#giomis fanfiction

[just-a-shark333]

Time frame: Post Golden Wind

Pairing: Giomis (Giorno/Mista)

words: 715

Notes: idkkkkk I did basically this last night (except I panicked and so we haven't talked about it yetttt) and I'm trying to get my mind off of it, so I wrote this!

also, kinda ooc btw

Summary:

While Giorno and Mista talk about dating Giorno accidentally reveals something about himself that he didn't mean to. Fluff and feelings ensue.

It was fuck knows hours of the night- or morning, probably morning at this point - and Giorno and Mista had been sitting in Giorno's room talking for hours.

Neither of them had been able to sleep. Mista had planned to go downstairs to the kitchen and get some water and melatonin gummies, but on his way, he saw Giorno's bedroom light on and decided that he had to make sure Gio wasn't overworking himself again.

That led them to where they were now, Mista draped across the end of the bed, rambling about some girl he had tried dating a few years ago while Giorno sat towards the head of the bed, hugging a pillow in his lap as he listened.

"-Yeah, but I don't know. I just don't think dating girls is right for me right now." He turns to look at Giorno "Like, wait a year or two and then we can talk."

"Wait, really?"

"What?"

"What?" Fuck. Fuck he had just messed this up so bad. How do you even misinterpret something that badly!? Shit. He felt his body start to shake and he grips the pillow he's been holding harder. His face feels warm, and his eyes feel heavy, but no tears fall, he just sits there shaking and hyperventilating.

"Giorno? You ok, man?"

No. No he wasn't at all, he had just fucking ruined his relationship with his best friend. There's no way he can come back from this. Even if Mista somehow doesn't care or is able to look past it, they'll always have the knowledge that this happened. Both of them will have to live forever with the knowledge that on this night Giorno had practically confessed his love for Mista. How the fuck was he supposed to come back after that?

"Hey, Giorno?"

"Sorry." It was all he could think to say- the only thing that could have any chance of making this situation better. "Sorry, I- I'm sorry let's just...Let's just pretend this never happened, ok?"

"Giorno..."

"Mista"

"Giorno, what's wrong?"

"What?''

"I don't understand. What happened? Why are you so upset all of a sudden?"

oh

oh

He had made things worse, hadn't he?

"Nothing happened. Don't worry about it."

"Giorno. Tell me what happened. Please."

"Mista...I just told you that I have a crush on you.'' His voice was barely audible against the room, silent aside from his own heavy breaths and the other's calm ones.

Mista didn't respond immediately, making a thick tension in between them.

"Look, Mista I'm sorry I- I'll just-"

"Giorno." And his mouth snapped shut, staring at the other boy, who looked like he had been thinking the hardest he had in a while. "I think," he started, pausing for a moment before continuing, "I think I feel the same way."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I knew you wouldn't-" wait. What did he just say? "What?"

"I said that I think that I like you too." Mista's face was bright red, but Giorno was sure that his was redder.

"Wait, really?"

"Yep."

"But I though you said..."

"Well, maybe I was wrong," He dramatically turned his head away before immediately turning it to look at Giorno again, "Also.. I did say that I don't think I should date girls right now, technically I never said anything about boys..."

"Oh yeah...I guess that's true."

"So..."

"So..."

"Are we...Y'know...boyfriends now?"

"Yeah, I think I'd like that." Giorno said, less hesitantly than most of the other things he'd said that night as he laid his pillow back in its original spot and patted the spot on the bed next to his, signaling for Mista to crawl up next to him.

And the other did just that. Tucking himself into bed next to his best friend boyfriend, said boyfriend doing the same next to him.

So, the two lay next to each other, staring into each other's eyes somewhat continuing their dumb ramblings from earlier, but most conversation died off as sleep took over the two. They'd work out exactly what happened tonight when they woke up, but for now, they were content with putting that off for later. And if Mista heard Giorno mumble a soft 'I love you' before he fell asleep, he didn't say anything.

-end-

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

this took way longer than expectedddddd

So, uh, this is my little fantasized version of what happened with me and the girl I like last night. I don't know if she understood what I meant with my response, but I'm certain that she doesn't like me soooooooooo idkkkk now we just hope for the best, I guess?

anyway

Have a good day/night/whenever you're reading this! Eat something, drink some water, get some sleep, take care of yourself! Love youuu <3

[meramu-meramu]

Giorno knew someone had been coming into his room uninvited and he was determined to stage a devastating exposé. No stone would be left unturned. Soon, he would be privy to each and every single one of Mista’s secrets.

giomis/30k/finished/nsfw

Giorno liked this house and it had grown on Mista too, but perhaps what he loved most of all was the privacy and anonymity of it. There was no sound of traffic, no sudden visitors. Giorno would change, too. He became more fluid, more candid, something true about him shining through stronger at the edges. Sometimes, Mista could see it on his features before the words came out of his mouth; on those mornings, the tension would ease in his shoulders and his brow would smoothen and Mista would savor his own secret excitement and anticipation, knowing he would say 'pack a bag, we’re going to Ischia.'

Giorno glanced at him disinterestedly. Mista’s smile stiffened. It was the first time Giorno had looked at him all morning. “I was speaking to Mr Polnareff,” he said, tossing the edge of the mesh shawl over his shoulder, the fabric creasing against his neck.

“Right, right,” Mista said lightly. “What is it, anyway? That we couldn’t talk about downstairs.” With his back to the window, Giorno stopped in front of his desk, leaning against its edge. With a dull look in his eyes, his gaze idly passed over Mista’s face. “Hello? Are you listening?” With a twinge of annoyance, Mista impatiently leaned forward where he sat. “Come on, tell me.”

“...I’ll tell you,” Giorno said slowly as he turned his face away against the light. “As soon as I’ve thought of how to phrase it.”

“...Huh?” The cold rush that had rippled across his skin at the sound of Giorno outside the door returned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Giorno remained unmoving. Mista laughed nervously. “Come on. You’re stressing me out. Just tell me.” Giorno crossed his arms in silence. Sweat dotted Mista’s brow. His hand flopped down, hanging limply from his leg as he sank with a slow, silent exhale. “...Well, how long is it going to take?” He asked tiredly. “Can I go do something else in the meantime?”

“You don’t have anything to do,” Giorno’s features sharpened and his firm voice made Mista’s lips thin. “Be quiet.”

Mista laxly set his gaze on the floor and propped his head in his hand. He’s mad at me, he thought tiredly. What does he even have to be mad about? I haven’t done anything. Have I? Mista peered up at Giorno’s averted face and puffed up his lips. It’s not often that you’re mad at me, he thought, staring at Giorno’s moving lashes before the blurring white light and his slender fingers which creased the floral embroideries on his sleeves. The cold in his gut melted away. Are you going to scold me? Well, what will it be? Mista scratched his face with his pinky as the edges of his lips twitched into a smile. Are you going to berate me, yell at me?

[mrlowell]

Thanks for fixing canon <3

[jojolalas]

The unassuming white envelope had taunted him from the moment he spotted it in the pile of unsorted mail that morning and he'd been trying to get the nerve to open it ever since. The return address could only mean one thing: he had a match.

__

Mista signed up for a matchmaking service and finally gets matched with someone.

[lustastarte]

♠of love and sex | giomis♠

genre: smut

mista convinces don giorno to take a vacation

published: 2020

written by request

Knock knock.

"Yes?" The blonde received no answer. "Come i-"

"Mr. Giovanna~," a sculpted man sang, suddenly behind Giorno.

"Mista. For the last fucking time. I can and will put a bullet between your eyes if you don't stop doing that every time you feel the need to talk to me."

The brunette mocked him. "No you won't. I'm the only one that runs your errands without mistakes."

Giorno sighed, rubbing his thumb and index finger just above his brow, moving them apart, extending his hand before rubbing it over his forehead and loosely tied up hair. "What do you even want?"

"I feel like you could use a break," the older began massaging his counterpart's shoulders.

The blonde scoffed, taking a long sip of his hot, dark beverage. "A break? I run the mafia, Guido. If I take a break, this whole thing crumbles. Besides, I can't go anywhere without my body guard, and I don't want to overwork anyone."

