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Every year come April, Giorno became moody.
Not grumpy. Not angry. Melancholy and introspection was more to his taste, and while he was already a careful personality, when the Neapolitan weather warmed and the flowers softened their buds, even Giorno became quieter than usual.
Mista understood why. The anniversary of their deaths washed the month in a sombre hue, a rainfall that he got caught under too.
Giorno also didn’t like his birthday. His childhood a scar carved into his soul and the day a painful souvenir, Mista had quickly realised that a greeting card and a cake served nothing more than a bandaid over the wound. April was a light that shone through the cracks, that exposed the fractures of Giorno’s life that he didn’t want more reminders of.
Most days Mista left him alone. It took him a while to understand that that was what Giorno needed. Instead, he picked up the slack where he could, taking care of him in non-intrusive ways — Dinner left on his desk so that he would eat, all the chores done so that he wouldn’t need to think about it, written reminders of appointments so that he wouldn’t forget. Anything that didn’t make Giorno feel like a burden.
Today felt a little different.
Today, Mista hovered outside Giorno’s bedroom door. It was two in the morning. There was something nagging at him, a bell that tolled a warning in his head. His friend had been more quiet than usual that day, and wasn’t answering his phone. Something didn’t feel right.
“Hey, Giorno?”
He hated the vulnerability that thinned his voice. Still, he knocked on the door.
“Giorno?” He tried again.
No answer. Blue colour faintly lit the underside of the door. He seemed to be awake.
Mista tried the handle, which slipped open. Walking into each other's rooms wasn’t an issue between them; They both liked to seek the other on sleepless nights, finding comfort in the one other person that could understand.
Still though, Mista hesitated. A few seconds passed and when an answer failed to sound, a panicky feeling set in his chest.
Selfishly, he left himself in.
“Gio? You awake?”
He wasn’t in his bed, though the covers were scrunched up. Cold light led Mista’s eyes to the door to the en-suite, ajar.
“You okay?” Mista was definitely worried now. “Shout if you don’t want me coming in.”
No reply.
“‘Kay,” he warned, “I’m opening the door.”
When Mista walked into the bathroom he saw Giorno crumpled on the floor, resting his head on the edge of the bathtub, clutching his chest.
“Shit, are you okay?!” Mista asked, rushing to his side.
Gioro sucked in a few shallow breaths in succession before jerking his head up and down. Mista, obviously, knew better. He recognised this, one of the rarer occasions when Giorno would get an anxiety attack. The worst part was that he never clued Mista in on how he was feeling and tried to get through it himself.
Mista cautiously sat beside him, back against the tub.
“Just breathe, okay? Remember what the doctor told you. Deep breaths. Ten seconds in, ten seconds out.”
Giorno hummed something affirmative.
“I’m right here, okay?” Mista tried to comfort. “I’m right here.”
A few minutes pass and Mista listened as Giorno gradually took his breath back. He shifted to sit beside Mista properly, still quiet but calmer, more comfortable.
“The worst of it is over… I think…” came Giorno’s hoarse whisper.
Mista sighed, relieved.
“Good.”
Giorno pulled his knees to his chest. The two sat like that for a while. The air was still. The tile was hard. The searing light made Mista’s eyes water.
“I’m sorry to be a burden,” Giorno murmured eventually, his voice small in the tightening echo of the room.
“You’re not,” Mista assured. “Promise.”
Giorno didn’t reply.
“Do you wanna talk about it?”
The blond gave a limp shrug.
“Work?”
“Yeah…” He pulled his knees closer. “There’s other things, too.”
“Talk it out with me.”
“…It’s embarrassing,” Giorno confessed. “I should be better than this.”
“Take it easy for once, will ya?” Mista shook his head. “You’re always so hard on yourself.”
It twisted his heart to see Giorno like that, so eager to light himself on fire to warm others, but he didn’t want to say something like that.
Giorno inhaled. Exhaled.
“There was a shooting a few days ago.”
Mista nodded. Gang violence was on the rise again.
“Yeah.”
Giorno tucked himself in more.
“It’s been bothering me. More than usual. Seeing so many cruel things happen right in front of your eyes… It gets to you.”
Mista nodded.
“Yeah. It does.”
“And it feels like it never stops. Every day, it’s something else.”
“Yeah.”
A beat.
“…Can I admit something?”
“What?”
Giorno bowed his head, eyes concentrated on the floor.
“Sometimes I wish I could give up. Walk away from it all. Live an ordinary life.”
Those words hung in the air uncomfortably, shamefully.
“I know it’s awful—“ Giorno began to justify himself, but Mista cut him off.
“It’s not,” he said. He could almost laugh. “Seriously, Gio, some of the shit we’ve seen? Fuck. It’d make anyone quit.”
“You really don’t think it’s bad for me to say that? Doesn’t it make me a terrible boss?”
“No,” said Mista, and with that he was confident. “It doesn’t. It just makes you human.”
Giorno quieted, thinking over that.
“You never judge me.”
Mista frowned.
“‘Course I don’t. What’s there to judge?”
His admiration for Giorno was practically endless, and he could wax poetic about him for hours if he could. He couldn’t imagine ever judging Giorno for anything beyond how much milk he puts in his coffee.
“I’ve heard all sorts of things,” mumbled Giorno. “You learn to tune it out but… Certain things always stick with you.”
Mista didn’t know what to say.
“One of the Capo’s said something to me yesterday… Something about how my job must be easy when I’m so cold and unfeeling. Said there was something wrong with me.”
Mista felt his fist curl.
“Who said that?”
Giorno gave the first real smile of the night, though it was short lived.
