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“What do you mean , it’s been cancelled?”
Giorno sighs, snapping his phone shut before slipping it into the pocket of his winter coat. “Galluccio fell ill, apparently.”
Leone clicks his tongue in annoyance, “The fossil finally decided to keel over?”
The comment elicited a half chuckle from the young mafioso, inadvertently taking the edge off of Leone’s quickly souring mood.
“Possibly.”
The single word materialises as a puff of condensation, floating into the crisp air, followed by a two-toned gaze until it completely disperses.
“So you’re telling me that we travelled to Rome for absolutely no fucking reason whatsoever.”
Giorno merely offers a one-shouldered shrug, noncommittal. Despite the initial irritation from the phone call, he doesn’t appear particularly deterred by this unexpected change of plans.
“We might as well enjoy the day off, don’t you think?”
No , Leone wants to grouch, only to bite his tongue at the sensation of an arm snaking around his own, Giorno’s ungloved hand coming to rest on the fabric of the taller man’s coat over his bicep. Leone’s own hands stubbornly remain buried deep inside his pockets.
Leone’s suspicion only grows, wondering why the Don, of all people, isn’t bothered by the thought of wasting precious time, having travelled from Napoli to Rome for naught. But even the heat of his own chagrin doesn’t stand a chance against the knowledge that Giorno is more than willing to spend some time together before rushing back to Napoli to catch up with their busy lives.
Giorno offers a squeeze, a silent request to start moving that isn’t lost on Leone, though the latter decides to demonstrate his exasperation by stubbornly remaining unmoved for a moment, even as Giorno’s tugging becomes more persistent. It’s those green eyes, a hint of amusement dancing within clear emerald, that ends up being the final nail in the coffin.
Fine.
Arm in arm, they stroll through the cobblestoned streets, slightly slippery, courtesy of the snow that had fallen over the past two days. It isn’t much, but enough to dust the rooftops with a touch of wintery magic.
...and the streets with brownish-gray sludge, Leone notes with a grimace.
“Where are we headed?” he has half the mind to ask as they cross over a bridge.
Giorno, unfazed, turns his head to quirk a well-groomed brow up at Leone. “I thought you were leading the way.”
“Bold of you to assume I can navigate through Rome without a single map.” Leone rolls his eyes and half heartedly bumps his hip against Giorno’s, who in turn clutches his arm a little tighter. “I’ve only been here twice, you know?”
“That’s still twice more than I have,” Giorno argues before his free hand lifts to point a bright red finger ahead of them. “A lot of people are headed that way though.”
“Great, time to turn around then.”
Having expected that exact reaction, Giorno holds on tighter and lugs a mildly resisting Leone along with him.
“I’m curious.”
“I don’t care,” Leone lies, though he’s convincing himself just as little as he is Giorno, who isn’t fooled for even a second.
By the time they reach the other end of the bridge, the crowd has only grown, moving forward in its entirety down the wide street. Leone would have long since fled hadn’t it been for the insistent grip on his arm and the interest shining within those green eyes.
It’s when they lay eyes upon the large piazza ahead of them, decorated with an impossibly tall Chrirstmas tree, unnecessarily bright, sparkling lights, and stalls upon stalls selling food and kitschy trinkets, where Leone draws his line.
“Giorno—” Leone starts, only to swallow his words when Giorno all but grins at the tacky sight before them. Honestly, Leone should’ve known better; he’s seen how Giorno decorated his office. Still, he can’t quite recall ever seeing someone this excited over a Christmas market.
It’s… stupidly endearing.
And so, Leone lets the hoard carry them towards the center, already feeling the urge to trip the next person who decides to bump into him.
“Alright, it’s a Christmas market. Yay. Now let’s go back.” Leone halfheartedly yanks his arm, but Giorno doesn’t budge. Hell, he barely even acknowledges him, gaze fixed on one of the stalls instead.
Leone’s sigh nearly outdoes the badly tuned saxophone playing Christmas carols in the background.
And for the umpteenth time that day, Leone relents.
It’s the season, after all.
The shop that had caught Giorno’s eye unsurprisingly looks like literally any other stall selling handcrafted ornaments. Cherubs, ornately decorated Christmas balls, glittery stars and all sorts of things that physically hurt to look at. As much is apparent from the distasteful look with which Leone regards the array of overpriced crafts.
Giorno, on the other hand, picks up piece after piece, his fingers already speckled with stray glitter as he inspects a silver snowflake ornament.
“These are all hand-made?” Giorno asks the elderly lady manning the stall, who seems charmed by the impressed look on the young man’s face as she nods her head.
Leone can’t quite blame her.
“Truly stunning,” Giorno utters, already fishing his wallet out of the pocket of his winter coat much to Leone’s displeasure.
They end up walking back towards the large fountain in the middle of the piazza, paper bag filled with golden, glittery ornaments in hand.
“What are you even going to do with these? We don’t have a tree,” Leone snorts, holding the paper bag for a moment while Giorno carefully puts his wallet away. He peers inside, scowling at the shiny, golden doves, dusted with fake snow, that had cost him a whopping forty thousand lire.
“Yet,” Giorno replies with a self-satisfied smile that Leone definitely does not want to kiss right off his face.
Instead, he hands back the paper bag with a bit more force than strictly necessary.
With Giorno’s urge to buy anything that sparkles satiated, Leone is more than happy to return to their stupidly fancy hotel, have a stupidly fancy dinner, and retire in their stupidly fancy bed for the night. And he is about to suggest as much when Giorno springs up once more.
