Risotto out there.

He accepts the ride of course. Giorno never declines a ride, and this one in particular he’s gotta follow up on.

When he reaches the club there’s a man tall enough to be some sort of athlete, dressed in a dark coat and seemingly not much else, considering his chest is bare. Well, bare except for the leather harness. Giorno barely has the time to think that this can’t be Nero and then the man opens the door to the backseat.

He only inclines his head in greeting, and then he shuffles into the backseat, quickly followed by a blonde man dressed in a dark suit and yellow silk shirt. The two of them take up more than enough space, and Giorno is ready to take off when another man crawls into the backseat; purple haired, wearing some sort of leotard, a slimmer build than the other two, but he can’t be comfortable back there, draped over the other two’s laps.

“Would you like to sit in the passenger seat?” Giorno asks the purple one.

In the rearview mirror he’s met with a smirk. “You may be a snack to look at, but I’m comfortable back here.”

“Okay”, Giorno mutters, holding his breath as he considers his options. “Road safety states that…”

The blonde one raises his hands, effectively hushing him. “Come now. We’re only riding a few blocks, and we can guarantee that you won’t get in trouble with authority.”

And Giorno hesitates yet again, but really, he’s already wasted too much time, and he better get some money out of this rather than nothing. He starts driving, figuring it’ll be easier to just get the ride over with rather than arguing further.

“Good boy”, the purple one purrs, while the mysterious “Nero” remains stoically silent.

For a few minutes, everything is chill. He’s got the radio playing in the background, and his passengers aren’t even complaining about the generic top-20 pop songs. It’s all going well until he realizes that the reason they’re not complaining is because they’re too busy with each-other.

“You’re way too irresponsible, Melone. You wen’t overboard with the drinking”, the blonde one whispers to the purple one, tangling his hand in that long, neon hair. “And you danced with Tiziano and Squalo, of all people. Slut.”

Giorno’s eyes snap to the rear-view mirror, and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do, but seeing them properly is enough to realize that this isn’t something to be worried about.

“I’ve been bad?” the purple one purrs, stretching on their laps like a cat on a warm summer day, and… okay. Yeah. This will escalate, Giorno can tell.  

“We’re gonna have to punish you, and the driver will watch”, the blonde one hisses, his fingers now clenched in the neon hair, and the purple one moans and Giorno…

And Giorno pulls over, abruptly stopping the car. “Okay, you know what, you can walk home.”

The blonde’s head snaps up to stare at him. “Oh really?”

“Yeah, really. Maybe there’ll be a nice park nearby where you can continue this thing”, Giorno says, looking back at them through the rear-view mirror. The purple one seems amused, the blonde one furious, and “Nero” eyes him with something like a challenging gleam in his redish eyes. “I welcome PDA, but you can’t just… involve me in your kink.”

“What, are you, twelve?” the purple one purrs. “Never seen adults having fun before?”

“I’m nineteen and I’ve seen everything”, Giorno says, talking quickly and hoping they won’t question him further.

“Just drive us home”, the blonde orders, leaning forward between the driver and passenger seat and trying get Giorno to look at him. “You clearly have no survival instinct, so we’ll let this one slide, but…”

And Nero puts a hand on his shoulder, silencing him instantly. “We’ll get out of the car”, he says, eyes never leaving Giorno as he opens the door and gets out and pulling the others with him. “Sorry to have inconvenienced you.”

“No worries, sorry for throwing you out”, Giorno says, because he would feel weird if he didn’t attempt some form of politeness. Only when he’s down the street, and the group has faded from view, does he let out a deep breath.

Only then does he realize that his hands are shaking, and that his heart is beating a mile a minute.

After the slut incident, Giorno’s life is blissfully quiet, at least for a few days. He falls into the routine of driving until early morning, grabbing a cheap breakfast at any nearby café or fast-food joint, and then parking in the outskirts of the city to sleep through most of the day.

That is, until the name “Narancia Ghirga” pops up in the app. At first, he smiles, because Guido Mista wasn’t kidding about how a surprising amount of people in this city have silly, edible, names. Then he accepts the ride, and is surprised – but at this point he really shouldn’t be – to pick up a dark-haired kid dressed from head to toe in Versace.

Giorno doesn’t know what to expect from a guy looking like that, but man if he isn’t taken aback when the kid jumps into the passenger side and starts chewing his ear off about… garbage trucks? Tax evasion? Giorno truly doesn’t know because it’s a struggle to keep up with the conversation and drive at the same time.

He tunes the kid out, offering simple “mhm”, “yes” and “what, really?” replies, and it seems to be a good strategy until he feels a hand in his hair.

“The driver with the wacky hairstyle”, Narancia whispers, the wig tugging at Giorno’s scalp as the kid entwines his fingers in some of the golden locks. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“You’re the one who threw La Squadra outta your car!”

And Giorno takes a deep breath, and he thinks through his options, because the fact that he can easily be recognized and that he apparently messed with – what it sounds like – the wrong people has his pulse picking up considerably.

“I did what now?”

The kid laughs. “They were being pervy and you threw ‘em out on the street, dude! Everyone’s talking about it. Prosciutto is not amused, but apparently Risotto thinks you deserve some leeway just, you know, for actually having the balls to do it.”

“I knew he was called Risotto”, Giorno mutters under his breath, and then realizes that maybe, just maybe, he’s focusing on the wrong thing. “So, uh, who are… La Squadra? Is that a gang name or something?”

And the kid throws his head back laughing. “Fuck dude, okay, well… they take care of people, if you know what I mean? Make them disappear, that kind of thing.”

Giorno doesn’t say anything, but Narancia has to notice him swallowing hard, has to notice him pale as the news sink in, because he tries to pat Giorno on the head, likely thinking it’ll be a comforting gesture, but he manages to rip the wig clean off in the process.

“Oh my god”, the kid whispers, clutching the impeccably styled hair in his hands like he’s holding a kitten. “Jesus fucking christ, I did not expect that to happen, I’m so sorry…”

As he continues apologizing – his voice unsteady as he tries to keep from laughing – Giorno pulls over, the car coming to a stop in a fairly empty street.

“Hey please don’t be mad, I didn’t think it would come off!” Narancia says, throwing both hands up, the wig left in a golden pile on his lap.

Giorno shakes his head, running a hand through his short dark hair and taking a deep breath. “It’s okay.”

They sit in silence, so quiet Giorno can easily count his own heartbeats, until the kid awkwardly hands him back the wig. It takes a while for him getting it back on his head, only having the rear-view mirror to use as guidance.

“So”, Giorno says, trying to relax into his seat and finding it impossible, his mind spiralling with all kinds of horrible scenarios. “Do you think those guys will come after me?”

Narancia shakes his head. “Like I said, I think Risotto might have even been amused. I don’t think you have to worry.”

Giorno nods, still needing some time to take in the words.

“Also, don’t worry, your secret is safe with me”, Narancia says, patting his shoulder this time, overly mindful of the hair.

“What?”

“The wig, I mean”, the kid says, smiling brightly.

“Okay, thanks.” Giorno’s still a bit too jumpy to say it sincerely, but Narancia doesn’t seem to mind.

Once the wig is secure on his head and the tension in the car has dissipated a bit, he drives the kid named orange to his destination, and gets a hefty tip in return.

He should know better. Should know that he can throw some drunk, horny men out of his car, and in less than a week encounter a stranger who’d recognize him from the rumours. He should know that this town is smaller than it has any right to be.

He’s been careless. Perhaps he got comfortable with his newfound freedom. Felt a bit too enchanted by having some sort of agency in his life.

Giorno promises himself to be vigilant, and for the next couple of days he keeps his head down. He wakes in the afternoon, eats something shitty, and cleans up in gas station bathrooms. The routine works. He’s slowly building up a small savings fund in the glove compartment, and the ridiculous tips he keeps getting certainly help.

It’s all going great, until he’s booked by a certain M. Mista. Mmmmmista, Giorno’s brain helpfully supplies, and he will never admit to actually drooling over the man, not even in his head.

As he comes to a stop, Guido Mista smiles widely and pulls his cropped shirt up, showing off a stitched-up wound. It’s far from healed, but at least it doesn’t look infected. It also doesn’t distract at all from the defined abs, the swirls of hair covering his chest and trailing downwards. Giorno swallows hard, averting his eyes, irrationally worrying that Mista could hear how his pulse picks up.

“I survived, aren’t you proud?” Mista says, getting in the passenger seat still beaming, proving that his bright disposition last time had nothing to do with neither blood loss nor alcohol. The guy just seems to be adorably cheerful and careless by nature, because Giorno wouldn’t be so conceited to think it has anything to do with him. He hasn’t done anything to deserve Mista’s smile, and extremely positive app-review aside, they’re practically strangers.

Giorno doesn’t meet his gaze, smiling to himself as they hit the road. “I’m elated.”

“Anyway, how have you been?” Mista asks, relaxing into his seat.

Maybe Giorno should think about his answer. Maybe he should offer Mista more than his usual woe-is-me spiel, but at this point it comes natural to him. “Well, I haven’t showered for a week because I got banned from the hotel I’ve been sneaking into, and I’ve eaten nothing but stale croissants and coffee for the past few days, but I’m sure things will turn around any day now. Maybe I’ll win at the lottery, or find out a family friend is an oil mogul. Who knows? Life is wondrous.”

“Excuse me what?” Mista says, sitting up straight, eyes fixed on Giorno.

Well. Shit. “It… was a joke?”

“Giogio, that didn’t sound like a joke. You haven’t eaten properly in days?” and Mista actually looks like he’s barely holding back from embracing him. Maybe it should be sweet, but honestly, Giorno finds it nothing but terrifying. He has no idea what to do with feelings other than contempt or anger.

“I guess… it’s been a bad week. You know how it is.” Even as he says it, he can very clearly see in Mista’s eyes that he does know what living like this is like, and that he’s seriously worried. Worried in a way he shouldn’t be about his goddamn driver.

All Giorno knows is that he needs a distraction. He needs anything to fill the quiet, to help him ignore the way those dark eyes are fixed on him, how that mouth, usually so quick to smiling or laughter, is set in a thin, worried line.

He turns on the radio, immediately regretting his decision when Watermelon Sugar starts playing. He’s about to change the station when Mista stops him, warm, calloused fingers briefly trailing Giorno’s knuckles.

“I like this song”, Mista says, and Giorno sighs, barely keeping from launching into a rant about how he’s heard it more times these past few weeks of driving than most normal people probably do in their lifetime.

That’s when Mista starts singing along, and dear lord, the man couldn’t hold a note if his life depended on it, but he makes up for it with enthusiasm. Snapping his fingers, jamming in his seat, singing along to the slow build up.

As the song picks-up with a blast of horns, he throws both arms over his head, accidentally punching the roof of the car, headbanging hard enough that his ratty beanie falls off his head, revealing wild black locks of hair and neatly styled sideburns.

“Baby, you’re the end of June”, he belts out, pointing at Giorno with a raised eyebrow, and Giorno still doesn’t know what the lyrics are supposed to mean, but he’s rarely felt so flattered. Felt an almost uncomfortable warmth spread in his chest, blooming on his face in a wide smile.

For the rest of the ride, Mista sings horribly and happily, and at the end of it, Giorno has already forgotten what had his anxiety spike to begin with.

Exiting the car Mista is slightly out of breath, and he looks Giorno over, eyes searching – for what, Giorno doesn’t dare guess. “Thank you Giogio. Take care, okay?”

