Chapter Text
Giorno’s T-Shirt itches.
His shirt itches and he’s been stuck behind the counter for three hours already.
His shirt itches and he’s been stuck behind the counter for three hours already and his phone is dead.
His shirt itches and he’s been stuck behind the counter for three hours already and his phone is dead and his coworkers are being useless useless useless useless -
No. Stop that. That sounds like not-father.
Giorno turns back to his phone and presses the button down for a full ten seconds, hoping against hope that it will decide to spontaneously refill it’s battery on its own. No luck.
Now would be a great time to walk around and find something else to do. He could sort the gummy frogs by color, but then he’d just have to watch all of his hard work be ruined if someone actually decides to come get frozen yogurt on a rainy Wednesday morning. He could go to the back and play with the tadpoles he’s smuggled past the health inspector for the last two weeks, but he’s tied to the counter until one of his two, or rather four, useless coworkers decide to take over for him. And that’s not going to happen.
Vanilla Ice is too busy being a whore, and ghiaccio is always angry. Repressed furry bitch . Everyone saw the catboy stickers on your laptop. Just accept it.
Giorno’s about halfway done sorting the gummy frogs and a sixteenth of the way done telling off his coworkers in his mind when the door opens.
“Giorno! My darling baby boy!”
No. Giorno leaves his earbuds and pretends not to notice Dio’s entrance. It’s impossible to ignore him, but Giorno has lots of practice setting a straight face and refusing to make eye contact.
Dio doesn’t notice Giorno’s not noticing, though. He’s too busy talking to someone else. Giorno recognises the tone of voice he’s using. This is another date. He brought another date to Sweet Frog. Dio Brando, 37 year old lawyer and three-time divorcee, has brought the fifth date this month to Sweet Frog. And judging by the voice Giorno doesn’t recognise, the other four dumped him.
“Woah. Cert’nly is a lotta green and pink in here. Mighty fancy.”
If he was a kinder son, he would feel pity for how low his biological father has stooped. But he doesn’t. He just feels annoyed at what is clearly another attempt for father-son bonding cheapened by the simultaneous attempt at romantic escapades for his sperm-donor. He’s got three frogs left before he really needs to turn around.
“Yes, it’s a wonderful little venue. And they have such delightful staff, don’t they Giorno? ”
Die .
“Hello, welcome to Sweet Frog. How can I be of assistance today.” Monotone and polite. Facing the customer but not quite making eye contact. Enough to pass for good service with minimal engagement.
Dio’s new arm-candy doesn’t get the concept of the store, so Giorno goes through his pre-rehearsed speech and hands him a paper bowl to go fill and bring back. Run , he wants to say. Run, or get a prenup . But instead he fakes his most uncomfortable smile and turns back to the counter. Maybe he can sort the Nerds next. Nobody ever uses the Nerds.
The door opens again and Giorno is snapped out of his thoughts. He turns to look at the door as he hears familiar voices come inside.
There’s three teenagers walking in from the rain. The two he recognises are both absolutely soaked and dripping all over the floor. Strange, considering how light the downfall is today. They're being just as pushy and noisy as usual as they discuss the benefits of eating pasta raw versus cooked. They show up frequently enough for Giorno to recognise them, but not enough to know their names, so he mentally calls them “Gay-Hat-Guy” and “Can’t-Sit-In-Chairs.”
The third one has an umbrella, and Giorno doesn’t know him at all. He’s pale as all hell, to the point where he looks like an anemic vampire. He’s wearing all red, which probably is only washing him out more, but in a way that feels intentional. Everything from the way he dresses to the way he shakes out his umbrella before leaning it against the wall seems carefully calculated and impossible to look away from. He looks up to see Giorno staring at him, and Giorno panics for half a second before he remembers that it’s normal, no, expected for employees to make eye contact with customers.
The boy approaches the counter with more grace and dignity than would ever be necessary for a glorified ice-cream parlor.
“Hello, table for three please?” So he doesn’t know this either. Cute . Giorno’s about to go through his speech again when the two wet boys start laughing.
“Nah, nah, nah, man. You’re doing it wrong. Watch, watch.”
