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The plan wasn’t for them to stay in one apartment.
It wound up being the case, of course. Originally it was Buccellati’s place, it wasn’t exactly suited for soon to be five occupants. Fugo had come to live there as he had nowhere else to go, and no money to procure a home for himself. It was fine, though. The sole bedroom in the apartment fit two beds inside it, and they made it work. But soon enough, Abbacchio joined them as well. He took to sleeping on the couch (as he refused when either Fugo or Buccellati offered to let him take the bed.) The place had become only slightly more cramped, but that changed when Narancia joined, a mattress added to the floor, and soon enough Mista as well, yet another mattress to the floor.
Needless to say there was little room to be alone, or to even move about.
Though it wasn’t as if anyone had any complaints about such. They all got along (to a degree) and had a routine for the times spent actually in the apartment. It was lively and loud at times, but it was comforting. It felt like a home.
Every morning Fugo would find himself either the first or second to be awake. Sometimes he had nightmares in the night that he would never fall back asleep from, and he’d sit in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, waiting for the others to get up. Other times he made it through his normal restless sleep to wake up and find Abbacchio already in the kitchen, starting to make breakfast for everyone else. Everyone else would filter in by themselves, all at different times each day. Though it was often that if Buccellati woke before Narancia, the two came together, as Narancia’s mattress was, unfortunately, placed beside Buccellati’s bed and he often stepped on him in his half-awake daze. Mista always found it hilarious.
Now, the kitchen was silent in the morning.
It wasn’t the same kitchen, either. A new kitchen. A new place that they were all staying, much larger this time and able to accommodate them all. There was a guise that they were living together for old time’s sake, but he knew they wanted him there to keep an eye on him. He’d come back not too long ago, and he wasn’t to be entirely trusted. Maybe one of them feared for his stability—he didn’t expect it, though.
Sitting in the kitchen, he held a lukewarm cup of coffee, no longer drinking its contents but simply staring at them. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been awake for, but the light filtering in from the windows signified that it was morning. It had to have been a few hours at the least. Looking up from the cup in his hands, he stared at the empty kitchen, dull eyes waiting for Abbacchio walk in, never asking why he was awake but simply getting started on breakfast. Then maybe Narancia would show up, looking half asleep and simply plopping down on the other side of the table before letting his head fall to the table. Buccellati would come in next, yawning and gently pulling Narancia up to a seated position, telling him to wake up; they have a long day ahead of them. All the while he simply sat there, watching them move about with the cold coffee in his hands.
“No matter how much you stare at the stove, Abbacchio won’t appear to make your breakfast you know.”
Mista’s comment brought a frown to his lips as he looked over at him standing in the doorway, still dressed in his pajamas and looking rather exhausted.
“That wasn’t what I was thinking about,” he responds, staring back down at his coffee before getting up to dump it and start a fresh pot. “Surprised to see you up this early.”
The other shrugs a bit at that comment, heading to the cupboard to grab a mug for the coffee that would soon be brewed.
“What were you thinking about, then?”
The question is asked carefully, as if it’s expected that he doesn’t want to answer it. Like it was some touchy subject.
“How quiet it is.”
Removing the coffee when it was done, he pours himself a mug before offering it to the other. Mista takes it and mumbles a ‘grazie’ before pouring his own cup as Fugo walks back to sit at the table. Staring once more into the coffee cup, he doesn’t take a sip from it, watching the other in his peripheral simply lean against the counter and watching him while drinking his own coffee.
“Well then why don’t we make it a bit livelier?”
The voice caused both of them to look up and over at the door, watching as Giorno stepped into the kitchen and went to pour himself some coffee. Fugo moved to look from him back to Mista, who seemed to still be staring in confusion before back down at his coffee, finally bringing it up to his mouth to drink from it.
“It wouldn’t be the same,” he responded, keeping his gaze away from the others.
“That’s true, nothing will be the same as it once was,” Giorno didn’t sugarcoat things and frankly he wasn’t sure if he preferred that or not. “But that doesn’t mean it can’t be something new and enjoyable.”
Pausing for a moment, he mulled this over, sipping at his coffee some more. After a while, he simply stood up, which caused Mista to move a bit, clearly ready to try and make him stay if he was edging to leave. Instead, he simply walked over to the fridge and pulled out some ingredients, putting them on the counter.
“Alright, let’s start then. We can make some breakfast before Trish is awake.”
Looking over at them, he watched as Mista’s face shifted from surprise to a grin, while Giorno’s only showed a hint of a smile.
“If we’re making breakfast, you’re not cooking,” Mista stated as he moved the ingredients from Fugo’s hands. “We’re not waking Trish up with a fire in the kitchen.”
It was clear from the raised eyebrow Giorno was curious as to the story behind that comment, but didn’t say anything on it. He didn’t offer an explanation either. Instead, he simply put up his hands in defeat, letting Mista take over from there.
The three of them had idle chatter as Mista and Giorno cooked, Fugo only helping out by handing them needed ingredients or kitchenware. When they were finishing up, Trish entered the kitchen, yawning and rubbing at her eyes, asking what all the noise was this early in the morning. She had more questions, such as what smelled good—since it couldn’t be Mista—and why was Mista still in his boxers, he should be dressed. Her presence only added to the noise in the kitchen, which Fugo couldn’t say he minded in the slightest.
They weren’t the mornings he remembered, but they were definitely ones he could get used to.