Archive of Our Own

Giorno wakes slowly, squinting his eyes against the light filtering through flowy curtains and bathing his bed, and consequentially, himself, in golden hues. It's a bit odd, letting his body stir on its own terms and chase sleep away from its fibers in a lazy stretch, instead of being wrenched away from sleep by an obnoxious - sounding alarm. Mista had managed to find an old fashioned alarm clock at a bazaar once, a big, rounded thing in polished brass that sat nicely on his nightstand, matching the decadent atmoshpere of the mansion. It was set to activate unforgivingly every morning, and every morning indeed did Giorno wake up to it with a pout on his lips. 

He's taken to anticipating the alarm, lately, blinking his eyes open before its piercing thrill, his room drenched in darkness still.
And so, and so, indulging in laziness for once feels amazing, curling  his fingers in slightly ruffled blankets and breathing slowly against his pillow, groan muffled by the fabric. He thinks the only way he could've started the morning in a better way, would have been with a soft press of lips against his own, pulling him from his slumber with gentleness.

He had a late rise yesterday as well, but it'd felt different somehow, weighted down by senseless responsibilities and the expectation of formal appearances. "Christmas with your folks and Easter with those you want", goes the saying, but Giorno didn't have much family to spent his festivities with; or rather, he chose a long, long time before a family that was much larger than blood ties could dictate. He'd found joy in the acceptance the Joestar family -and all of its confusing ties- had offered him, had relished in the attention and in the affection with the sort of cautious eagerness only someone who had little experience with relatives could muster. But at the end of the day, the tought of leaving his team, his family behind, always had guided his steps to the first avaiable flights and trains, always made it so that he could spend holidays with them instead.

"Easter with those you want", goes the saying, but yesterday had been more of a show, a display of power and influence. Wake up early -or rather, later than usual, but early for a resting day- to meet every and each on of your capos and their families. Sit in your regal armchair and offer your delicate hand for endless cerimonial kisses, barely feeling the brush of foreign lips against your skin but enough to wish they were one of your lovers' instead. Greet their husbands or wives with a kiss on the cheek, and ruffle a hand through their children's hair, benevolent and fair but hiding steel underneath, careful and composed and ever so regal.

After such a busy morning, came the mass. Easter vigil was a more traditional function, but with it being held late at night, it offered a bit of a lesser chance for visibility. Because it had little to do with faith and devotion, especially considering Giorno didn't think himself much of a believer, though some of them were -wether they were because of true faith or habit, that he did not know. Attending mass in a full Cathedral, packed to the brim with relevant figures that held Naples in the palms of their hands, whether officially or through unassuming, unorthodox paths, was more of a publicity stunt than a display of actual faith.

It meant showing themselves to the public, to the authorities and the people, to allies and enemies alike and wage a silent war. It meant being escorted to the beautiful gothic basilica on black cars with tinted windows, with impeccable hair and a squared jaw, shoulders held high and framed in tasteful clothing that would make everybody else look like beggars. It meant stopping on the way to the entrance to grasp at elderly hands and brush at scarf-covered hair.  It mean sitting down on a cold, hard wooden bench near the front, chanting and standing along with the bishop's instructions, shaking hands and shooting cold smiles.

After that, thankfully, all that was left to do was have lunch together, a private affair that Giorno never was able to enjoy properly, after such a morning spent mingling like he were a politician. It was always raining, and so even something as enjoyable as a traditional meal in the mansion's ballroom, surrounded by the people he loved, felt faker than it had any right to. Perharps it also had something to do with the fact that the meal, delicious as it may have been, a taste of centuries old tradition, was cooked for them by his chefs and served with a sort of pomposity that Giorno preferred to see dedicated to his guests.

He always tried to hide it, but everyone else always saw how much it affected him, and they liked to let him oversleep on the following day, liked to pamper him. 

And that's how he finds himself draped on his bed, woken by the gentle warmth of the sun filtering through the windows, feeling pleasantly mellowed and the slightest bit groggy. He's stirred from the laziness that would've kept him lounging there by a soft rumbling coming from his stomach, and it's with a barely audible sigh and a hand brought to his face to scrub at his eyes, that Giorno reluctantly slips out of the blankets and into well worn slippers. He doesn't bother with changing out of his silken pajamas, or tying his hair yet, lets it fall over his shoulders and follow the slope of his neck and his forehead.  He stops by the bathroom to relieve himself and splash a bit of water over his face, but he's out in a couple of minutes, his body still warm with sleep.

You see, his mansion was ridiculously large to be just a home, or Passione's headquarters. Even by making it both of those things, he still had rooms and rooms to spare, and never quite enjoying riches and opulescence in very aspect of his life -they were a necessity in his line of work, but he liked to be able to separate it from his personal life- he'd had two different kitchens and leisure areas made. One for big occasions, was the ballroom, with its rich tapestries and stuccoes, and an adjacent kitchen meant for professional use, where his chefs worked. He had another one made, though, a smaller kicthenette and a simple dining room, for when it was the six of them only. 

It's exactly there that his steps bring him to, and he's welcomed by the sight of Fugo standing in front of the counter. His back is to him, and he's doing something with his hands, because Giorno can see his elbows move rythmically from where they're tucked fairly close to his ribs. He steps inside, padding softly on the floor and inhaling the scent of cooking that greets him there. It smells the way wet flour does, sweet and sour and a bit like yeast, and when he steps behind Fugo and brushes his chest against his back to look over his shoulder and spy what he's doing, the sight of his pretty hands kneading the dough is enough confirmation.

"Good morning", he greets him, warm and comfortable, and Fugo, wonderful, cautious Fugo, who's alway alert and tense as a bowstring, doesn't startle. Maybe he heard his steps approaching. Giorno slides his hands around Fugo's sides, tightens his arms in a loose and languid embrace, and rests his chin on top of Fugo's shoulder right where it meets the base of his neck, right as the other man greets him back, and his voice sounds the way a smile would.

