#tetraphobia

***

The day had been pretty normal as far as mornings go: Abbacchio was completely ignoring everyone at the breakfast table, Bucciarati was busy cooking waffles, Trish was leaned back in her chair reading a magazine, and Fugo was clearly trying to restrain himself from strangling Narancia to death, who “had the audacity to be so fucking loud this early” according to him.

Giorno stepped down from the stairs and into the kitchen and was greeted with multiple ‘good mornings’ from his teammates sitting at the table.

It made him feel warm inside, as much as he would never admit it. Before Bucciarati, he never really had anyone to greet in the morning; his stepfather was always passed out, and if his mother wasn’t giving him the cold shoulder, she was out having the time of her life at some club.

Things were different now. Although everything was so strange at first-- full meals, watching movies, people like Bruno and Mista who always asked how he was doing-- he was slowly growing more and more used to it. Something about it made him feel so...domestic.

“How many waffles do you want?”

Bucciarati’s voice cut his thoughts in half as he pulled up a chair next to Trish.

“Just one, thank you.”

The table resumed as normal as everyone got their food one-by-one, and Giorno turned his head to ask Mista a question when he realized that Mista’s spot was still vacant.

“Mista hasn’t come down yet,” he commented quietly, hoping someone else would notice as well.

“Well...duh,” Narancia replied, looking dumbfounded that Giorno would even think about Mista coming out of his room. Giorno stared blankly at the boy before looking up at Bucciarati.

“I’ll bring him some food in a bit,” Bruno sighed as he put another waffle on Narancia’s plate, “It's not a good idea to try to get him to come downstairs today.”

“Today…?” Giorno asked himself, trying to wrack his brain for some memory explaining why today could be bad. A death anniversary? His birthday? Did something bad happen to him on this date that he forgot about? No matter how hard he thought about it, his mind was drawing a blank.

“It's April 4th,” Narancia chimed in, stabbing a strawberry with his fork. He snorted when Giorno stared at him, confused as if to say, ‘How the hell do you not get it?’

What the hell was Giorno missing about this? Fugo sighed in irritation before he could try to decipher it even more.

“04/04,” the blonde remarked, watching Giorno’s face turn from confusion to realization, “There’s no way in hell Mista is coming out of his room today. Hell, he’s probably just pretending that today isn’t happening at all.”

Abbacchio snorted from behind his book. Bruno hit him on the back of the head with the spatula in his hand.

“Not funny,” he said, although a soft smile could be seen creeping on his face.

“To be fair, he’s pretty dramatic about it,” Trish said, taking a bite of her apple, “It's almost humorous, the way he makes that number such a big deal.”

“Exactly! Like, what’s he gonna do when he turns 44? Just cry for a whole year?” Narancia cackled, “What’s he gonna do when it's 2004? That’s coming up soon, too!”

“April 4th, 2004 will be a day to remember, alright,” Fugo groaned, simultaneously turning his head away in disgust as he watched Narancia drown his waffles in syrup.

“I mean, technically Number Five of his stand is really Number Four when you really think about it,” Trish said, “But I bet he’d have a stroke if someone told him that.”

“He just thinks that ignoring the number will make it disappear,” Fugo scoffed, “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

Giorno stared down at his plate. Was Mista really that affected it? He had heard the man complain about the number once in a while, but it seemed almost in a dramatic or joking way, at least from the way everyone made fun of him for it.

Mista was a pretty good sport. Maybe it was from all the injuries he had sustained in his time as a Passione member, but the man was surprisingly durable. Sure, he whined about everything from getting shot to the number four, but in the end, he always found a way to suck it up and make it better.

Giorno wondered if this was just another “Mista being dramatic” moment or if something was seriously bothering him. It was hard for him to even imagine Mista being more than his happy, whiny, dramatic self, but Giorno was the king of false appearances. He would know.

From all the shit he had lived through, Giorno was sure of one thing; no one will notice it unless it takes you over, or you decide to talk about it yourself.

“Hey. Do I have to give you guys the spatula, too?” Bruno asked, raising an eyebrow in disapproval. Giorno’s mind was brought back to reality, back to the table they all-- not Mista-- shared.

Narancia screeched and dove under the table and Trish laughed as Abbacchio angrily hissed at him to get his ass back in his seat. Fugo wiped his mouth with a napkin but said nothing.

Breakfast was resumed in peace, (aside from Narancia complaining about “fucking math”), and everyone had cleared from the table and respectively got to whatever activity they wanted to do. It wasn’t often that they had Saturdays free, but Bucciarati insisted that today's schedule was cleared off. 