Mista tilted his head, a puzzled look spreading across his face and shining out of his eyes. "Giorno. I am a 24/7 body guard. I live with you as your full time body guard."

"... You live with me because we're engaged, you absolute deadshit."

Mista giggled, running his hand through Giorno's hair. He strolled over, thick wooden soles clicking on the pristine marble floor and sat down on the younger man's desk.

"Come onnn," the older whined. "You need a break... Please? Just for like three days."

Giorno stayed silent, thinking about the problems that would arise from him leaving for just a few hours, not to mention days.

"Fine," he answered defeatedly after a full five minutes of sitting silently, ignoring Mista's eyes.

Giorno's golden blonde hair whipped behind him as he basked in the sunlight and cool breeze generated by the speed of Mista's stolen convertible. Taking a deep breath, he surveyed his surroundings. The beach seemed to go on for miles, salty waves kissing the sand, driftwood and seaweed docked just above the tide as decoration. Directly across the highway stood a rickety, wooden, top-heavy dock house, a weather-beaten, mini cabin of pure, disintegrating mid-eighteenth century raised up on bowed, waterlogged, rotting supports for the purpose of enabling elderly ladies in tea dresses and floppy hats with ribbons to sit out on good afternoons to watch the sailboats tutting along the horizon at their work - a setting rendered completely imagined and unreal by the thick, suffocating saline air surrounding the coast. Waves repetitively crashed over the warm, sunbaked sand, spreading it's webbed foam like the edge of a nightgown. The costal wind blew in bitter gusts, temporarily sending chills down the blonde's neck. The salty, fishy air lay heavily on his tongue and aggressively filled his nostrils. A golden comforter outlining the shimmering, tropical teal sea, creating a picture perfect image. The large, blazing sun was perched high in the sky, shining like Elijah's fiery chariot to heaven. The sun beat down on the calm ocean as another, chilly gust of wind forced itself past Giorno. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the faint taste of salt on the breeze that was complimented by the godly, ambrosial aroma of the flowers growing around the rolling dunes of sand.

The seaside cottage has mortar walls like cold set oatmeal, painted canary yellow with window frames of birch and shutters of grey. Inside is the gentle whirr of the overhead ceiling fan, chairs relaxed in the sunlight outside. The old windows are mullioned, overlooking the garden of flowers and towering palm trees. The rickety little building hunkered low on the coastal moor like a child in a heated round of hide-and-seek trying to keep from being caught. The cottage looked as if it was straight out of a fairytale with a happy ending or a picture book for little kids. It was rusty, old, and quite dusty from the outside, but rather welcoming inside. The whole house was made of birch and mortar. A tiny stove, two small wooden chairs, a circular table, a full sized bed, and that was it. Quaint and calming. Succulents, tropical flowers, and so much more flora. A wrought iron gate with paint chipping and flaking off was the door to the property, leading onto a narrow sandy path with small shells and pebbles. There was a tiny tide pool with barnacles, starfish, urchins, sand crabs, tropical fish, anemone, algae, seagrass, and a few seagulls. The dune grass was green and yellow, scorched and toasted by the sun in the balmy Italian summers.

"See? Are you happy you took this break now?" Mista opened the door to the cottage, breathing in a briny mix of cypress, blood lily, hibiscus, and African violet. He dropped their luggage on the creaky birch floor, sending a cloud of sand into the air.

"Not yet. It's pretty, but I kind of have a really important job to do."

"Awww, Gio-Gio, come on," Mista whined, pulling the other man into his chest. "You know you like it here~"

The blonde's face began to heat up, but he tried to keep a poker face. Mista connected their lips softly, smirking as he ran his hands down Giorno's sides. Giorno shuttered, leaning into Mista's chest. What was this feeling?  He felt as though he needed to throw up, but instead of stomach acid, he wanted to throw up his entire heart. Heat pooled in his abdomen.

He was all logic, feigned, cool detachment until Mista touched his skin. Then, something primitive, something carnal not only stirred in him, but completely took over his thinking. The rest of the dull, drab world became an unimportant blur that was quickly banished into the far, compartmentalized recesses of his subconscious mind. The only thing that mattered to him was being touched even more by Mista, kissing his slightly chapped lips, surrounded by scratchy stubble, feeling his large, warm hands on his stomach, trailing to his legs. Mista tried to be gentle with Giorno's clothing, not having the slightest desire to replace a $10,000 suit, but it was so hard. Giorno tried to keep his breathing steady, but soon began panting, not quite sure if out of nervousness or arousal.

With the front door closed and locked, every former falsification falls. The façade the mob boss and his guard show the world instantaneously melts away and all Mista wants is to fuck every drop of life out of Giorno. Every kiss he gives has a raw intensity as he glides his tongue down the blonde's body - Giorno's breathing fast, but his heart rate's much faster. Before they know how it happened, the two are naked, skin moving softly and desperately together, like the finest of Mulberry silk. Giorno groans as he feels Mista's hand enter from below, one finger moving against his most sensitive parts, their tongues entwined in an aggressively passionate kiss. Then Mista has three fingers inside, changing Giorno's heavy, desperate breathing with every thrust, taking pleasure in hearing his moans, which were so perfectly timed to his body. All at once, he stops and kisses from Giorno's neck to his stomach, his greedy hands light; then, he's licking and using his fingers all at once, watching the blonde's reaction, feeling and laughing at how his spindly legs move, watching his body writhe with each brush against the deepest parts of him.

"I'm gonna make you beg for this, you know that?"

Giorno whined in response, unable to form anything intelligible.

In seconds, he's on Giorno again, fucking him hard, just long enough to intoxicate his mind before stopping completely.

"Please- Please- Guido, I-"

"You what?" Mista smirked at the blonde, tugging on his hair as he pushes just his head in. Giorno cried out in misery, needing to feel his fiancé inside him. "Hmm?"

"I need you! I need you to- to fuck me sen-senseless! Please," he wailed, never before having this feeling.

That was all it took for Mista to give in, holding nothing back as he slammed into the blonde. Mista's hands pinned Giorno to the bed, hair coming undone and toes curled. He left every part of the younger man untouched and as quick as the two started screaming, crying out for one another in the heat of the moment, it was over. Giorno arched his back, almost drooling out of pure pleasure, and Mista pounded into him, biting his neck and squeezing the headboard with one hand. The blonde screamed out, digging his short, manicured nails into the older man's tan back. Mista's thrusts slowed and he gently kissed Giorno's soft lips.

"Oh- Oh my god..."

"Was that a good first time?"

"I- Honestly, I think it's the best," Giorno giggled, panting and still shaking from pleasure.

"Happy you took the vacation now?"

"Oh, definitely."

[pass1onepr1ncess]

New Pinned Post!

Starting with everything you need to know about me! Or should I say us! We're a DID System who uses "The Arcade System" as a way to collectively refer to ourselves, but you can just call us Arcade if that's easier! We're bodily 21 years old, trans and queer in multiple different directions depending on the alter, and physically and mentally disabled (Primarily AuDHD, BPD, and some unlabeled joint issues we haven't found a name for).

As for me specifically, I'm the host of the system! My name is Trish and as you've probably already guessed if you're a fellow Jojo fan I'm a fictive of Trish Una from Jojo's Bizarre Adventure Part 5; Vento Aureo/Golden Wind! I'm the same age as the body, and I'm a proud genderqueer lesbian! Since I use the body's birthday as opposed to my canon birthday in source, I'm a leo!

It's mostly me on this blog, but Hot Pants fronts and will post every once in a blue moon. While this is mainly a Jojo blog right now, I post about and reblog a lot of content specifically about Vento Aureo, Purple Haze Feedback, and Steel Ball Run! A couple of the other fandoms I post about sometimes are Genshin Impact, Honkai Star Rail, Homestuck, Houseki no Kuni/Land of the Lustrous, and Danganronpa!

Most of our posts are ramblings and infodumping, but we also post fanfics, media analysis, and digital art! Occasionally, you'll even see some cosplays! We have art commissions open pretty much at all times, but you can always check in the inbox if you're unsure! Our comms post is here for extra info!