"What are you making?", he asks, and he's so close to his ear that he can get away with a murmur and still be understood. He underlines his question with a press of his lips right behind Fugo's ear, skimming at his stomach with a thumb over the fabric of his shirt, and Fugo tilts his head towards him, chasing istinctively that fleeting touch. 

"Tortano", Fugo answers back just as softly, finally deeming the dough kneaded enough, and carefully unsticking his hands from it. He rounds it in a ball, and sets it on a corner of the board that has been lightly rubbed with flour. Satisfied with it, he turns, still in Giorno's arms, and he's forced to loosen the embrace enough that Fugo can actually succeed. "Did you sleep well?", he asks, once he's face to face with him, and Giorno's hit by a sudden wave of gratefulness that he's actually standing there, in his kitchen and in his arms instead of being still on the run from them, that he's had the chance to get to know him just at intimately as he does everyone else.

"Mmh, I did. What time is it?". He rubs at his eyes again, surrendering his hold when Fugo lightly pushes at his hips, and let himself be guided to the kitchen table until the back of his knees hit a chair that was pre emptively pulled out. He plops down on it with a rush of breath, pliant, never stops staring at Fugo even as now he has to tilt his head back by the slightest bit to keep doing so.

"Around eleven", he replies, and then smiles softly as Giorno's eyes widen slightly at the notion. "What do you say about leftover colomba for breakfast?", he suggests, and Giorno agrees, slumping against the backrest and setting his elbows down on the table, chin caught on the palm of one hand. He squints slowly as Fugo grabs the box from one of the shelves, extracting a trasparent plasting bag tied with a metallic strip. Inside, there's still about one third of the colomba they had yesterday afternoon.

"A small piece, please? It's later than I thought".

"Yeah, but I don't think we'll be having lunch very early today". Still, Fugo follows his instructions, taking a knife from the cupboard and slicing one piece of the sweet bread, laying it on top of a paper towel and setting it down on the table, in front of Giorno. He answers his "thank you" with a hum and a caress on top of his head. "You know Abbacchio, he takes ages to grill".

"Are we having Leone for lunch?", he's asking, mischevious, taking a bite of colomba, and Fugo matches him in spades as he sets down a glass of orange juice in front of him, and with a remarkably straight face, considers: "Well, he is a meal". 

Giorno snorts, almost chokes on his mouthful of sweets, and washed the dough down with a drink of his juice. "Do you want any coffee?", he asks Fugo, and he rolls his eyes, fully knowing how much of a rethorical question it is. Giorno Giovanna's love for coffee is endless and not to be questioned, and certainly not stoppable by the fact that, in order to have his fix, he'd have to brew an entire moka just for himself. Thankfully, Fugo enjoys the bitter beverage almost as much as him.

"I'll drink some with you, yes", and he sets to prepare the moka, filling it with water and ground coffee, and setting it down on the stove after screwing it shut. While Giorno eats his breakfast, and they both wait for the coffee to rise, he goes back to his dough, grabbing three full bowls that Giorno hadn't noticed before and setting them down at a hand's length. As he watches with fondness, Fugo oils a round baking pan, the kind with a hole in the middle, and then he spreads the dough a bit on the board, before adding to it some handfuls of cubed ingredients from the bowls. By now, Giorno knows by heart what they are: cheese, cured meats, and boiled eggs. He always quite liked tortano.

By the time the scent of coffee spreads in the air and the liquid inside of the moka starts to gurgle, Giorno has finished his piece of colomba, and so he warns Fugo with a humming noise when he starts to clean his hands to serve it, retrieving two espresso cups and grabbing the scalding handle of the moka to pour coffee inside of them. No sugar for both of them, something which has by now prompted a substantial amount of jokes and grimaces by the others every time they catch them drinking it so. He brings their cups to the table and waits for Fugo to plop the stuffed dough in the pan, and then to slide the latter in the oven.

"Is there anything I can help with?", he offers when they're both sitting down, after barely managing not to burn himself with the coffee and running his tongue over the abused flesh of the roof of his mouth. His mouth is coated with the richness of its flavour, and he feels more energized already.

"You can start by changing into some proper clothes, perharps?", Fugo suggests, and noisily slurps up his own coffee. Giorno levels him with a ruffled glare, and once he's swallowed, Fugo sighs. "I really don't know, Gio. I still have one more tortano and a pasqualina pie to bake, and I know if I let you help me we wouldn't get any work done".

Giorno bats his lashes innocently. He would like to defend his honor and be offended at the insinuation, but he knows himself, his poor cooking skills, and the amazing distraction that a boyfriend with rolled up sleeves offers. "I guess...", he pouts.

"Maybe you can help Mista in the garden? The others are out, for groceries".

"Oh, yeah", Giorno looks up suddenly, in the middle of gathering their empty cups to set them in the sink, remembering something from the day before, "didn't Leone ask the butcher to reserve some meat for him, for today?".

Fugo hums. "He did. I guess he's out doing that, then", and catches Giorno's wrist before he can open the dishwasher and start to load it. "Let me, I have other stuff to put away from all the baking". He pulls him towards himself, smiles that awfully charming smile of his when their noses brush at the proximity.

"Leone and his barbecue", Giorno muses, a chesire cat smile tilting his lips and eyes gone lidded, "He's such a dad".

Fugo is just about to brush his lips against Giorno's but at that, he has to turn away his head slightly to let a chuckle out. "He is, but don't let him hear you say it", he murmurs, turning back to his previous position and breathing softly against Giorno's mouth, before pressing his own over his in a chaste kiss. When he shifts back, his nose is wrinkled. "You taste bitter, you're so gross".

"What? You had coffee too!", Giorno complains, feigning hurt, sliding away from Fugo's hold.

"Yeah, but I also brushed my teeth".

Giorno sticks his tongue at him.

