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“Mista,” says Giorno, “I want a hug.”
Passione’s sharpshooter looks up from his daily routine of trying to split food between the Pistols, and stopping 3 from snatching away 5’s portion in the process. “Say what?”
“I want a hug,” repeats Giorno, completely unfazed. Mista makes a low noise in his throat. He’d even done his best to sound incredulous - Giorno what are you doing, he thinks - but apparently the blond either couldn’t read the atmosphere or was ignoring his subtle signs on purpose.
(Knowing Giorno, it was probably a mixture of the two.)
“Well,” Mista says, because he really doesn’t have anything against hugs, “sure?”
Giorno smiles, seemingly pleased. Was that supposed to be a good thing? Mista doesn’t have the time to reconsider taking back his words, because the younger man already has both arms around his midriff in a loose hug. Giorno’s so thin compared to Buccellati, or even Abbachio. Mista’s not entirely sure if he was supposed to hug him back (was he?) and beside his ear, 1 makes an excited comment that sounds like DO IT MISTA. Mista gives 1 the face.
“Giorno?” In all fairness, it was polite to ask what was on the other dude’s mind. Mista was no psychic. “Why suddenly...?”
“Can’t a person just feel like wanting a hug sometimes?”
“...That’s...fair,” says Mista, because really - why not?
Still, he’d never really pegged Giorno for the hugging type. It feels strange to be standing in the middle of a great big room, patting the young boss of one of the biggest gangs in Italy on the back. Sunlight filters in from the windows behind Giorno. Bright, like his hair, like the dream he’d led them all towards. Sometimes Mista forgets that Giorno Giovanna is only fifteen.
So fine, they hug. They hug for as long as Giorno wants to.
“When two guys hug?” Narancia gives Mista the look. “That’s gay, Mista.”
Mista throws him his most offended expression. “Come on, I’m being serious here.”
“That’s rare,” snorts Abbachio from somewhere behind him. Mista turns around and gives him the finger.
“So what do you think?” Mista directs the question to Narancia, pressing on in his line of enquiry. “Should I ask for a hug back? That’s what you do when you’re being polite, right?”
“Trying to be polite,” Abbachio corrects. This time, Mista can’t even be bothered.
Narancia thinks. He thinks really, really hard. He frowns and places his chin in his hands, fingers occasionally tapping the sides of his face. He makes this low ‘hmm’-ing noise. Mista waits.
“...So you and Giorno are really --” Narancia starts, but his horrified exclamation is cut abruptly by the emergence of Buccellati from, well, somewhere. Mista gives a little start of surprise. He hadn’t noticed him until then.
Bruno Buccellati’s the same as ever. Zips everywhere. His fashion sense had always been something else.
“Go for it,” Buccellati answers honestly, looking Mista in the eye. Three words. Just like that, all his concerns (no thanks to Narancia and Abbachio) dissipate.
Mista laughs. “I knew I should’ve just asked you directly.”
“You don’t have to,” says Buccellati, half-laughing and half-sighing. “It’s just a hug, right?”
“It’s Giorno,” Mista insists. Giorno’s impossible to read.
This time, Buccellati actually does laugh. “You think too much.”
Mista wants to open his mouth to retort back, but instead his eyes open and blinding light burns into his vision. Ouch. He blinks a few times, groggy from sleep. Way too early in the morning. He looks to the sides. Looks up at the ceiling. Checks to see if his revolver is still safely in the drawer beside the bed.
Everything’s fine and well in place.
Though his friends - those three - are no longer there.
“Giorno,” says Mista, “I want a hug.”
Giorno doesn’t look at him funny. In fact, Giorno says nothing. He simply looks up from his work, an odd expression on his face, and gets up. He sets down all his papers, heading to the doorway where Mista stands and looks up at the sharpshooter, staring unwaveringly into his eyes.
“You’re not usually up at this time,” Giorno says, because it’s true.
Mista shrugs as casually as he can under that piercing gaze. “I had a pretty weird dream.”
“Of?”
He laughs. Oh come on, Giorno. “You know,” he says. “Those guys.”
Mista knows that Giorno understands what he’s talking about. There are only ever three people. Sometimes they haunt him enough for him to forget that there would no longer be the annoying - but familiar - sounds of Narancia kicking up a fuss over god knows what, Fugo snapping at him, Abbachio making more of his calm but cool retorts, and Buccellati having to step in and collectively shush everyone.
“Come on then,” Giorno says. “No time to waste.”
Mista doesn’t exactly consider himself a hugging person. But there’s something business-like yet calming about the way Giorno goes about hugs that makes them...well, enjoyable.
“What did you dream of anyway?” Giorno asks.
“Huh?” Mista shrugs. A bit hard to do while still being hugged, but he manages. “Well, you hugged me first the other day, right? So I was asking if I should ask for one back, you know?”
Giorno just looks at him. “Mista, what.”
“Just don’t ask.”
“I hope Abbachio was judging you.”
“Ugh, he was.”
That gets a snort and a little laugh out of Giorno. “Same old Abbachio.”
“Guess that means they’re all doing well, huh?” says Mista, eyeing Giorno thoughtfully.
Giorno’s hands give him a quick pat on the back. “They must be.”
“Yeah,” Mista says, nodding. “Yeah, of course.”