Rambles and Text Posts: #trish rambles

Asks: #asks

Fanfiction links and/or Snippets: #fanfic

Art: #my art or #arcade art

Cosplays: #cosplay

I'm also the moderator behind both @askphf and @ask-dinopants!

Some other things to note: I don't tolerate hate or harassment. If I say something wrong or worded a post incorrectly, educate me. Don't scream at me. On that note, proshippers leave me the fuck alone. I'm not gonna go around hunting you down for the sole purpose of harassing you, but I do NOT fuck with your crowd. This includes JonaDio, DioPucci, GioMis, etc. Also uber specific, but I don't like Hazbin Hotel or Helluva Boss or whatever other media that horrible woman creates. I don't mind if you like it and again I'm not gonna go tracking other people down for it, but I just don't personally want it in my space.

Other than that, feel free to interact! I'm always open to asks and talking about almost anything, including questions about Source Memories or our plurality as a whole! Obviously there are some questions and topics that I want to avoid, but I'll just say that much if it comes up lol.

[ctric-acid]

[agoddamnedrayofsunshine]

I present to you: stuff

Ties that bind 38: A little bird told me

That's what I want (A JJBA NSFW fanfic)

[secretsickysideblog]

made with love

"giorno giovanna’s faced his more-than-fair share of hardships in life, and coming down with a particularly rough cold isn’t exactly one of the worst--far from it.

but these puppy dog eyes mista gives him whenever he asks if there’s anything he can do to help? giorno thinks they might just be the death of him."

mista decides that the best remedy for giorno’s stubborn cold is a bowl of homemade soup. (sicktember day 3, alternate prompt - warm soup)

Giorno Giovanna’s faced his more-than-fair share of hardships in life, and coming down with a particularly rough cold isn’t exactly one of the worst--far from it.

 But these puppy dog eyes Mista gives him whenever he asks if there’s anything he can do to help? Giorno thinks they might just be the death of him. 

 Mista has come into his room offering him assistance about six times today between Giorno’s frequent and fruitless naps in attempts to ease up the suffering.  (Well, maybe suffering is a bit of an exaggeration, but Giorno can’t breathe. Even if it’s not the worst thing he’s faced, it sure is annoying.) The thing is, it’s only about five o’clock in the evening, and Giorno’s spent most of the day asleep.

 Needless to say, Mista is being more than doting. 

 Giorno doesn’t at all blame him; Mista’s just a caring guy, and he probably hates to see Giorno confined to his bed and the few bathroom trips he’s worked up the energy to make just as much as Giorno hates to be in this state. But it’s saddening to see the distraught look in his eyes whenever his sick partner can’t think of any assistance for him to provide. Mista’s a bit too much like a lost puppy right now, and the only thing worse than the heaviness in Giorno’s limbs and persistent congestion is the dreary feeling in his heart at the sight. 

 There’s a sudden knock on the door, and yet somehow, Giorno had expected it fully. The blonde sighs softly, a fond smile tugging at his lips.

 “Yes, Mista?”

 There’s a moment of hesitance before Mista steps in. “How’d you know it would be me?” He jokes, leaning against the doorframe. His smirk turns downwards in a frown as he looks his boyfriend over. Though he, luckily, isn’t too feverish, his skin is ashen and he looks...dull. Disheveled. And while Mista feels privileged to see him at his worst, he hates to see him feeling any less than his best. 

 “Napping didn’t help much, did it?”

 Giorno shakes his head sadly, sniffles thickly. “I’m alright, Mista,” Giorno’s attempt at a reassuring smile is weak, as expected. “Thank you for checking in on me.”

 “Well, of course, I mean--” Mista comes in fully, closing the door behind him. He settles at the foot of the bed, resting a hand on Giorno’s ankle. “I love you, of course I’m gonna check on you. I just wish there was more I could do for you, y’know?”

  I know, Giorno wants to say, believe me, I know.  And beyond that, he wants to say, this is more care than I’ve ever received in my life. But he doesn’t want to sully the atmosphere any further, or make Mista think he’s annoyed by his doting, because he isn’t and he never could be. The man in question stares distantly at the wall for a long moment, seeming to be lost in thought. And then something lights up in his eyes as he faces Giorno again. 

 “I got it! You haven’t eaten yet, so you gotta eat something, and what do sick people like to eat more than soup?” Mista nods to himself, and it’s clear that even if Giorno wanted to protest, there would be no such option. “I’ll make you soup. What kinda soup did your mom make when you were a kid? There’s nothing better than a bowl of homemade soup.” 

 Giorno’s expression falls before he can really process it. He’s never had a bowl of homemade soup, especially not from his mother. How does he communicate that, though? This is the worst time for something like that, anyway. Mista seems so excited about the idea, and Giorno really doesn’t want to take that away from him.

 “--llo? Giorno? Gio, you in there?” 

 “Huh--oh, yes,” Giorno blinks, coming back to the realm of the living. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

 “I asked what kind of soup you usually have when you’re sick, and you went space cadet on me.” 

 “Ah, uhm…” Giorno clears his throat, shifting awkwardly, and suddenly he feels hot. “Well. When I was a child…” 

 Mista watches him expectantly, one eyebrow cocking upwards. 

 “I’ve never had soup when I was sick,” Giorno admits, and his voice is quiet. He reprimands himself internally for how it sounds like he’s gearing up to be punished for it. For feeling vaguely that maybe he will be, because this is Mista,  and Mista would never hurt him.

 Mista’s confusion melts into concern as gears turn in his mind. “You’ve never had soup when you were sick? Nobody made you soup?”

 Giorno shakes his head, looking down at his lap. “No. My mom wasn’t really... home when I was young.” 

 “Aw, Gio,” Mista runs his hand up and down his shin now, almost in an absent gesture. “Y’know what? That’s okay.”

 He stands, and for a moment, Giorno thinks he’s going to walk out with the slight droop to his shoulders that showed up yesterday and hasn’t left since. But then Mista comes around to approach the side of the bed Giorno’s laying on and bends down to slide one arm beneath his knees and the other behind his back, pulling him up into a princess carry. Giorno’s eyes widen as he yelps quietly in surprise, wrapping an arm around Mista’s neck. His other hand grips the fabric of his shirt in fear that he may fall, but he feels much more supported in Mista’s hold than he thought he would, so he ends up letting go. 

 “We’ll make our own recipe. Okay? ‘Cause you gotta eat, and I don’t wanna make something you don’t like.” 

 Before Giorno can say anything about it, Mista’s already out the door and starting down the stairs. He’s slow and careful in his movements, taking each step with both feet to make sure he doesn’t end up dropping Giorno and giving him a concussion on top of a cold--or worse, killing him on impact. Thankfully, they both make it to the bottom safe and sound.

 Mista sets him down in a stool by the kitchen island, disappearing for a moment into the living room and returning with a soft throw blanket from the couch. He drapes it over Giorno’s shoulders; the blonde gratefully wraps it around himself, pulling a knee to his chest. 

 “Alright, what kind of broth do you wanna use?”

 And after a series of questions and taste-tests, a bowl and spoon are set down in front of Giorno. The heat swirls up into steamy mist, and Giorno leans over it, letting the warm air alone bring him a momentary relief. He wraps the blanket around his shoulders tighter, picking up the spoon with his other hand. Mista sits across the island, watching him with this dreamy look in his eyes. They glimmer with excitement and anticipation and pure, utter adoration. Giorno thinks he might melt into soup himself. 

 With a shaky hand, Giorno brings a spoonful of soup to his lips and sips at it. And he’s pleasantly unsurprised, having been here for the entire concocting process, that it tastes amazing. Even beyond taste, oddly enough, he feels this soup is warmer than any dish he’s had before--perhaps, cliché as it is, it’s because it was made with love. 

 “So?”

 “It’s fantastic,” Giorno takes another spoonful, taking his time to savor the heat of it against the sore, rough feeling in his throat. “Thank you, Mista.”

 “Hell yeah, of course! I’m glad I finally did something helpful, doing nothing was frickin’ stressful.” 

 Whether the warmth blooming in his chest is from the soup or from the sparkling satisfaction in Mista’s eyes, Giorno isn’t sure. Quite frankly, he doesn’t care. 