When he's upstairs and in his room again, Giorno very pointedly brushes his teeth, using a ridiculous amount of minty toothpaste and spending so much time scrubbing that by the time he's satisfied with the job and rinses the foam from his mouth, his gums feel sore. The weather's nice and sunny today, a clear blue sky with no clouds in sight, and even if it's still spring, the late april sun is warm enough to allow for lighter clothing. He has to thank this year's calendar for that. 

Today, he decides, feeling in a good mood after the way his morning began, is a lazy day, and so for once -maybe not actually once, but still a scarce amount- in his life he doesn't braid or tie his hair in any way. He simply leaves it be, framing his face with barely accented waves. He's equally unbothered by clothing, so he chooses a simple pair of linen slacks, dark gray and loose-fitting down his legs, and rolls them up at the ankles. After a beat of hesitation, he slips on a pale blue t shirt, folded neatly on the bottom shelf of his closet. It's a bit big on him, especially on his shoulders, but the light azure color of it pairs nicely with the dark pants and with his hair, and it has a nice v-neck collar that on his slighter frame dips low as his sternum. Plus, it smells like Leone and their shared laundry soap, and so Giorno is sold almost immediately. 

In an afterthought, he tucks the shirt inside of his slacks, letting it puff over the hem, and ties everything together by sliding through the hoops a lighter brown, suede belt, and slipping inside of matching loafers. Satisfied with it, Giorno dabs a little perfume on his neck, makes a bold statement of no make up, and then he's off to the garden.

When he steps out of the colonnade and into the inner garden, walking leisurely on the paved path leading to its center, the first thing he lays his eyes on is the big gazebo sitting at the path's end, squared and light coloured, its lanterns unlit. He's used to it, and quite honestly still pats himself on the back for the genius idea of building it every summer night they find themselves spending lazy evenings chatting outside, sitting under it. What is different from the usual is that the low table and armchairs usually situated under it have been moved to the side, currently shadowed by a wide umbrella of the same kind that bars use for their dehors. Giorno's fairly sure it hadn't been there before.

He spots Mista when he ducks out of the gazebo, and calls out to him. He's wearing a white tank top, and the sight is able to make him simultaneously snort and roll his eyes, both laced with equal parts fondness and incredulity. Only he would be brave enough to walk around bare armed at the first sight of heat on his skin. It does look good on him, bringing out the light tan of his skin and accentuating the width of his shoulders and the definition in his arms, but as a person who appreciates tasteful clothing and is surrounded by others who share the same passion, sometimes witnessing Guido's poor fashion choices proves to be quite painful. At least he's not wearing any print.

"Gio", he greets him, smiling so wide that the skin near his eyes crinkle, "You look good today".

Giorno hums, and closes the distance between them, resting one hand on Guido's hip and bringing the other one up to run his fingers through the short, dark curls at the base of his neck. He's gone without the hat today, and Giorno is grateful. He has to tilt his head a bit for their lips to touch, but he's used to it by now: the only one shorter than him is Narancia. They stay like that for a bit longer, lips touching unhurriedly, and he runs the hand at the back of Guido's neck down, to curl over his bicep.

"How are you already sweaty?", he asks him once they part, not so subtly wiping his hand on Guido's tank top where it covers his ribs, laughing under his breath, and Guido pouts. "Well, not all of us woke up half an hour ago", he grumbles.

Giorno hums, threads his hand in Guido's curls once again, not caring one bit about the sweat, and pulls him down to meet his lips. They kiss again, slow and soft and feeling like home, until Guido's hold on his waist tightens, the press of his mouth gets harsher, and Giorno can feel his toungue running over his bottom lip. He parts from him with a subtle groan.

"Stop, Bruno will kill us both if we desecrated the dinner table...", he huffs, and Guido's lips on his jaw are very much distracting and he makes sure to convey the feeling by pulling at his hair not so gently with the hand still tangled there, until Guido backs off. He turns to look at the gazebo, and upon closer inspection, finds it empty. "...which isn't there yet. Were you slacking off?"

"Hey! I brought it all the way here from the cellar!", he protests, poking his chest with a finger, but reluctanlty relinquishing his hold over Giorno's waist and freeing him, only to point at the edge of the colonnade, where the components of the table are indeed neatly stacked up, ready to be assembled.

"I'll handle it, then" he offers, and makes to turn around to start walking over there, but Guido's snort freezes him in place. He chooses to keep staring at him instead, giving him a very obvious one-over and arching an eyebrow at him. "I didn't know strength was determined by the amount of chest hair you own", he settles on.

Guido snorts. "That's obvious, amore", he starts, grin once again stapled in place, "And if you want a boost, you can wear a gold rosary over the curls".

The corner of Giorno's mouth twitches, but he won't give him the satisfaction. "I have chest hair, for the record", he cuts in, underlining the meaning by crossing his arms, "it's just very light. Because I'm blonde".

By now, Guido's visibly fighting off laughter. "Sure it is!".

Giorno can't tell if he's actually won this round or not, and he usually would persever just to ensure the former, but he imagines Fugo's reaction if he joined them in the garden right in that moment, warm pies in hand, only to find him slacking off at the task he'd been assigned to, and he decides that for once he can stomp down his pride in favour of not being murdered.

He walks down the path far enough that the table's parts -three foldable pairs of supporting legs, and the actual counter, which is bent in half around the middle, thanks to some sort of pivot- are within his range, and then quietly summons Gold Experience. The stand stays next to him, immobile and with its head slightly tilted to the side, so that its perpetual tear tracks make his compound eyes look as if they're questioning him. He wills it to touch the wooden objects in front of them, and his stand does so, crouching next to the pile in a startingly human display to tap each of them with its golden knuckles. Flickering with yellow energy, the objects start to expand and then constrict, twisting on themselves as they usually do when they change their shape.

