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Giorno Giovanna did not get sick. He was not currently getting sick. It didn't matter that his body had ached since he got up that morning, that he could barely breathe through his nose, that he had the constant urge to cough. It didn't matter that his head hurt, or his stomach felt very nauseous. He didn't have time to be sick, they had too much work to finish up before Christmas.
Giorno was, well, admittedly rather looking forward to Christmas. Everyone's enthusiasm had worn off on him over the last couple weeks. It had never been something he had experienced as a child aside from his mother and stepfather partying with guests while he was relegated to his room and told to stay there or else. Christmas had never been for him, and he couldn't remember the last present he had received aside from a couple little trinkets or goodies from classmates while at school.
Now, being part of a real family actually made him want to experience Christmas for what it should be. Bucciarati and Mista planned out the dinner they would make, Narancia and Trish speculated on gifts. Abbacchio even took them Christmas shopping, and the day after that, Fugo and Mista came back to the house with a Christmas tree that they all decorated. Giorno had been a bit bemused by all of it at first, but he was slowly growing excited as well.
And now it was two days to Christmas and he was feeling increasingly awful.
Yes, he knew he didn't get enough sleep, and he had spent the majority of the day before outside handing food to the children on the streets, not having dressed warm enough. Maybe it was just a chill then. The thought of being sick did not sit well with him, bringing back memories he would rather forget. Annoyed looks cast his way; hurting, and knowing no one would do anything for him. His mother grudgingly tossing him a bottle of medicine that his young fevered mind had to figure out the dosage for himself.
No. For Giorno, being sick meant showing unforgivable weakness and on top of that he would be ruining Christmas for everyone else if they felt obligated to do something for him. The thing Giorno hated the most was the thought of being a burden.
He mostly stayed at his desk that day, trying to do up the last bit of work, quietly sniffling and muffling coughs. Bucciarati glanced over at him a couple times and Giorno tried to be more careful so as not to make the older man suspicious. He just swallowed some pain pills, drank his tea and willed them to make him feel better.
They didn't. If anything, Giorno just felt worse as the day went on. His head was heavy, he felt cold and sick at the same time. He definitely had a fever. He tried to hide his growing nausea over dinner by making it look like he'd eaten more than he actually had. But even the little he ate sat heavy in his stomach and all he wanted to do was lay down.
Going to bed early was the best way to tip everyone off that he wasn't feeling well, though, as he almost never got to bed before midnight and only that if he was lucky. So he listened to Narancia and Trish excitedly discuss the fact that tomorrow was Christmas Eve and looked over paperwork in the living room by the light of the Christmas tree that sat in the corner. His body ached so much, just the act of sitting was uncomfortable. He pulled his sweater closer around him, fighting back a shiver, and felt his eyes getting heavier. His pen slid across the paper as he sank…
"Giorno?"
Giorno blinked groggily, then started as he realized he had nodded off. He looked up to see Bucciarati studying him with a slightly concerned expression. "If you're tired you should go to bed," he said. "We only have a little bit of business to see to tomorrow and we can easily finish that in the morning and have the rest of the day to enjoy."
"It's fine," Giorno tried to reply tiredly, but Bucciarati pulled the papers out of his lap.
"Go, Giorno. It will keep until tomorrow."
Giorno sighed, but couldn't deny that bed sounded good, and now he didn't have to come up with an excuse. He stumbled up the stairs and simply collapsed in bed without even changing into his pajamas. He hugged his pillow underneath his head and closed his aching eyes as he settled with a groan.
Maybe if he got a good night's sleep, he would feel better in the morning.
Giorno did not feel better in the morning. In fact, he didn't even make it until the morning before he woke, feeling like he was burning, body aching so much it was like his joints were going to fall apart.
He rolled over onto his back with a groan, struggling to pull the bulky sweater he was wearing off. The task seemed monumental in his current state and he whimpered, attempting to yank it over his head.
He forced himself to sit up to make it easier, but a sudden wave of vertigo overcame him and before he knew it, he was swaying, tumbling over the side of the bed, a tangled heap of blankets and sweater. He gave a surprised cry as the fall jostled his already aching body and he fought to free his head, feeling suffocated.
