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The sound of the shower turning on followed by Giorno swearing when he finds that the water is too cold is what wakes Mista up every morning. He always wonders why Giorno doesn’t just wait for the water to warm up (“It’s not that cold, Mista, I can handle it!” is what he always says in reply.) but he also finds it amusing how Giorno Giovanna, the Don of Passione and the most powerful man in Italy, can be defeated by a spray of cold water. Mista could get up now and tease Giorno about it for the umpteenth time, but he could also just lie in bed a little while longer and bask in the warmth, and it’s not that Giorno would mind if he lounged around a little longer…
He chooses the latter. Not that there was any real difficulty in choosing.
While lying in bed, listening to the chirping of birds and the continuing bitten-off curses coming from the ensuite bathroom, Mista casts an eye to the strip of sunlight that made its way through the gap in the curtains and is now creeping steadily along the bedspread and up his belly. It’s warm. He lets his eyes wander from the sunbeam to other objects in the room: the can of hairspray sitting on the vanity, his turtlenecks strewn carelessly across the floor, a pillow which Giorno must’ve pushed off the bed in his sleep next to one of his shirts.
He props himself up into a sitting position and stretches languidly. The room is filled with the sound of Mista’s joints cracking. If he shuts his eyes and focusses hard enough, it almost sounds like gunshots. Today’s not gonna be a good day, he thinks to himself. He rubs his hands over his face.
Mista finally summons the will to leave the warmth of their bed to join his beloved in the shower - with a grunt and a sigh, he stands, strips, and makes his way to the ensuite. He sidles up behind Giorno, places his hands on his waist and presses a kiss to the birthmark on the back of his shoulder in greeting. Giorno hums softly in reply as he brushes his fingers through his hair. It’s not like any words need to be said, after all. They shower in silence and enjoy the moment, pretending that once the morning is over they’ll get to laze about for the rest of the day instead of going to the office and doing paperwork and sitting through endless meetings.
When the water reaches a near-scalding temperature and the steam starts condensing on the bathroom walls, that’s when Giorno decides it’s time to get out, and, as always, Mista follows. It’s also when he decides to speak up for the first time that morning.
“What’s for breakfast today?” Giorno asks as they dry themselves off. Mista takes in the sight of Giorno’s skin flushed pink from the heat of the shower. Once sufficiently dry, they amble back to their bedroom and get dressed. Giorno sits down in the chair in front of the vanity, tilts his head down to let Mista dry his hair, and looks in the mirror to watch the furrow in Mista’s brow deepen as he tries to remember what they had left in the kitchen.
“I could make pancakes,” Mista offers carefully as he reaches over for the hairbrush. “I know we still have blueberries. We might still have strawberries downstairs, too.”
When he sees the way Giorno’s eyes scrunch up a little at the corners, he knows what answer he’s going to get.
“Can I have pudding?”
Mista wishes right then and there for a spray bottle filled with cold water. Unfortunately, God doesn’t answer his prayer and replace the hairbrush in his hand, so he settles for playfully tugging at Giorno’s hair. Giorno lets out a yelp and laughs, and Mista smiles back and wishes he could record it so he could listen to it as he falls asleep at night.
“Is that a ‘no’, then?” Giorno still has that cheeky little grin on his face when he turns in his seat to look up at Mista through his lashes. It’s one of his real smiles, one where the sparkle reaches his eyes and makes them shimmer like the sea at dawn.
“You know it.”
“Aw, come on, please ?” Giorno pouts, then reaches up to pull Mista into a kiss. “I’ll make it up to you later?”
Mista pulls away with a grin and guides him back to face the mirror so he can braid his hair. “Nope, not falling for your guile and charm this time. I’m making us pancakes for breakfast. And besides, I’m sure neither of us want to deal with the Sex Pistols when they’re all hyped up on sugar.”
They fall into a comfortable silence again. Deft fingers make quick work of Giorno’s braid. Mista steps away when he’s done to admire his handiwork. Their eyes meet in the mirror; they hold each other’s gaze.
“Hey,” says Mista.
“Hey yourself.” Giorno reaches for one of his bobby pins so he can start putting up the front locks of his hair into those three curls he’s so fond of. They maintain eye contact, sporting small smiles on their faces as they take in the sights of each other.