He ends up with three parakeets, their feathers the colour of champagne, which fly leisurely to him and perch on his shoulders with a contented chirp. The biggest component turns into a beautiful emerald tree boa, which slithers slowly through the grass -which is the same colour as it- until he reaches Giono's feet, and curls right in front of them, squinting its yellow eyes. Giorno leans down, and extends a hand, and the snakes swiftly climbs over his limb, winding his body around it like it were a branch, until it settles its head over Giorno's left shoulder. The parakeet who stood there makes an alarmed chirp, and flies over to Giorno's other hand, settling in the meat between his thumb and the rest of his fingers.

Satisfied with the job, Gold Experience dissolves, and Giorno strolls back to the gazebo like he owns the place -which he does- careful not to jostle his new companions too much, and winking at Guido when he catches sight of him, and starts to grumble about how unfair it was for him to use his stand, since his Sex Pistols couldn't help much with manual labour.

"Perharps you could've tried to shoot at it?", he jokes, willing the bird on his hand to revert back into one of the three stands and passing it to Guido. He bristles and rolls his eyes, but Giorno knows he's not mad by the tilt of his lips. He lets him open the H shaped support, which splits into a four-legged stand, and set it on the ground, before he reaches with his hand for another one of the parakeets at home on top of his shoulders, to revert it back into he object it was and pass it to Guido.

They work quietly until all three supports have been placed on the ground, and finally Giorno nudges the snake coiled around his arm, passing Guido its tail when it finally deems acceptable moving from its position.

"It's not gonna bite me, is it?", he asks, frowning, but he still takes it as instructed, and Giorno has to smile as that. "Don't be silly, its head is all the way here", he shoots back, and then wills it to turn back into solid wood.

They both waver a bit under the weight, not excessive but still a bit unexpected in its istantaneous increase. At least, thanks to Giorno's maneouvering, they're both holding up one end of it, and with a bit of backwards walking and wobbling, they manage to set it down over the first couple of supports. Once it's done, Guido reaches for the folded half of it, peeling it down to lay flat over the remaining support, and then sliding the whole board in place until it slots in the right position.

He exhales proudly for the success in his effort, and wipes the back of his hand over his forehead. His skin is glistening. "So, why are you here helping me again?", he reaches out, nudging Giorno to follow him out of the gazebo and to the armchairs that he'd have to have moved under the umbrella while Giorno was sleeping, "Did Fugo kick you out of the kitchen?".

"...yes", he admits, and peeks over Guido's shoulder to figure out why he's led him there. He catches a folded, red and white chekered tablecloth, laid on one armchairs' seat, and goes to grab it. "He told me Leone went to get the meat, do you know about the others?".

Guido, in turn, reaches for a box of disposable paper towels, red like the pattern on the tablecloth Giorno's holding, and really he would've much preferred cloth ones, but he can understand how hard it would be to wash away the grease from the barbecue. Still, he'd rather not pollute; maybe he'll turn them into bugs once they'll be done eating. 

"Narancia's at he farmer's market looking for eggplants. Y'know, to grill", Guido gestures widely, box of tissues still in his hand, "We forgot to buy them yesterday". Giorno nods, and starts to head back to the gazebo, covering the -ammitedly very short- distance and ducking underneath the cool shadow it provides with a relieved sigh. The sun sure is hot today.

"Bruno?", he asks, unfolding the large tablecloth and trying to wrestle it in place. Eventually Guido has to set down the box, on the ground because he's forgot to grab the foldable chairs, and help him lay it on top of the table. He smooths it down in place, just as he says: "He's looking for an open pastry shop for a pastiera".

"Storebought? Is he okay?". For all the years he's know Bruno, the other man had always, always insisted on making his own cake from scratch, even as Giorno found it increasingly funny to watch his struggles when he had about a handful of professional chefs at his disposal to bake it for them. But he's accepted it since as one of Burno's quirks, and a very endearing one at that.

"You know it takes a shit ton of time to make", Guido offers, and opens the tissue package to grab a small pile of them, which he sets down in the center of the table. "Maybe he felt lazy, for once?"

Giorno hums, and takes the other napkins Guido passes him, folding them in half and placing them down where, in a short while, six plates would be set down and chairs would be placed. "I'm sure he had his reasons".

With that out of the way, they start the trips to the cellar to gather what's left, or rather, Guido goes to retrieve the chairs, even though Giorno's said multiple times that the job would be easier if he used Gold Experience. He surrenders to not being able to understand what's going in that head of his, and resigns to sitting on one of the armchairs, enjoying the breeze, while he watches Guido trudge through multiple times, bringing two chairs at a time.

By the time all six chairs have been unfolded and placed down, the grill has been set up in the general vicinity and wiped down to clean its surface from any dust, and a pack of charcoal has been put next to the grill, Giorno has half a mind to file missing reports for his three remaining boyfriends.

Fugo joins them just as Giorno is about to make his way to the kitchen, and he's balancing somehow three trails in his arms. He sets them down on the table, and as he goes to peck Guido on the lips, Giorno sets to take the two tortani out, stacking their tins one on top of the other and pushing them aside, and looking for a knife to start slicing them. He finds none.

In the meanwhile, Guido has started to update Fugo on the scarce whereabouts of their boyfriends, and just as he gathers the empty tins to take them to the kitchen, he hears the infamous words Bruno, pastiera and shop in the same sentence. "Storebought?!", Fugo gasps, and laughing softly, Giorno leaves them be.

Once in the kitchen, he puts one of the tins in the dishwasher. The other two don't fit, and so instead of washing them by hand on the spot, Giorno decides to embrace the laziness that he's proclaimed today's leimotif, and simply leaves them in the sink. He turns one bread knife in a sand colored geko and slips it in the pocket of his slacks, and then does the same with six plates -as many bright violet butterflies, that hover behind him as if waiting for him to start walking-, cutlery -a tulip bouquet that he clutches in one hand- and then, once he catches sight of them, two big portable coolers which he imagines are filled with water, sodas, and more beer than strictly necessary. They become parakeets -he seems to be fond of the small birds today- which take their rightful place on his shouders, one each.

