When Narancia had come out into the small gathering of the sitting room with a bottle of wine in each hand Giorno didn't expect things to deteriorate the way they did.
His first impression of the group certainly hadn't been normal, their interactions eccentric. Blood spilled, violence thinly veiled. Sadism, his mind had supplied. They all proved to be more than hard fists and cold eyes.
At the sight of the alcohol Abbaccio had excused himself, even when Mista whined after him their drinking couldn't be a group of four.
Mista, Fugo, Narancia, Giorno. Buccellati had more important things to attend. It probably meant that their time could be better spent, too, but when Giorno said as much Narancia had rolled his eyes.
"It's called team bonding, tight ass." It didn't take long to burn through the first bottle between the four. Didn't take long for the empty wine to topple from the table and onto the floor as the group became rowdier.
Giorno sends Gold Experience to pick it up with lax ease, without thinking. When Gold Experience dipped at the waist to retrieve the bottle Narancia's head titled and followed the gesture with obvious eyes.
"Are you checking out his Stand?" Fugo asks acidly. If he meant it as a means of embarrassing Narancia it didn't work. He met the other boys' eyes with only a raised brow.
"Aw, don't be such'a priss, Fugo." He throws his leg up over the arm of the loveseat. "Skirts short," he says in way of explanation, eyes returning to the strip of fabric draped against the Stand's thighs.
"Just because I don't fuck Stands doesn't mean I'm a prude."
"Whose Stand you think I fucked? Mine's a god damn PLANE, there's nothing goin' on there. Now, if I was gonna -- "
"Christ," Mista hisses, downing the rest of his glass before fumbling for a refill.
"It would have to be one like..." His brows furrow, deep in thought.
"Gold Experience, apparently." Fugo spins his wine around his glass rather than drink it. He had yet to bring the glass to his mouth, meaning he is the only one keeping his head. Whether it was a sympathetic gesture to Mista's phobia or a refusal to make himself vulnerable Giorno couldn't say.
Both sounded plausible.
Giorno kept his own pace far from the other two. He hasn't drunk before, not that he had bothered to offer that information up. Even with his reserved sips he's drained a glass already and is undoubtedly feeling...something. Floaty, cottony. Edges blunted and words forming more readily in his mouth.
Narancia refills Giorno's glass to comical fullness when he's done.
"You don't have to be so jealous about it, Fugo." Mista laughs.
"What is there to be jealous of?" Fugo's tone is bored but his gaze falls on Giorno when he says it, not his Stand. There's a challenge, there, one that has Giorno cocking his head, unsure how to meet it.
"And okay, no, that's weird to just say. Giorno is right there." Narancia scowls like anyone should expect social grace from him -- sober or otherwise -- despite the damage that's already been done.
"I am right here," Giorno confirms. Laughter pulls at his mouth, his eyes, and he leans more comfortably back into his chair. It's then that he lowers his gaze from Fugo's. He wants to live in this moment, to relax. Not to play at gang politics.
Gold Experience puts the wine bottle back onto the table -- looks between Fugo and Giorno dispassionately -- and disappears.
"Anyways. I was gonna say Sticky Fingers."
"Mostly because when I first saw him his zipper on above his crotch looked like a dick. Which was hilarious, but also made me think; do Stands have dicks?" Silence followed the question while Mista's face took on legitimate contemplation.
Slowly, Mista turns to Fugo. "Hey."
"Fugo. Does your Stand -- " Narancia picks up.
"Shut up! What about Sex Pistols, huh? The name seems to be hinting at something there." Fugo turns the tables on Mista who looks appropriately aghast.
"Of course they don't!"
"Just cause they're tiny?" Narancia asks archly. "That just means tiny dicks."
"They don't even wear clothes, you woulda seen if they had dicks!" Mista says defensively.
Unconvinced, Narancia rightens himself somewhat in his seat. "I never really looked at 'em up close. Maybe they have underwear."
"Yeah, Mista." Fugo adds in.
"I see them up close plenty, and they don't! I would know, they're mine!"
"Mista. Bring 'em out."
"I'm not bringing out my Stand so you can sexually harass them! You're gonna make Cinque cry!"
"Mista, don't be a bitch," Fugo smirks. He had only encouraged this to deflect the unwanted attention from Purple Haze, but now that he's seeing Mista squirm he seems all too ready to needle him as far as he can.
"Mistaa!" Narancia imitates No. 5's cry for a moment before collapsing in on himself with giggles, which Fugo heartily joins in on. Mista sets his glass on the table so he can cross his arms and sits back with a huff.
"Okay, okay, we got off topic. We're hypoethical here -- "
"What are you even saying?" Fugo asks, dumbfounded. "You mean hypothetical?"