Wham!
A palm slams into the counter in front of Giorno and Gay-Hat-Guy is up in his face again. Please learn the concept of personal space.
“THREE BOWLS, PLEASE, ICE CREAM GUARDIAN.” At least he’s polite. Giorno provides the necessary paperware and waves off a frantic apology from the new boy. He has strawberry earrings. Very cute .
Strawberry-Boy follows the others back to the machines and Giorno puts his earbuds back in. He keeps looking back to them as the two noisy ones try to explain the process of putting frozen yogurt in a bowl and adding toppings. He leans over the counter and pretends to sort the Nerds as he watches.
“Okay, done. I have aquired ice cream. Now we go back to pay?”
“What? That’s all you’re gonna get?”
Fugo looks down at the bowl of strawberry shortcake flavored desert in his hands. He’d tried to get the frozen yogurt to swirl nicely into a perfect spiral, but the machine dropped in more than he wanted after he released the lever, so there’s a thick stripe leaning out from the center and ruining the effect.
“Yeah. Is there something wrong with that?” He’s asking for a fight. And he’s got every reason to be mad. He didn’t even want to come here in the first place. It’s bad enough to be forced to walk outside in the rain while your two idiot friends dare each other to roll in the puddles or jump in a drainage ditch. It’s even worse when they decide to give themselves even worse hypothermia by going to get ice cream. And the worst possible situation is being dragged along with them, humiliating oneself in front of an employee, and then being required to spend the next at least half hour third wheeling.
“BOO. Fuckin’ lame. Live a little.” Third wheeling, or being insulted, apparently.
“Yeah, add something else to it. Pussy.” From there it’s off to the races for Mista and Narancia.
“Flavorless coward.”
“Bland-ass bitch.”
“Uncreative whore.”
“Basic white Insta-ho.”
Okay, that last one hurt more than it should have. He should be able to get one flavor if that’s what he wants. They’re both dumbasses and they’ve chosen a stupid hill to die on, but Fugo’s too tired and pissed off to argue right now. He’s not going to get through to them with intelligent conversation anyways. Fugo heads back to the machines and adds another flavor, and hell, why not bring a topping into the mix as well?
He wanders over to the counter where the trays of candies, cookies, and crumbs are lined up. And lined up in front of the counter are two of the strangest people he’s seen. The first one he notices is some gaudy monstrosity in thick sunglasses and a fur coat, aimlessly explaining the various condiments to his partner with such a snooty, arrogant voice Fugo has to suppress the urge to kick his knees out from under him. His partner is somehow infinitely better and worse at the same time. He’s some kind of cowboy, and at first Fugo thinks he must be a stripper or something, but the mud on his boots suggests that no, this is a genuine ranch hand in front of him. Gross.
“What’re those little fellers?”
“Those, if I recall correctly, are Swedish Fish.”
“Mighty fancy. What flavor of red are they?” He drawls every word. Every. Single. Word. It makes a sentence take three times longer than it should. Just have your little chit-chat and move on so everyone else can get to the fucking toppings.
“Lingonberry. Very rare. The candies are imported from Sweden, which is why - ”
“No they’re not.” Fugo can’t deal with this anymore. He can’t fucking listen to more lies. “Lingonberries aren’t rare, and the fish aren’t from Sweden. They’re from Hamilton, Ontario, and Lingonberries grow all over the cold regions of the northern hemisphere.”
The ugly fur-coat guy looks fit to murder him where he stands. Good. The cowboy looks a lot more confused about what just happened.
“I thought… I thought Hamilton was on Broadway.” Dear God Fugo’s going to have an aneurysm.
“For fuck’s sake, just move . Some of us want to get the toppings before they rot .” He shoves his way past them while the fur-coat guy desperately tries to convince the cowboy that Ontario is even further away, and therefore more impressive to be importing from. It works. Of course it fucking works. Fugo finishes his creation as the cowboy reaches over his fucking head to get the peanut butter sauce. For his Apple Pie ice cream. Uncle Sam would weep sweet tears of joy at the patriotism on this fucker.