And it’s too sincere, too direct. Guido Mista looks at him like he can see straight through him – like he doesn’t need to rip Giorno’s wig off to reveal his secrets – so Giorno simply nods in reply, driving away before he gets overwhelmed by the deliciously tense air between them.

For the next few days, he almost manages to forget how miserable this life is. Giorno drives young people to clubs and old people to bars. He drives couples to the ER and lovers to hotels. He drives suspicious men to warehouses outside of town, and he doesn’t ask questions as he drives them back into town half an hour later.

With people living these wild lives all around him, it’s easy to dissociate from his own existence. To just watch, and not pay too much attention to the fact that the only proper meal he’s had this week was a salad he splurged on two days ago.

When Bruno Buccellati gets in the backseat of his car, he almost forgets to greet the man. It’s all routine by now, and it takes Giorno a while to remember that this is a man he probably should grovel for – at least a bit.

“Good evening”, he says, and he considers adding “sir”, but decides against it.

“Nice to see you, Giorno”, Buccellati replies. “I hear you’ve made quite a name for yourself.”

“I hope not”, Giorno mutters, his eyes on the road.

“Don’t worry. If they’ve got a problem with you, they know that they have to go through me”, the man replies, his even voice not revealing if “going through him” is meant as a violent thing, or more like… a receptionist type of situation.

They drive in silence for a bit, Buccellati giving him directions to navigate through alleys so narrow the car nearly scrapes against the walls. They’re far off from the original ride Buccellati booked him for, but Giorno doesn’t ask questions; when they pull up at the backdoor of a police station, an officer already waiting for them, he wonders if maybe he should have.

“Please pick that man up”, Buccellati says, pointing at the officer, and Giorno would never refuse him, but man if he doesn’t hesitate for a good while.

The tall man gets in the backseat, completely ignoring Giorno, his godeln eyes fixed on Buccellati. It’s not like Giorno knows for a fact that Bruno is with the mafia, but he isn’t clueless either. Part of him wonders if he’s about to witness a crime, and if so what on earth he’s supposed to do.

“Adopted a new driver, huh?” The officer says, voice soft, and Giorno can see him smile in the rear-view mirror. “Pannacotta get on your nerves?”

Buccellati snorts a laugh, a warm, intimate sound, and it feels alien in comparison to his polished look and sharp gaze. “Leone, we’re in an uber.”

“Disgusting”, the officer says, but the sneer on his face is ruined by how his lips quirk into a smile.

It’s like all the air is sucked out of the car. For a moment there is silence, nothing but the hum of the engine, and then Buccellati is straddling the officer. Giorno can’t really see much in the rear-view mirror, but he can certainly hear too much of it. The feverish kisses, the gasps, and he keeps driving, and he averts his eyes, but then the officer moans and he decides he has to say something.

“Excuse me”, Giorno says, his voice unsteady, and neither Buccellati nor his lover pays him any attention.

At the lack of other options, he honks the car horn, and if nothing else, it’s effective. The two break apart immediately, and he’s levelled by wide blue eyes and narrowed golden ones.

“Yes?” the officer drawls, his smudged black lipstick somewhat diffusing his otherwise threatening aura.

“I have nothing against kissing, but maybe keep the heavy petting until you’ve reached your destination?”

The officer gently pushes Buccellati off his lap, and then leans forward, between the driver and passenger seats. “It’s cute you think that you can comment on my love life, driver.”

“Leone”, Buccellati sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb. “Let’s just listen to the kid.”

The officer harrumphs, hesitating for a good while, and then leans back in the backseat. Then it’s like a fire is lit in his eyes, and he dives forward again, intense, as if he’s about to climb into the passenger seat.

“With a car this beat up you shouldn’t even be approved to drive for the app, you got any explanation for how you got through the reviews, huh?”

Buccellati holds the officer back, his hand a deep bronze against the dark uniform. “Leave it, Leone. I’ve already investigated the kid.”

“Of course you have”, the officer sneers. “Pray tell, was this before or after you decided to adopt what is sure to be another delinquent?”

“I already told you, I haven’t adopted him”, Buccellati insists, immediately getting a snort in reply. “Also, he does have a point. It is kind of rude to go too far with the PDA.”

“It is kind of rude to interfere in other people’s private lives”, officer Leone spits, eyes locked on the rear-view mirror to glare at Giorno.

“Now, we’re only a few blocks away from home. I suggest you work through these tumultuous feelings until we get there, because once you’re out of this car I expect to pick up where we left off.” Buccellati’s voice lowers as he speaks, a lilting, teasing tone, and Giorno pretends he doesn’t see the hand trailing the inside of the officer’s thigh – keeping his eyes on the road.

When he drops the two of them a few minutes later, Buccellati tips him an excessive amount in cash, and the officer glares at Giorno the entire time.

“Sorry, I guess… I have a reputation to uphold?” Giorno says, accepting the money.

“Oh, I know”, Buccellati says with a knowing smile, offering a salute as he exits the car. “Arrivederci, Giorno.”

When he drives off, the officer glares at the car with both middle fingers up.

If anything, Giorno is kind of impressed at how he’s managed to make enemies with both sides of the law in a matter of days. It’s a shame that the superpower of “making people dislike you with a passion” can’t be used for good.

For the next couple of days, he spends his days looking over his shoulders, not knowing if he’ll be harassed by the mob or the cops. He has a hard time deciding if he’d rather die at the hands of a goth police officer or a bdsm goth named Risotto. He also wonders why everyone in this damn town is a goth.

The more normal his clientele, the less money he makes. It seems that part of his strategy should be to only accept rides from possible criminals with edible names, because apparently that’s where the real cash is at.

When he’s not focused on survival, his mind tends to drift. More often than he’d like, he drives through the neighbourhood where he grew up. It’s not even nostalgia. There are few good memories attached to these streets, and one late evening he sees his mom stumbling home from a local bar, and that truly has him spiralling.

He hightails it out of the city, just needing to lose himself on the roads in the countryside for a few hours – he doesn’t even care if it’ll cost him in the long run.

Giorno falls asleep as the sun rises, and he wakes in the afternoon, happy to get a few hours beneath the blue sky before he’s swept away by the nightlife again.

He is barely awake. He’s activated the app, but mostly to keep an eye on possible gigs – he’s not planning to accept anything before he’s had breakfast, and maybe brushed his teeth at some gas station. That’s when M. Mista appears on his screen, and he accepts the ride without even thinking.

He’s gotta pull up at Mista’s apartment with bags under his eyes and horrible morning breath, but if so, the guy doesn’t comment on it. He just slides into the passenger seat with a bright smile, dropping a cooler bag at his feet, saying he’s got fast food waiting for him.

Giorno drives him to a nearby restaurant, waiting patiently, and he almost manages to conceal a surprised face when Mista exits the place carrying about ten bags filled to the brim with take away boxes. At any other time of day, Giorno would make a sarcastic remark or attempt to subtly interrogate Mista about what he’s gonna do with all of the food, but he’s too tired and aloof.

He drives them back, letting the radio fill the silence. When Mista tips him ridiculously in cash, he doesn’t hesitate to accept the money, and only when the guy is exiting the car does he manage a slightly more present smile and wave and a “nice to see you”.

Giorno’s too busy watching Mista walk back to his place that he doesn’t realize there are bags left on the floor of the car. Only when the guy has disappeared from view does he see three paper bags and the cooler still in the car.

Giorno’s first instinct is to run after Mista, but he has several notifications with new reviews and new passengers waiting. The hesitation is what has him look closer at all of the bags, noticing that the cooler is slightly ajar.

He opens it, finding a note taped to the inside of its lid.

“Accidentally bought too much food dude, I can trust you to eat it for me, yeah?
Thanks, you’re an angel”

And well, if Giorno reads the message ten times over and then bursts into tears, that’s his secret to keep.

Chapter Text

Giorno stubbornly keeps his eyes on the road because he’s absolutely not listening to the conversation going on in the backseat. Narancia is back, and he’s brought a friend. Said friend is dressed in a red suit with enough holes to look like swiss cheese. Said friend is also glaring daggers at Giorno as he leans in closer to Narancia to whisper “just let me use the virus, it’ll make it look natural” and Gio definitely did not hear that part.

“I still think we should just set his house on fire. Arson solves any problem”, Narancia replies, and Giorno has never seen him this serious before. “Maybe throw in some explosives just to make sure… you know?”

“We can’t risk collateral damage”, the swiss-cheese guy replies, and he’s still staring, so Giorno turns on the radio. It’s the only thing he can do not to whistle in a desperate attempt to seem innocent and show that he’s absolutely not listening.

Out of any song, Watermelon Sugar starts playing, and Gio can’t ignore the way his heart skips a beat. The way he immediately remembers Mista in the passenger seat, smiling and dancing and singing out of tune.

“So, you’re him, huh? The cornuto with the tagliatelle hair?”

It takes a moment for Giorno to realize that swiss-cheese guy is talking to him. “Excuse me?”

“You’re the guy who threw La Squadra out of your car.” The guy cocks his head, looking at Gio like he’s a puzzle to be solved. “I thought Narancia was making stuff up when he said he ran into you, but it seems you have a tendency to attract our kind.”

Giorno has committed not to get involved any further in whatever criminal world Buccellati and the rest of these oddly dressed men operate in, so he simply attempts a mild smile in reply. They’re close to their destination anyway.

His attempt at peaceful silence lasts for about five seconds, when Narancia starts waving his arms, hollering. “Oh man, I’m an asshole, I haven’t even introduced the two of you!”

“There’s no need, he’s just our driver”, swiss-cheese guy replies, leaning back in his seat.

“Shut up Panni”, Narancia hisses, and then he turns to Gio with a smile. “Giorno, this is Fugo Pannacotta, Fugo, this is Giorno Giovanna.”

“Nice to meet you”, Giorno manages, still feeling those intense eyes, even when he’s turned away from the guy.

“Yeah, whatever. Did you see their dicks?”

Narancia bursts out laughing, and Gio feels like he’s missed something. “What?”

“La Squadra – did they have their dicks out? Did you see who was the biggest?”

Giorno rolls his eyes. “Certainly not.”

“Fucking dammit”, Narancia mumbles, and when he notices Gio staring at him he scrambles to explain himself. “Uuuh, we have a bet…”

He doesn’t get further until Fugo interrupts. “It’s been years and we still don’t know. I bet on Risotto because the man is freakishly huge and it makes sense, but this dumbass bets on Melone, because he doesn’t understand human anatomy.”

“You’re just scared you’re going to lose”, Narancia says, poking Fugo in the ribs, and the guy immediately turns on him looking like he’s a second from actually stabbing the kid named orange. Gio clears his throat, hoping to diffuse the situation.

“I’m sorry to say that I did not see anyone’s dick”, Gio says, wondering how on earth his life got to a point where this is normal conversation. “If the situation ever repeats itself – and god I hope it doesn’t – I’ll remember to keep an eye out.”

“So, you’re telling me you kicked three hit-men out of your car and no one had even whipped their dick out? Talk about overreaction”, Fugo says, and the only thing stopping Giorno from actually snapping back at him is the fact that they’ve reached their destination… and the fact that the customer is always right and he needs to shut up to have a chance at any tip.

Fugo exits the car, and only now does Gio notice that they’re in the upscale part of town. Massive villas with sprawling gardens, and high fences keeping people at a distance. The kind of place you live if you have the money to spare, and the wish not to be involved with the rest of the world. Gio highly doubts that his customers live in this area, but he’s experienced enough not to ask questions.