Mista has devoted himself so wholly to Giorno - his life and death, his mind, body, and soul - and Giorno has dedicated his all to Mista, that the golden-haired godling sitting in front of him may as well be reaching into his chest and squeezing his heart when it starts aching with all the love he has for him.
“I’m gonna make breakfast now,” he murmurs around the tightness of his chest, averting his eyes towards the door. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
It’s a simple affair, one that he goes through every day, except for when Giorno insists that he do it this time instead, even though they both know it’ll end in Giorno making two helpings of a black, charred lump of… something and they’ll laugh about it while scarfing it down as if there couldn’t be anything better. Mista makes six pancakes in total, three each. Well. Three for Giorno, two and a half for himself, and half a pancake for the Sex Pistols, who are already stealing fruit from the plates set out on the table. He swats them away from Giorno’s plate then puts aside their portion.
Mista stands, stretches. He walks back into the kitchen to boil water for the teapot. Absentmindedly, he looks out the window to admire the garden; the sound of footsteps approaching and a chair being pulled out from under the dining room table would’ve startled him from his reverie if it weren’t for the fact that he knew it was just Giorno. The garden is nothing special, nothing too extravagant - a rose bush growing by the far wall, geraniums blooming closer to the window. Vines crawling up the trellis. A few fat bumblebees gambol about the bushes without a care in the world. Mista’s never been one to have a green thumb, only ever taking care of potted cacti on occasion, but he appreciates all the work Giorno put into taking care of the garden. After all, Giorno’s the most beautiful man Mista’s ever had the honour of knowing, so naturally, Giorno’s garden is the most beautiful he’s ever seen too. He thinks he spies a dandelion peeking up through the grass.
A glance behind him back into the kitchen tells Mista that the water still isn’t boiling yet. He turns his attention back to the garden just as a shadow flits past overhead.
Logically Mista knows that it must’ve been a bird flying by, but he can’t help but think of Aerosmith. As a breeze sweeps by, rustling the leaves outside, he could’ve sworn that the wind carried Narancia’s delighted cackle with it, or maybe even the sound of Aerosmith’s bombardment.
Behind him, the kettle squeals. Mista turns and gets the teapot out and puts a tea bag inside and fills the pot with hot water. Narancia never drank tea - he only ever drank coffee. He’d take a sip from the bitterest, blackest cup known to man then pull a face, then run to go spoon heaps of sugar and milk into it. As for Buccellati, he was the one to have his coffee with no milk and no sugar, god knew he needed it the most out of the lot of them with how hard he worked. Abbacchio - one spoonful of sugar, and a splash of milk, although he was loath to let anyone know that lest it detract from the image he very carefully made for himself; when Mista found out about it, he threatened him at knifepoint to never tell anyone. Fugo had tea on occasion, but he usually had coffee with two sugar cubes in it and no milk. Mista wonders if Fugo’s preference has changed at all since he last saw him.
Mista’s heart starts aching for reasons other than the love of his life sitting in the next room over.
He shakes his head. No use for such thoughts in the here and now.
He takes the teapot to the table where Giorno is waiting for him. He pours a cup for Giorno, and Giorno pours a cup for him. They dig into their pancakes, and it isn’t long until the Sex Pistols come out for their share, and the time that passes for them to start bickering is shorter still. Giorno, ever-watchful, all-observing, notices how subdued they seem despite the fighting.
“So it’s one of those days,” Giorno states more than asks.
Mista swallows thickly. He meets Giorno’s gaze, looks away. He can feel a lump rising in his throat, so he sips at his tea.
“I suppose you could say that.”
The room is plunged into silence. Mista looks at Giorno, his perfect Giorno with a brilliant mind and eyes that shine ever-brighter, and for a moment he feels so inadequate compared to him, but then he remembers that out of all the people Giorno could’ve chosen, he chose him to love and cherish and protect, and Mista could cry.
“You won’t leave me,” Mista whispers as he reaches across the table to cup Giorno’s face in his hand, “right?”
Giorno reaches up to hold Mista’s hand where it rests against his cheek. “Never,” he replies. He turns his head to press a kiss against Mista’s palm, and seals his vow.
Mista can feel Giorno’s lips curl into a smile.