Giorno imagined that it was because of whatever Mista was doing upstairs, but everyone seemed pretty stressed lately, anyway. A day off couldn’t hurt either way.

Narancia and Trish had fled to Narancia’s room to play Mario Kart before Fugo hunted them down and forced the orange boy to work on multiplication, Abbacchio resumed whatever book he was reading in the living room all while Bucciarati did the dishes.

Giorno sat at the table, unsure of what to do. He thought about doing paperwork, but there really wasn’t much to do in general. Besides, he felt a bit curious about what Mista was doing. He knew that it wasn’t his business, but he really did want to see how his friend was doing.

He had no idea if Mista was just being his dramatic self or not, but he knew that if it bothered him enough not to eat, it might be more serious than he thought. Either way, Mista was his friend. He knew the most out of anyone that going through things alone was always significantly worse.

“Need something?” Bruno asked, and Giorno realized that he’d been sitting at the table for far too long. Feeling his face turn slightly pink, he quickly shook his head. Bruno didn’t give the boy a second glance and resumed to...whatever he was doing.

“Sorry, but...may I ask what you’re doing?” the blonde said quietly, leaning back in his chair a bit. He bit his lip for being so formal with the man, he promised them he would try to kick the habit. Bruno seemed to pay no mind to it as if he were too concentrated on whatever task he was doing.

“Food for Mista,” was all the man said in reply, continuing to prepare the plate. Whatever it was, it wasn't what they had for breakfast. The plate was full of snacks, hardly a full meal; Fruits, cheeses, crackers, salami, Giorno recognized it all as Mista’s favourites.

“No waffles?” Giorno asked in confusion, and Bruno chuckled.

“He’d just spend forever counting the little holes in the waffles. They’d be cold before he could even take a bite,” he replied, “I doubt I’ll get him to eat anything today, anyway.”

What a mom, Giorno thought to himself as he watched Bruno patiently put everything on a tray. When he turned around and headed upstairs, Giorno nearly jumped out of his seat.

“I can take it-” he said, much too eagerly, “If you don’t mind, that is.”

***

Giorno knocked on the door of Mista’s room, careful to avoid tapping the door four times, and waited, the tray digging uncomfortably into his side as he kept a hand on the door.

“Mista?” Giorno called out softly. He thought he could hear shuffling from the other side of the door, before a gruff, “Who the hell is it?” was said, muffled slightly by the door.

“It’s Giorno,” he answered, adding on, “I have food.”

Giorno could hear the Sex Pistols whining and begging from outside the room and he couldn’t help but chuckle. The stands must be starving by now.

Silence met him, and Giorno was about to call out to him again before he heard Mista’s voice, more aggressive than before spit out, “How many are there with you?”

“Just one. Just me,” he answered back, and Giorno stepped back a bit as he heard more shuffling come closer to the closed door. After a moment of more silence, the door finally cracked open and Giorno saw Mista’s face appear on the other side. Well, more like Mista’s left eye. Giorno couldn’t see the man’s full face, but his expression was far from welcoming.

“I’m not hungry,” Mista finally said.

“Miiiisstaaa~”  

“Feed us Miiissstaaa~”

“We’re dying, Mistaa~”

“We’re starving~”

“Hey! Shut up, will ya?” Mista barked, turning his head. Giorno took the opportunity to grab the water glass that was inches away from falling off the tray.

“I can just leave it outside if you-” Giorno’s offer was cut off as Mista’s door opened quickly and a swift hand pulled him into the room, shutting almost as fast as it had opened.

Giorno was surprised that the water still hadn’t spilled.

Mista had his back to the door as if he were making sure that no one else could break in. Once he was sure that they were “safe”, the man huffed and sunk to the ground across from Giorno, who had already situated himself there, carefully setting down the tray.

“Sorry,” Mista breathed out, folding his arms over his chest. The tray in front of him wasn’t anything fancy, but Giorno was sure that the pistols wouldn’t mind at this point.

“Eat up, guys,” Mista said, his voice thick with exhaustion. The bullets scampered over and tore apart the food that lay in front of them.

Carefully pushing the tray and Mista’s bullets to the corner of the room, Giorno finally got a good look at the state of his friend. His usual hat was on his head, but that was about it; Mista was still in his pajamas and a blanket was lazily draped over his shoulders. His back was pressed up against the door and dark bags were forming under his eyes.

It would be an understatement to call him a mess right now, and Giorno couldn't help but feel guilty; he knew what it was like.

Giorno picked up the glass of water still sitting on it and passed it to him.

