<Minor spoilers for pt.5 characters>
In which a certain untouchable mob boss discovers he might really, really like hugs.
(Giorno x Trish x Mista x Fugo if you squint)
Giorno is not good at giving love, and equally bad at receiving it.
It makes sense. Just as one who has never drawn will not be automatically good at it, one who has never dealt with love will not know how to manage it.
Giorno loves, there's no question about that; it's as certain as the rising sun. But that doesn't mean he's good at it. He gives jewels, and flowers, and cakes, any number of material things. He gives comfort, and support, and nurses them to health with a big smile on his face that never falters.
He gives himself, but he doesn't, not really.
Giorno is loved, there's no question about that; it's as certain as the moon disappearing behind the sea. But, he dances away from touches, and declines vacations. A handshake, maybe a soft pat on the back, is as far as Giorno will let anyone go. He brushes off support and affection like it was simply dust.
They give themselves to him; he just has to take the offer.
(He wants to, he doesn't want to, he doesn't know.)
Giorno paints such a plastic picture; it's hard to see through from either side.
The first time Giorno lets someone hug him is on his 16th birthday. It's just after he receives a cake for the first time. It was small chocolate cake, with vanilla frosting and strawberry filling. Fancy, but not too fancy.
It had made him blink in confusion, and ask why there was a cake at all. (To which Trish promptly smacked him on the head and told him it was his birthday.) And, truth be told, Giorno was startled. It wasn't just the cake, it wasn't just the fact that his friends remembered his birthday, it was...everything really. He was startled, but happy.
And maybe that's how it started.
As if second nature, Mista reaches out to embrace Giorno. And, maybe it's the cake on the table, or the flowers in the vase, or the smiles that adorn the faces of Trish and Mista—but for whatever reason—Giorno does not skitter away from the touch like a mouse to a cat.
And—for the first time, Giorno enjoys it. At first he is tense, and maybe just a little afraid for no discernible reason. But soon enough the feeling wears off.
Because, it's Trish. The same one who fully joined them in Venice, and salvaged Giorno's hand on the plane. She was the same girl who playfully nudged him, and confidently stood beside him whenever she visited. The same Trish who carefully observed, and researched, and handpicked a banquet of all the flowers Giorno loved.
Because, it's Mista. The one who swore Giorno an oath of fealty. He was the person who fought together next to him against the blue-haired assassin and blood-crazed doctor. And, he was the same Mista who had painstakingly put together a cake for Giorno's birthday.
Giorno takes a layer off his mask; and it's worth it.
The reason Giorno provides for wrapping his arms around Mista the next time is just that; a reason. Although, it's an unnecessary one. That's because Giorno doesn't care about the chemicals that are released in your brain when you hug someone; serotonin, dopamine, all the like. He doesn't care; not really.
(Honestly, if he would just admit it, he'd find the answer to be the fact that in all honesty, he just wants hugs.)
So at some point it becomes ritual, for Giorno to squeeze the life out of Mista every time he enters the room. It becomes normal for Giorno to nest his head in the crook where Mista's neck meets his shoulder. And Mista couldn't be happier.
Surprise is bright as daylight on her face when Trish comes back from her trip to America. The change in Giorno is startling, but not unwelcome. It was more than welcome, honestly. For Giorno, Trish had an unimaginable amount of patience. So she doesn't mind when he pulls the three of them down onto the couch and stays there for what seems like anywhere between ten and fifteen minutes. She doesn't mind at all.
Fugo is like a honeycomb. He is sweet, and gentle, but guarded. He almost seems out of place. When he sees the trio hug, Fugo teeters on the sidelines, not quite sure what to do.
When Mista beckons him over, the boy hesitates, and stares at the stack of papers in his arms as though it is far more interesting than the mere pile of tax records that it really is. He does anything to avoid the guilty feeling that wells up and threatens to overflow from his chest when he glances at Trish and Mista.
But in the end it's useless. Fugo feels it anyway. The feeling presses up against his lungs and Giorno can see the effects as crystal clear as a pond under moonlight. He can see how Fugo wilts and sags like a branch supporting too much weight.
So, Giorno does something. He waves his hand, and points his finger, and ocean blue eyes stare into strawberry pink. Fugo steps forward—because when it comes down to it, and it's from Giorno, Fugo really can't deny such a direct request.
There are many, many things wrong. There's a stack of unfinished reports on Giorno's desk. There's a politician that's giving him trouble. The drug trade has yet to be completely crushed underfoot like an ant under boot.
But—at the moment—Giorno is nestled between three warm bodies. And long slender fingers are combing through his hair. He can feel the steady heartbeats of his companions. He isn't alone.
A soft and genuine smile drifts on Giorno's face. It is a frail and light curve, with no plastic lining, and hardly a mask needed. It is like the tufts on a late spring dandelion. Giorno tightens his grip on Trish's waist, and hides his smile in Fugo's hair. He feels Mista's arms on his torso, and really—what could be better than this?
It's warm, and lovely, and genuine.
For the first time—Giorno has completely accepted the affection he's showered in. For the first time, he feels it warm him from his skin to his heart.
Yet Giorno cannot ever offer himself up nearly so completely. He cannot wear his emotions as gold on his wrists like Mista does. He cannot spin the wheel of devotion nearly as thoroughly as Fugo seems to. He cannot learn to love and give in the way Trish has mastered.
But—at this time, on the soft velvet cushions of Giorno's couch, the quartet laid out into some strange pattern of warmth and heartbeats—it couldn't matter less.
Giorno deserves every hug the world has to offer.
Also, hopefully this was good? I dunno, to me it seemed a bit unfocused.