 Because whatever it is, it’s love. And suddenly, Giorno’s certain that the saying of love being the best medicine is true.

[meramu-meramu]

Mista meets a bold and free-spirited woman from Palermo. Giorno meets a breezy and well-spoken man from Milan.

It all came together so perfectly, as if orchestrated by fate itself.

Miss You

giomis, 4k, part 1 of 2

A story about how easy it is to settle and how hard it can be to accept the truth.

It was then that Mista, who sat next to him drinking his double shot cappuccino as he did every morning, spoke up. “Hey, what's the harm?” He shrugged, grinning coyly. “I got some extra time. I'll look after her for a little while. Give her something to do.”

[...]

Mista, who sat next to him as he did every evening with a slice of pizza folded in his hand, burst out laughing. He stood from his chair with a clatter. “Is that it? Unbelievable. Someone get this man a chair! He'll sit with us,” he gestured towards the waiter who still stood by the door. He hurriedly complied.

[comediakaidanovsky]

come what may

They only kiss in the soft embrace of dusk, when the sky shifts in hues of rose gold and hazy purples. The first light in the velvet night isn’t the twinkle of stars, but Mista, carefree – a mischievous gleam to those dark eyes – as he leans in and presses a chaste kiss to Giorno’s lips.

That’s how it starts. Simple, unhurried and absolutely inexplicable. No different than how they casually touch, hug, or occasionally cuddle up on the couch while watching TV.

Guido Mista walks Giorno home, as he’s prone to do, vigilant until they’re on the steps of Giorno’s house. Then he kisses him, and it should be this huge, monumental thing, but instead it’s easy. Giorno’s mind races quicker than his pulse; this can’t be happening; it’s happening; it’s over.

“Good night, Giogio.” Mista’s voice is hushed, a honeyed note to how he lingers on Giorno’s name, and then he winks. The bastard winks before he turns to head down the stairs. Absolutely unacceptable.

Closing the door, Giorno leans against it, unable, or maybe unwilling, to take another step into the apartment. He tips his head back against the rough oak wood surface, letting out a shaky breath.

God, it’s been years.

Years since Capri and Venice and Rome. Years of running Passione. Years with Mista by his side, and now Guido has kissed him, a soft, intimate press of lips that Giorno will carry into his dreams.

--- AO3

I can finally post my fic from the Carpe Diem zine! I was assigned to write on the theme “dusk”, and tried to incorporate the color palette of the artists in the piece. it’s sort of a slow burn; after a decade of friendship, the love story between Giorno and Mista is told one kiss at the time

[watashi-wa-hikaru]

I'm actually writing a giomis fanfiction in my native language (italian) on Wattpad and I was thinking it could be cool to translate it and write it on Tumblr. What do you think? (no hate pls)

Anyway, I wrote a one shot bruabba too. Maybe I'll put this first here, I don't know :3

[cockneydio]

🎄JJBA Secret Santa🎄 ((Fic)) “Close To You”

Happy Boxing Day to the lovely and talented @hanneswrites! This is my first time writing Giomis seriously, and I had to take the opportunity to do a little Hurt/Comfort because hey, but also Getting Together because Hey!

Inspired in part by this amazing gorgeous emotional piece by @/robobesito on Twitter. I haven’t stopped thinking about this all month, and I’ve been trying to craft something even remotely close to what this art makes me feel. 

I hope you like it, and the version I’m sure I’m going to rewrite in a month because I’m an obsessive disaster 🤗

TITLE: Close To You

FANDOM: JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure (Part 5)

PAIRING: Giorno Giovanna/Guido Mista

RATING: M for heavy themes, but T+ content-wise

WARNINGS: Religion & Church stuff but with a whole lot of poetic license, Christmas, Holidays, post-canon (spoilers), mention of past child abuse

SUMMARY: Giorno Giovanna and Guido Mista have vastly different associations with the last month of the year. December 2001 promises to be the most challenging one of their young lives. But maybe, together, they can get through it.

Close To You

The holidays were going to suck this year.

Guido Mista loved them, usually. The countdown to Christmas started with a party on his birthday, December 3rd. His sisters and their friends would spend all day making sweets and decorating, and in the evening the whole neighborhood would come over with food and presents and tell Mista what a fine man he was becoming and praise the good care he took of his mom and the girls. The rest of the month was a bustle of celebration and activity - building care packages for the needy, taking the nonnas to mass, getting a lira here or there for being such a good boy. That wasn't the point though, he'd remind himself. This is the time for giving, Guido, his father once said. Give of yourself to your neighbor and he will give you thanks. Give of yourself to God and He will give you His blessing. 

After his father was gone, Mista tried to live his life with something like that principle in mind. Even when caring for his neighbor yielded him not thanks but a life sentence. Even when his deepest prayers went unanswered. He was saved, eventually, but condemned to the only life a condemned man could lead, at the cost of all of those things he used to love. No more neighbors or family. 

How strange it was, then, that that December would be the most special of his life. Not six months out of prison, and there he was surrounded by a ragtag assembly of boys just as screwed up or screwed as him, all raising a glass to his 18th birthday. Mista wouldn't dare call them family, too macho for sentimental shit like that. But all five of them, perched here and there on mismatched furniture in the cold air, forgetting for a second the job that brought them together - it sure as hell felt like home. 

Giorno Giovanna never really understood them. Even ten years living in a Catholic country hadn't inured him to the idea of virgin birthdays and supposedly wise men bringing gold and perfume to a baby they didn't know. He figured out quickly that visits to church around this time were mostly for appearances - mom in a demure dress that for once didn't show the skin on her chest, stepfather shaved clean and in his best suit, Giorno in any suit - the façade of a happy family. But Giorno would live the truth after every mass, hours of sermons that seemed like attacks on his stepfather's very character distilled into rage he could take out on Giorno's hide. Not in the face, mother would say. We have pictures in the morning.

Boarding school showed him the more festive side of Christmas. Big pine trees popped up all over campus, and this club or that would claim each one to decorate. It seemed pointless, to Giorno. The trees were dead, chopped down in their prime, needles' green prolonged with a bit of sugar water for a few weeks of merriment, then tossed into the furnace.

Only kids like him, who didn't go home around this time, knew about that last part. The kids who weren't like him returned in January with new things, handheld video games that were always confiscated by the end of the month, casual clothes for dates with friends, their own cell phones. Giorno never got new things. 

The holidays were going to suck, this year. 

For Giorno, Christmastime carried the weight of expectation. Despite his youth, Don Giovanna was now capo of capos, established as a leader of the people, in his mentor's image. The community would be scandalized, his new and fragile reputation tarnished perhaps forever, if he made even the slightest misstep during this time. He needed to relearn everything he'd blissfully forgotten about Christmas, and pretend to care about it. 

For Mista, every passing day in December would hammer home the gulf of loss he'd suffered in such a short span of his young life. His family had disowned him. The makeshift family he'd built from scratch was gone. There was nothing to celebrate, no one to share the joy. 

Almost.

It happened by accident, as the best things often do. The sound of butchered Latin caught Mista's ear one evening, and he couldn't help but investigate. After hours, after Giorno grew weary of the sycophants and dismissed everyone for the day, he and the turtle-bound spirit of Jean Pierre Polnareff began the study session: what prayers to say when, how to carry the tune of the most important hymns. Giorno was mostly hopeless, but it was a valiant effort. And a devastatingly funny one, to Guido Mista.

You would ask the French turtle for help before your purebred Roman Catholic gunman?

Criticism in the guise of playful banter, the kind only Mista could speak to the Don and leave with his tongue intact. 

I believe I've heard you calling for God a time or two, but I think that's what the Pope would call blasphemy.

That sort of innuendo, just on the near side of flirtation, that had been torturing Mista for months on end. 

Giorno acquiesced, and proved to be a better study with devoted company. Stories of Mista's childhood trickled out with each lesson, anecdotes at first, to help ground the arcane ceremonial stuff in something tangible. But they turned into something else before either of them knew it. Prayer books would lie forgotten on the table in favor of mulled wine and talk about what life was like before all this.

When I was your age, Mista would say.