“You look good”, Narancia says, lingering in the backseat.

“Uh… thanks.”

Giorno wonders if he should say something like “I have a boyfriend”, but he isn’t sure if he could make it sound believable.

“Like, not in a sexy way”, Narancia immediately adds, probably picking up on Giorno’s hesitant silence. “I mean, you look less… pale, I guess? A bit healthier. Have you stopped taking drugs or something?”

The question is so absurd that Giorno surprises the both of them with barking out a laugh. “I’d rather die than get involved with drugs.”

“Okay, a bit dramatic”, Narancia mumbles, stepping out of the car. “That’s good, though, I guess. Take care.”

“You too”, Gio replies, hesitating. “Don’t blow anything up, okay?”

Narancia just flashes him the widest grin, for a moment looking like the happy-go-lucky teen he is, and not like the career criminal who’d argue that arson solves any problem. “I can’t promise anything.”

Giorno watches them leave. Watches as the pair heads down the street and then dives into a shrubbery near an especially large villa with an extraordinary amount of security cameras. Whatever they’re up to, it’s no good, so Gio takes this as his cue to leave.

Making his way through the neighbourhood and its labyrinth of picturesque streets, he barely pays attention to the road, and he doesn’t have to look in the rear-view mirror to know that he’s smiling like an absolute fool.

It’s been nearly a week since Mista left several bags of food on his passenger seat, and it’s been nearly a week since Giorno had to go hungry or settle for a shitty meal. He’s had the cooler stuffed with a selection of sandwiches and pasta salads, and the only money he’s had to spend is on ice to keep it chilled.

Something about Narancia actually noticing his change of complexion has him beaming. Something about Guido Mista having such a visible impact on his life brightens his day more than clear skies or a hefty tip ever could.

Now that he’s alone in the car, he changes from the generic radio station to a personal playlist. For the longest time he’s tried not to get sentimental – not to get emotionally invested – but god he can’t help himself from playing Rainbow Connection and just… drive. Drive through the city, ignoring any ride requests, until he reaches the glittering sea.

For the first time in weeks he feels rested, alert, and he has enough money to spare to allow himself this one moment to breathe. To take off the damned wig, and feel the cool wind in his hair, the salty ocean breeze on his lips. The sun is too bright and the beach is blinding white, and this, Gio thinks, is probably what freedom should feel like – at least on a good day. Not just survival, but comfort. Not just stressing through the day, but stopping to take in its beauty.

He sits on the hood of his car, his playlist circling through calm, nostalgic tunes – music he used to listen to as a kid and dream of a better life. Music that somehow lead him to this, something so different, and if nothing else, something better than where he was before.

Gio sits beneath the sun until a familiar name pops up on his phone screen, and he accepts the ride in a heartbeat. When he gets in the car, he doesn’t put the wig back on, and he doesn’t change back to the radio station; he picks Guido Mista up feeling more like himself than he’s done in years.

Of course, he’s nervous. Mista has called him an angel since the night they met, and Gio can’t help but wonder what he’ll say when he realizes that his golden-haired saviour that gave him hamburgers has been keeping secret. That the angelic gold was an illusion all this time.

Mista’s further down the beach, and when Gio pulls up he jumps in the passenger side, energized and already smiling. “I’m craving disgusting fast food”, he leads with as he pulls the car door closed. Then he turns to Gio, and he sort of… freezes.

Eyes wide, mouth open, as if he’s caught in the middle of a sentence and then lost all coherent thought. “Oh”, he says, finally, his voice a bit hoarse, and Gio keeps his eyes on the road, focusing on getting them to the nearest McDonalds, because he knew this was a bad idea, he knew he shouldn’t read too much into a customer being kind of flirty and sure, Mista did buy him food, but even “arson solves any problem”-Narancia noticed Gio wasn’t doing well and…

“Man, you look great”, Mista says, not a hint of sarcasm in his voice, and Gio is absolutely not close to crashing the car.

“Oh… thank you”, and as he speaks, he can feel his lips pull into a smile. Something so genuine, so overwhelming, that he couldn’t keep it in if he tried. Still, he bites his bottom lip, trying to contain some of it, scared of this feeling bleeding out into the world and leaving him empty of all this lightheaded joy.

“Wig getting uncomfortable?” Mista relaxes in his seat, head turned to look at Giorno as they start out on the short drive to the nearest fast food joint.

“You knew I was wearing a wig?”

Mista snorts a laugh, shaking his head. “Giogio, give me a break, you’ve styled it in a cool way but it still looks cheap as hell. Also, sometimes it’s kind of tipping to the side as if it’s about to fall off your head.”

And Giorno is not blushing, not at all. His face is heating up for completely unrelated reasons. When he doesn’t say anything, Mista tilts his head to the side, a curious look on his face. “Why were you wearing it in the first place?”

Giorno shrugs, leaning over the steering wheel a bit as he navigates the parking lot outside the McDonalds. “I don’t know, kind of… escaping my past, I guess.” He pauses, figuring he might as well commit to being open with Mista. “Also, for actual protection. To hide my identity.”

He comes to a stop at the far end of the parking lot, not sure if Mista wants to be dropped off, or go through the drive through. Instead of getting out of the car though, his passenger remains by his side, looking at him with eyes that are too knowing, too inviting, too tender.

“Okay, well”, Mista says, taking a deep breath before he continues speaking. “Dark hair suits you, like… amazingly.”

And Gio doesn’t really know what to do with genuine compliments. He knows he’s handsome, he’s more than once used it to his advantage, but shallow flirting and whatever this is are very different things. All he can manage is a smile, as his mind races a mile a minute with a bunch of different ways to deflect the praise.

“Can I touch it?”

Giorno nearly chokes on air at the question. “What?”

“It looks so silky… may I?” And Mista raises a hand, as if he needs to demonstrate how he intends to touch Gio’s hair… and Gio’s first thought is why would you want to, but then he nods all the same, because this is Mista, and despite his anxiety he trusts the man more than it is probably wise to do.

Mista reaches for him. Gentle fingertips brushing the black curls off Gio’s forehead, and tucking strands of hair behind his ear. Amber eyes so close, so intense, taking him in – a warmth that meets his gaze, and then trails down to his lips and lingers there, if only for a moment. Giorno isn’t sure if he manages to smile, but at least he attempts to do so, and his attempt has to be sort of successful, because Mista smiles back at him, biting his lip with a sort of mischievous gleam in his eyes.

The playlists shuffles to Rainbow Connection yet again, and the moment is over. Mista bursts out laughing, a happy, disbelieving sound. “Holy shit, I love Kermit the Frog!”

Whatever comment Gio expected, it’s not this one. He joins Mista in laughter, unable to tear his eyes off that wide grin. White teeth and crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes, an unbelievable warmth contained in that inviting posture and bronze skin.

“God, that frog is a gay icon”, Mista continues, the smile never once leaving his lips.

“I guess so”, Giorno mumbles, unable to decide if he should branch the subject into how much he loves frogs, or a discussion about sexuality.

“Anyway, guess I should go get my trash food”, Mista says, already halfway out the door. “Do you want anything?”

And despite everything, despite his past month living out of this car and often relying on the kindness of others, Gio shakes his head. “I’m good.”

“Whatever you say, pretty boy”, Mista says, his voice dropping at the end of the sentence, and he winks before heading to the restaurant. If there’s one thing Giorno is thankful for, it’s the fact that Mista exits the car before Gio attempts to stutter a flustered reply.

As he gathers his thoughts, he opens the door on his side, letting in the afternoon breeze, and he’s not even that annoyed at the bustling noise of traffic in the distance. At this point he should know that this isn’t a normal driving gig – that there’s no other customer he’d idle in a parking lot for, but it’s easy to pretend still. Easy to push these invasive, enchanting, overwhelming feelings to the side.

Soon enough, Mista slides back into the car, leaving his door open as he arranges multiple bags of food on the dashboard. Just like his fast-food run during their first meeting, he’s bought two burgers and multiple drinks.

“So, do you think you’ll find it?”

Giorno can’t even remember what they were talking about before Mista left. “Find what?”

“The rainbow connection.”

He lets out a breath, feeling a bit put on the spot. “I’m not sure what that is – I think it’s a metaphor?”

“I think anyone who listens to that song envisions a very specific thing they’re looking for”, Mista says, taking a big bite out of his burger. “I sure know I do.”

“Oh?”

“I asked you first”, Mista says, smiling around his straw as he dramatically slurps his drink.

“I’m not going tell you”, Giorno replies, sticking his tongue out at him. “You’re not… Freud.”

“I can’t believe you’d rather tell a perverted dead man about this than me. What an absolute attack on my character”, Mista says, holding out his drink for Gio. “Want a taste?”

And how could Giorno say no? He drinks from the same straw as Mista, all too aware of how those dark eyes look at him intently the entire time… and then the drink hits his tastebuds and he actually chokes on it. It tastes sweet and milky and slightly rancid, and he can’t imagine a single thing on the McDonalds menu that is supposed to taste like this.

 “What the hell is that?”

“Milk and 7 Up”, Mista immediately replies, as if it’s a completely normal thing to willingly put in your mouth. “It’s my comfort drink.”

“Oh my god”, Gio gargles, eyes narrowed as he looks at the other drinks on the dashboard. “Please tell me you also bought something normal. I need to rinse out my mouth.”

Mista hands him another cup, which thankfully only contains sparkling water.

“Honestly though, it’s kind of rude of you to call it unnatural”, he grumbles, playing up how hurt he’s been by Giorno’s comments while grinning the entire time.

Giorno sneers, levelling him with a stare. “It’s even more outrageous than your name.”

“How dare you”, Mista laughs, punching his shoulder. “My mom made it all the time when I was a kid.”

“Funny how all your weird quirks trace back to your parents, huh?” Gio asks, before chugging more of the water, chasing that sweet taste of nothing, anything that isn’t milk and soda.

“Shut up”, Mista manages, still laughing, unpacking the remaining two burgers. “Want one? I’m too full to eat all of them anyway.”

Gio raises an eyebrow, looking between Mista and the mushed up, lukewarm burger. “I’ve seen you eat three of those before, I know you can do it.”

“Gio, I swear to god, I will shove this thing in your mouth unless you gracefully accept it as a gift.”

“Okay”, Gio grumbles, taking the burger. “Thank you.”

They spend upwards an hour in the parking lot, Giorno’s playlist a soundtrack as they people-watch and talk about everything and nothing. More than once, Gio catches Mista stealing glances at him, and he barely has time to bask in the attention, because then Mista catches him looking back, and he immediately has to avert his eyes and recuperate.

It’s easy, carefree, and it’s overwhelmingly challenging. Not for the first time, Giorno feels like there’s something unspoken between them. Something pulling them ever closer, that they’re both aware of, but neither of them acknowledge. A countdown they’re both aware of, in the back of their minds, and they’re both aware of how it will end… but somehow, they both know that it’s not time – not yet. The dance must go on, all these encounters where they enter each-other’s orbit and are pulled closer, and closer still.

Mista doesn’t ask Giorno to drive him home. At the end of their time together, he’s says it’s a beautiful evening and that he’d prefer to walk home, and when he pays for the absurd amount of time they’ve spent in the parking lot, his touch lingers as he hands Giorno the cash.