Fugo returns to where his entourage of idiots was waiting for him and presents his newly refined bowl. There’s a beat of silence before Mista remembers he can’t shut up for more than ten seconds.
“Is this a fucking joke? Because this might be the first time in your life you’ve done something funny. Narancia, record the date. This Day in History: Fugo let the stick fall out of his ass.”
“Fuck you, whore.” Strawberry shortcake is a good flavor. So he just… enhanced it. With strawberry ice cream. And strawberries. And a little bit of spite. It was mainly spite. Okay, it was entirely spite.
“God, I can’t wait to see the look on the cashier’s face when you pay for that.” What .
“Oh yeah! That’s probably the second weirdest one he’ll see today. But mine is better.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s pumpkin pie, cotton candy, mint, and pineapple sorbet, with gummy worms, cinnamon toast crunch, and marshmallow sauce. I think this might be my mast - ”
“Shut the fuck up! Shut the fuck up! Nobody fucking cares about your gross-ass food, you illiterate twink. We need to pay for this?”
“Yes, Fugo, that’s how capitalism works.” Mista is acting way too smug about all this. As soon as they’re back outside Fugo’s going to punch his lights out.
“No, you fuckwad, I thought that… the bowls. You paid for the bowls.”
“You weigh them. You weigh them and then you pay based on that.”
That would have been great to know before he doubled the fucking weight of his bowl in a fit of stubborn rage.
“Aw, come on, bro. It would be weirder if you just showed up with one flavor.” Fugo swats Narancia’s hand off of his head before he goes over to the counter again. There’s no salvaging today. He might as well get it over with quickly.
“Hello again. I’m paying for this.” Yes, he is paying for this. He’s paying for his hubris and his arrogance in the form of frozen yogurt.
“Great! If you could just place it on the - actually, I’ll take it, please.” A very convincing fake smile. Fugo finally takes a second to read the cashier’s nametag.
Giorno . Handwritten with delicate, looping letters, and then scrawled underneath in sharpie as a translation. Stinks of interference from management. Giorno has pulled out a Sharpie of his own and popped the lid off to write something on Fugo’s bowl.
He tilts it around for a bit, looking for someplace to write what Fugo presumes is some kind of allergy information or a discount code or whatever they do here. After searching for a few seconds, Giorno has a brainwave and flips the bowl over to write on the underside. The underside is the only part that’s flat, and it’s firmer than the sides of the bowl. It’s a smart move.
Except that it’s not.
Splat .
A pink, dripping blur falls all at once out of the bowl. If Fugo had to guess where it landed behind the counter, he’d wager on Giorno’s shoes. The bowl continues to splatter a few meager drops in the silence. Giorno stares down at his feet for a few seconds, dumbfounded. He looks back up to the bowl, and flips it back right side up to check if somehow there would be anything left inside. Nothing but a few drips clinging to the rim.
“That should not have happened.” It’s not an apology.
“No. I suppose not.” Fugo doesn’t bother asking for an explanation at this point. Giorno provides one anyways.
“One of my uncles works at another ice cream shop. This never happens to him.” He’s not making any effort to move or clean himself up. Fugo’s not sure if he should reach over and take his bowl back or just walk out the store now.
“Dairy Queen, sweetheart.” Fugo turns to see the fur coat calling from across the store to them. “He works at Dairy Queen. It’s a special case.”
Fugo has decided he hates whoever that is.
“Ah.” Giorno finally moves to toss the bowl in a trash can behind the counter and takes heavy, shuffling steps over to get napkins and a mop. There must still be the remains of Fugo’s ice cream piled on his toes.
“Should I… Should I take a new bowl?” Fugo’s already reached over the counter to grab one. The question is just a formality. He’s taking a new bowl and nobody can stop him. He doesn’t even know why he cares so much. He didn’t ven want ice cream in the first place, but if he’s had to suffer this much today, he might as well get the fucking ice cream so it wasn’t all for nothing.
“Wait! Wait, please, let me - ” Fugo’s already halfway back to the machines when the reply reaches him. He executes a perfect eye-roll-heel-turn and walks back over. Giorno leans so far over the counter he’s practically laying on it, snatches the bowl out of Fugo’s hands, writes something on the underside, and shoves it back to him.