“I’m not mentioning any names. I don’t want them ending up in the hospital because of you. I still need them to work tomorrow.”
Mista relaxed, if only for Giorno’s sake. They knew each other too well by now.
“I’m pragmatic when it comes to Passione. I’m the one that needs to make the decisions others don’t want responsibility for. It’s easier to make those decisions when I shut my feelings off,” Giorno sighed. “But sometimes… Sometimes I can’t help but feel that maybe they’re right.”
“They’re not.”
Giorno shrugged, helpless.
“My mother always said the same thing. Maybe she had a point, maybe there really is something wrong with me.”
Mista had to fight very hard not to immediately call his mother some very uncharitable things.
“No, Giorno, okay? There’s not a goddamn thing she ever said about you that was right. Throw that piece of shit Capo onto the pile too.”
“I don’t know, Mista. I just don’t know.” He bit his lip. “Maybe… Maybe a person like me can’t do anything good. Maybe I’m too… broken—“
“You’re not,” Mista refuted immediately, a pleading note to his voice. He couldn’t believe how Giorno could even get this idea in his head — the best person he’s ever known believing something so untrue about himself. “Don’t say that. I mean it.”
But Giorno just shook his head. His voice tightened with emotion.
“I wonder… Sometimes I wonder if a person like me can really be good. I decided on my own that I’m the one who’s going to help Naples, but do I really deserve that position? A person like me… Who’s never known anything about normal people… Who’s never been enough… Whose own mother doesn’t love him…… What kind of person is that, in the end?”
Giorno let the thought hang in the air, then sighed, seeming to give up on it.
“I’m sorry. I know it’s useless to think about things like that. I’m sorry you even have to listen to me.” He laughed a little, awkwardly. “I’m so embarrassed… How am I supposed to face you tomorrow after this…?”
Some seconds passed, and Mista’s mouth opened without his input.
“I love you, Giorno.”
The sentence was a sunflower in a field of lavender. A sight so vivid, so beautiful that there was no way you could ignore it.
And it rendered Giorno completely still in its radiance.
“…What?”
Mista fidgeted, not able to look him in the eye.
“We all do. Trish, Fugo, Pol. We're like family. And I…”
Mista stared at the floor, wringing his hands, wondering if this was the time.
“I love you as a friend but really, I… I love you as more than that. So much more than that.”
Quiet.
“It’s okay if you don’t feel the same,” he rushed to say. “You don’t have to. I just want you to know that… You’ll always be enough for me. I’m not much but… You’ll always have me at least.”
“…Oh.”
Mista nodded stiffly. This didn’t really go the way he expected.
“S-Sorry, that was—“
“Do you really mean it?”
Mista glanced up and saw Giorno staring straight ahead, eyes trembling.
“…Yeah, Gio. Of course I do. I love you.”
Tears began to spill over Giorno’s cheeks.
“Oh,” he repeated.
“Hey, Giogio—“ Mista began to panic, coming closer to Giorno’s side, not sure if he should hug him or not.
“I’m happy, Mista,” said Giorno between breaths, delicately wiping his face with his sleeve. “I am. I don’t know why I’m reacting this way...”
Mista couldn’t help but smile.
“You can cry, Giorno. It doesn’t have to make sense.”
A twenty year weight lifted off his shoulders, Giorno allowed the tears to fall.
“Shh… It’s okay…” Mista reassured, gently pulling him into his arms. Giorno came easily to him, grasping at his sweater. Mista’s lips ghosted over Giorno’s cheek, and without thinking too much, he lightly kissed his tears away.
“Everything’s okay…” He whispered, repeating it like a mantra.
Giorno met his gaze, eyes glassy. Mista’s heart was sore.
“Mista…”
Hearing Giorno’s soft utterance of his name made his heart skip a beat. Giorno pressed closer, touching his lips against his— Then he kissed him.
It wasn’t a perfect first kiss, a touch too nervous, a touch too shy, but it was enough for Mista. Everything that Giorno did was enough.
They broke apart and Mista left it at that, encouraging Giorno to let his feelings out and he did, burying himself into Mista’s chest as he cried. It took a few minutes for him to settle down but he did eventually, curling up next to Mista as he wiped his face with tissues. They sat together for a while, Mista’s arm over Giorno’s shoulder as his scattered breaths eventually melted into the quietness of the night.
“Hey, Gio?”
“What?”
“I don’t know about you, but… I can’t keep sittin’ on this hard ass floor.”
A small laugh bubbled out of Giorno.
“Me neither. Everything’s sore.”
“You wanna go to sleep?” Mista asked, helping Giorno up.
The blond shook his head. “Not here…” he said. “Your room.”
Mista chuckled. “Yeah?”
Giorno nodded, nuzzling closer into his neck. “It’s way nicer.”
Mista blushed.
They got to Mista’s bedroom and they settled underneath the covers, Mista allowing Giorno to snuggle up to him as close as he wanted.
“Good night, Giogio. Ti amo.”
Mista knew that he might never hear the same words come from Giorno. Knowing about his childhood, he wouldn’t be surprised. It stung somewhat, but he accepted it — having Giorno like this was more than enough.
“Guido…” came Giorno’s sleepy voice from underneath the bedcover.
Mista pressed closer, stroking Giorno’s hair.
“Mm?”
Gently, Giorno transferred Mista’s hand to his heart, holding it tenderly with both hands.
“…Thank you…” He sighed sweetly, and those were the last words he said before his eyes slowly closed and he fell asleep. Mista felt the rhythm of Giorno’s heartbeat steadying under his palm, and he wondered if this was his way of telling Mista he returned his feelings without the words.
With that thought and with Giorno’s warmth, he fell asleep too.