The door suddenly creaked open and Giorno had peeled enough of the sweater off to see it was Bucciarati.
"Giorno, what on earth?" the man demanded, hurrying over.
Giorno was mortified as his undignified position, but he started coughing, which soon turned into a fit that left him without enough energy to protest.
Bucciarati gave him a concerned look as he helped pull Giorno's sweater the rest of the way off, finally freeing his head.
"Thanks," Giorno murmured, muffling another cough as Bucciarati helped prop him back up, once he had, he frowned and pressed the back of his hand against Giorno's cheek. It was so nice and cool that Giorno couldn't resist leaning into it briefly before he remembered himself and pulled away.
Bucciarati clicked his tongue. "I was afraid you might be getting sick," he said. "You seemed a little out of it today."
Giorno looked away, embarrassed, but unable to help sniffing. "I'm okay. Just tired."
Bucciarati gave him a look. "You're quite warm. Will you at least let me take your temperature?"
Giorno sighed, but nodded, his head still feeling like it was going to roll off his shoulders. He allowed Bucciarati to help him up. As soon as he got to his feet, another wave of vertigo overcame him and his stomach rolled unpleasantly. He squeezed his eyes shut as he sank back down against the pillows.
"I'll be right back," Bucciarati promised him.
Giorno sat, trying to breathe through his nose to abate the nausea, but he couldn't breathe very well due to his congestion. The nausea wasn't going anywhere either, saliva gathering in the back of his mouth. He swallowed hard, but it didn't do anything for him. He had the horrible feeling that he was going to vomit.
Please no, please no, Giorno pleaded, trying to keep his body in check. The last thing he wanted to do was vomit.
He felt bile rise in his throat all the same though, and knew there was no chance that he was going to be able to fight it anymore. He pushed himself off the bed, dizziness coming over him as he staggered toward the door, hoping to get to the bathroom in time.
As soon as he reached the door though, he knew it was a losing battle. His stomach heaved and he grabbed onto the door frame, knees shaking as he sank down, choking up what little he'd eaten for dinner.
His stomach ached and his head was splitting, but worse still was the mortified terror that overcame him as he stared dizzily at the puddle of vomit on the floor.
He could hear footsteps hurrying up the stairs, and memories flashed behind his eyes.
"What the hell did you do, brat? You're gonna clean that up yourself. I said get up and clean it, damn it!"
"Giorno!"
Giorno flinched, expecting to feel the crack of a belt across his shoulders, but instead he felt a kind hand settle there over the old scars, another brushing his hair away from his face.
"M'sorry," Giorno choked, swallowing sickly before he felt the urge to throw up again.
"Shh, it's okay, here let's get into the bathroom."
Bucciarati helped him up and Giorno unconsciously clung to him as the older man rushed him across the hall to the bathroom.
Giorno collapsed in front of the toilet just in time for his stomach to rebel again. Bucciarati wrapped an arm around his chest to keep him upright, holding his hair back.
"Easy," he murmured as Giorno choked, tears and snot running down his face as his body continued to rebel. When his stomach finally seemed to have had enough, he slumped, muscles slack. Bruno's hand shifted to rub up and down his back soothingly as he reached for a washcloth with the other and wet it in the sink.
"Come here," he murmured and wiped Giorno's face and mouth. Giorno was too weak to protest or do anything to stop him. He simply slumped there on the cold floor, mortified that this was happening at all.
"Sorry," he whispered again, clearing his throat. "I'll clean it up, promise…"
"No, Giorno," Bruno said firmly. "All you need to worry about is getting back in bed."
"But I—"
"Shh," Bucciarati handed him a glass of water to rinse his mouth out with then stroked his hair away from his sweaty face again and his brow furrowed. "You really are rather warm. Let's get you back in bed, hm?"
Giorno hesitated, his stomach still feeling unreliable. Bucciarati seemed to understand and grabbed the bathroom trash can. "We'll bring this, just in case, okay?"
