Fumis/Misfu Week 2025

Mista shoots another round of bullets before ducking behind the counter. Of course this would happen on his fourtieth birthday. He never even thought he'd make it this old.

Today was just supposed to be a little birthday outing. Mista likes to do those, and even if Fugo would rather stay in and spend the day being disgustingly domestic he always acquiesced to the indulgence. This year it had been Mista who had been hesitant to step outside, and he feels oddly vindicated by the shootout this birthdaybeer had turned into.

“I'm too old for this,” Mista's husband complains, rubbing his lower back. A glance tells Mista that could not be further from the truth. Fugo glows. He always glows, but the adrenalin in Mista's blood makes everything brighter. He feels like the seventeen year old that grabbed that gun all those years ago.

“What? No, you're thirty-eight years old, basically a spring chicken!” Mista argues with a chuckle. He leans forward, letting another round of bullets slot into his trusty revolver. He squints down into the chambers, giving number three a stinky eye. “Hey, stop lazing around.”

“We're off the clock!” number six complains shrilly and Mista groans. Yeah. Birthday-rules. He's off the clock too! This is so unfair! 

“God,” Fugo grouses. “Thirty-eight. You just turned–”

“Don’t say it!” Mista shrieks, before lunging up into a hail of bullets to shoot another round. He lands five shots and when he's back on the floor Fugo is no longer next to him. Instead the other jumped over the counter (Spring chicken! See!) And tackles the last enemy to the ground. Before the enemy can gather his bearings Fugo hails a rain of punches on his face. Mista is surprised at the loud cracking until he sees the tell-tale glint of steel on Fugo's hands. Kunckledusters. Since when does Fugo have knuckledusters?

When Fugo is done and gets off the motionless body Mista lets out a low whistle. Fuck, that was hot.

“Fuck, you're so hot. When did you get those babies?” Mista asks, jumping over the counter as well. The bar was trashed, but they'd make sure to get it fixed before anyone knows any better. The clean-up squad was specialized in this kind of mess.

“Ah– A gift from the kids…” Fugo admits, looking down at his bloody hands. “Since the Don put me on indefinite desk-duty I haven't exactly had the chance to take them for a spin. I like them.”

“Well you looked smoking doing that,” Mista can't help but reiterate. He leans against Fugo, sneaking his arms under the revealing scraps of fabric that Fugo touts as ‘clothes’.

“Erm–” the other stutters, clearly flustered. “I'm dirty.”

“That's hot,” Mista insists, pushinh his hands against skin. He means it. “You were so hot, I'm still mad that Giogio pulled your ass out of the field.

Fugo's face gets even redder, and while he squirms he hasn't given Mista a taste of the metal yet, so he pushes forward.

“You were also… Cooked. With the gun I mean.”

Mista freezes, turning the words in this mind.

“I was… cooked?” he asks, perplexed, pulling back to see Fugo's red face.

Fugo nods, before freezing. “I mean. You cooked? Were cooking? Wait, no, you served.”

Mista blinks.

“Babe. What the fuck.”

It would be funny, seeing Fugo fucking up using 2025-slang, if it didn't absolutly eviscerate the mood.

“The kids!” Fugo insists, throwing his hands up. “Jodio and Usagi keep saying words like that! Cooked, cooking, serving, slaying; I thought they meant good things?!”

God, this is embarrassing. Fugo's face remains red, by just the sheer amount of shame of fucking up the teen-slang.

“Why would you try to imitate the children when I'm about to ravage you on the floor?”

Fugo pales, looking to the floor.

“You were going to do it next to the unconscious guy? What if he woke up!”

"I was going to move it to the kitchen-floor before we did anything serious!"

Fugo pushes him off. “You're impossible we're not– ugh just call the clean-up!”

---

Fugo has been working at Bellissimo before Abbacchio could pay her goddamn employees. It was very illegal, since Fugo had been fourteen and there had never been an official working contract, but the boy had needed some place to lodge in, and while Bruno had offered to house him, Fugo didn't trust it.

Nobody just lets total strangers lodge in their homes for free. Especially since Bruno lived on a fisherman salary and Fugo was much too squeamish to work on a boat with fishes and help him. No shot the man could actually afford having Fugo stick around for longer than a week.

So instead Bruno introduced him to Abbacchio, a broadshouldered, loud and rude woman who let him do the little and benign tasks around the floral shop. Mostly the ones that wouldn't have him face the customers.

It's not like Abbacchio was hiding that she had a child as an unpaid employee, it's just that Fugo's people skills had always been horrible, and after the trial they had only become worse. ‘You scare away the customers’ Abbacchio had said when Fugo threw his first fit about being given only the most insignificant of backroom work.

Eventually Abbacchio would find out that she had a little Wunderkind living in her attic. After a little explanation she made Fugo responsible for running the books too, a much more significant job that made Fugo feel less like a charity case. The only times Fugo came out of the cramped storage in the back is when Bruno visited and asked for him.

The others eventually also joined.

Narancia, unlike Fugo, wasn't squeamish. Fugo is almost jealous at how much time the older teen gets to spend with Bruno. The only comfort is that Fugo is pretty sure that Abbacchio is even more jealous with how coldly she treats Narancia at times. 

(A facade, Fugo figures, since the woman would still prepare four cups of coffee when the weather turned and the chance of Bruno and Narancia having to sit out the evening was high.)