It’s… a lot. It’s so devastatingly brief and beautiful that Giorno can’t stop smiling as he makes his way through town, pondering whether he should drive well into the night like he usually does, or if he should allow himself a night of proper sleep.

The streets are narrow, a winding labyrinth, as he navigates the affluent neighbourhood he drew past earlier in the day.

As he passes a particularly huge villa, he hears gunshots. It’s not like he’s heard firearms go off many times in his life, but as the sound rings through the street, he knows that there’s nothing else it could possibly be.

He slows down, a subconscious instinct – because his first thought is to escape as quickly as possible – and then another shot echoes down the calm, picturesque street. Next second Narancia exits the villa, and not through the door. The kid comes bursting through a window of the second floor, and it looks like he’s been thrown rather than jumped of his own accord.

Giorno stops the car, his mind screaming that he shouldn’t get involved, but he repeats to himself that he just needs to make sure the kid named orange is okay, he won’t even linger, he’ll leave immediately as soon as he… and a man appears in the window of the house. Wild eyes, a rifle in his hands, long pink hair billowing in the evening breeze. He barely has time to take aim at Narancia before he’s tackled away from the window – by whom Giorno doesn’t have time to notice. All he sees is a slender figure and more pink hair.

He’s idling near the gate of the villa as a girl burst through the doors, Fugo at her side, his arm wrapped over her shoulder as she drags him towards the street. The doors to Gio’s car are still closed, but he can still hear her scream for Narancia to get up. Even from this distance he can see the panic in her eyes as the man with the rifle appears behind them, screaming something incoherent.

They don’t stop. No matter how much the man screams at them, they don’t stop, and they burst through the gate and tumble onto the street. The man doesn’t even bother with Narancia, sprawled on the grass like a broken marionette, he only has eyes for Fugo and the girl as they stagger down the street.

So much happens at once. Gio sees Narancia struggle to get to his feet, something that looks too much like a grenade in his shaking hands. He sees Fugo and the pink haired girl trying to run, having no chance to escape in time.

Gio sees the pink-haired man make it through the gate and out the street, and then he doesn’t even hurry anymore. He calmly takes aim for the fleeing teens, his breathing even the way only a skilled marksman – a killer – would handle a weapon, and Giorno doesn’t even hesitate when he hits the gas pedal, speeding down the street.

Chapter Text

It’s not the first time Giorno has hit a man with this car – not even the first time he’s straight up murdered a person – but last time it wasn’t quite so… graphic. The pink-haired man doesn’t fire his rifle; doesn’t even notice the speeding car; within seconds he’s mangled beneath its wheels.

Running him over is like driving slightly too fast down a street full of potholes.

There’s blood splattered on the windshield, and as he stops the car, Giorno turns on the windshield wipers, watching as they smear the viscous red over the glass until the washer fluid finally dissolves the blood.

Down the street he sees Fugo and the pink-haired girl halt in their escape, and when they turn, Fugo’s eyes noticeably widens as he recognizes Gio. Giorno just stares back, reality slowly catching up with him, and he’s forgotten how to breathe.

The quiet moment is over the next second, as Narancia tears open the door to the passenger side.

“That was epic!” Despite being out of breath he’s hollering, grinning and bleeding all over the place. “You saved our life dude!”

Giorno’s gripping the steering wheel tightly to keep his hands shaking, and he lets out a shallow breath. “I guess.”

“What do you mean, I guess? You’re a fucking hero!” Narancia hangs out the door, waving at Fugo and the pink-haired girl. “Get in the car assholes, we going to Libeccio!”

Another beat, and then they’re in the backseat. Giorno hits the gas, and even as they speed down the street, wheels screeching, he can feel how the car handles differently from before – remnants of the pink-haired man still entangled with the wheels.

“Where to?” Giorno manages, as he’s aimlessly hurtling through the picture-perfect neighbourhood.

“A restaurant, it’s not far from here”, Narancia immediately replies. “I’ll give you directions, it’s in the city center.”

Giorno nods, thankful that the drive is short. Then the pink-haired girl clears her throat.

“What about…”

She’s immediately interrupted by Fugo. “There was another exit, everything will be fine.”

Looking in the rear-view mirror, Giorno can tell she doesn’t look convinced. He’s already too deeply involved in this mafia stuff though, and for now he’ll keep his eyes on the road until they reach the restaurant, and then he’ll disentangle himself from this mess… somehow. The last thing he needs is to ask what they’re talking about and somehow get pulled even further into this chaotic underworld.

Not that he’ll be that lucky. As the minutes pass, Narancia is practically bouncing in his seat, his near-death experience apparently already gone from memory, and now the euphoria of survival is catching up with him.

“Holy shit dude, do you know what you just did?”

It takes a second or two for Giorno to realize that he’s the one addressed. “What?”

“You killed the boss!”

Giorno turns to him then, feeling utterly lost. “Who?”

From the backseat he hears a loud groan. “Oh jesus fucking christ”, Fugo drawls, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. “The boss! The man who runs everything.”

“I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about”, Giorno says, navigating the labyrinth of Napoli as Narancia wildly points him down a seemingly random route of alleys and one-way streets. “Am I supposed to know who he was? Some kind of tech founder?”

“He was the Don of Passione”, the pink-haired girl says, much less animated than the others.

Giorno swallows deeply. “Okay, Passione I know about”, he says, fighting his first instinct to just hit the gas and speed out of the city never to look back. “So, what Mafia family are you guys part of? If you were carrying out a hit on him, I mean.”

“We’re also Passione”, Narancia replies, cheerful as ever where he’s sat in the passenger seat, stretching his arms over his head to assess his injuries. “It’s… complicated.”

“Don’t worry”, the pink-haired girl says, and when Giorno meets her gaze in the rear-view mirror, it’s the first time he’s felt some sense of calm since he murdered the man. “You did the right thing.”

“Thanks”, he says, finally pulling up to the restaurant. Narancia guides him into an alley, where they sort of hide the car. Only when he steps out of it does he realize the state of it; not only the blood splatter, but the scratches and bumps – some of them resembling the shape of a person to an uncomfortable degree.

He’s just sort of staring, the others leaving the alley and chatting between themselves, until Narancia waves and hollers, breaking Giorno out of his thoughts. “You better come with, dude!”

Gio doesn’t reply, instead nodding to himself, following the others into the restaurant, trying not to think about how the wet smears on his car used to be a person.

Narancia has claimed a table with a dozen or so seats, but thus far, it’s only the four of them. Giorno has barely had the chance to sit down when a tray of shots is placed in front of them.

“So… what now?” Giorno’s voice only just carries, and he looks at the others; Narancia tapping his foot against the floor in a nervous staccato; Fugo staring at the table with a distant sort of focus; the pink-haired girl surveying the room as if danger could be lurking in any corner, any shadow.

“We wait – Buccellati will be here soon”, Fugo mutters.

“Let’s do introductions!” Narancia says, gesturing between Giorno and the girl. “Giorno, this is Trish, she’s the coolest. Trish, this is Giorno, he’s…a driver.”

Trish waves at him, something like a smile at the corner of her lips. “Hi.”

Gio waves back, unsure if he manages to smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“I’m sorry you got caught up in all of this”, she says, finally relaxing in her seat. “It wasn’t meant to get so… messy.”

“It’s okay” Gio replies, thinking he doesn’t feel okay at all. “What happened? Did you know the boss? I mean, your hair…”

“He was my dad”, she says, not meeting his gaze anymore.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, uh, you know”, he gestures vaguely out the window, to where the car is parked, and it’s enough to have her laugh.

“Oh, don’t worry about that”, she says, the smile on her lips not a happy one. “My only complaint is that I didn’t get to do it myself. I would’ve loved to see the light leave his eyes.”

Gio hesitates, unused to sharing his own experience – especially with people who are practically strangers – but at the same time, this is far from an ordinary day. If he ever considered making an exception, today seems fitting. “I know that feeling.”

Trish reaches for one of the shots, raising it in a toast. “Here’s to killing our fathers, then!”

Raising a shot of his own, Giorno nods. “To killing our fathers.”

The alcohol tastes of bitter herbs and has a horribly sweet aftertaste. It clings to the roof of his mouth, and Gio is reminded why he isn’t into the party scene. He doesn’t have much of a chance to ponder the taste though, as Narancia perks up next to him, and they’re interrupted by a dark voice.

“What’s this cockblocker doing here?”

And Giorno turns, only to see Buccellati and the silver-haired police officer – the latter eyeing Gio with a particularily vicious disdain.

“Shut up Abbacchio, he killed the boss”, Narancia says, all cheerful despite the topic of conversation, and the second he utters the words, the venom drains from the officer’s face, and Buccellati turns to Gio, his eyes an unblinking stare.

“You did what?” Abbacchio says, actually sitting down in the chair next to Giorno, as if his legs can’t carry him anymore. For a moment, he sits in silence, and then he turns to Fugo with a rage that seems much more real than the one he displayed back when Giorno kicked him out of his car. “You idiots involved a civilian? How the hell do you fuck up so bad an innocent teen has to step in and commit murder in your place, huh?”

“We didn’t ask him to”, Fugo immediately retorts, not meeting Abbacchio’s gaze.

“Yeah, he just kinda… showed up”, Narancia adds. “It’s good he did though. Things were not going great.”

“Speaking of that”, Bruno Buccellati says, his presence ever calm, his movements precise as he takes a seat at the table, “where is Mista?”

And the words wash over Giorno like cold water – an uneasy shiver traveling from the base of his spine and nesting in the back of his mind like the sparks of a migraine.

“We got separated”, Narancia says, and this time he’s the one averting his gaze.

“How the fuck do you get separated inside of a goddamn house?” Abbacchio sneers, and he seems like he’s about to start cursing them out again when Bruno puts a hand on his shoulder. He instead turns his attention to the nearest waiter, asking for wine and antipasti for the table.

“There was a backdoor”, Fugo says, still not looking at anyone around the table. “I’m sure he made it.”

Trish throws him a glance, hesitating, and then she clears her throat. “I’m pretty sure he got shot, though. He tried to draw dad… Diavolo’s attention from us, so that we could get out.”

“Fuck”, Abbacchio mutters, and this time he’s the one reaching for Bruno, a hand on his thigh, as if attempting to anchor him.

Meanwhile, Giorno’s mind is racing a mile a minute. Guido was in the house, he maybe exited it only seconds after the others… and Giorno left him there. He could be hurt, could be bleeding out in the fucking garden at this very second, and Gio… Gio just…

The first thing bringing him back to his seat; the table; the restaurant; is a gentle hand grasping his. Long fingers holding him, steady, until he finds Trish’s emerald eyes watching him intently. “It’ll be okay”, she says, as if she’s trying to convince herself as much as Gio. “Mista’s tough, I’m sure he’ll walk in here any minute.”

“Yeah, he’s been shot before”, Fugo adds, only to be silenced by a not-so-subtle kick under the table from Narancia.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking”, Buccellati says, once again calm and collected as ever, his voice mild, his eyes curious. “How exactly did you kill Diavolo?”

“Uh”, Giorno says, his mind still trying to piece everything together – still trying to understand how he could go from eating shitty burgers in a parking lot to manslaughter in a matter of minutes. “I hit him with my car.”

Buccellati stares at him in silence, and as if taking a cue from him, the others sit in silence too – that is until Abbacchio bursts out laughing so hard he doubles over. “That is fucking perfect. What a pathetic way to go.”