He goes back to the garden, adorned with critters and flowers, only to find his two boyfriends very busy with one another. Fugo is sitting on top of the table, and Guido stands between his legs, hands on his shoulders and mouth for sure occupied. They don't seem to notice he's back, too lost in each other's lips, until he loudly clears his voice. "I am incredibly disappointed in the both of you".

They both shrug.

They wait around for a while, slicing both of the tortani and the pasqualina pie, and then making a trip to the kitchen when Giorno realizes he's forgot glasses. When it appears obvious that they can't waste any more time like this, and Giorno starts to feel the slightest twinge of worry over the others' absence, Fugo takes matters into his own hands and orders them to help him make an aperitivo, to eat while the meat's grilling. Eager to do something other than waiting, they both agree.

Fugo bullies them into washing their hands -he always cares so much about cleanliness, and Giorno sometimes wonders if that's because of the nature of his Stand, or rather because of what has happened to him when he was barely a teen- and then they're off.

Some steps, like pouring chips, hot pepper taralli and olives in their respective bowls, are easy tasks. Then they start to embark in the journey of making bruschette, and things get a bit more crowded, especially with three people trying to work in a moderately small space. Giorno slices the bread while Guido goes to retrieve a platter, and Fugo grabs tomatoes from the fridge and starts to dice them. Once he's done he plops the first slices in the toaster,  and as he waits for them to be ready, he hears Guido join Fugo with the prepping.

At some point between seasoning the bruschette stuffing and resting it to "leave the juices flowing" one of them has the bright idea of retrieving one bottle of white Pinot from the fridge, and so by the time the sounds of steps finally approaches the kitchen, all three of them are warm and loose with wine. 

"Sorry for the wait!" Narancia bursts in, holding a brown paper bag in his arms that should be his prize of war. With how long he's been gone, Giorno at least hopes he hasn't paid a fortune for those vegetables. They take their turn pecking him on the lips or on his cheek, and once he's been scolded enough for how long they'd had to wait, he's off to the sink to was the eggplants.

Bruno is hot on his heels, him too holding something that looks like a cardboard box, possibly the infamous storebought pastiera. Giorno is kind enough to let him set the cake down on the table -they'll slice it and bring it in the garden once the meal is done- and greet the other two, but as soon as he's freed himself, he grabs at one of his wrists and pulls. His body follows, colliding with Giorno's and giving him the perfect chance to hook his free one over Bruno's neck -or maybe his nape, he's not sure, somewhere in between- and pull him down to his height, crashing their mouths together. He kisses him chastely but firmly, and when he pulls back, he's glaring. "What took you so long?".

Bruno strokes his back, and has enough sense to look slightly ashamed. "I'm sorry", he whispers, still stroking, "were you worried?".

Giorno sighs loudly, from his nose, and simply takes him in. He looks relaxed, albeit a bit sheepish. He's wearing a white shirt with a stand-up neck, sleeves rolled and top two buttons undone, the picture of mellowness. He wears white so often, and sometimes Giorno wishes to see him in something different, but he looks so good in that colour, with his tanned skin and black hair. The shirt is linen, he notices, distantly amused, just like his own slacks. "Next time it happens, call us?".

"We will, I'm sorry", he assures him, and Giorno might be a bit cruel sometimes, but never to his family, never to him, and so he frees him, with one last squeeze of his fingers around his wrist. "Leone's already in the garden, by the way. And you look good with your hair down".

Giorno blushes slightly. To his side, Mista thanks Bruno for letting them know about Leone, and ropes him into being a guinea pig for the bruschette filling. The verdict deems it tasty enough, and so they start spreading in over the toasted slices, setting them on the platter. They get amiably reprimanded over busting out the wine already, but the topic gets swiftly sidestepped once Bruno enslaves them all into slicing all of the vegetables thinly -eggplants, zucchini and bell peppers- to prep them for grilling.

He's in the middle of helping Narancia mix a light glaze for the vegetables -olive oil, salt, pepper, crushed rosemary, oregano and majoram- when he suddenly remembers the elephant in the room, and turns to Bruno: "What's with the pastiera, anyway?".

Bruno and Narancia are assigned to aperitivo transportation duty, because they were late. They pile their arms with platters and bowls and send them to the garden, to set them on the table; Giorno would gladly like to find some punishment tasks for Guido and Fugo as well, revenge for getting down and personal over the tablecloth he oh so carefully arranged for all of them to eat on,  but after all they did to keep themselves busy while waiting for the others, there's little left. He settles for sending Guido on an expedition in the cellar once again, this time to retrieve some bottles of red, and urging Fugo to do the same for the whites, choosing them from the cooler instead. As for himself, he has half a mind to lay on the grass and sunbathe, but he quickly realizes that, as much as his love for insects is clear as day, he would love slightly less to find ants crawling inside of his underwear.

Thus he ventures in his room to look for some cloths or towels to lay on. He finds about three of them, big, squared pieces of fabric in pastel clolors, wide enough for two or three of them to lay down on, and for once he carries them downstairs as they are, slung over his forearm instead of fluttering beside him with a pair of wings grown for the occasion.

When he joins the others in the garden, Giorno finds they've been quick to make up for the wine they didn't drink. A bottle of Chianti sits on the table, empty already and just like the four glasses standing next to it, lightly stained purple and still beaded with leftover wine. Guido looks red in the face already, and he would be scolded by now had it been any other day, for letting his guard down, but it's Easter Monday. They have cameras and alarms set had any intruder dared set foot inside of their mansion, but most of all it's a holy day, and everybody knows all things, even the Mafia, especially the Mafia, rests on holy days. They deserve to get drunk.

And so Giorno simply goes to unfold the cloths and lay them down on a patch of grass that's bathed in sunlight, resisting the urge to drape himself over one of them: heat makes him sleepy, and he knows if he accidentally fell asleep, nobody would dare wake him up, eager to let him rest whenever he can. He also knows they would polish all of the food by the time he'd wake up, and he's too hungry for that.