“Bucciarati said you probably weren’t hungry, but he brought you this,” the blonde said, as if it were some kind of peace offering. Mista nodded tiredly and took a long sip of it, setting it down in front of him.

“Thirsty?” Giorno asked him. To his dismay, Mista shook his head.

“Nah, it’s not that. Just can’t sip it more than three times,” he choked out. Giorno only now noticed the slight tremor in his body as he spoke.

The blonde opted to say nothing, just grabbed a pillow that was already half-falling off of Mista’s bed and propped it under his head as he leaned back slightly. He was fortunate that Mista’s room still had carpeted floors.

The pair basked in silence. Mista stared at the ground and Giorno leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He noted a few things about Mista’s room; the window that was usually open was shut and a curtain was drawn over it. Mista had also turned his lights off, leaving the room in a comfortable blanket of darkness. Although sitting in the dark was pretty relaxing, it made Giorno worry.

Did Mista genuinely want to pretend that today didn’t exist?

Giorno didn’t know how long they sat there until Mista cleared his throat awkwardly from across the room.

“So I’m guessing the others probably told you?” Mista said quietly, breaking the silence.

Giorno didn’t know what to say but nodded. He thought back to the breakfast table, where Fugo joked that Mista would pretend that today wasn’t happening and when Narancia claimed that he would cry for the entire year of 2004.

It seemed amusing enough earlier, but now their “jokes” really weren’t that far off from the truth, which was a bit scary to think about.

“Yeah.”

“They were probably laughing about it. They always laugh,” quiet laughter bubbled up Mista’s throat, but he sounded anything but happy. Giorno felt a shiver up his spine. This entire situation felt uneasy to him.

“Its stupid, isn’t it?” Mista’s voice got louder with each word. In the darkness, Giorno could see his figure hunched over still against the door, “A fucking number. There’s not even a good reason for it, it's just-”

Mista’s loud voice faltered for a minute, and Gioro heard him sigh and recompose himself.

“-Stupid.”

Giorno knew Mista couldn’t see him in the dark, but he shook his head out of habit.

“I don’t think it’s stupid.”

“No, Giorno, you do think its stupid,” Mista growled back, “You don’t have to be so goddamn polite all the time, for fuck’s sake. Just tell me that it’s fucking stupid!”

The yelling had taken Giorno back a bit and he found himself flinching back by habit as he inhaled a sharp breath. Mista seemed to notice the response and dialed it back a bit, instantly regretting what he had said.

“Sorry,” he breathed out roughly, “I’m- fuck- I’m sorry, Giorno.”

“It’s alright,” the blonde replied, feeling the sudden panic disperse almost immediately when Mista spoke back to him. He didn’t deal well with angry outbursts, but he’d had his fair share of episodes that were hardly ever pretty. Right now, he was just worried about Mista.

“It’s not alright though,” Mista growled quietly, frustrated, “None of this is fucking normal and all of this is fucking stupid.”

He didn’t say anything after that, so Giorno opted to stay silent as well. There wasn’t really anything he could do to help him besides be there with him...unless he just wanted to be alone in the first place.

“Do you want me to leave?” Giorno asked quietly, prepared to get up from his comfy spot on the floor and worry about him from a distance.

“No,” he replied sharply, though it felt less like a demand and more like a plea. Giorno nodded to himself and his eyes trailed back up to the ceiling.

His eyes had mostly gotten used to the dark by now and he traced the cracks in the paint with his eyes, wondering if they should paint over them during their next day off.

Mista held his head in his hands from across the room, back still leaned up against the door. It was fucking humiliating acting this way in front of Giorno, but he couldn’t help it at this point. He couldn’t ignore it today, the stream of thoughts that pushed their way into his brain.

The thoughts that told him if he sipped his water four times Abbacchio would be lying on the ground covered in blood with a gaping hole in his stomach.

That if he knocked on the door four times Narancia would be impaled, blood dripping onto the ground as lifeless eyes stared back at him.

That if someone showed him four slices of cake, Bucciarati would collapse and someone would tell him that he had been a walking corpse for days.

That if he walked outside this fucking room right now, Giorno would get shot in the head and collapse beneath his feet and it would be his fault.

Everything would go wrong and it would be his fault. All because he knew that he should’ve stayed inside. All because he knew what would have happened but ignored it anyway.

He could feel a familiar tension in his chest as his skull throbbed from behind his eyes. He swallowed thickly and tried to blink those thoughts away, tried not to think about what lay outside this door.

