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Mista had a lot of thoughts racing through his head when Giorno was first introduced to the group:

Would he ever get to eat a bite of the strawberry cake? Could he convince one of the others to take a slice for him, maybe even feed him? No, no, while he could deal with the taunts, the idea that one of the others might touch something he was going to eat was sickening. After all, they were all healthy young men; if they were anything like him, he knew where those hands had been. Cake seemed out of the question by now.

Why did they even order cake in the first place? It has four letters in the word, Mista should’ve known better, they should’ve got cannoli or something.

Maybe Abbacchio won’t notice if he took his slice? No, the man would literally maim him within an inch of his life. War flashbacks to that one time he’d finished off a bottle of a nice vintage red, not knowing that it was Abbacchio’s, flashed through his mind. Ugh. Never again.

What if he just asked? Abbacchio was a dick, but he seemed focused on blatantly ignoring literally everything around him right now, including the most recent development in Fugo’s futile attempt to teach Narancia math.

“Hey, Abbacchio, are you gonna eat that cake?” Mista asked as Narancia screamed something back and flicked out his knife and then Bucciarati’s angry voice cut through any response Abbacchio would’ve given him. Which was seeming to be none.

Bucciarati had brought a new guy. Mista’d been the newest member up until now. How long had it been since he’d joined? A bit over a year? Mista set his teacup down to take in the boy standing next to Bucciarati. It only took a few seconds to size him up and down. Blond. Young. Unnaturally pretty for a dude. Weird fashion sense - though, he supposed, that fit with the rest of them. All in all? Not the right type of person to be in the mafia.

Mista figured, once again, that that probably went for all of them though.

After a second, he decided that ignoring the blond seemed to be the best thing to do, as none of the others seemed particularly interested either. Abbacchio’s sudden, intense glarefest aside. Speaking of Abbacchio, that strawberry cake of his- wait, what the fuck was he doing, was that his dick?

‘Poor kid’s in for it now,’ Mista thought to himself as he hid his snicker behind the teacup. Abbacchio passed the cup over and it only took the blond a second too late to realize just what it was he’d been offered. And then the absolute madman drank it.

Just like that, all attention was on the newcomer - Giorno, he’d said his name was - and the potential abilities of his Stand and while the whole piss debacle had been very entertaining, it was clear Giorno didn’t like to kiss and tell, and Mista still hadn’t gotten his cake, dammit! What a shit day it was turning out to be.

That sentiment had proved far more correct than he’d initially thought because everything went to absolute shit starting from there. He just hadn’t known at the time. If he had, he woulda- well, he woulda done something. Although he wasn’t sure anything he could say or do would’ve prevented the subsequent events upon Giorno’s arrival from occurring, save killing the blond himself. And Mista hated himself for even thinking that.

All the same, the whole boat thing happened and boy, was that fun. Mista decided that his new least favorite thing was being fucking deflated and thrown around by some asshole like a limpass condom. Zucchero got off way too easy; Mista woulda liked to use his limbs for some target practice.

He ended up getting that target practice when he chose to go with Giorno to Capri. The kid had a good idea and something about him intrigued Mista. Besides his fine ass, of course. Call him gay, but Mista wasn’t above appreciating the beauty of nature’s curvature, whatever gender that took form in.

They’d talked briefly in the car ride over to the yacht rental place. It had been awkward, all of them squeezing into the oversized mom van Bucciarati liked to drive around when they were all together. Room for all of them, plus everything they could possibly need. One time, Mista had forgotten his favorite beanie at his apartment and Bucciarati had produced an exact replica from literally nowhere, pulling it from a zipper in the floor of the car. That man’s maternal instincts were spot on, no matter he said.

Bruno was driving, and there was a brief scuffle between Narancia and Fugo over who got to ride shotgun until Abbacchio blatantly ignored them, walked past and sat down in the seat himself. The silent glare his violet eyes shot them was screaming ‘Go ahead. I dare you.’ The two decided they were content in the back. That left Mista to sit next to Giorno in the very back row, having to pull the seats back there up to make room for them. It was a little too clunky for Mista, but Giorno seemed perfectly content in the cramped space, even managing to cross his legs like some Greek statue. Mista thought he seemed terribly posh.

“You like strawberries, then?”

Mista had barely even realized the boy had spoken over the din Fugo and Narancia just created naturally. Inclining his head to look at Giorno, he shrugged his shoulders. “I guess.”

This didn’t seem to be the response the blond had been looking for, as his expression shifted from one of calm curiosity to what looked possibly like embarrassment- if the blond could get embarrassed, that was.

“I mean, yeah, ‘course I do,” Mista found himself backtracking. “Who doesn’t, y’know? ‘Specially on cake.”

Giorno seemed far more happy with this answer, his face lighting up- well, his face didn’t really change. ‘It’s in the eyes,’ Mista thought to himself. Giorno himself may not be very expressive, but his eyes were.

“I noticed you didn’t get your cake earlier.” The blond reached to pull something out of his pocket and held it out to Mista. It was a small, firetruck red ladybug, perched contentedly in the palm of his hand.

“Heh,” Mista’s surprise coming out before he could help himself. “Thanks, but just ‘cause they’re the same color doesn’t-”

Mista’s breath caught in his throat as the ladybug suddenly winked at him. No, that wasn’t right, ladybugs can’t wink; it was its eye itself that was changing colors somehow, growing larger with each passing second. In fact, the entire little bug had started to morph, tiny limbs shrunk in on a misshapen body as it shifted into… a slice of strawberry cake?

The slice of strawberry cake, Mista realized, as the single bite Abbacchio had managed before all hell broke loose stared back at him.

“How did you-”

“I suppose you’ll need a fork too.” Mista half expected him to pull out another bug or something, but instead he just passed him a small, silver fork he must’ve pocketed from the restaurant. “You don’t think they’ll miss this, do you?”

Mista stared at it before switching his gaze back to Giorno, a wide grin stretching across his face. “Nah. Who counts the cutlery anyway?” he drawled, taking the fork and digging into the soft yellow cake. He scarfed down the nearly-too-large-for-his-mouth bite with all the ferocity of a starving lion. “Delish.”

“You’ll get cream all over your face, you know,” Giorno chided but the childish smirk on his face told Mista that he was teasing him.

“Y’know, you ain’t so bad, Giorno,” he conceded. Taking another forkful of cake, this time he held it out for the blond. “Want a bite?”

“…I’ll just take this instead.” Elegant fingers plucked the ripe strawberry from the top of the cake, bringing them to his lips as he bit into it with a quiet crunch of the berry. Its soft flesh folded in on itself, juice escaping in small rivulets. The flash of white teeth between red-stained lips as Giorno pulled away from the fruit mesmerized Mista, watching as that pink tongue flashed out to lick up the drops of sweet juice.

Realizing he was staring, Mista quickly looked back down to the fork to eat the bite of cake left suspended in the moment. When he glanced back over at him, Giorno’s green eyes flicked back up to meet Mista’s and the sly smile on his face told Mista that maybe he’d wanted him to stare.

“Not bad,” Mista repeated with a laugh, settling back into his seat to polish off the cake, the others oblivious to what had just transpired. “Not bad at all…”