Giorno nodded and pushed himself shakily back onto his feet with Bucciarati's help. It seemed like a long way back to the room, and Giorno gratefully sank down on the bed as Bucciarati propped the pillows behind him. Where had his energy gone? He'd been tired earlier, but now he felt like all his vitality had been drained completely.
Bucciarati reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out the thermometer, sitting on the side of the bed.
"Open?" he coaxed and Giorno let him slip the thermometer under his tongue. They both sat there in silence until it beeped and Bucciarati retrieved it, his brow furrowing as he read the number.
"103.2," he murmured. "No wonder you feel horrible, caro."
Giorno's body ached in agreement and he closed his stinging eyes. "Just need some sleep," he murmured.
"Sleep would definitely help," Bucciarati said. "Let me go clean up and I'll see if I can find you some medicine."
Giorno felt another surge of guilt as Bruno went to clean up his vomit. That wasn't his job, it was Giorno's fault he had been so stubborn and hadn't gotten to the bathroom in time. As he went to get some cleaning supplies, Giorno attempted to pull himself upright again, at least meaning to help out, but the second his body shifted, his head swam and another wave of nausea crashed over him again. He was just barely able to grab the trash can this time in order to choke up nothing but bile.
"Giorno," Bucciarati dropped the stuff he was carrying by the door and hurried in, gripping Giorno's shoulder before he could fall off the bed again. He clicked his tongue sympathetically as he grabbed a tissue to wipe Giorno's mouth. "I told you to lay down."
"But I…" Giorno tried to protest, throat burning from the acidic bile.
"Giorno, it's okay," Bucciarati assured him, meeting his eyes sincerely. "It's okay."
Giorno felt tears prick his eyes, in both frustration and also from the kindness Bucciarati was for some reason showing him.
That was when the door creaked open further. "What the hell is going on?"
Giorno nearly shrunk behind Bucciarati in mortification as he helped him lay back down. Abbacchio was the last person he wanted to see him like this.
"Is the kid sick?"
Bucciarati glanced back over his shoulder. "He seems to have caught something. He has a pretty high fever. Could you go check the medicine cabinet for something to give him?"
Abbacchio shook his head. "We ran out of that stuff when Narancia had that bad cold." He sighed, eyes roving over Giorno's pitiful figure, something in his usually hard face softening. "Let me go get dressed though, and I'll run to the drugstore."
"Thank you, Leone," Bucciarati said gratefully.
Giorno lay in bed, trying to find sleep again as his body just continued to throb. His bed didn't feel nearly as comfortable as it usually did.
Bucciarati finished cleaning up the mess Giorno had made and then returned to the room with a wet cloth and a bowl of water. He set that on the side table and sat on the edge of the bed before pressing the cloth to Giorno's face.
It felt so good Giorno groaned and leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut again as Bucciarati continued down his face and neck before returning the cloth to the bowl to refresh it with cold water.
At that moment the simple ministration felt better than anything he had ever experienced. And yet, it wasn't right that Bucciarati was doing this. He should be sleeping. He didn't have to take care of Giorno. No one did. Giorno was more than capable of taking care of himself, even when he was sick. He always had.
"You c'n go to bed," Giorno murmured.
"Shh," Bucciarati shushed him. "It's no trouble, GioGio. Just rest."
He drifted for a little bit and then became aware of quiet voices and rustling before someone shook his shoulder.
"I just need you up for a couple minutes to take your medicine," Bucciarati said and Giorno groaned as he blinked his eyes open and watched Abbacchio measure out the medicine and hand it to Bruno who slipped one hand behind Giorno's head so he could drink.
Giorno swallowed the thick concoction with a cringe, coughing slightly, his stomach rebelling again. He squeezed his eyes shut.
"Let's make sure that stays down before I give you the fever reducer," Bucciarati murmured, going back to dabbing the cloth across Giorno's burning face.
He vaguely remembered taking the other pills an indeterminate time later and then he figured he must have finally drifted off.