“And you’re sure he’s dead?” Bruno asks, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips while he’s trying his best to keep his composure.

“Oh, he’s dead alright”, Narancia says, grinning like a maniac. “He got smeared on the windshield like a bug.”

That’s how they end up in the alley again, Narancia and Gio showing the car to Abbacchio and Buccelatti.  Giorno stays back, letting them examine it in peace, preferring not to study the gore in detail. Even from afar he can sort of make out bone fragments and tufts of pink hair. It’s a mess. A disgusting mess of viscera that he would rather never see again, but unfortunately, he’ll have to stare at until he gets the chance to clean his goddamn car.

“Holy shit”, Abbacchio breaths eventually, having crouched by the car as if a close inspection would help him notice anything but the horrific stench. “Dozens of assassination attempts, and the guy gets smeared on the pavement by a kid in a beat-up car.”

“It’s actually over”, Bruno adds, a comment so quiet it only seems meant for Abbacchio to hear. Then he turns to Giorno, something like compassion in his eyes, and for once, Gio finds the expression welcome. His hands are still shaking, his mind still racing, and he’s messed up enough that he can’t even remember to reject kindness.

“We’re waiting for more people”, Buccellati says, nodding at the restaurant, “and I’m sure Mista will show up any time now. Will you wait with us?”

Gio can do nothing but nod, and allow them to lead him back to his seat. Once they’re back inside, the conversation quickly turns from grim to celebratory, drinks being poured and cheers being made. After the shot, Giorno can’t imagine having any more alcohol, so he orders a glass of milk and a 7UP from the waiter. Once his order shows up, and he mixes the two, Narancia bursts out laughing.

“Oh, fuck me”, he hollers, punching Giorno’s shoulder. “You like-like Mista. I didn’t take you for a guy with such shitty taste.”

Abbacchio looks over at them, and when he sees the drink in Giorno’s hand, he sneers. “I can’t believe there’s more than one person in the world who willingly drinking that shit. You kids disgust me.”

In response, Buccellati reaches over to ruffle Abbacchio’s hair – something that is apparently daring enough that even Fugo lets out an impressed “oooh”. “Be quiet Leone, Mista is very loveable”, Bruno says, following it up with a wink in Gio’s direction, as if that could possibly be seen as a comradely thing to do, rather than being absolutely mortifying.

To avoid having to engage with the conversation, Giorno drinks of the mixture, and it’s honestly a bit shocking how he’s gone from nearly spitting it out to willingly drinking it. Caught in a moment like this, his eyes glued to the door, time passing at a glacial pace, the drink is calming; the tart sweetness shocking, overwhelming the senses just like Guido’s presence; those easy smiles and that loud laughter. The out-of-tune singing to over-played pop-hits, and the excitement when listening to Gio’s playlist; do you think you’ll ever find it, the rainbow connection?

And Gio’s curling in on himself, wrapping his arms around himself, and any second now he might actually cry, so instead he searches his pockets for his phone. Puts it on the table, the app open, many customers in the area, but no Mmmista in sight.

The next couple of minutes he barely listens in on the conversation around him, instead staring at the screen – staring until a hand disrupts his line of sight, Narancia waving wildly to get his attention.

“Dude, do you have his number? That idiot goes through burner phones like normal people snort crack.”

Gio stares at him for quite a while, and then he managed to finally shake his head. “No, we… well, we met through the app.”

Narancia cocks his head, grinning wildly. “An app, you say? You guys met on tinder? Grindr? Whiplr?”

“No – the ride app. Sometimes I see his name looking for a ride, and we meet up.”

From across the table Fugo sighs so loudly he might risk emptying his lungs of air and straight up fainting. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

Next to Gio, Abbacchio joins the sentiment, chugging what’s left in his wine glass before turning to Giorno with newfound disdain. “So, you’re telling me Mista has been chewing our ears off about you for weeks and he doesn’t even have you number?”

Gio’s about to answer when he’s once again interrupted by a voice he – unfortunately – recognizes well.

“What is this cockblocker doing here?”

And Giorno turns, only to see the men he now recognizes as La Squadra standing behind him – a man wearing a yellow silk shirt and a blue tailored suit eyeing Gio with a particularly vicious disdain.

He doesn’t get the chance to answer, though. Abbacchio stands quickly enough for his chair to fall over, taking a step to positioning himself between Giorno and the new-arrivals.

“Apparently he’s the one who took down your boss, mister scary hitman”, he drawls, seeming seconds from actually throwing a punch, “so how about you shut the fuck up and show the kid some respect.”

The silence that follows is overwhelming, as every member of La Squadra turns to stare at Gio. The first one to speak is the man that has to be Risotto – red eyes fixated on Giorno. “Are you serious?”

“There’s still bits of Diavolo on his car, so yes, I’m sure”, Abbacchio spits, only sitting down when Bruno pulls on the sleeve of his uniform.

“Yeah, y’all should feel ashamed”, Narancia pipes up, and Gio truly has no idea how the kid feels comfortable picking fights with men that look to be twice his height. “You call yourself hitmen? A dude who works for an app took the boss down. And y’all arranged a mighty fine distraction by the way, Diavolo fucking got home early and nearly killed us.”

A man steps forward from the new-arrivals – his hair buzzed, his red jacket short-sleeved and studded – his face mere inches from Narancia’s when he speaks. “No one asked for your opinion, orange-boy.”

And Narancia leans toward him, lightly headbutting the man in the process. “Shut the fuck up, cheese-man.”

For minutes now, Giorno has simply watched it all play out, all these people screaming at each-other while Mista is still missing; while Giorno’s still shaking – while there’s still bloodstains on his clothes.

It’s too much.

Slipping out of his seat is easy. Out of the corner of his eyes he sees Trish watching him, and there’s recognition in those emerald eyes – she doesn’t say a word, letting him exit the restaurant without any attention brought to it.

It’s not that he’s planning to never return, he just needs some air, some quiet. He’ll walk around the block, gather his thoughts, maybe find a bench where he can just sit and stare at the evening sky for a while – maybe think back on shitty burger meals and shared laughter.

The fact that he’s considering thinking back to the life he led only hours ago, as if homelessness and being trapped in the gig-economy was easy, is enough to make him want to laugh; throw his head back and howl with some sort of mix of mirth and agony.

Then he rounds the corner, intending to walk down the narrow alley and circle back to the restaurant, and the weight of the world leaves his shoulders.

There, in the dark, slumped against the wall of a discoloured building, sits Guido Mista, his head tilted back to look up at the evening sky.

“Mista”, Gio sighs, relieved, his voice barely carrying, and he’s rushing down the street, only remembering to breath when Guido turns at the sound of him approaching – those dark eyes still alert, still lighting up at the sight of Giorno.

He falls to his knees next to Guido, ignoring the pain of gravel scraping through the fabric of his pants, his hands shaking, careful, as he reaches for him.

“Oh, Giogio”, Guido sighs, smiling sweetly with bloodied lips. “My very own guardian angel, now I know I’m really dying.”

“Shut up”, Gio hisses, pulling up Guido’s crop top to inspect his injuries. There’s no single bullet wound – he seems to have been shot with hunting pellets, probably from quite a distance, shallow flesh wounds spread over his chest and abdomen. “You’re very much alive and you’ll stay alive. If you don’t, I’ll never forgive you.”

Guido laughs at that, reaching for Gio, fingers tangling in his dark hair, trailing his jawline, likely leaving a trail of blood and dirt, and Giorno couldn’t care in the slightest. “Noted. Wouldn’t want you to smite me with your heavenly wrath.”

His panicked pulse slowly steadying, Gio’s taking in the details; the fact that Guido’s touch is steady; his breaths even and deep; the bleeding noticeable but not heavy. The injuries are bad, but not life-threatening. It’ll be okay. It’ll truly be okay.

“How did you find me?” Guido asks, eventually, his head tilted to the side now, either from exhaustion or to better observe Gio.

“I was waiting at Libeccio.”

Guido huffs a laugh. “How did you end up there?”

“I drove Narancia and the others there after Diavolo, uh, died”, Gio says, not knowing if this is the proper moment to mention how exactly the pink-haired devil died. “It’s chaotic in there.”

“I can imagine”, Guido says, shaking his head. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“It’s okay”, Giorno says, thinking of all of the things that are absolutely not okay – thinking that all of it will be fine now that he knows Guido made it through.

“So, when we had lunch today you knew you were going to that house?” The question just kind of bubbles out of him. It’s been swirling at the back of his mind for hours now, ever since he managed to patch the timeline of this cursed day together. “Why would you take me out for burgers instead of like… spending time with your friends?”

And Guido smiles so widely, and despite the fact that it should sparkle with that carefree joy that’s so uniquely his, there’s something almost sad about it. “Oh, I wonder why”, he says, raising a hand to scratch at his neck, despite the fact that it seems the gesture pains him. “I… well, I didn’t know if I’d make it, so… I wanted to see you one last time.”

Gio’s quiet for so long that he feels like he’s lost his voice. “You thought it was your last meal and you spent it with me?”

Guido laughs at that, a defeated sound rather than cheerful. “Yeah, can you blame me?”

“I… don’t know what to say.” Gio manages, stuttering, forcing himself to speak while feeling at a total loss for words.

“It’s okay, we don’t have to talk.”

“Okay”, Gio whispers, his mind unfocused, swirling with a thousand things to say, none of it seeming enough. Finally, he clears his throat, feeling dreadfully awkward, yet speaking nonetheless. “Can I hug you?”

And Guido nods, eager, biting a smile. “I’d love that.”

It’s awkward, shifting over the stained pavement to gather Guido in his arms; to hold him gently not to worsen the pain of his injuries, yet tight enough to cling to that heat, to cling to this man that would happily eat shitty fast food as his last meal as long as he got to share it with Gio.

Giorno’s life hasn’t been a series of ups and downs as much as it’s been a free fall, and he’s unsure how to face this kind of devotion. How to navigate this chaotic fluttering in his chest, something much more complex than a crush – something far from a fleeting fixation.

In this moment, when words fail him, he clings to Guido Mista, feeling those muscular arms wrap around him, those gentle fingers grip his shirt at the small of his back. He breaths in iron and gunpowder and as he buries his face in the crook of Guido’s neck, the scent of petrichor, sandalwood – a homely air he chases down, letting it fill his lungs, wondering if he’ll ever be able to live without this scent, this warmth, this touch.

Above them, the sky changes from pale pastels to the deepest indigo, and still, they cling to each-other.

Chapter Text

Soon enough, Giorno and Guido are found by one of the La Squadra members. The man in the yellow silk shirt seems to be out on a smoke break – or maybe he too needed a minute away from the mayhem of the restaurant – when he rounds the corner of the alley, where Giorno’s still holding Guido tight.

From that point, the evening passes in a blur. They’re escorted back to Libeccio, where Fugo cleans Guido’s wounds with vodka, and Abbacchio takes off his shirt to tear it into make-shift bandages. Gio wouldn’t wish this kind of first aid on his worst enemy, but on the other hand – he prefers this to Guido not getting help at all.