Leone has set up the grill already, thick smoke from the lit coals rising up in lazy curls, and he's also dragged a little, foldable table next to it, where he's set down the meat, and somebody has brought him a jar of the same glaze he and Narancia made for the vegetables -which are also neatly stacked next to the meat. He looks like such a dad, he thinks once again.

Giorno joins the others at the table, playfully smacks Narancia's wrist when he catches him eating a slice of tortano, and goes to pour himself a glass of wine from another bottle that's been readily opened. "Maybe we should wait to start eating before getting started on the fourth one?", he says, eyeing Bruno's light flush that paints his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. He looks good like this, though, open and relaxed, and slightly tipsy. He can't resist, and leans down to steal a quick kiss from where Burno is sitting down on his chair. Then Guido complains about his own lack of kisses, and between one thing and the next, Giorno find himself polishing his glass of wine and having to go around every one of them for their respective peck. It's an extremely taxing job, truly.

He stacks a couple slices of tortano on top of a napkin, then grabs a beer from the cooler, opens it, and gathers the former to bring them to Leone. His back is to them, and he can see he's tied his long, bleached hair into some sort of half bun to keep it from getting in front of his eyes as he cooks. It's only once he gets close enough to the older man that he notices two striking things: the first is that there's meat on the grill already -his grumbling stomach is thankful-, some ribs and pork sausages split in the middle that Leone's brushing with the glaze, rich, sizzling fat smell already saturating the air. The second thing is that Leone, Leone is wearing cargo shorts, beige colored, cutting off just above his knees. Giorno almost has a stroke.

"Cargo pants, Leone?", he inquires, judgementally, appreciating that at least he's chosen to worn a black t-shirt with it, that contrasts nicely with the light colored bottoms. Though he does wonder how he won't melt dressed like that, in such a warm day.

"Is that any way to talk to the man who's cooking you food?", he huffs back, wrenching his eyes away from the grill to look at him instead, and Giorno is once again very grateful that their relationship has managed to improve so much from their one-sided grudge, because Leone is such a good looking man, tall and somehow sturdy and slender at the same time. "The clothes are going to smell like meat and smoke", he explains, a bit bitterly, "that's why".

"Cargo pants..." he mutters under his breath, once more, and gives Leone what he brought him. He takes a generous swig of the beer before setting it on the table, and then munches on a slice of tortano before doing the same. They don' talk for a while, Giorno observing while Leone flips the meat with a pair of thongs, the only sounds those of sizzling meat and the faraway chatter of their boyfriends.

Leone pauses for a second, and turns abruptly, staring at him with a sort of intensity that leaves his skin crawling. "Is that my shirt?", he asks, and then he sets down the thongs and wipes his hands on the small apron that he's tied over his waist, one that Giorno hadn't even noticed the first time. 

"It is", Giorno answers, quirking his lips, "Do you like it?"

Leone grabs him by the hoops of his pants -Giorno thanks whatever higher being may or may not exist above that he's wiped them prior- and pulls him close. "I do", he states, completely devoid of any semblance of shame, and he has to bend down to brush his nose against Giorno's. "I like the hair more, though", and on cue, he runs two fingers through the ends of his blonde locks.

Giorno makes a face, a subtle tiny thing that might otherwise be looked over without a second thought, but might as well be a glowing neon sign when he's the one making it, confused by why everybody keeps commenting on it, and Leone lets out an amused breath that tickles against his skin. "It's soft", he explains, in matching softness. Well, of course it's soft. With the sheer amount of products he uses to make sure it's always shiny and nourished, he would be surprised if it weren't.

His hands come up to rest at Leone's hips, thumbs brushing against the chord that keeps his apron tied to his body, and he shift enough to slot their noses side by side and be able to reach his lips. Giorno loves it when they're all pliant and relaxed like this, when there's no hurry to snag some precious time together between meetings and every stroke is warm and unhurried, no fire hiding underneath, just simple comfort. He loses himself for a bit, until someone wholf-whistled behind their backs and he forces himself to pry away.

"Come on, Leone, you're going to burn the ribs and I don't feel like eating char for lunch", he valiantly tries, pushing without much convinction at Leone's chest, but he doesn't seem to be deterred much, sliding the hand at Giorno's waist lower and lower, until he's cupping at his backside and giving it a gente squeeze, nothing more than a press of fingers. "Leone!", he reprimands him.

"You're the one distracting the chef", he mumbles back, sourly, and leaves Giorno's backside alone but doesn't move away much, not even fazed by his glare.

"I don't think it works as a comeback when the chef wants to be distracted, you know".

"I changed my mind. Go away, you fiend". Leone steps back and jokingly bats at him. Giorno snorts, looks at him again, in his cargo shorts and sour expression as he goes back to flipping sausages like there's a fine art behind the motions, and can't restrain himself: "You're such a dad".

"Go away!".

When Leone is done cooking the first round and brings the meat to the table, he gives Giorno the most charred piece of sausage.

By now, Giorno feels warm and fuzzy with wine, and his stomach is close to bursting. They polished almost all of the meat save for a platter of ribs and pork skewers that survived against their appetite, and will probably fall to their demise either at dinner -but he doubts any of them will be brave enough to attempt eating some more today- or tomorrow, for lunch. There's still some slices of tortano left, but they managed to obliterate the pasqualina cake, even when Narancia found out halfway through that the filling was chard instead of spinach and had been too grossed out to continue. That had been resolved fairly quickly, thanks to Guido stuffing his mouth full by force: once he'd chewed and realized it still tasted the same as when he'd been blissfully unaware, he went back to devouring it.

He takes a sip of wine, eyeing the pile of empty bottles to the side and managing to spare a thought to be impressed. They would've probably been black out drunk halfway through, had they not been eating so much. He doesn't feel drunk though, just tipsy, and by the looks of it, so do his boyfriends.