He expected to wake up alone. Somewhere in his fevered mind, he was lying on the old mattress in his tiny room, left to his own devices as he sweat out a fever that was probably dangerously high. A place where there were no kind hands and calming voice murmuring reassurances.
But instead he blearily blinked his eyes open to see Narancia leaning over him with a worried expression.
"Hey," the boy said when he saw Giorno stirring. "Bucciarati said you were sick."
Giorno hummed in acknowledgement, still insanely groggy. His chest spasmed and he turned quickly to muffle his cough in his blanket, chest aching.
"Can I get you anything?" Narancia asked, clasping and reclasping his hands in front of him.
Giorno shook his head, not knowing what he wanted. He still just hurt and could tell the fever hadn't left yet.
"You're gonna be all right…right?" Narancia asked.
Giorno muffled another cough, and curled his lips in a small smile. "Just a cold, Nara. M'fine."
"Good. Because I…it would really suck if you died on Christmas." Narancia grinned but Giorno could tell it was forced. He didn't think he was that bad off, unless the others knew something he didn't…but then, Narancia had lost his mother to sickness so it made sense that he would be a bit touchy about the subject. He'd been bad enough when he'd been sick himself.
"Narancia, let Giorno sleep."
Giorno looked up to see Fugo coming into the room. The other boy cast a glance toward Giorno. "Sorry. Can we get you anything while you're up? Some tea?"
"M'be later," Giorno murmured, already feeling exhaustion pull him under again. His eyes aching from the fever that didn't seem to want to stop. He thought he heard Narancia and Fugo pulling chairs over to the bed instead of leaving after a whispered conversation. As much as he hated the idea of showing weakness to the rest of his team, the thought of not being left alone comforted him as he drifted off.
He woke sometime later to a blessedly cool hand on his cheek and cracked his eyes open as he felt someone pressing something against his lips.
"Just checking your temperature," Bucciarati's calming voice reassured him and Giorno waited to hear the beep from the thermometer.
"How's his fever?" Fugo's voice filtered in.
"Still climbing," Bucciarati said grimly and pulled back one of the blankets on top of Giorno, leaving him with nothing but the thin sheet.
Giorno whimpered, instantly shivering, the cold making his body ache all the more fiercely, but Bucciarati simply stroked his hair again and started cooling his face and chest with a rag. "Shh…I know it's uncomfortable, but we need to try and get the fever down. Just rest."
Giorno tried, but now his body seemed to be past pure exhaustion enough that the fever-induced nightmares began to creep in.
They were cruel. They always were when he had them, except these weren't memories from a past he would rather forget; they painted new painful scenarios that his fevered mind considered to be truth.
Bucciarati stood in the doorway, a look of disgust plain on his face as Giorno lay in bed, too weak to move.
"How do you plan on running Passione if you can't even get out of bed? You're nothing but a weak child, Giorno Giovanna. I'm disappointed. If you don't get better by tomorrow I'll have no choice but to turn you out."
"No, it's just a cold," Giorno protested. "I just need a couple days..."
"That's not possible, I'm afraid," Bucciarati replied. "You've overstayed your welcome here." He stepped back. "Take him out of here. He's going back where he belongs."
"No, wait! I can do better!" Giorno cried as the others all came in, glowering at him, even Trish and Narancia. They grabbed his arms, pulling him from his bed and dragging him to the front door. He had no strength to protest and the next thing he knew he was back in his old house, on his knees in front of his stepfather who already had his belt in hand.
"You worthless brat," the man spat. "Have you learned your place yet?"
"Stop," Giorno pleaded as his stepfather raised the belt. He raised his hands, trying to shield himself from the blows, body aching, bile rising in his throat, and…
"Giorno!"
Giorno swam through the depths of the nightmare once again to kind hands on either side of his face, a thumb wiping away a stray tear. Bucciarati sat on the edge of the bed, bent over him with concern. A soft sob escaped Giorno's throat, mortifying him. He didn't seem to be able to stop it in his current state.