You mean, like, two years ago? Giorno would point out. And the absurdity of their station in life, master and protector of all of Campania's criminal underground, would make them laugh, put things in perspective, if only for a little while.

And it helped Mista forget, a bit, about December 3rd. His birthday came and went this year, much like Giorno's, unnoticed, too much to do and deadlines everywhere. Don Giovanna had engagements daily, showing the magnanimity of Passione's new regime with gifts to orphanages, taking communion in congregations where certain politicians and businessmen needed a wake-up call. And of course, Giorno performed flawlessly. Christmas Day barely even registered amid the flurry of activity; in a way, just like old times.

But there was still something missing. Those stories Mista told only went up to the year 2000. There were old times that weren't so old, traditions that were cut short before they even had a chance to begin, and reminiscing beyond Me and the guys would hang out on the balcony... was too much to ask. 

One last holiday, this year. And Giorno was going to make certain it wouldn't suck. 

I'd like to thank you for tutoring me, Mista. It was an invitation, not a statement of gratitude, and one Mista knew he couldn't dismiss out of modesty. 

Ten o'clock on New Year's Eve, the limousine approached the lakeside cottage he'd been calling home for the last six months. Inside was a warmly dressed Giorno Giovanna, casual but crisp. 

I could have walked up to the villa. 

Nonsense. You're my guest this evening.

The only words the pair would exchange, for now. Mista, focusing his attention out the window, curious. Giorno, grateful for the opportunity to kill the doubts in his head. As soon as the car made the turn for the shitty part of downtown, Mista got the clue. 

Why are we going to my old place? Unless you're taking me for Sam's Spaghetti... 

Mista hadn't been to his apartment since he tore through in April, collecting the few personal items that mattered and closing the door on the memories it contained. Giorno had the foresight to keep it, though. Bought the entire building, in fact, mostly to forestall anyone who might like to dig for leftover dirt. 

I have a surprise. Usually that would be enough. But- I hope you're ok with it...

The first thing Mista noticed inside was the state of affairs. It looked exactly the same as it did the day he left, as chaotic and messy as ever. He smiled to himself, oddly grateful Giorno didn't take it upon himself to tidy up. Because the next thing he noticed were the signs that Giorno had been here earlier. A candelabra with three white candles glowed in the window. Familiar music played on the ancient record player Mista had regretted not grabbing. And the French doors to the balcony were open, welcoming Mista back to the place where Me and the guys would never congregate again. 

But Giorno couldn't have brought him here just to break his heart. A look over his shoulder for explanation revealed a nervous kid who was in too deep to back out now, squeezing the neck of a classical guitar and staring back at Mista with the intensity of the sun. 

Mista took up his favorite seat on the balcony, waiting for Giorno to finish setting up whatever was left of the surprise he had in store. The record player stopped, skipped around, then spun that wonderful anticipatory silence before sound. Giorno timed it out, made it to the balcony and picked up the guitar with a moment to spare for a deep breath before strumming along to the delicate piano chords Mista would know anywhere.

Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you are near...

Giorno barely made it through the second verse before the tears started to fall from Mista's face. He forged on, determined to say what was in his heart, but there was no fighting the frog in his own throat. They sat there on the balcony, sobbing silently into the cold December air, finally letting themselves feel all the things they'd been too busy or stubborn or devastated to feel. And then Mista was on his feet, pulling Giorno into his chest like a lifering. 

I love you, too.

They held each other as the clock struck midnight, signaling a new year, new times, new love. 

[jojoeyo]

Y’all caught me on that genderswap Giomis >___>

[strikearose]

Uncovering Passione's Underside (1/1) GIOMIS

What one can learn by listening to what the secretive Passione's staff have to say about their Don... One-shot, GioMis, Post-canon, Humor, G+ You can also read it on ao3 here!

For as long as many Passione members could recall, Agnese Bianchi had always been there, grumbling as she would mop the hall floor and nagging at fellow cleaning employees and ruthless gang members all alike. It didn't matter how long their felonious resumes were, she simply couldn't stand slackers. Years of working within that specific industry had forged her strong character - she was honest, hardworking, and probably a tad too outspoken too about her aversion for mobsters, but she still knew better than to ask silly questions like some other people did.

The housekeeper glared at the man who'd been chatting up the new cleaner (and therefore, preventing her from mopping up the floor as she had explicitly urged her to) for the last half hour. His name was Trado, Trattore, or something that sounded way too much like Tradittore anyway: he was one of the Don's many henchmen. Ever since he had started working there, he had taken that annoying habit of snooping everywhere, making idle chitchat with the household staff during rush hour.

The old maid cleared her throat, grabbed her cleaning cart handles, and pushed it unceremoniously between the pair. "Is that what you call cleaning the reception room? Signore Giovanna wants it sparkling clean: go fix it now or apply for another job already!"

Her harsh tone worked just fine: the young employee, caught red-handed slacking work, gasped in surprise and mumbled a brief apology before leaving in a hurry. The man, however, didn't seem the least concerned about her admonition. He simply smiled and raised his hands in self-defense - and lord if there was a way he could possibly piss her off even more.

Agnese chose to simply disregard his presence and rummaged through her pockets to find the key she needed.

Click.

As it opened, she began to push her cleaning cart over the door sill with some difficulty.

"Need some help?"

Agnese sighed when she realized he was still there. Who the hell was he taking her for?

"I don't. As always, I'm doing just fine on my own."

To her dismay, it seemed that her sharp answer didn't manage to get rid of the gangster. For God's sake, couldn't he just go bother someone else, literally anyone but her? There was nothing Agnese hated more than to have someone watch her every move.

...

Or perhaps slackers.

Slackers who intended on watching her every move.

"So, for how long have you been working there? They say you'll bury us all..."

Agnese rolled her eyes as she finally managed to get her cart through the doorway.

"Long enough to have seen my fair share of slackers come and go..." The cleaning lady truly wished he'd get the memo this time. She had seen it all: louts in suits with fake good manners and scarred faces, but also men that seemed to be way too nice and curious for their own good. To her, that last species was the worst: they were wolves in sheep's clothing.

But of course, Trado (or Trattore or whatever was his name) didn't appreciate the subtlety of her response, and he continued his questioning: "You've been there long enough to have known the former boss, right? The one before Don Giovanna, a real freak apparently... "

Agnese tensed at that: she didn't like where the conversation was heading. She was unfortunately all too familiar with those office gossips. A little over five years ago now, Passione had gone from having no official face, to Giorno Giovanna's gracing every streets' corners. Rumors had it that the young, brilliant, man had brutally murdered the Original Don in the span of a week. Others thought that Giovanna's was his son and that the boss had simply granted himself a well-deserved retirement.

She couldn't care less about what had truly happened: Don Giovanna gave her a monthly salary as well as direct, concrete instructions. And those were the two things that mattered to her. He was good at that, giving clear orders to the people to his service. And it was nicer to serve him than to obey blindly the weird requests she'd receive by mail like before.

"Don't you really have anywhere else to go?", the cleaning lady suddenly turned to the man she had heard approaching but was relieved to see that he had not dared to enter the Don's office. He was looking at her, peering at what she was doing, from the door's threshold. "If you want a piece of advice, stop being so damn noisy."

The gangster laughed and at that, Agnese wished she could just sweep him out of the room.

"Relax! I'm new here, I'm just curious. Don Giovanna's pretty nice, he won't murder us over some harmless chitchat."

The Boss of a criminal organization, a nice man?

It was Agnese's turn to snort.

Yeah, she guessed it was the kind of public image he was adamantly working on And some people seemed to believe it: newspapers were reporting less traffic, a decline in thugs harming citizens' and tourists' safety. The astounding sums of money he was giving to local shelters, hospitals, and public schools were also common knowledge: rumors had it that the city council was even thinking of naming the brand-new biological museum, founded thanks to his many donations, after him.

As a boss, Agnese considered him to be pretty decent  - well, as decent as being the Don of a criminal organization could possibly allow him to be considered. After all, he was well-educated enough not to leave clothes and magazines scattered everywhere like the previous boss and some of his most favored underlings did.