Mista and Giorno joined their little family simultaneously, though the exact circumstance of why they joined was never fully explained to Fugo. When Bruno first brought them to join their riposo they looked a bit like two feral cats. Abbacchio vehemently protested letting Giorno work at the shop, but had to admit defeat when it turned out that the boy had swallowed a flower encyclopedia as a child. He knew everything about flowers.

Mista on the other hand refused to work at a flowershop on principle.

“Kinda girly, no?”

Fugo wanted to throw his cup of scalding hot coffee after the guy, but somehow found it in himself to keep that urge (poorly) concealed. Thinking back on it, that must have been the first sign. An omen heralding catastrophe. 

Giorno, unlike Fugo (or Abbacchio, let's be honest) turned out to be a lot more charismatic. It went over well with the customers and soon Abbacchio didn't even have the excuse anymore that the revenue that Bellissimo generated wasn't enough for him to feed all three of them.

It's also when the woman started paying Fugo.

“Where's Fugo?” a voice in the front rings through the thin wood of the door of the storage room and before Fugo know it he has his ear pressed to the wall to hear a little better.

“In the back,” Giorno answers. There is a moment of quiet. Mista probably watching Giorno wrap one of the premade bouquets the store displays for husbands that forgot anniversaries.

“Wait,” Mista says then, and Fugo presses a bit closer. “That's so grimm!”

What's grimm?

“Well, they usually don't know what it means anyways, so I like to have fun with it,” Giorno explains, which doesn't help Fugo.

“Butterfly weeds, irises, purple hydrangeas and one singular carnation in the middle…” Mista counts with a chuckle. “That's a break-up bouquet!"

Fugo frowns. Where did Giorno get Butterfly weeds from anyways? They don't stock those.

It went on like that day in and day out. Mista, after work, would show up and talk about the secret meanings of flowers. There seemed to be some kind of… system, though some aspects also seemed to be based on interpretation. Very loose interpretation. The longer Fugo listened in on their conversations the less he understood about the art of making bouquets with meaning. Abbacchio taught him how to make bouquets that look visually pleasing in the very beginning, but Fugo knows that he was shoddy back then and now, years later, he has retained zilch.

His ear is pressed against the wall, listening to Mista and Giorno talk in their code, and he is jealous.

“Like this?” Mista asks

“It looks so bad,” Giorno just says, with no humour in his voice. “Start over.”

“It doesn't have to look perfect if it comes from the heart.” Mista insists.

“I didn't know you grew flowers from your organs and muscles. I guess if you make a bouquet from those it's allowed to look bad. Start over, now.”

Mista sighs.

“You asked me to help you,” Giorno reminds him. “This is your gift.”

Fugo falls off his chair when he hears that. Mista is planning on gifting someone flowers?

Before he can think to not embarrass himself Fugo gets to and storms out of the storage room, jumping over a box of vases and almost falling down again.

He bangs the door open loudly. The shop is empty, with only Giorno and Mista by the counter. There, laid out before them, are the flowers that Mista must've just tried to use in the bouquet half of which they don't even stock. Fugo would never know where Giorno takes them from.

Amidst many yellow and white flowers rests one red rose. 

“Fugo!” Mista cheers with a big smile. “Wow! Hi! Erm… What are you doing here?”

Fugo looks up at Mista's face and feels his own face grow warm. This is stupid. There is no reason for him to care about Mistas flower arrangement. He's just another one of Bruno's charity cases. 

“You guys are– Wait why am I explaining myself? I worked here longer than Giorno. You don't even work here! So what are you doing here?”

Giorno frowns. He does that a lot whenever Abbacchio or Fugo are being especially anti-social. It's almost as if the boy requires harmony. He's like a particularly fastidious orchid that will wilt at the slightest inconvenience. Mista on the other hand is still smiling.

“You're never here though! Always skulking in the back! Anyways,” he gathers all the flowers haphazardly into his hands. It's not ugly, how could it be with such vibrant colours, but it's nowhere as intricate at Giorno's arrangement. It's not even trying to be a proper boquet. Having these valuable flowers, that are so carefully imported from all over europe, stacked together like some wildflowers you picked up on the side of the street was downright sacriligious. Giorno let's out a tortured noise.

“Here!” Mista says, jumping over the counter. His muscles flex. Why is Fugo looking at his muscles? He tries to stop looking at them, but he can't. Until Mista pushes his ‘boquet’ under Fugo's nose.

“For you!”

Fugo looks down at the flowers and blinks slowly.

“Thanks…”

He takes them and isn't sure what the next step is. 

“So you're asking me outt, right?” Fugo asks, looking up. Mista's eyes bug out of his skull, and he stutters about a little.

“H-how did you know? Do you also know flower language stuff?”

“Huh?” Fugo looks back down. He figures roses mean good things, but usually pick red roses, and yellow roses mean friendship so he didn't figure the flowers themselves were romantic in meaning or anything. He feels a wave of something, and when he struggles to identify is it immediatly sours to rage in his chest.

“You just gave me fucking flowers, Guido. I don't give a shit ‘what it means’, If you aren't taking me on a date after that I'll make sure you never step a foot into Bellissimo again!” 

Mista nods, raising his hands trying to placate Fugo.