“I knew that was hot cocoa I smelled.” Giorno shut his eyes, nose up in the air as he took another whiff of the overly rich and sugary scent wafting through the air, before turning to look up at Leone with raised brows.
“Absolutely not—”
“Surely they also sell mulled wine.”
Painted lips part, shut to press into a thin line, before parting again as Leone takes in the smug expression on his companion’s face.
“...you’re paying.”
And with that, Giorno disappears into the crowd to wait in an undoubtedly sizable line for a warm beverage, leaving Leone to sit on the icy marble of the fountain in the center of the piazza.
At least, for a grand total of two and half minutes before his butt feels about as numb as his fingers, and his ears can no longer handle the excited screaming of the kids running around the fountain.
Leone pushes himself to his feet and decides to stroll around, eyeing the stalls filled to the brim with candies, chocolates, and panettone with little interest. Everything is overpriced, and probably not nearly as tasty as the stuff you could get at a proper bakery. But in the guise of ‘The Holidays’, people just bought for the sake of buying.
After the fifth stall selling different variations of the same tacky decorations, Leone is about ready to return to the fountain.
Though just before he turns, something catches his eye. A green atrocity that he simply cannot look away from. Its bulgy eyes staring right back at him from under a haphazardly painted Christmas hat. Leone grimaces, turns around, and halts, before turning right back with a renewed annoyance. It’s possibly the most ugly ornament he has ever laid eyes upon.
Giorno will love it.
“How much?” Leone grouches, holding up the wooden frog ornament with a gloved hand.
The shop owner eyes him for a moment, unsure what to think of Leone’s hostile demeanor.
“Fifty thousand, sir.”
Leone is just about to start calling the man out on his bullshit when he realises that he’s the one who’s about to buy the damn thing, and the inevitable joy on Giorno’s face when he finds out that there’s apparently a range of frog-themed Christmas decorations out there.
So instead, he sighs in defeat, hands the ornament over and regretfully pulls out his wallet to spend his hard earned money on most definitely the stupidest thing he has ever seen.
By the time he returns to the fountain, Giorno already has his paper cup pressed between both hands, only lifting one up for a brief moment to wave Leone over.
“Where did you go?” comes the inevitable question once Leone picks up the cup Giorno had placed on the marble surface beside him, his other hand still holding onto the ornament buried into his pocket.
“Attempting to find the least unnecessarily jolly spot on this entire piazza.”
Giorno crosses his legs and shoots a sceptical, semi-amused look at Leone. “Ah yes, how appalling; people having fun. ”
“The worst,” Leone agrees petulantly before drowning his words with a sip of his warmed, spiced wine.
They sit in relative silence, save for the buzz from the crowd, vendors advertising their products, and the live music filling the square with festive cheer.
Giorno has shuffled closer as he sips his sweetened, marshmallow-topped cocoa, their arms pressed together when he breaks the quiet.
“Thank you for humouring me, Leone. I know you dislike large crowds.”
The man in question turns his head at an instant, about to chastise his companion for addressing him by his first name in flustered bewilderment. But the genuine contentment on Giorno’s face is enough to bring heat to his chilled cheeks instead.
“...whatever,” Leone utters in reply, squeezing the paper-wrapped ornament in his pocket once, twice in hesitation, before mustering up the courage to pull it out. He drops it unceremoniously in Giorno’s lap, who startles at the motion and stares at the clump of paper in confusion.
“What’s this?”
Leone yanks the now emptied cup from Giorno’s hands and stacks it inside of his own. “You have eyes. Use them.”
Unimpressed by the other’s retaliation, Giorno starts unwrapping the crumpled and slightly torn paper, only to reveal the little wooden frog, adorned in a Christmas hat and a scarf, its creepy long legs carved into a seated position so it can be propped up against the side of any flat surface.
Leone hunches his shoulders upwards, burying his reddened ears into the fur lining of his coat when Giorno turns to regard him with the exact expression he’d expected.
“How silly,” Giorno hums fondly at the ornament, “frogs hibernate. ”
The incredulous look Leone shoots the younger man is completely involuntary, because yeah, that’s absolutely the silliest thing about the stupid wooden figurine.
The ornament is carefully wrapped back up and placed into the paper bag carrying the other trinkets when Giorno suddenly turns to face Leone, their knees knocking together as he brings his hands up and leans closer.
Leone’s heart is in his throat already, lips parted in a gasp in realisation when green eyes slip shut. He follows suit, surprisingly unbothered by the massive crowd surrounding them when…
“Holy mother of Jesus!”
Leone drops the cups he’d still been holding onto for the sake of prying Giorno’s icy hands off his cheeks. “I told you to wear some God damn gloves, Giorno.”
The offender simply laughs, hands still hanging in mid-air where Leone has sandwiched them between his own gloved palms.
“Are they that cold? I can’t quite feel them so I wouldn’t know,” Giorno replies wryly, much to Leone’s exasperation.
He promptly lets go, all the while grumbling under his breath as he peels off his leather gloves and all but grasps the wrist of a still snickering Giorno, who knows better than to argue at this point.
And while Leone struggles to wrestle his own gloves onto a purposely uncooperative hand, Giorno is quicker to lean in this time, pressing a kiss to Leone’s blotchy cheek first, before shoving his nose (equally as icy as his fingers) into the crook of his neck.
“You little shit!”