Once Guido’s patched up, Giorno it’s in the chair next to him, watching him relax, watching his breathing even out and an easy smile to return to his lips. Despite the fact that the people gathered around the table are as rowdy as when Giorno left; Abbacchio having returned to hissing at Risotto and silk-shirt-man like a territorial wild cat; Narancia and Trish doing their best to antagonize cheese-man, while Fugo does his best to look uninterested; Guido looks at all of them, and there’s a softness to his eyes. Giorno is too busy watching him that he doesn’t notice the hand reaching for him. At first, he startles at the touch, and then, looking down, he sees Guido’s hand on his leg, just above the knee. The warmth of his touch is intense, and he’s still covered in blood and he’s likely staining Giorno’s pants, and Gio couldn’t care in the slightest. He’s smiling before he raises his gaze, and once he does – he’s met with a wide grin and fiery, amber eyes. For a moment, this is everything. A universe of its own, where the heat of Guido’s gaze builds and builds, the air between them charged, the intensity of it all leaving Giorno breathless.

Then the moment is over, as Guido startles and turns to stare at Abbacchio. “Excuse me, Diavolo died how?”

And that’s how Guido Mista finds out that Giorno hit the pink-haired mafia Don with his car. Through the tale – enhanced by Narancia shouting random words at them, acting as Abbacchio’s own hype-crew – Guido gently trails circles with his fingertips on Gio’s leg. Despite his shock, he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he seeks comfort in the closeness to Giorno through it all.

The hour is late, and there’s an antsy air around the table. Many of the people present have other places to be, especially now that there’s a power vacuum in the mafia world.

Bruno Buccellati stands, his piercing blue eyes zoned in on Giorno particularly. “There’s a lot we need to sort out. Anyone who can afford to do so should get some sleep.” And he pauses then, now addressing Gio directly. “We’ll take care of the car for you.”

Obviously, they’d have to take the car. It’s covered in evidence of an actual murder. Still, Gio can feel his mind spiral, because that beat up piece of shit is not only his only way to make a living, it’s also his actual home.

“You can’t take the car”, he says, only afterwards realizing how bizarre it must sound to the rest of the group, since it’s quite literally covered in human remains. “It’s… well, I live in it. So. I need it.”

For the first time in quite a while, Bruno’s composed expression slips, and Abbacchio seems at a loss for words. The moment drags on, and they just stare at him, and just as Giorno feels like he can’t stand the scrutiny any longer, Guido clears his throat.

“You can stay at my place”, he says, and when Gio turns to him, he’s met with a pair of very wide eyes, equally anxious and hopeful. “I only have a studio apartment, but you can sleep on the bed and I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“You haven’t even stopped bleeding. You’re not sleeping on the floor”, Giorno says immediately, hoping no one reads too much into his words.

“It’s not that bad, I’ve been shot before”, Guido shrugs, trying not to grimace while doing so. “Also, I’ve passed out on concrete after being shot, so like… sleeping on my own floor will feel like paradise in comparison.”

“I hate that everyone keeps telling me you’ve been shot before, as if that’s supposed to be reassuring.”

Bruno interrupts them then, patting Guido’s shoulder lightly. “It’s settled. You’ll stay the night at Mista’s place, and tomorrow we’ll meet and figure things out.”

Giorno’s thankful they head out of Libeccio soon after, because he’s sure the blush on his face is more than noticeable. Once they’re out in the street, the night is cool and the group disperses quickly.

Giorno doesn’t reach for Guido’s hand as much as he, well, accidentally-but-not-accidentally brushes it. Guido’s fingers tangle with his, gentle, and soon enough, a gun calloused palm envelops Gio’s. As they walk, Mista gently strokes the back of Gio’s hand with his thumb, and when Giorno steals a glance at him, he sees Guido smiling softly – crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes.

It’s not far, and Gio recognizes the apartment building very well. He’s seen Guido disappear up these stairs quite a few times by now – often carrying food, or bleeding out. It’s like their relationship has had an odd, almost cyclic nature, and only now, as Gio follows Guido up the stairs, do they break the loop of blood and fast food and longing.

It truly is a small apartment. A single room, furnished with retro furniture that must’ve come cheap from a second-hand place. There’s thought to it though; a sofa with bold floral patterns, a small dining table with an eclectic collection of wooden chairs – six of them, one for each member of Guido’s crew. On the walls there are movie posters, and piled on the hardwood floors are books; poetry and sci-fi and essays and erotica. Along the wall by the entrance is an alcove that holds a poorly made bed, the sleeping nook partly hidden by a curtain.

“Well, this is me”, Guido says, trying to gesture widely with his arms, and immediately wincing from the pain. “Feel free to just… chill wherever. There are drinks in the fridge. Maybe food.”

With that he heads for the couch, collapsing on it with a groan. He must be exhausted, maybe even slightly faint from the blood loss, but even so, he watches Giorno from where he lays – perhaps worried that the apartment isn’t to his liking.

“It’s a nice place”, Giorno says. Part of him wants to follow Guido to the couch; an almost desperate need to stay close, as if something bad could happen to them even now. At the same time, he doesn’t want to make his own anxiety something Guido has to deal with; the man has been shot, for god’s sake.

Instead of seeking intimacy, he heads for the fridge. Opening it, he has to bite his lip not to gasp or do something even more embarrassing. From their interactions, he expected old takeout containers. Maybe a case of beer. Instead, there’s fresh produce; vegetables and eggs and what looks like homemade pasta. Juice, sparkling water and a few bottles of white wine.

Having lived out of his car for a few months now, Guido’s fridge is paradise.

“You know”, Guido says, his voice a warm purr – yet hesitant, as if he’s putting a lot of thought into his words. Gio turns to him, finding those dark eyes, warm and so tender. “It’s really cool that you’re here. With me. I just… didn’t know if it would actually happen.”

The smile on Giorno’s lips isn’t even a conscious thing. It just appears naturally at Guido’s words, a sort of joy he’s not used to, pulling at the corner of his mouth – fluttering within his chest. Gio grabs a bottle of water and a bottle of wine, and then he heads for the couch.

He sits on the floor, his gaze level with Guido’s, and then he holds up the bottles. “What do you want to drink?”

“The wine”, Guido says, and when he accepts the bottle, their fingers brush and the touch lingers. Just as easily as they got caught in the moment, it passes, and Guido takes a swig from the bottle, grimacing as he swallows the wine down.

“What a fucking day”, he sighs, his other hand at the corner of the couch now, only inches from Gio. “How are you holding up? It must have been awful to just… kill him. I mean, you didn’t know who he was or anything?”

Gio runs a hand through his hair, averting his eyes as he considers his reply. “I saw enough. When he tried to hurt the others I just… acted on instinct, I guess. That’s always how it is when I end up killing people.”

“What”, Guido says flatly, and only then does Giorno realize the weight of what he’s just shared. “You’ve killed people before?”

Gio’s not sure what he’s expecting. Panic? Maybe even disgust? Sure, Guido is part of the mafia, but at least that’s organized crime; someone tells him who to kill. Giorno on the other hand has just spiralled on his own, pure chaos tearing through the city.

When he finally brings himself to meet Guido’s gaze again, he’s relieved to be met by eyes that are warm, and stare at him intently even, but there’s not a hint of judgement. Only surprise, maybe even amazement.

“Well… the car wasn’t originally mine. I stole it”, Gio confesses, forcing himself to maintain eye contact despite wanting desperately to look away. “And I’m pretty sure the owner is dead. Because I’m pretty sure I murdered him.”

For a moment Guido just stares at him, speechless, his mouth slightly open as if he’s caught trying to speak but not finding the words, and then, suddenly, beautifully, he grins. “What the fuck dude? Here I thought I’d have dragged you into all of this and that I’d have to like, pay for therapy and stuff.”

The comment is unexpected enough that Giorno snorts a laugh. “Just because I was already a murderer doesn’t mean I won’t need therapy.”

Guido shakes his head, taking another swig from the wine bottle. “Tell me about it. Who doesn’t need therapy in this economy?”

Gio’s about to speak when he feels a soft touch by his temple – Guido’s fingers stroking his cheek, and then, once he’s paused for a moment to gauge Giorno’s reaction, carding through his hair, gently.

“So, wanna tell me about the owner of this car?”

And Giorno takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes and counts to five. Focuses on the tender hand combing through his hair, the blunt nails scratching at his scalp and sending shivers down his spine. “Okay, well. I think his name was Luca? He might have been Passione. I met Bruno when he was investigating his death.” When Gio opens his eyes, Guido is watching him intently, but there’s no hint of judgement. “I was out walking by the side of the road because… things were not good at home… and this guy starts honking his horn and getting real in my face, and it just escalated, and he tried to run me over. Instead, he ran off the side of the road. He got pretty badly injured, but he tried to get out of the car to chase after me and I just…”

He hasn’t said any of this out loud before. It’s haunted him for weeks – months – now. He’s been reliving it in his dreams, and yet, it’s seemed so distant. Just a nightmare, not something real, something tangible. While distracted with survival, he’s had little time to think on his sins.

Gio drinks from the water bottle, clearing his throat. When he once again speaks, his voice is weak, but it carries. “I managed to get in the car instead. And I ran him over. And I didn’t see him get up when I drove away.”

For a while, they sit in silence, and silence should scare Gio in this situation, but it doesn’t, because Guido’s hand is still on his hair, and as neither of them speak, Giorno leans into the touch. The warm palm of a calloused hand, the gentle fingertips covered in cuts and scars; neither of them have lived a particularly easy life, and they wear their trauma openly.

“I’m sorry you had to live through that”, Guido whispers, his voice low, the baritone of it washing over Gio like a shiver. “But man did you pull through. You’re pretty incredible, you know that right?”

And Giorno’s first thought is “no” because he’s never really been appreciated for anything except the surface he puts up to the world, and yet… Guido asks the question like it isn’t a question at all, and he looks at Gio like he’s golden.

“Thank you”, Gio replies, finally, and god does he think about leaning in closer to the couch; to trade the touch of gentle fingers for the chance of pressing his lips to Guidos – and he doesn’t. “You’re pretty incredible too.”

He’s never felt lamer, and the only thing keeping him from blushing is the fact that Guido just smiles at him, sweetly, something like devotion in those amber eyes. For weeks now, Gio has shied away from interpretating anything Guido does as romantic, or a show of actual interest in him. Now he’s opened his heart to the idea that maybe this is more than tongue-in-cheek flirting, maybe something’s growing between them, something genuine that they both want, and once he’s allowed himself to acknowledge that… what choices does he have but to be brave?

“You shouldn’t sleep on the couch”, Giorno says, his mouth dry, and then he averts his eyes, swallowing hard. “And you absolutely should not sleep on the floor.”

Guido chuckles.

“I guess I shouldn’t”, he agrees, and the hand in Gio’s hair trails down the side of his face, his jawline, lingering on the tip of his chin – so close to his lips – for but a moment. “But what kind of host would I be if I make you sleep on the couch?”

“You’ve got a point there”, Gio whispers, and he tries so hard to find his resolve, because he can’t falter now. “I guess it’s a good thing your bed is big enough for two.”

At that, Guido sucks in a breath, his surprise and anticipation an audible thing, and Giorno turns to him then. Turns to see dark eyes watching him with such longing that he realizes that he’s never experienced desire until this very moment. He’s flirted, he’s had people lust after him, but this? This is unprecedented. It’s so large, so charged, so intense, that all he can do is hold Guido’s gaze and try to remember how to breathe.

“That is a very good thing”, Guido says, his lips pulling into a smile. “How about you make yourself comfortable, and I’ll clean up?”

Giorno just nods at that, watching him get up from the couch. Part of him is worried that Guido’s injuries will prove worse than first expected, but he manages to stand just fine. Once he’s disappeared into the bathroom and Giorno hears the sound of the shower running, he stands, looking at the sleeping nook.