Bruno's gone to retrieve the pastiera from the kitchen, and so while they wait for him to bring it down, Narancia pounces on him.

"Can I braid your hair?" he asks, excited like a puppy, and Giorno never has the strength to deny him, much less when he's not sober. He hums, anticipating the feeling of gentle fingers against his scalp that will no doubt either make him fall asleep, or come very close.

"Go wash up, first. I'm not letting your greasy hands anywhere near". Narancia pouts and complains but it's obvious he's putting up a fight just for fun, because he quickly runs back inside to do what he's been told to.

While he's gone, Giorno moves out of the gazebo, going to sit on the cloth he laid out before, cross-legged and enjoying the warmth on his face and his bare arms. There's a light breeze that's tousling his hair just enough to tickle his neck, and Guido and Leone have moved to a free patch of grass as well, the former holding a plastic, orange, beach volleyball he must've found in the cellar as well. They start playing with it, tossing it to each other, and the rythimc thuds lull him in a deep quietness. 

He's closed his eyes, just enjoying the sun and breathing slowly, and he opens them when he hears steps thundering over the paved pathway to see Narancia coming back, as well as Bruno. He's a bit disappointed that he has to go back to the table and eat, it feels so good to lay there, but then there's a soft thud of someone kneeling next to him, and Narancia's nimble fingers are in his hair.

"We can stay here, Bruno says he'll bring you a slice!". His fingers are a blessing. He's sitting behind him, a tap on his shoulderblade silently asking him to stand a bit straighter so he can reach better, and Giorno complies with only minimal protest, lulled by the brush of Narancia's hands as they separate his hair in three sections to start braiding it.

"Bruno spoils me", he sighs, closing his eyes once again. Narancia doesn't once pull his hair, threading carefully and untangling any knot he finds in his locks, slowly and methodically criss-crossing in a regular pattern and humming under his breath as he does.

"Your hair is so nice..." Narancia comments suddenly, still pulling softly at his scalp, and Giorno guesses by now he must be at least halfway done. He can see a familiar figure making his way from the gazebo to their spot, and though his belly feels close to bursting, he's not a man to say no to pastiera.

"You've been telling me a lot, today", he muses, watching as Bruno too kneels on the cloth, balancing two paper plates holding each a slide of cake and a fork. "It's not like you haven't seen me with my hair down before".

"Yeah, but that's like, in the morning or after you shower", Narancia shoots back, his fingers working on the braid, and Giorno can feel by the place where they hover, brushing his back, that he's almost done with it, "This is different!".

"Different how?". Giorno takes one of the plates from Bucciarati, and uses the side of his fork to separate a piece of cake from the slice, spearing it and bringing it to his mouth. He chews slowly. It is, objectively, better than their homemade one, but he can understand the appeal of making your own, of pouring heart and effort into the craft and tasting satisfaction when eating it.

"Y'know, it's the setting that matters", Narancia ties the end of the braid with a simple black elastic he didn't have before: maybe he pocketed it when he went to wash his hands. Giorno keeps on eating his cake, and Bruno simply watches, holding Narancia's cake as he waits for him to be done with Giorno's hair and swaying slightly in place even though he's sitting. "You lost me", he admits to the other man, and jostles his head a bit to feel his newly acquired braid swing with the movement.

Narancia huffs, lowers his hands, circling Giorno's torso with his arms looped in a loose hold, hands resting in the latter's lap. He sets his chin on his shoulder. "Okay, so it's like, imagine you're eating a mango, right?", he says, at what would be considered a normal volume, but his mouth is right by Giorno's ear and he winces slightly at the loud sound. He hums to let him know he's listening, to go on.

"You're eating this mango, and the first time you're in Thailand, in your swimsuit, on a beach, and there's palms and all that". Giorno finishes his cake and sets the plate down, while Bruno is half-smiling as he listens on. "The second time you're still eating a mango, but you're in your sad apartment in Napoli, and it's winter and it's very cold". Giorno wouldn't descrive their mansion as a "sad apartment", but he's willing to let it slide for the sake of Narancia's emphatic dissertation. "And it's still the same mango, right?" he's saying, moving his hands as he speaks even though they're in Giorno's lap, "But it tastes sweeter in the first scenario!".

"My hair is the mango, then?", he asks. He taps at Narancia's arms until he gives up his hold, and then he scoots forward until he has enough space to lay on his back and rest his head on Narancia's legs. He does just that, settling down with a contented sigh, and Narancia takes advantage of the new position to finally get his hands on his own slice of cake. "Yeah, Gio, you're the mango!".

It's peaceful, incredibly so. Giorno closes his eyes and rests, lulled by chatting and the sound of the ball being bounced. At some point Bruno gets up to gather their empty plates and leave them on the table, and by the time he's back again he hasn't shifted from his position. At some point he has to blindly shield himself from a stray ball, followed by some laughter and a string of apologies, but this is nice, this is good. Narancia taps one of his temples with a finger. "Can I get up? I want to go play".

Giorno grumbles back a wordless agreement, but before freeing Narancia from his pillow duty, he reaches for the back of his neck, hooking his hand there and pulling his head down. Narancia wears his hair shorter these days, still scruffy and messy but no more headbands, shorter at the sides and a bit longer on top; it took a bit for Giorno to get used to it, but he likes it a lot, now. It brings out his sharp cheekbones. Narancia goes down willingly, his chin bumping Giorno's nose as he presses his mouth against his in a kiss that rivals Spiderman's. Useless to say that they'd all been oblidged to replicate the infamous scene once they'd sat down and watched the movie together for the first time. Giorno has since learned to keep his mouth shut every time he doesn't get one of his boyfriends' pop culture references.

Kiss stolen, he lets him go, lifting up enough for him to slide his legs away from uner his head, and flopping back on the ground as soon as he can, sleepy and warm. He's not alone for too long, though, because soon enough there's a warm line pressed against his side, and Giorno opens his eyes, squinting against the sun, and turns his head to the side, to catch Bruno arranging himself comfortably with his head on his shoulder, and an arm slung over his stomach. He has to curl up a bit to do so, being taller than him, but the content sigh coming from his lips suggests he's made himself at home. "Hi", he whispers.