He blinked back tears as they swarmed his vision. He pulled the blanket further over his head and instinctively clenched his fists.

Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t-

***

The silence was broken again as Giorno heard quiet whimpering from across the room, instantly recognizing the high-pitched sounds as Mista’s stand.

“Miiiistaa stop! You always tell us not to do that!”

“Miiisstaa~ stop acting like such a wuss!”

“Stop crying or you’ll make me cry too, Miiistaa~”  

“Number 5! You’re such a crybaby!”

Mista stiffened as Giorno abruptly sat up from his spot, eyes blinking to adjust to the darkness. He was hunched forward, the blanket over his head and blocking his face as the Sex Pistols scampered around him. Once they noticed him, they jumped, backing away towards the food plate again.

“Yikes! I forgot that Giorno was still here!”

“Pull it together, 5!”  

“Miissstaaa’s sad so I’m sad toooo~”

“Mista?” Giorno asked softly when he noticed that he wasn’t telling them off this time. Mista didn’t answer and the Sex Pistols grew silent, huddled back in the corner of the room.

“Mista,” Giorno said again, creeping closer to his friend, “Are you alright?”

A small sob was Mista’s answer and Giorno watched as the blanket fell off Mista’s shoulders, completely exposing him to the outside world.

“Fuck,” Mista choked out, desperately feeling around for the blanket as more tears blurred his vision. The Sex Pistols were muttering quietly in the corner and Giorno thought he could hear Narancia and Fugo fighting down the hall, but nothing could stop him from focusing on his friend.

“I’m going to put this back over you,” he said calmly,

He grabbed the blanket and draped it over the man’s shoulders again, feeling how much they were shaking when he did so.

Mista choked out a thank you and buried his face in his hands as more tears slipped down his face, dribbling onto his chin.

“Can I touch you?” the blonde asked. Mista sniffled and nodded slowly.

Giorno wasn’t really one for physical affection; he barely had anyone give it to him, and he was equally bad at giving it back to someone. He slipped next to Mista and let his gentle hands make their way to his back, rubbing small circles into it.

When he had woken up screaming just the third night of meeting the gang, Bucciarati had done the same for him.

“Can we--? Can we go up on the bed?” Mista asked, his voice breaking as he tried to speak between sobs. Giorno nodded and stood up, helping his friend up and led him across the room to the bed.

Once Mista had reached the foot of the bed, he collapsed into it, shoulders shaking. Giorno draped another blanket over him and sat on the edge of the bed, blinking in surprise when Mista asked him to join him under the covers.

Once Giorno was comfortably nestled under the covers, he felt Mista pry open his neatly folded arms and buried his face in his chest. Giorno wrapped his arms around the man and continued rubbing circles into his back, not stopping when he cried even harder.

Once the crying had mostly stopped, Mista raised his head and looked up at Giorno’s deep emerald eyes. Giorno brushed back a curl that had fallen out of his hat.

“Feel any better?”

“Not really,” he breathed out with a watery laugh. He felt another curl drop out of his hat and Giorno’s eyebrows quirked up with amusement.

“Do you want to take your hat off?” he asked. Mista shook his head and shuddered.

“No way, dude. That’d be like asking you to take your braid out.”

Laughter bubbled in Giorno’s chest and Mista felt warm. He could see the sunlight leaking out of the curtains from his bed and he let himself cuddle up closer to Giorno’s chest.

“Can you--” he started abruptly, “Can your stand heal my mind?”

He hoped his question wasn’t too stupid. Mista felt Giorno tense up as an airy laugh escaped him.

“Believe me, I’ve tried,” he said, resting his hand on the back of Mista’s neck. Mista looked up in surprise.

“Really?”

“How else was I supposed to experiment with Gold?” he shuddered at the memory of sitting in his room, begging his stand to make him better in some way, praying that his healing powers could also work internally.

“So...is there a specific reason why you don’t like it?” Giorno asked, quickly changing the subject. Mista inhaled sharply against his chest at the mention of it.

“Not really,” he said flatly. Giorno didn’t ask any more questions and he was thankful for it Giorno could tell that just the mention made him paranoid, and he opened his mouth to apologize, but found that Mista had beat him to it.

“I just wish that it wasn’t today,” he groaned in frustration, letting his gaze trail to the closed door. He could feel his mind starting to slow down as he nestled further into Giorno’s comforting warmth and he wanted nothing more than to stay there forever.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Giorno answered, pulling the covers over them, “We could just stay here.”

Mista sighed, already feeling exhaustion take him over. Maybe he could just stay here. He yawned.

“Sounds like a plan.”