The bed is messy, but the dark blue sheets look fairly clean. He can’t remember the last time he slept in a bed. Just a shitty mattress would feel like heaven, but this? With Guido Mista by his side? Giorno feels like he’s either been blessed, or he’s dreamed all of this up, because truly, it’s so much better than anything in his life has any right to be.

He slips out of his jacket, and after a moment of hesitation he takes of his pants as well. He sprawls out on Guido’s bed in a pair of boxers and a white t-shirt. The fabric of his shirt is so worn out it’s nearly see-through, and he’s always enjoyed it because of its softness. Now, feeling Guido’s silky sheets and soft pillows against his bare skin, it’s like he suddenly remembers what true comfort feels like.

Time passes quickly as he lays on his back, slowly relaxing, and as he does so, realizing how tightly wound he’s been. His shoulders tense, his back hurting from sitting behind the wheel dozens of hours at a time.

“Hey there.”

And Guido’s by the side of the bed, his dark hair framing his face with wet curls, a towel around his waist, and the makeshift bandages still covering his chest and abdomen. Even like this, roughened up and clearly worn out from the day, bruises and cuts on his bronze skin, there’s a glow to him, a calming presence that leaves Giorno breathless.

When Guido tries to slip into the bed next to Giorno in one smooth motion, all leering and suave, he immediately hunches over, hissing at the pain from the wounds. Instead, he kind of topples over into the bed, curled in on himself, his head on Gio’s chest.

“Hi”, Gio says, a bit overwhelmed by trying to balance his worry and desire. “Are you okay?”

Guido laughs against Gio’s chest, a vibration that travels straight through him. “I am. And I’m also mortified.”

“Don’t worry”, Gio says, biting his lip, trying not to overthink things. “You’re sexy even when you’re a dumbass.”

“Wow, thanks”, Guido says, snorting a laugh, and then turning to face Gio. There’s a blush on his cheeks, but he’s smiling through the embarrassment. “You think I’m sexy?”

“Have you seen yourself?” Gio immediately replies, slowly reaching out to touch Guido’s hair. Feeling those silky wet curls beneath his fingertips. “You’re objectively, like, a Greek god.”

Guido shakes his head at that, but he’s grinning now, and he gently nuzzles his face against Gio’s chest, the wetness of his hair seeping through the Giorno’s shirt, and fuck, he couldn’t care less.

“A god and an angel”, Guido muses, yawning, slowly relaxing onto the bed, and groaning as he strains the wounds. “Seems one thing we have in common is having wildly inaccurate perceptions of each-other.”

“Oh, shut it”, Giorno snorts, letting his hand travel down the nape of Guido’s neck, and taking note of how he shivers beneath the touch. “We really should sleep though. And tomorrow you need to get proper medical attention.”

“I’ll tell Bruno that you think my health benefits are lacking”, Guido mumbles, stubbornly clinging to consciousness despite the fact that he’s so clearly about to fall asleep any second now.

Giorno just shakes his head, and then shifts on the bed, trying not to do anything sudden that might worsen Guido’s pain. It feels like very awkward gymnastics, and but eventually he manages to get hold of one of the sheets and wrap it around the two of them.

Once they’re enveloped by warmth, Guido once again puts his head on Gio’s chest, sighing contently. “This is a fucking dream. If this turns out to be another hallucination, I’ll have a nervous breakdown in the morning.”

Giorno wraps an arm around Guido’s broad shoulders, feeling utterly content, a calm coming over him, but it’s a fragile thing; he’s also painfully aware that they’re in Guido Mista’s bed, and that Guido himself is naked and that if they weren’t a shooting victim and a murderer still reeling from the day, this night would likely spiral in a very physical way. It’s… a lot to take in.

“Wait”, Gio manages, breaking out of his thoughts. “Are you saying you’ve hallucinated me?”

And Guido hesitates for so long that Gio thinks he’s fallen asleep. Then he hides his face against Gio’s chest, eventually offering a muffled “… no?” in response.

Giorno doesn’t push him to share any details, simply chuckling at the revelation, and only moments later, Guido’s fast asleep.

And while Gio holds him close, worrying about not savouring this moment; about what will happen in the morning; about whether he’ll be able to fall asleep himself; it’s like his body guides his mind, and he finally manages to relax. As Guido snores, his breath warm against Giorno’s chest, his heart beating and his body alive beneath Gio’s fingertips, Giorno drifts off, and for the first time in weeks, there are no nightmares, in fact – he doesn’t dream at all.

In the morning, he wakes to the smell of coffee.

Giorno hasn’t had a sound sleep in weeks, and it takes a moment for his mind to catch up. He stretches on the bed, groaning, and slowly it all comes back. He’s in Guido Mista’s apartment; in his bed; he’s only wearing boxers and his ratty old t-shirt, and the sheets are still warm from where they’ve slept together.

He turns, trying to pretend it’s out of sleepiness and not that he is shy, and there is Guido. He moves slowly, clearly in pain, but still the oven is on and there’s a coffee pot on the stove.

“No milk and soda?” Giorno asks, his voice rough from sleep, and Guido turns immediately at the sound of his voice.

“Of course not, that’s for special occasions”, he manages, greeting Giorno with a wide smile. “I take it you slept well?”

Giorno nods, sitting up, and as he does so the t-shirt slips from one of his shoulders, leaving it bare. Guido’s gaze snaps to the exposed skin, and there’s such heat in those dark eyes and Giorno desperately wants to chase it; wants to learn what he needs to do to so that he can always bask in this warmth and let it consume him.

“This is the best night’s sleep of this year”, Gio finally says, watching as Guido turns back to the stove to grab the coffee pot and pour each of them a cup. Every movement is slower than normal, and to ensure that Guido doesn’t try to walk over to the sleeping nook holding both cups, Giorno gets out of bed, meeting him in the kitchen.

“Thank you”, he says as he grabs the coffee, intentionally brushing his fingers over Guido’s and letting the touch linger. Throughout, Guido holds his gaze, molten amber meeting a sea of blue, and Giorno doesn’t know what to do with himself unless he gets to kiss this devastatingly handsome man soon.

“Bruno called”, Guido says, and he seems a bit annoyed to bring it up. “He needs you to meet him at a plaza nearby, the sooner the better.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah”, Guido breathes, almost a laugh. “Oh.”

In order to buy some time and try and rid himself of the sleepiness, Giorno sips his coffee, only grimacing a little at the bitterness. “So… what do I do once I’ve met up with Bruno?”

Guido smiles at that, letting out a breath as if he’s been holding it. “Well, I was thinking… how about a date?”

“A date?” Giorno echoes, his mind short-circuiting for a moment.

“Yeah. You pick a location; I’ll bring some food. A nice picnic. What do you say?” And Guido sounds nervous despite the fact that there’s no need to, and Giorno feels an fluttering worry in his chest, despite the fact that they’ve just spent the night together, curled up in bed.

“I’d love to”, Gio says, sipping some more coffee before heading to pick up his pants and jacket off the floor.

“You don’t have to wear that”, Guido says, and Giorno snorts a laugh.

“Are you saying you want me to meet Bruno wearing only my boxers?”

At the comment Guido goes beet red, and despite how it clearly pains him, he raises a hand to scratch at his neck. “No, I’m saying I want you to wear my clothes. I mean, clean clothes. And mine are clean. And you can wear them. If you want to.”

It’s not suave at all, and it’s the hottest thing Giorno’s ever heard. “I’d love to.”

Thus, he leaves Guido Mista’s apartment a few minutes later, wearing tight black jeans, and a white button-down shirt. He’s left the top three buttons undone, simply to savour the way Guido can’t help but to stare at the exposed skin.

When he arrives at the plaza, a ten-minute walk from the apartment, Bruno is already there – and so is Giorno’s car.

There’s not a scratch on it, every bump has been straightened out, and the finish is as good as new. It’s practically gleaming in the sunlight, and while Bruno Buccellati normally is good at schooling his expression into something mild and detached, there’s clearly some anticipation in the way he eyes Giorno. How he keeps glancing at the car, perhaps hoping for approval.

“How did you do this?” Giorno asks once he reaches him, leaning forward to gaze through a window of the car, before he turns to face Bruno.

“Passione has connections”, is the enigmatic reply, but Bruno can’t hide the small smile on his lips. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, and we only slept”, Giorno replies quickly, as if he’s being questioned by a parent, and he immediately wishes the ground would open up below him and swallow him whole.

“Whatever you say”, Bruno sing-songs, raising an elegant eyebrow – and it feels so much more knowing than any possible comment could. “Anyway, I couldn’t allow you sacrificing your livelihood to help us with something that very much should’ve stayed within, well, the family. It’s not right that an innocent civilian got involved.”

Giorno hesitates, and then he takes a deep breath. “You and Abbacchio keep calling me that, but you know I’m not innocent… right?”

For a moment, Bruno simply watches him, wide blue eyes and an unreadable expression. Then he sighs. “I can’t condemn you for things you had to do to survive. We’ve all been forced into situations where we’ve had to do horrible things. Sometimes circumstance shapes a killer. I don’t get the impression you’re a person who wishes to harm others.”

“I don’t think I am”, Giorno replies, honestly, because at the back of his mind, the thought of his parents still has him feel angry in a very violent way. At the same time, it’s not that he would seek them out to specifically hurt them… even if he sometimes dreams of pushing them off a cliff, or maybe – ironically – hitting them with his car.

“That’s good enough for me”, Bruno says, nodding to the car. “Now go pick up your boyfriend.”

“Shut up”, Giorno replies, and truly, it’s instinct. He then stares at Bruno, mortified by the fact that he just told a member of the mafia to shut it, and Bruno stares back, and the moment doesn’t end, and then…

“Lol”, Bruno says, shaking his head. “You’re a funny guy.”

When Gio finally opens the car door and sits down behind the wheel, he feels shellshocked. He’s also unsure of what’s rattled him the most. This bizarre and overly generous turn of events, or the fact that Bruno Buccellati says “lol” instead of laughing.

He takes a deep breath, feeling Bruno’s intent stare through the car window, and then he turns the ignition, offering a wave before he drives back to the apartment complex.

Once he’s outside, he honks the horn, feeling like a character from some classic movie. A dirtbag James Dean-type, idling in front of his lover’s house.

Within seconds, Guido appears on the stairs, carrying a paper bag in one hand, and two bottles in the other. As he rushes down the steps, he moves much quicker and seamlessly than earlier this morning. By the time he opens the door, Giorno can properly take in the sight of him. Low-riding jeans, and a dark – almost black – shirt left unbuttoned. His chest and abdomen are now covered by proper bandages, and Guido gestures to them smugly as if Gio wouldn’t notice them otherwise.

“Aren’t you proud? Proper medical care – I even took some drugs!”

At Gio’s unimpressed stare Guido laughs, sticking his tongue out. “Painkillers, you dumbass.”

“I’m glad you’re finally taking the whole getting shot thing seriously.”

“Yeah, let’s see how long it lasts, huh?” Guido says, putting the bag and the bottles in the backseat, before sitting down in the passenger seat. When he turns to Giorno he looks ready to say something, a question on the tip of his tongue, but as their gazes meet, he falls silent. The moment stretches on, and they’re just watching each other, and then Guido clears his throat. “So, uh, where to?”

Giorno doesn’t have a reply, because the meeting with Bruno sort of derailed whatever picnic ideas he had before. Instead of replying, he revs the engine, and they take off down the street.