But as a man, there was no way she could possibly tell if he was nice. Agnese was just an old, tired cleaning lady: she never pried into the Don's private life even though she guessed there were things that couldn't escape her lack of malicious curiosity. Details such as notes and silly doodles scribbled on his desk, scraps of paper (of extremely dubious content) discarded in the garbage can she needed to empty or sweaters which were at least two sizes too big for him lying on the normally spotless ground of his room...

Sighing, the old maid was about to close the door behind her when she noticed it: the stupid smirk on the gangster's face. The stupid knowing smirk they always had whenever they would bring up the one topic she had no desire to discuss.

How she wished she could just spray him with a window cleaner to wipe it out of his face.

"You know people say 'bout them, right? I'm sure it's complete bullshit but..."

The answer Agnese gave him was the same she would lecture her own underlings with: "One thing I know for sure is that the Underboss always carries his gun on him... And the Don sure doesn't need one to silence people. So just drop it and mind your own business."

With a last sigh, she finally shut the door closed and started her heavy work. However, even though the noisy snoop had left, Agnese felt her mind drift to her first encounter with the Don as she was dusting the ancient bookcase.

It had happened about four years ago, on a late December afternoon - was it because she had arrived too early or because he had stayed in his office later than usual, but the door had been left open so she had loudly pushed her cart inside. The old cleaning lady had instantly understood her mistake - after all, there was little mystery about whom that man was... Who else would dare to enter the big boss's office in his absence?

Golden locks, emerald eyes looking right at her with mild surprise: he obviously had not been expecting her.

"Oh, it's already that time of the day," his chin tilted high and proud, the mafia boss had flatly made that statement.

Not knowing what to say, Agnese had simply nodded and taken a discreet look at the massive clock behind him. 8:17 pm. He was definitely the one behind schedule, not her: she was just on time.

Not that she could say it aloud anyway.

"I didn't know you were still in there, Signore Giovanna," while her head was slightly bowed as a sign of respect, she had not apologized for her intrusion. She had nothing to apologize for: boss or not, he was the one messing with the established schedule. "I'll come back to clean your office later."

Don Giovanna had however soon dismissed her concern with a motion of his hand.

"It's fine, you can start working now. I was about to leave anyway."

The old housemaid nodded and was about to approach the bookcase when she had stopped right on her track, seeing the state of the ancient Victorian carpet. The boss had a rather keen hearing as he almost instantly turned his attention away from his papers to peer at Agnese, understanding what the problem was right away.

The blood hadn't just spattered on the carpet - there were traces of it on the sofa. And on the cushions. As well as on the desk's marble border.

And of course, the Don had to insist on furnishing his office with pristine white furnitures  - even the smallest stain could be spotted from miles away.

Well, at least to look at the bright sight, Agnese realized that she wasn't the one who had to take care of the body, to each, his own mess: scrubbing out the carpet was already going to be a real nightmare.

"I apologize for that," the voice of her employer was surprisingly gentle, and it had taken her off guard. "I'll make sure the floor is covered properly next time."

As unbelievable as it might sound, the Don had kept true to his word: she hadn't been able to find a single drop of blood in his office ever since.

And she had even gotten a raise in the following week.

**

Rumors had it that Don Giovanna was capable of prodigious deeds that a rational mind could not possibly explain: that dazzling smile of his could enchant things and bend them to his will. Some prominent figures from all parts of the world, whose identities shall remain hidden, had apparently come out of his office miraculously cured. But rumors also had it that the reason why his public appearances were becoming more and more scarce was because of a growing sensitivity to daylight.

So Agnese paid very little to no regard to them. Most of the time, like Tradutti had stated, it was indeed complete bullshit.

However, later that night, as she undid her bandages to observe the state of the burn on a forearm (a stupid domestic accident involving a boiling teapot), Agnese was amazed to find her epidermis completely smooth. There was no more blistering or dead skin: her forearm was of a softness that contrasted with the rest of her body:the astronomical amount of tiger balm and aloe vera used could not possibly explain that. So as much of a skeptic as she was, the cleaning lady was forced to admit that it had to be somehow related to her earlier encounter with the Don.

As soon as she had stepped outside his office after tidying it, she had spotted the mafia boss in the hallway. He was accompanied by five or six men dressed in equally expensive suits. Among them was a face quite familiar to her: the city mayor who was making it to the news because of yet another corruption scandal.

The last thing she needed was to get involved in this ugly mess, so the cleaning lady kept her head high and bravely pushed her cart forwards. What she wasn't expecting however was for the Don to stop her.

"Did you injure yourself?"

She had had no choice but to peer down too at her bandage and lie through her teeth: "It's nothing, Signore."

His face showed no emotion, but he took a step towards her and delicately grabbed the injured arm before she could protest. His grip was somehow gentle but tight: there was no way she could escape from it. It was a literal iron fist in a velvet glove.

Agnese could still recall feeling the gazes of the Mayor and his bodyguards on her, they had also stopped walking to stare at her. Her heart rate had momentarily quickened when the Don's hands had brushed over her wound, his emerald eyes never leaving her confused expression. A sharp pain had set her wrist on fire... And then nothing.

She no longer felt a thing - it was as if it had never happened: Don Giovanna had taken a step back and addressed his subordinates, and they all had resumed their walk, any concern about the poor old maid definitely forgotten. The only one who had graced her with something (a strangely amused smile) before leaving was Guido Mista.

The Underboss truly was something. He often reminded Agnese of her own son: way too careless and untidy. His room was a literal nightmare to clean: most of his cashmere sweaters (which he had no problem leaving on the floor for all that mattered) needed to be hand-washed, and he also had the specificity of returning several times a month completely riddled with bullets.

The fact that he was somehow still alive despite his many injuries was as much a real blessing to him that it was a curse for her.

After all, Agnese was the one who had to clean up after him: and there was nothing easier than to track him because with Underboss Mista came blood everywhere.

Everywhere.

From the pavement outside to the sheets of a certain person whose name shall remain unknown.

...

The kitchen timer rang and Agnese was brought back to reality.

She couldn't say for sure if the Don was responsible for this miracle, but she still wished he could have also helped with her rheumatism too.

━━━━━ ༻🌱༺ ━━━━━

Unlike Agnese, Rolfo Giardino was still fairly new at that whole managing-not-to-get-mixed-up-in-mafia-mess-while-working-for-them dilemma. This gardener may have had twenty years of experience, nothing could have possibly prepared him for what was about to come.

The headquarters' gardens themselves were very pleasant - they were spacious and ideally located. Starting from scratch, that is to say from an austere backyard where some pathetic trees were beginning to wither to this authentic example of Giardino all'italiana, adorned with classical sculptures, flowering shrubs, fountains and ornamental parterres, had not been easy at first but Signore Giovanna had agreed to pay the price without thinking twice and the result was worth it.

Now that it was done, now that Rolfo and his team only had to maintain the garden (meaning watering the flowers and cutting the hedges one or two times a week), he guessed the job would be pretty nice if it weren't for all those mobsters who, for some reason he still couldn't gather, enjoyed watching him work. That, as well as those dreadful echoes of gunfire and screams which would shatter from time to time the peaceful atmosphere of the garden.

The rustling of water, the birds' chirping, a loud explosion from within the building... A nice sunny day overall.

Some of his employees were still refusing to work there despite his best attempts to reassure them: for as long as they would stay away from the actual building, it was not like something could happen to them, right? Still, they were places where even Rolfo himself did not like to approach, near the window overlooking what he thought was the Big Boss's office for instance. He had been forced to come close (way too close) to it because of his client's special request to have ivy and white roses gambling along this wall.

He had started working on it on a day when the weather was so mild that the window had apparently been cracked open for once - and the uncanny noises and groans that had escaped through it had scared the gardener to death. He hadn't dared to peer inside to find out what was really happening: the last thing he needed to know was what the Don of Passione's private torture sessions consisted of. Ever since that unfortunate incident, Rolfo had not ventured any closer to the damn white rosebushes. The branches were becoming too long, they were clearly starting to block the path of light, but as long as the Don didn't make any complaint, Rolfo would leave them be.

But on that day, however, the poor gardener saw red as his eyes fell on the figure loitering near that damn window: who was that son of a bitch was stepping on his flower beds!

