made with love
"giorno giovanna’s faced his more-than-fair share of hardships in life, and coming down with a particularly rough cold isn’t exactly one of the worst--far from it.
but these puppy dog eyes mista gives him whenever he asks if there’s anything he can do to help? giorno thinks they might just be the death of him."
mista decides that the best remedy for giorno’s stubborn cold is a bowl of homemade soup. (sicktember day 3, alternate prompt - warm soup)
Giorno Giovanna’s faced his more-than-fair share of hardships in life, and coming down with a particularly rough cold isn’t exactly one of the worst--far from it.
But these puppy dog eyes Mista gives him whenever he asks if there’s anything he can do to help? Giorno thinks they might just be the death of him.
Mista has come into his room offering him assistance about six times today between Giorno’s frequent and fruitless naps in attempts to ease up the suffering. (Well, maybe suffering is a bit of an exaggeration, but Giorno can’t breathe. Even if it’s not the worst thing he’s faced, it sure is annoying.) The thing is, it’s only about five o’clock in the evening, and Giorno’s spent most of the day asleep.
Needless to say, Mista is being more than doting.
Giorno doesn’t at all blame him; Mista’s just a caring guy, and he probably hates to see Giorno confined to his bed and the few bathroom trips he’s worked up the energy to make just as much as Giorno hates to be in this state. But it’s saddening to see the distraught look in his eyes whenever his sick partner can’t think of any assistance for him to provide. Mista’s a bit too much like a lost puppy right now, and the only thing worse than the heaviness in Giorno’s limbs and persistent congestion is the dreary feeling in his heart at the sight.
There’s a sudden knock on the door, and yet somehow, Giorno had expected it fully. The blonde sighs softly, a fond smile tugging at his lips.
“Yes, Mista?”
There’s a moment of hesitance before Mista steps in. “How’d you know it would be me?” He jokes, leaning against the doorframe. His smirk turns downwards in a frown as he looks his boyfriend over. Though he, luckily, isn’t too feverish, his skin is ashen and he looks...dull. Disheveled. And while Mista feels privileged to see him at his worst, he hates to see him feeling any less than his best.
“Napping didn’t help much, did it?”
Giorno shakes his head sadly, sniffles thickly. “I’m alright, Mista,” Giorno’s attempt at a reassuring smile is weak, as expected. “Thank you for checking in on me.”
“Well, of course, I mean--” Mista comes in fully, closing the door behind him. He settles at the foot of the bed, resting a hand on Giorno’s ankle. “I love you, of course I’m gonna check on you. I just wish there was more I could do for you, y’know?”
I know, Giorno wants to say, believe me, I know. And beyond that, he wants to say, this is more care than I’ve ever received in my life. But he doesn’t want to sully the atmosphere any further, or make Mista think he’s annoyed by his doting, because he isn’t and he never could be. The man in question stares distantly at the wall for a long moment, seeming to be lost in thought. And then something lights up in his eyes as he faces Giorno again.
“I got it! You haven’t eaten yet, so you gotta eat something, and what do sick people like to eat more than soup?” Mista nods to himself, and it’s clear that even if Giorno wanted to protest, there would be no such option. “I’ll make you soup. What kinda soup did your mom make when you were a kid? There’s nothing better than a bowl of homemade soup.”
Giorno’s expression falls before he can really process it. He’s never had a bowl of homemade soup, especially not from his mother. How does he communicate that, though? This is the worst time for something like that, anyway. Mista seems so excited about the idea, and Giorno really doesn’t want to take that away from him.
“--llo? Giorno? Gio, you in there?”
“Huh--oh, yes,” Giorno blinks, coming back to the realm of the living. “Sorry, what were you saying?”
“I asked what kind of soup you usually have when you’re sick, and you went space cadet on me.”
“Ah, uhm…” Giorno clears his throat, shifting awkwardly, and suddenly he feels hot. “Well. When I was a child…”
Mista watches him expectantly, one eyebrow cocking upwards.
“I’ve never had soup when I was sick,” Giorno admits, and his voice is quiet. He reprimands himself internally for how it sounds like he’s gearing up to be punished for it. For feeling vaguely that maybe he will be, because this is Mista, and Mista would never hurt him.
Mista’s confusion melts into concern as gears turn in his mind. “You’ve never had soup when you were sick? Nobody made you soup?”
Giorno shakes his head, looking down at his lap. “No. My mom wasn’t really... home when I was young.”
“Aw, Gio,” Mista runs his hand up and down his shin now, almost in an absent gesture. “Y’know what? That’s okay.”
He stands, and for a moment, Giorno thinks he’s going to walk out with the slight droop to his shoulders that showed up yesterday and hasn’t left since. But then Mista comes around to approach the side of the bed Giorno’s laying on and bends down to slide one arm beneath his knees and the other behind his back, pulling him up into a princess carry. Giorno’s eyes widen as he yelps quietly in surprise, wrapping an arm around Mista’s neck. His other hand grips the fabric of his shirt in fear that he may fall, but he feels much more supported in Mista’s hold than he thought he would, so he ends up letting go.
“We’ll make our own recipe. Okay? ‘Cause you gotta eat, and I don’t wanna make something you don’t like.”
Before Giorno can say anything about it, Mista’s already out the door and starting down the stairs. He’s slow and careful in his movements, taking each step with both feet to make sure he doesn’t end up dropping Giorno and giving him a concussion on top of a cold--or worse, killing him on impact. Thankfully, they both make it to the bottom safe and sound.
Mista sets him down in a stool by the kitchen island, disappearing for a moment into the living room and returning with a soft throw blanket from the couch. He drapes it over Giorno’s shoulders; the blonde gratefully wraps it around himself, pulling a knee to his chest.
“Alright, what kind of broth do you wanna use?”
And after a series of questions and taste-tests, a bowl and spoon are set down in front of Giorno. The heat swirls up into steamy mist, and Giorno leans over it, letting the warm air alone bring him a momentary relief. He wraps the blanket around his shoulders tighter, picking up the spoon with his other hand. Mista sits across the island, watching him with this dreamy look in his eyes. They glimmer with excitement and anticipation and pure, utter adoration. Giorno thinks he might melt into soup himself.
With a shaky hand, Giorno brings a spoonful of soup to his lips and sips at it. And he’s pleasantly unsurprised, having been here for the entire concocting process, that it tastes amazing. Even beyond taste, oddly enough, he feels this soup is warmer than any dish he’s had before--perhaps, cliché as it is, it’s because it was made with love.
“So?”
“It’s fantastic,” Giorno takes another spoonful, taking his time to savor the heat of it against the sore, rough feeling in his throat. “Thank you, Mista.”
“Hell yeah, of course! I’m glad I finally did something helpful, doing nothing was frickin’ stressful.”
Whether the warmth blooming in his chest is from the soup or from the sparkling satisfaction in Mista’s eyes, Giorno isn’t sure. Quite frankly, he doesn’t care.
Because whatever it is, it’s love. And suddenly, Giorno’s certain that the saying of love being the best medicine is true.