"Hi yourself", Giorno whispers back, smiling down at him. "How much did you have to drink?".

Bruno grunts, weakly swats at his belly with the hand he has draped there. "Not too much, don't be a buzzkill". He always works himself so ragged, Giorno is glad to see him this open and peaceful for once. He kisses his forehead, and the other man nuzzles into the touch. "You looked so nice with your hair down, you know?".

Giorno resists the urge to laugh. "I know, love, you've told me so at least three times today". He has to deflect a second ball, which he catches with Gold Experience and turns into a succulent. He enjoys his boyfriends' pleads for all of two minutes, and then, taking pity on them, turns it back. Once they resume playing, he turns his attention back on Bruno, who's dangerously close to dozing off, and he nudges him softly until he can reach his mouth. They spend a small while just lazily enjoying each other, a tender slide of lips that asks for nothing more, so pliant, and after the fifth time Bruno snags his fingers in Giorno's braid, he huffs and detaches his mouth from his. "Can I undo it?".

"You should ask Narancia, he's the one who braided it", he suggests, and then winces when Bruno does exactly that, shouting for Narancia, who's playing with the others, while still being at a hair's breadth from Giorno's ear. He gets permission -Giorno suspects everyone likes him with his hair down way too much for their own good- and he makes fast work of it, sliding out the elastic at the base and running his hands through the strands until they're free of tangles, and fall over Giorno's cheeks.

"Better?", he asks him, amused, and Bruno hums affermatively, keeping a hand in his hair and finding his mouth once again. He's still tender and incredibly languid, but the press of his mouth is a bit more insistent, his fingers tightening their hold. Giorno slides his mouth open when the swipe against his lips becomes obvious, lets Bruno slip inside, warm and lazy. They're unhurried, painting warm strokes that taste like wine and affection, simmering desire but no insistence. It grows steadily, bolder and more passionate, and still it somehow feels like there's no pressure to go further. Bruno bites down teasingly on his bottom lip, and Giorno feels the hand on his stomach slide down leisurely, until there are fingers resting over the buckle of his belt.

"In front of the children, Bruno?". A third voice startles them apart, though not enough that their lips won't brush together with every breath. Leone plops down on Giorno's other side, reclining with his hands behind his back and looking at them fondly and with a hint of teasing, but not laying down yet. Giorno turns his head to look at him, squinting. "Are you still sulking because I called you a dad?", he asks, at the same time as Bruno mumbles "But Leone, he looks so good".

Leone snorts, and reaches over Giorno to stroke Bruno's hair. "He's plastered".

"Mmh, he really is". Bruno exhales harshly from his nose, but says nothing, instead wiggling his cheek against Giorno's shoulder to find a more comfortable position. "But it's nice to see him so relaxed", he considers, looking at Leone, and the older man murmurs his agreement. "He works too hard". As his underboss, Bruno pledges utterly and completely to the task, and even when it's just the six of them, it feels as though the sense of responsibility he felt over them as their former capo never truly went away.  It's sincerely wonderful, to see him this soft.

After a bit, Bruno pinches at his stomach and grumbles at them to stop talking about him like he isn't there. Giorno apologizes by nuzzling in his hair, and Leone finally lays down on his other side, pressing their sides together. Between their warmth and the sun's, Giorno's never felt this comfortable. Predictably, they have to deflect the ball a third time. 

At some point Bruno tangles his fingers in Giorno's hair again, and he might posses an impressive amount of self control, but he doesn't really see any reason to exercise it in that particular moment, and so he obediently follows the pull, finding his mouth once more. Bruno's other hand brushes over his stomach, soft and conforting and a bit at odds with the disguised force of his mouth, licking into him slow and tender, but with undeniable purpose. Giorno makes a small sound that gets swallowed in his mouth, and then suddenly there's another hand on him, and lips mouthing at the exposed column of his neck. 

He wrenches his mouth away from Bruno. "Don't gang up on me!", he gasps, pawing blindly at Leone and pushing him back when the palm of his hand collides against his forehead, and angling his face away from Bruno's when he tries to retake his lips. He's laughing, then, all of them are. "This is unfair, I ate too much for this".

They take pity on him, and lay back down, Bruno with his head on his chest, and Leone spooning his other side. He could stay his whole life, just like this. They watch lazily the other three as they play, passing the ball back and forth in a game of torello, and in this precise istance, Giorno is suddenly overwhelmed by how much he loves them, and how grateful he is that they managed to find their way together, that they're all alive and well. 

"Are you ever upset we'll never be married?" he blurts, suddenly, but the two warm bodies pressed next to him don't do as much as to move an inch. Leone shifts the arm he has over Giorno's ribs. "You mean because we're all dudes, or that there's six of us?". He's teasing, he can tell from the tilt of his voice, and he finds himself smiling back.

"Isn't poligamy legal somewhere in Africa?" asks Bruno, voice soft with sleep, opening his eyes to look up at both of them.

"Yeah", Leone answers, hooking his chin on top of Giorno's head, "but they'd also behead us 'cause we're filthy gays. And it wouldn't be legal if we got married there and came back to Napoli, anyways".

"Mmmh, listen to the former cop, Bruno", Giorno teases, and receives a smack on his side, courtesy of said former cop. He offers his apology by hooking his ankle with Leone's.

"I don't", Leone says, after a beat, and Giorno hums in question because he's sleepy and a bit drunk and he's already half forgot what they were talking about, but the other man is quick to clarify. "Get upset, I mean. I'm happy with this". Bruno hums in agreement. Giorno has a suspicion if he asked his other three lovers, their answers would be much the same.

They're right, though, he thinks, feeling sleep pull at his limbs. For now, it's enough.