"Yeah! We're bein' science-y. Anyways." Fugo looks very much like he doesn't want to move on from the nonsense Narancia had just spouted, but Narancia talks over his protest. "Polpo's Stand was also kinda...like, it could get it."
"For God's sake." Fugo mutters. For the first time that night he brings his glass to his lips and drinks. Deeply.
"Oh, what, cause it's user was ugly I can't fuck it?!"
"Can't fuck it cause it's dead," Fugo says.
"Also, just really nasty. Polpo's Stand? Polpo?!" Mista shows exactly how affected he's become from his drinking, voice loud and incredulous. "It shot you with an arrow! You could have died!"
"Coulda stuck me with it's -- "
"Narancia!" Mista's voice was hysterical with both laughter and disbelief.
"You can want to fuck the Stand but not the user!" Narancia hits his open palm with the side of his hand at every word to enunciate.
"That makes sense," Giorno agrees easily. He does not elaborate.
"See! If Giorno agrees with me than I win!"
"What do you even know about Stands?" Fugo says, frowning at Giorno. "Until last week you didn't know any others existed."
"I've seen enough of them in that time." Giorno shrugs.
"Purple Haze!" Narancia points accusingly. The force of it causes his drink to slosh dangerously towards spilling. "I heard you seen 'em, and Fugo won't answer us so that means it's got a dick."
"Those points aren't even connected. My unwillingness to discuss doesn't mean he has a penis! He'd fucking kill you, what would even be the point?"
"Could just tie his hands up." As one the group turns to Mista. "What!" His hands fly up defensively. "If he can't break the capsules -- "
"Could use his drool for lube," Narancia cuts in to deadpan. Mista chokes on a laugh, drumming a foot on the ground in his amusement.
"I'm done here." Fugo finds his feet at speed and pours out the mostly untouched wine into the closest potted plant before stalking off.
"Fugo. Fugo!" Narancia yells after him. "You can't just leave us to go fuck your Stand cause you got new ideas!" Mista snorts, then snickers when Fugo yells back some obscenity and Narancia forcefully flips him the bird.
"We better apologize to him later," Mista warns. His eyes are still bright with amusement but the words feel heavy in Giorno's ears. Narancia mutters a subdued consent before sinking back into his seat, seeming deflated.
Giorno turns to look after where Fugo had disappeared. He wants to ask what Fugo's annoyance had been masking, but he doesn't get the chance.
"Giorno. You have to enlighten us poor, downtrodden Stand users who don't have human-sized Stands; is Gold Experience packing. For real."
There's not a hint of embarrassment around the pause Giorno takes to think.
"Like. He doesn't always?" Mista asks.
"Detachable dick, dude." Narancia nods, as if in understanding.
"Just like you."
"Aw, shut up!" Narancia lashes out an angry kick at Mista's head, but in his inebriated state misjudges the distance and kicks empty air. When it looks like Narancia is going to try again Giorno rushes on to keep the peace.
"Like..." Narancia's face turns sly, his retribution forgotten. "Like. If you need 'em to." Giorno doesn't answer, sipping his wine so that Narancia hoots.
"Giorno, have you -- "
"Alright!" Mista cuts Narancia off, voice higher than usual. "We aren't talking about that, or I'm gonna have to go. I don't need ta know shit like that."
Giorno can't help but laugh lightly into his drink.
"You're usually not such a wet blanket," Narancia pouts, pointing at Mista with the toe of his shoe. "Bein' really fucking lame.
"But fine. Whose Stand you want?" Narancia asks Mista, undeterred from the topic in general. He casts Giorno a look, like he won't forget to get his answer later.
"Gonna be real, never thought about it." A brief pause. "Upon 3 seconds of consideration, Moody Blues."
"Abbacchio's?" Narancia's face screws up.
"You literally said the user doesn't matter!" Mista scowls. "Sides, Moody can technically be anyone. It's diverse."
"That's pervy," Narancia wags a finger, more impressed than judgmental. "You're a pervy guy."
"Abbacchio isn't even, you know, ugly?"
"Okay, I didn't say he was!" Narancia huffs.
"But I wouldn't wanna with him. Jus' Moody Blues." Giorno sits up suddenly.
"Standzoned." Giorno blurts.
"Stan -- " Mista gets half the word out before he busts out laughing, Narancia quickly joining in.
"Fuck. 'M glad you joined, Giorno," Narancia sniggers. He sets his empty glass down and wipes tears from his eyes.
"I aim to please." Giorno smiles and sets his own glass aside as he feels the flush of intoxication against his face. Perhaps this bonding exercise wasn't so unorthodox if it worked.
Narancia continues to chat and Giorno tries to think of the last time he had felt so included with others. Comfortable. People may have been drawn to him in droves, but when had he returned the sentiment?
This is good, he decides, closing his eyes and listening to the two older boys start laughing again. This is a company he wants to keep.