"Hey you fucking moron: Move! Can't you see you're ruinin' my work?" Rolfo's shout managed to hit the bull's eye. The criminal was startled by it and half a dozen of armed men (probably criminals too) suddenly burst out the building to see what the hell was happening. He sprinted in the direction of the jerk and threw his pair of pruning shears at him. The gardening tool narrowly missed him - it crashed against the window instead (which, thank lord, did not shatter after the impact), but still made him leave. The stern face of Giorno Giovanna soon appeared, his head comically peaking out the building.

The Big Boss frowned when he realized that five of his men were gathered outside, frantically looking for someone, and took a deep breath: "Did one of you just threw a rock at my window?" He sounded confused, and to his credit, that was quite understandable.

Rolfo felt all adrenaline leave him abruptly - he could feel on him the murderous glares of literal murderers, who would have probably murdered him on the spot were it not for the presence of their Big Boss. He had no choice but to come clean: "Uhh, I do believe it was my pruners, Signore. I apologize, I swear they weren't aimed at you. It was for that damn...- uhh, I mean, that employee of yours!"

The Don didn't seem the slightest taken aback by the choice of weapon. He ran a hand through his braided locked and motioned for the others to go.

"You're saying that someone was eavesdropping on me just now?"

Rolfo looked down for a moment before answering: "Uhh, probably? I mean, he was stomping on my rosebushes near your window, that's for sure. They're Blanche Moreau's you know? They took weeks to arrive from France, weeks to finally blossom in Italy's sunlight!"

The mafia boss frowned at that, and Rolfo just knew he understood how valuable these roses were. After all, the Don seemed to be pretty knowledgeable about plants and lots of stuff: rumors had it that they were going to name that new museum after him so...

Signore Giovanna looked behind him and seemed to be addressing someone in the room: "Make sure to find him."

Curiosity overcame his initial reserve: standing on tiptoe, the gardener finally peered at the window to see what was happening inside. The office seemed incredibly spacious and clean: a dark-haired man, behind the desk, was adjusting the position of his cap on his head.

"Kay, I'll climb down the window to catch him faster! The fucker must be hiding somewhere close!," as soon as the man finished speaking, Rolfo couldn't help but react straight away.

"No, you can't do that! You'll ruin the other bushes!"

Both mafiosi looked at him for a moment and the old gardener realized he might have spoken out of turn, but the Don settled the matter for them anyway:

"He's right, I do like these Blanche Moreau's: go around my office Mista. And please, your zipper." That last part had been uttered quietly, but Rolfo had still managed to pick up on it. His devout Catholic mind would probably have been offended by it were it not for the sudden realization which left him quivering.

How on earth was he able to peak so clearly at the window now...?

"That fucking son of a bitch!", at that the mafia boss frowned and looked at him quizzically, but Rolfo couldn't halt the stream of profanities coming out of his mouth. It was too late. "He chopped it off! The whole branch!! It's all gone!"

**

Rolfo had promised his wife he would never get too close to the mafia, even though those paychecks sure were quite weighty. And yet as he was now, comfortably sitting in a well-made leather seat, a cup of coffee in his hand, he thought that for a first time within the shady building he had tried to avoid entering for so long, things were actually looking pretty normal. A week had passed since the unfortunate roses incident, and he had been surprised to receive after a subsequent sick leave a call from the Don's office. He didn't really have much choice, so he had shown up on time and was now patiently waiting in the lobby.

"Don Giovanna will now receive you."

Rolfo followed without a word the pretty secretary - she too looked way too customarily pretty to be involved in that kind of business. It was only when he passed under the massive arch of the door that he became fully aware of what was happening: the head of the Italian mafia had summoned him here.

As expected, it was the Don's spacious office, the one he had managed to catch a glimpse of through the window free of rose branches. The room appeared to be spotlessly clean - hell, it even smelled like a mixture of disinfectant and fresh lemon. Definitely not what he was expecting it to look like. Oddly enough, the very first thing he noticed was the tarp on the floor: that gaudy blue plastic was seriously clashing with the rest of the pristine white furnishings.

"Good afternoon, Signore Giardino. Is that the man you spotted by my window the other day?," Rolfo met the gaze of the mafia boss who was calmly standing to what soon turned out to be a man in bad shape, feet and fists bound onto the chair.

On the other side of the suspect, nonchalantly propped against the desk, was the gangster who had wanted to hop out the window.

All three of them were looking at the gardener expectantly, and he heard behind him the sound of the door closing. Of course, the pretty secretary couldn't stay.

"I can't say for sure Signore. See, I was so focused on the combat boots trampling my bushes that I didn't pay too much attention to his face..."

He hated the bastard who had wrecked his work, sure, but to rush him to such a tragic fate...

"Cool, then check it out!," the underboss had spoken with a casualness contrasting with the cruelty of the angle in which he twisted the poor man's leg. Rolfo had no choice but to look at the sole of his boot.

...

The fucking bastard.

There were still manure and rose petals stuck to it. And those were no common rose petals - they were large, fluffy and creamy white. They had been violently snatched away from a Blanche Moreau's sepal.

The gardener hardly needed to speak up to convince the mafia boss - the lethal look he was giving the tied-up man was already enough evidence.

Umberto Tradduto's fate had just been sealed.

Rolfo couldn't say what prompted him to look outside, but after that he only overheard bits of the conversation whispered in front of him: what was he was seeing right now was far more chocking anyway:

"I leave it to you for now Mista. I'll dispose of him later."

"Another donation to the museum?"

"Not this time. I think he'll make a fine aphid instead, that way our gardener will be able to settle his score with him."

Rolfo wasn't even pretending to be listening to what was being said anymore. He couldn't believe his eyes. He took a step towards the window and the two mafiosi, deep in their discussion, didn't notice it immediately.

"Keep your evening free, we'll be paying a visit to the mayor tonight. I'm getting tired of the spies he keeps sending here."

"Tonight? Hey, do you know how much it cost me to book the entire restaurant?"

The Don cleared his throat as if suddenly reminded of the other two's presence: "The sooner the better. I'm sure she won't mind. You'll reschedule your date later."

Mista was about to protest, but he fell silent as he realized where the gardener was standing: "Hey man, what the...-"

But Rolfo overstepped his role again to cut him off. His eyes shining with emotion, he turned towards the mighty Giorno Giovanna and addressed him as if he was a true deity.

"How...- How did you...? This is prodigious Signore!"

Behind him, blocking the light from the window, were proudly standing three beautiful unscathed roses branches.

━━━━━ ༻ 🚗 ༺ ━━━━━

Alfredo waked up completely startled as he heard someone bang on his window: dozing off at the wheel was a rookie mistake, he was well aware of that - but still.

"Hey open up!"

The underboss' voice was agitated - something very rare for such an easy-going man, so Alfredo immediately unlocked the doors and got out of the vehicle to assist him. Mista was backing up the big boss, a hand wrapped under his shoulders to help him stand.

The driver shot a panicked look at the small cottage they had just come from: what the hell had just happened in there?

Alfredo glanced at the Don's patent leather shoes - he was dressed as reverently as usual - and then at the underboss' worn-out leather jacket: even though they were clothed as if they were going to very different events, they had asked him to drop them at the same address: the mayor's private country hous. He had followed the itinerary scribbled on the paper an informer had given him a few hours before. It was the driver's special talent: being resourceful. Even without a precise address, he always knew how to bring his customers to the desired place.

His clients never asked him how it worked, and in return, he never made any remark on the state they would return to the car in. Or to question why they seemed so keen to surprise the mayor at such a late hour of the evening.

Alfredo was even willing to give an extra hand if needed, occasionally overstepping his role of a simple driver if the client was likely to be a good tipper.

He opened the passenger door for the mafia boss, but to his great surprise the latter stopped him right there:

"I'm fine. Just open the trunk instead."

Alfredo tensed up but said nothing as he went back to his seat to retrieve his leather gloves.

It was another kind of extra service: helping them to get rid of incriminating clues. Well, it wouldn't be the first body dumped in the back of his precious vehicle, and certainly not the last. As long as they would pay for the subsequential cleanup, he didn't mind.