“Now you can go.”
“ Thank you. ” He really shouldn’t be so sarcastic right now. People who are mean to retail workers go to Hell. And this one seems very sweet, if a bit confused on the concept of gravity. It’s not nice to be mean , says a voice in his head which sounds like Narancia. Shut up, dipshit.
Fugo refills his bowl with just the strawberry shortcake flavor. He adds the strawberries back on when he realises Giorno is busy cleaning and he doesn’t want to pressure him into panicking and working faster by existing too close to the counter.
Once he’s done picking out the strawberries that look the best and arranging them nicely on top of his frozen yogurt, he walks back over just in time for Giorno to put the mop away and flash that fake smile again. Ready for checkout.
Fugo ignores Mista and Narancia snickering from behind him as he places his bowl on the scale and pays. If he was a good friend, he would feel bad about making them wait so long for the treat they spent all morning chattering about. But he’s not. So he doesn’t. He can barely be bothered to tune in to listen to whatever they’re talking about as they find a table to sit at.
“ - and I think if I went to the cops and called it a hate crime, they’d agree with me.”
“Ha! Wrong, bitch.”
“No, fuck you. I’m not backing down from this. Anyone with half a brain knows that mixing pumpkin with mint is a crime against humanity.”
“If y’were looking for a brain, you shouldn’ta gone to the cops, huh?” Narancia gurgles his way past an upsettingly colorful spoonful of dairy and brandishes his spoon like a switchblade towards Mista’s face. “Fuck blue lives!”
“I’m telling your dad you said that.” Mista flicks the spoon back with his own and goes back to eating.
“Who’dja think taught me? Fucker.” A dribble of blue leaks out the corner of his mouth, quickly followed by his tongue as he tries to thwart it’s escape attempt. He only smears more around the borders of his mouth.
“God, please. Just get a napkin.” Fugo’s begging at this point. He’s had to deal with too many idiots already. He can’t handle watching someone older than him struggle with manners most toddlers respect.
“Suck my nutsack.” Narancia stabs his spoon into his bowl and leaves it upright as he heads back to the counter.
A deep, woeful sigh from beside him directs Fugo’s attention back to his remaining tablemate. Mista’s got his head propped up on the heel of his hands, staring longingly back to the counter. It’s the same expression as a widow waiting for the return of her husband eight years after the war ended.
“Disgusting. He’s been gone for three seconds.”
“Fuck off. It’s normal to miss your bros. We were on a roll before you interrupted.”
Fugo knows better than to push it. He’s too deep in his pining to do anything about it. He’s never going to change so it’s not worth the energy. But Fugo’s pissed off today, so he might as well drag someone else down with him.
“Admit you like him to his face or I’ll send him those screenshots of your wedding plans.”
“ You wouldn’t. ”
“I would.” Narancia’s coming back with a fistful of napkins. “Hey, how do you think he’d react to your Pinterest board?”
“Hey, how do you think that cashier’s gonna react when you throw out his number?”
“Don’t try to change the subject, fuckboy.”
“Look under the bowl. It’s there. Oldest trick in the book for flirting at work. Surprised you didn’t recognise it, oh Master of Romance .”
“Who’s a master of what?” Narancia sits back down and flings the napkins across the table like snowfall.
“Fugo’s a master of baiting if you catch my - AH!” Fugo shuts him up with a sharp elbow to the ribs. “Agh, fucker. Fugo’s getting hit on and he doesn’t know how to deal with emotions without violence.”
“Ha. Same.”
“Nah, you’re better than him. Anyways, the ice cream guardian wrote his number under Fugo’s bowl and now he’s gonna check it.”
“Oh, no. No I am not . I’m not gonna flip the bowl upside down for you fuckers. Nice try.”
“Hold it up over your head, then, smoothbrain.” Getting called a smoothbrain from someone who thought the Pink Panther was a lion cuts deep.