"Shh, it's just a fever dream," Bucciarati soothed. There were soft whispers behind him and somewhere in Giorno's fever-addled mind, he was mortified that anyone else had seen this. He was weak, he knew it. His team probably would be better off without him…
Someone, Mista, handed Bucciarati a fresh bowl and cloth, before reaching down and giving Giorno a fond squeeze to the shoulder. Bucciarati began to wash Giorno's brow again. Giorno instinctively reached out to grab his sleeve, trying to convey that he didn't want to leave. Please don't make me go back there.
Bucciarati took the hand into his free one, squeezing gently. "I'm not going anywhere," he reassured.
Giorno let his eyes slide shut again. The next time he woke, Trish was there with Narancia again, nudging him awake.
"You need to stay hydrated," Trish told him, holding up a bottle of water. "Here."
She helped prop him up as Narancia held the bottle for him to drink from. Giorno hadn't realized how thirsty he was and gulped at the water excessively, nearly spilling it down his chin. When he had to take a break to breathe, Trish replaced the cold cloth on his forehead, leaning him back against the pillows again.
"Do you feel up to trying something to eat?"
Giorno's stomach still felt sick, but that might be because of its current emptiness. He shrugged. "Okay," he croaked.
Narancia sat with him while Trish went to grab some soup and crackers, bringing it back in a mug for him. He shakily cupped it and sipped at the broth, fighting the nausea as it hit his stomach. He managed about half of it before he had to hand it back.
"That's a good start," Narancia coaxed with a smile. "Maybe you'll even feel good enough to join us for Christmas dinner."
"Maybe," Giorno murmured, already exhausted again as he slumped back.
He drifted, but was pulled back to wakefulness by an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. He groaned, pushing himself up again.
"Hey, you good, GioGio?" Mista's voice filtered in and Giorno realized he was sitting beside his bed currently.
"Gon—gon'a be sick," he whispered.
Mista was quick on the draw, grabbing the bucket and lifting Giorno into a sitting position just in time for him to vomit again. Giorno choked and shivered, his throat raw as he squeezed his eyes shut, ashamed.
Mista rubbed his back kindly. "Easy, kiddo, just get it out. The fever's probably making it hard for you to keep food down."
Giorno gagged again, stomach muscles aching as they spasmed once more. Mista let him rinse his mouth and wiped his face before laying him back down, shifting his hand to Giorno's stomach in a gentle massage. Giorno was too exhausted to feel embarrassed anymore.
"Let's give it a few minutes and then I'll give you your next dose of medicine," Mista told him.
Giorno nodded weakly and closed his eyes again.
It went like that for the next few hours. Giorno thankfully didn't throw up again, but he didn't try eating either. His fever was still stubborn, fluctuating constantly whenever Bucciarati checked it. And the nightmares still assaulted him on top of everything.
He awoke from one, biting back a plea only to see, to his shame, Abbacchio watching him from his seat by the bed, leaning toward him slightly.
"Easy, kid," he said. "Whatever you were seeing, it's not real."
Giorno gulped air, peeling back the sweat-soaked blankets before quickly scrubbing wetness from his eyes. Abbacchio shifted and wrung out the cloth again before plopping it across Giorno's forehead.
"Whr's Bucc'rati?" Giorno murmured, his nightmare still flashing behind his eyes. Had the man finally given up on him?
"I made him take a nap. He'll be back in a couple hours, I promise."
Giorno sank back in the bed, looking away, surprised that Abbacchio was bothering to look after him. He didn't think that was really his thing.
"I know how much nightmares suck and the fever on top of it doesn't help," Abbacchio told him. "But they're not real. Or…they're not now," he emphasized.
Giorno was surprised by his understanding. "Thank you," he murmured. "I know that, it's just…"
"Yeah. I get it." Abbacchio cocked his head to one side before he stood up. "Hold on a second, okay? I'll be right back."
Giorno waited, wondering what the goth was doing, and was surprised when he came back with a gift bag, plopping it down next to Giorno.
"Here. You can open my gift early. It might help."
Giorno peered at the older man incredulously, wondering if this was another fever dream. "You got me something?" he asked.
Abbacchio snorted, folding his arms over his chest. "'Course I did. Idiot."