"How many bottles have you stolen?," The underboss had ushered that question to the boss not discreetly enough, and the driver allowed himself a relieved sigh.

No bodies on the horizon, then?

No scandal of the mayor's disappearance making the headlines on the next day?

Great, he'd be able to go back to bed sooner.

As he passed next to the two mafiosi to open the trunk, Alfredo noticed the two bottles of prestigious champagne that the Don was clutching tightly against his. chest. Oh wow. The underboss, on the other hand, was eyeing Giorno with a bewildered look, as if it had just occurred to him that the mysterious gigantic box he had been forced to carry from the cottage contained more bottles.

"Guido please, go fetch me a last one," the Don was less assertive than usual - you could hear the exhaustion in his voice.

Alfredo awkwardly stood next to them in silence as he waited for his next instructions. Charcoal and emerald eyes were engaged in a long, fierce battle of dominance, neither of them breaking contact. Hell, it even seemed to Alfredo at some point that the Don fluttered his lashes - but that could also be exhaustion talking.

Years of working within that specific industry had taught Alfredo how they would inevitably settle that growing tension between them.

Once again, for as long as they would pay for the subsequential seats cleaning, he didn't care. It wouldn't be the first indecent make-out session to happen at the back of his precious vehicle, and probably not the last.

A partition wall was always between Alfredo and his clients. Until now, he had never managed to catch them red-handed, but he had heard of those rumors. And he, better than anyone else certainly, knew for a fact that the Don had never sought to have good company brought to him. He'd always travel to his secondary residence alone while the underboss was the kind of man who preferred to drive there by himself.

Apart from the occasional names slips, he had never witnessed any tender gesture, he had never overheard anything remotely ambiguous. The details that had tipped him off were more subtle, or well usually at least they were. They would simply sit a little too close to one another, with no free seat between them - the pair was never five feet apart so that to speak. But right now, unless he would turn off the parking lights, there was no way Alfredo could pretend he wasn't seeing the Don's right hand slowly lowering far too low along the other's back. It was clearly no longer a question of keeping his balance.

"Fine," the Don let out a dramatic sigh and the driver nearly said hallelujah - now that he had admitted defeat, they would be able to leave at last! "If you won't do it, then fine I'll ask our driver instead."

Holy shit, what the hell was going on that night?

Alfredo quietly took a step back to exit the scene but it was too late - both mafiosi were already looking at him. If they were seriously intending on making him break into the mayor's house, he sure hoped they were ready to give a real good tip.

Fortunately, the underboss shook his head and rolled his eyes (had they just swapped personalities?), before reluctantly talking: "'kay you win I'll go. But then, we're outta here." Mista put the box inside the trunk and headed back to the cottage, leaving the driver in the company of the big boss who didn't seem quite inclined to enter the car yet. So Alfredo had no choice but to stay with him outside, on the chilly night and very awkward silence.

It was only after the third hiccup of the Don that the realization came down to him: he wasn't injured by any means, he was just completely drunk.

"Umm," Alfredo knew he wasn't supposed to question his boss, but the silence between them was becoming seriously uncomfortable. "So were you celebrating something Signore?"

The mafia boss looked at him for a long moment - god, the poor driver sure hoped he hadn't made a mistake, before shrugging: "Not really. I simply like Champagne, especially when I'm not the one paying for it."

Who could have thought that someone who spent so much on luxury clothes could be stingy?

Alfredo decided to politely answer. "Yes, I've heard you own several vineyards in Europe Signore. It's clever, I'm sure you never run out it..."

At that, the mighty Giorno Giovanna ungraciously hiccuped again, and the driver had the decency to pretend not to notice it.

"Mhhh.. You don't get it," had the mafia boss just snorted in contempt? "It's not so much about the Champagne itself as it is about the pure satisfaction of having taken possession of it... The mere contentment in knowing that the stupid mayor will never be able to savor it now that it's mine, you know?"

No, of course, not. There was no way Alfredo could possibly relate to that: it must be one of those crazy rich people whims.

Not that he could say it out loud, of course. The night was getting colder and colder, so he hoped the underboss wouldn't take long to be back.

"Would you like a bottle?," the Don's question took him by surprise so the driver, out of reflex, shook his head.

"Good, or you would have had to convince Mista to go back."

The stingy rich bastard.

Alfredo couldn't believe he was thinking that of him, in any other situation he would never have allowed himself to think that of Giorno Giovanna, but there were at least eight bottles in the trunk, he had seen them. And the Don knew that.

Fortunately, the underboss chose that exact moment to reappear and slam the trunk door shut after charging it with two other bottles.

Discreet much?

But whatever, the Don seemed rather pleased with that and finally agreed to go inside the car - his customers' satisfaction was what mattered the most to Alfredo.

After all, with good service came good tippers.

And that night, in exchange for the obvious promise to keep his mouth shut about what he had witnessed, the underboss sure went overboard with the tip.

━━━━━ ༻ 🧹 ༺ ━━━━━

It was now 8:20 a.m.: even though the day had started way earlier for Agnese, she had had to wait for the mobsters living upstairs to rise and shine, so she could proceed to clean their rooms. It was by far the task she hated the most: grabbing her heavy cleaning cart, she pushed it towards what had to be the cleanest place of them all. The Don's private quarters, starting with his excessively large bathroom: since the fancy tiles there took the longest to dry, she would then continue with his connected bedroom.

However, as soon as she stepped foot inside, Agnese almost fainted at the horrible sight that met her eyes.

Clothes, confetti and popped balloons were scattered everywhere, pieces of glass were covering the soaked floor, and an astronomical amount of what furiously smelled like Champagne had been dumped into the bathtub, splattering the walls and the carpet- hell, it even seemed like some of it was still fizzing inside.

Up until now, she had thought that she had seen it all, that nothing that the most wicked mind was capable of, could possibly surprise her. But that was a whole new level of a mess.

Thankfully, the inscription on a balloon (the survivor, the only one that had not exploded yet) was what prompted her not to hand the culprit her immediate resignation letter.

The Don's birthday would only happen once a year.

And with some sheer luck, she'd be able to negotiate her well-deserved retirement before the next one.

**

That morning, Guido woke up because of a cuss word that reminded him very much of his native Italian countryside. He had no idea what time it was:  Giorno's expensive alarm clock having been inadvertently smashed the night before. He yawned gleefully and stretched out his arms before turning to face the lumpy shape beside him.

The mighty Giorno Giovanna, drool on his chin, was muffled in his blanket, and it didn't seem from the look of it that he'd be getting up any time soon.

He was probably dealing with a hell of a hangover right now - served him right for the astronomical quantity of Champagne in which he had literally bathed and drowned. Giorno would decidedly never learn from his past mistakes. Well, he was very much looking forward to taunting his lover for years about that unfortunate late birthday episode.

There was no way the mafia boss would be able to conduct his meetings of the day - changing the planning wasn't something to worry about even though it would piss the hell out of Fugo for sure. Feeling compassionate about what was awaiting Giorno, he gently patted what he thought was his head (?) and smiled as he heard him grumble in return. How cute.

Guido finally stood up to start his day, he would smuggle him some Ibuproben later but first thing first, his much-awaited morning tinkle. And a long hot shower. Yeah, that way he would perhaps find a ploy to avoid dealing with Giorno's responsibilities instead of him. While he was not hungover, the late night's events had completely drained him of his energy.

Giorno's bathroom truly was something: it was way more spacious and tidier than his own. To him, it was a literal spa: cool extra-powerful water jets, a gigantic glass shower cabin AND a massive marble bathtub, a myriad of bottles of heavenly-smelling shampoo, conditioners, shower gels and body lotions everywhere - hell, there was even a housekeeper politely handing him a towel.

...

Holy shit.

Trying his best to cover his naked glory, Guido Mista could only stutter pitifully:

"Uhh.. Yeah, so about that new raise of yours we were discussin' the other day..."

This would only be the fourth time of the year, so at this point...

[lofijojosimp]

Chapter 6/?

i wrote and edited this in 24 hours rip my sleep schedule. In my defense, i’m now on vacation and i do what i want