“Fuck you, Narancia. Go eat some more chalk.” Fugo lifts the bowl up anyways. With his arms straight over his head, it’s not heavy or unbalanced. He squints against the contrast of the deep shadow on the bowl and the blinding lights behind it. And now that he’s looking, yeah, there are definitely numbers under there. He’s holding it so the numbers are upside down from his perspective, but if he gives it a second he can -
“ TASER! ” A sharp poke to the side of his neck provokes an involuntary flinch away from Mista’s hand. As soon as he begins moving he realises his mistake.
“ SHI - ”
A wave of cold, slimy fluid washes over his head and most of his shirt. It’s probably going to stain, and definitely going to smell rancid if he leaves it in his laundry hamper for more than a day. He freezes and considers spontaneous combustion as he feels a chunk of… something slide down his neck. Strawberry . It’s just a strawberry. Thank God.
Fugo doesn’t dare open his eyes, lest they be infected by artificial flavorings and sugar, but he can feel napkins roughly wiping down his face and tangling his hair. Narancia is laughing hysterically in the background. There’s a clatter and a momentary pause for a gasp that signals him falling out of his chair.
“Aw, fuck, dude. I’m sorry. That was intentional. I’m really sorry. I meant to do that. I’m so sorry. It was on purpose.”
“How the fuck is that meant to make me feel better.”
“It’s not. Nara, go get some more napkins, kay?”
Wheezing and the patter of footsteps fading into the distance are all he gets as a response.
“Okay, I genuinely didn’t expect you to flinch that hard. I was just tryna scare you, cuz of the, uh, wedding thing . Why’dja have to bring it up outta nowhere, huh? I shared those things with you in confidence , man, and you shit in my face with this. Whatever. Let’s move on.”
Not the best apology Fugo’s received. If that even counts as an apology. He’s not accepting it.
“Yo. Got those napkins for ya, wet- ” Fugo snatches the outstretched wad of paper from Narancia’s hand and scrubs at his face and hands before throwing the soggy remains at Mista and standing.
“Mista has a crush on you.” He doesn’t wait for a response before he storms out, making sure to grab his umbrella on the way.
“Huh?”
“ DUDE! ” Fucker. Serves him right. Fugo can’t slam the door, but he certainly tries.
It’s still raining outside, so he puts up the umbrella and starts walking a bit faster than normal. Not because he’s trying to leave an awkward situation. It’s the rain. He turns a corner and allows himself to slow down a bit.
Nobody’s rushing to catch up to him, which is good, but he’s also desperately curious to know what’s going on back inside. Not curious enough to go back though. He can imagine Mista desperately denying it all, Narancia’s stupid brain trying to figure out how language works again, and the two of thm both deciding to pretend none of it happened because it was clearly just Fugo being a jackass.
Fine. He can be a jackass. He can be the jackass that blows up Narancia’s notifications with screenshots or mood boards of wedding dresses and skateboards as proof. Or both. Definitely both. Fugo grabs his phone out of his pocket, selecting every single screenshot he has of this bullshit, and scrolls through the list of contacts until he sees Narancia’s number.
Number.
FUCK .
Fugo turns on his heel and sprints back to the Sweet Frog. If he can get the timing right, he can be in, out, and gone by the time anyone realizes what’s going on. He yanks the door open, doesn’t even bother shaking out his umbrella. It’s already closed to mitigate the aerodynamic disadvantage it puts him at.
Giorno’s pulled the mop out again and is on his way over to the table where Fugo’s mess is. Narancia is staring at his phone with an expression that reads like his brain just fell out his ass. Mista has vanished into thin air, which suits Fugo fine. He grabs the bowl before Giorno can throw it away and runs back out.
He keeps running longer than he needs to. It just feels like he needs to move as fast as possible or else he’ll have a panic attack right now, so he runs until that feeling is replaced with exhaustion. Once he's about five steps from an asthma attack, he slows to a job, and then a walk.
His clothes are just dried out enough to be sticky. HIs shoes are wet and the cold is seeping into the toes of his socks. There’s a strawberry slice sliding down his ribcage with every breath. Everything smells like fruit.
But when Fugo looks down to the crumpled, stained, and sticky bowl in his hands, he can’t help smiling.