Unable to think of a fitting spot in the city, Giorno drives until he makes it out of the city to the serpentine mountain roads. He drives until he reaches a blossoming hillside, and parks by the side of the road.

It should be hard to return here. Painful even. There’s no moment in his life like the one he had here; a mix of elation, feeling free, and the utter panic and despair of being on his own.

Now, he turns to ask Guido if this is a good spot, and he gets caught in that dark gaze again, forgetting his line of thought. Neither of them speaks, and neither of them closes the distance between them. The moment drags on, and Giorno feels dizzy by the time he breaks eye contact. He hears Guido opens the passenger door, and before he himself steps out of the car, he steadies himself with a deep breath.

By the time he’s rounded the car, Guido has walked into the blossoming sea of poppies and daisies and wildflowers. He’s sat the bag and bottles down, and they’re barely visible amongst the flowers. His open shirt billowing in the wind, he raises a hand to shield his eyes from the sun – to watch Giorno walk to up him.

“Is the location acceptable?” Gio finally manages, and Guido just laughs, shaking his head.

“It’s incredible.”

Now that he’s in a calmer place of mind, Giorno feels sort of bad sitting down on the flowers. Still, he does, watching Guido unpack the food.

“So, I made some focaccia and a tapenade”, Guido starts, presenting each item as he places them on the ground. “Then I had some old tomato relish, but it should still be good. I brought some cherries, and then I got overexcited and made a lemonade as well.”

“You made all of this?”

Guido simply nods, finishing the display of food, and then sitting down next to Giorno.

“You can cook?” the question just spills out of him, but at this point Gio’s genuinely confused.

“Wow, rude”, Guido manages, but he can barely keep from laughing.

“No, but… why am I driving you around to buy fast food all of the time if you’re an amazing cook?”

Guido turns to him then, and a bashful smile on his lips. “You haven’t tasted it; how do you know I’m an amazing cook?”

“Because I have eyes and can perceive the world by looking at things”, Gio says, and he intends to follow it up with some clever comment, but god, looking at Guido he feels anything but clever. The tension has been building for so long, and every moment like this; when their gazes meet and linger, and Guido’s eyes are dark and warm and vast like space itself, and Giorno gets caught, drawn in, a surge in his heart – not even at the thought of chasing more, but to exist just like this, in a world where Guido Mista looks at him with unparalleled heat and want and respect.  

“What do you wanna try first?” Guido finally says, his gaze lingering on Gio’s lips before he looks down at the food. “How about a cherry?”

And Giorno just nods, because for crying out loud, they’re just talking about food, but he’s absolutely breathless.

It feels like slow-motion, Gio’s mind registering everything with a hyper-focus, as Guido doesn’t hand him the paper bag that holds the cherries, but instead grabs a single one, a dark red bigarreau, glistening like garnet where he holds it between his index finger and thumb.

Giorno has always been good at overthinking, but in this moment, he does not. He leans forward, opening his mouth, and gently Guido feeds him the cherry, never breaking eye contact, fingertips brushing Gio’s lips, and in return, Giorno teases the fingers with the tip of his tongue – only a brief touch, and he savours Guido’s sharp intake of breath.

The cherry is sweet, juicy, and he spits out the pit, but the moment doesn’t end. It stretches on, the silence between them heightened, almost feverish, and Gio can hear the drumming of his pulse, the sheer anticipation like electricity beneath his skin.

“It stained your lips”, Guido says, his fingertips once again caressing Giorno’s face, his thumb tracing Gio’s bottom lip.

“Know what you could do?” Gio breathes, his voice barely carrying. “You could kiss it better.”

And Guido breathes a sigh of relief, his hand at the nape of Gio’s neck. “Oh, thank fuck”, he says, his breath warm against Giorno’s lips – his kiss heartbreakingly tender.

For something that’s been building for so long, it’s gentle at first. A tender, soft press of lips, but the presence of it, the building heat, digs into Gio’s skin. He parts his lips, sighing softly into the kiss, his mind elated when Guido presses closer, the graze of teeth on his bottom lip.

Giorno has never really been the kind of person to savour things, but this? God, he wishes he could take it slow for the rest of his life, and enjoy every single second. The way Guido angles him into the kiss, teasing yet hungry, indulgent in how he moans into it. A hand carding through Gio’s hair, as if there’s nothing better on earth than the black, silky locks.

Slightly dazed, Gio shifts from where he’s sitting on the ground, to straddling Guido’s lap. Despite his need to be closer, he tries to gentle, mindful on the wounds on his chest. Guido however pulls Gio flush against him, kissing his jaw, his chin, before capturing his lips again; giving, yet demanding. Strong hands on Giorno’s hips, urging him to rut against him – and when Gio does, he’s rewarded with Guido arching into it, into him, chasing friction.

The world is calm around them, the flowers gently swaying in the wind. Already, there’s a chill to the breeze, a prelude to the sunset, but Giorno couldn’t care less.

He leans back, not to catch his breath as much as he needs to see Guido like this. Breathless and dazed, a flush to his bronze skin, red blossoming on his chest and down beneath the bandages. Those dark eyes are fixed on Giorno, molten amber almost swallowed up by an exhilarating darkness, and his lips are kiss-stung, glistening in the evening sun.

In this single moment of anticipation, of simply beholding the other, Guido’s fingers card through Gio’s hair, and he smiles, such a fond, tender thing. “Can’t believe I ended up with an actual angel in my lap”, he says, voice raspy and those hungry eyes wandering, taking in Gio’s plunging neckline and his heaving chest.

Perhaps Giorno should have expected the comment, but it still startles a laugh out of him. Part of him wants to think of an equally flattering reply, but his mind is a horny mess at this point.

When he dives back in for another kiss, Guido proves that he truly doesn’t have a pain threshold. His hands are on Gio’s back, holding him so close, their chests pressed together, and Gio would be worried if Guido didn’t also kiss him without abandon, like something as simple as touch could relieve his pain.

They kiss until the sun sets, not even paying attention to the crystal sea shifting in colours of ruby and orange and purples, and only when the evening turns to night, and the stars are glistening above, do they part.

“It’s getting cold”, Giorno says, stating the obvious, but god, his mind needs a moment.

“Mmm”, Guido agrees, a lazy smile on his lips. “I guess we could pack up and eat in the car.”

“Sounds like a plan”, Gio says, turning to pack up the untouched food and drinks. Once he’s done, he takes the bag and bottles, not wanting Guido to carry anything too heavy and stress his injuries. He doesn’t get the chance to carry anything though, as Guido pulls him in from another kiss, grabbing the bag of food in the process.

Only when they walk back to the car, through this field of flowers, the city of Napoli sprawled out beneath them, all twinkling lights and bustling night-life and – apparently – organized crime, does Giorno get the chance to kind of… catch up, and think on everything that’s just happened.

He’s spent the night with Guido Mista. They’ve kissed and they… they’ll probably do a lot more than kissing very, very soon. Everything that’s been unsaid or uncertain is now very much a thing and even though he has no idea what tomorrow brings, this is – by far – the best thing in his life right now.

As he reaches the car, Guido has put the bag on the hood, looking through it. It’s such a simple, everyday thing, but god, he’s a vision; the shirt slipping off one of his shoulders, bronze skin over sculpted muscle, and the contrast of the black fabric. His hair, a mess of curls.

Below them the sparkling city and above them the sea of flowers; not even when dreaming could Gio think of something like this, because even in fantasy he wouldn’t allow himself to envision something this good.

They really should get going, and yet… he walks up to Guido, his hands coming to rest on his hips, crowding him against the car.

“Hi”, he says, because at this point, he’d be hard pressed to think of something more eloquent.

 And Guido leans back against him, tilting his head to rest against Gio’s shoulder, and all he’d have to do is turn slightly, and they’d be kissing again.

“Fuck me, man, we’ll never get down from this mountain”, Guido sighs, sounding absolutely giddy at the idea. “But okay…” and then he turns, Gio’s arms still around him, until they’re facing each-other.

“There’s something I need to tell you”, and he has to see worry in Gio’s eyes, because he’s quick to offer a reassuring smile. “It’s nothing bad! It’s just… a big thing.”

“Okay?” Gio says, and the only reason his pulse isn’t picking up in panic is because he’s too confused.

“The others want it to be a surprise, but I get the impression you’d rather know before they spring it on you”, Guido starts, speaking slowly as if collecting his thoughts. “Bruno got you an apartment.”

There are a million scenarios Gio could have imagined, and this isn’t one of them. He doesn’t feel shocked as much as he feels numb.

“What?”

Guido nods, his smile wider now, as if trying to reassure Giorno that this is, in fact, real life. “Yeah, the bounty on Diavolo was insane, and he tried to think of how to repay you. So, he got you a place to live and paid the first six months of rent.”

“Okay but…” and Gio’s voice breaks, and he’d rather not cry but he doesn’t know what else to do. “… what the fuck, Guido? I don’t…” and his voice falters, breaking on a sob.

“Hey, it’s okay”, Guido whispers, his voice a warm purr against Giorno’s skin, gentle fingertips wiping his tears. “It’s in my building, man. We’ll be neighbours.”

And tears are still streaming down his face, but now he’s laughing, slightly delirious as he tries to take in everything. “This is insane.”

“But in a good way, right?” Guido asks with a grin, his eyes ever hungry as they trail to Gio’s lips.

“Yeah, in a really good way”, Giorno agrees, letting out a breath as he tries to ground himself.

Above them the sky is dark and endless, and the stars are so very bright. Gio can’t remember if it looked anything like this when he last visited the mountain, but part of him feels like a cycle has been completed and broken; like whatever path he’s on now is so wildly different from where he set out months ago.

Slowly, he reaches for Guido’s hand, holding it up to look at the palm.

“Uhm…” Guido says, equally confused and aroused judging from his tone of voice. “What are you doing?”

“With how much you get shot, I want to check your lifeline”, Giorno replies tilting his head to observe the thin lines of the palm.

“My what now?” Guido manages, nothing but a strained breath.

“Your lifeline, you know, it’s just above the mount of venus?” and Gio traces it with gentle fingertips, with Guido noticeably shivering at the touch. At the sight of him, Gio remembers the taste of cherries and fingertips tracing his lips, and so, he places a kiss against Guido’s palm, lingering, lingering, and then he licks along his lifeline, slowly, deliberately, making sure to keep eye contact.

“God fucking dammit”, Guido breathes, on the verge of a moan, fingertips beneath Gio’s jaw to guide him up for a kiss, and this time it’s anything but chaste, anything but gentle. Guido kisses like a nymphomaniac on death row, wanton and deep and demanding.

All Giorno can do is match the intensity, to get lost in the heat and with his hands on Guido’s hips, guide him up on the hood of the car. Those legs wrap around him, muscles tense beneath the rough fabric of his jeans, and Gio trails the curve of his spine, his hand settling on Guido’s lower back.

Guido tastes like hope and cherries and a new beginning, his amber warmth as overwhelming as it’s soothing. Giorno couldn’t hope for more but to lose himself to that easy smile and burning eyes, and now, in the heat of it, he sees a future of not only spending the nights together but waking up side by side. To live in this unpredictable city with Guido Mista, and navigate its twists and turns, its chaos and sorrow and ecstasy, together.

Giorno has had to survive on his own for as long as he can remember, but with Guido, he can’t wait to learn what it’s like sharing his life with someone.