Giorno clumsily reached into the bag and pulled out a portable CD player and a pair of headphones. Abbacchio took it from him to start opening it up.
"Don't know if it will help you or not, but sometimes I listen to music to go to sleep. It helps with the nightmares. You got any CDs?"
Giorno shook his head. Abbacchio left again and came back with several CDs, all classical music. He popped one into the player and plugged the headphones in, settling them around Giorno's head before he pressed play.
Calming violin music sounded through the headphones and Giorno found himself relaxing.
"Thank you, Abba," he murmured.
The goth's black lips twitched slightly, sitting back in the chair as Giorno closed his eyes again, drifting off.
The next time he woke it was to Bucciarati stripping the sheets from off of him. Giorno shivered as the air hit him, his body soaked. He moaned, clutching his wet shirt in discomfort.
"Hold on, Giorno, I'll take care of that in a second."
Giorno blinked tiredly as Bucciarati rummaged through his dresser and came up with a fresh pair of pajamas.
"Your fever finally broke; that's why you're sweating so much," he said with a smile as he came back over to Giorno. "Raise your arms?"
Giorno obediently put his arms up as he allowed Bucciarati to dress him like a child, shifting him to the other side of the bed with a dry blanket, much more comfortable. Giorno settled down, still feeling completely exhausted, but his body didn't ache so much anymore, nor did he feel as chilled. He just couldn't keep his eyes open for long.
Bucciarati sat on the side of the bed, fluffing his pillows before slipping a hand behind Giorno's head so he could drink easier. Once Giorno had taken several more gulps of water, he forced his eyes open to meet Bucciarati's.
"Thank you," he whispered. "You did't hav'to…do all this."
Bucciarati gave him one of the softest smiles Giorno had ever seen and reached out to push the damp curls from his forehead. "Everyone deserves to have someone look after them when they're in need, caro ragazzo."
Maybe, just maybe, Giorno was beginning to accept that. He managed to smile back, eyes heavy.
Bucciarati tucked him in more securely. "Get some more rest. You need to get your strength back."
Giorno didn't need him to say it twice. He let his eyes slide shut and was pretty sure he felt Bucciarati press a fond kiss to his forehead when he was drifting off.
He felt even better the next time he woke to find Narancia sitting beside him with an eager smile.
"Hey! Merry Christmas, Giorno!" he said.
Giorno glanced toward the window, seeing the silvery light of early morning filtering through.
"How…long have I been asleep?" he asked, voice hoarse. He cleared it, feeling how raw it was, and Narancia instantly reached for a water bottle that was sitting on the bedside table.
"You pretty much slept all day yesterday. Bucciarati said your fever broke sometime around one in the morning," Narancia told him as he handed Giorno the bottle and helped prop him up.
Giorno sipped at it, feeling it soothe his throat. His stomach thankfully didn't feel nauseous anymore and though he still felt a full body exhaustion, the aches from the fever were gone. He still felt like he could sleep for another day though.
That was when a sudden thought struck him and he felt a surge of guilt as he turned toward Narancia.
"Sorry that I messed up everyone's Christmas plans," he said quietly.
Narancia shook his head, leaning his arms on the bed. "You didn't mess anything up. The day only just started. We're just glad you're feeling better."
Giorno was grateful, but he was still a little disappointed. After all, he didn't really think he would feel up to participating much in any celebration and he had been looking forward to it.
"Hey, I'll be right back. Bucciarati wanted to know when you were awake," Narancia told him. "And I've gotta get everyone else up." He grinned as he hurried out of the room.
Bucciarati came in a few minutes later, his robe wrapped around him. He had dark circles under his eyes, but he was smiling.
"You look better," he said, pressing the back of his hand against Giorno's cheek to make sure the fever was gone. "How do you feel?"
Giorno shrugged. "I don't feel sick to my stomach, and, despite a bit of congestion, I actually feel pretty good. Just tired."
Bucciarati nodded sympathetically. "Having such a high fever can take a lot out of you. How would you like a shower, and then I can get you some tea and toast to eat?"
Giorno nodded. Bucciarati helped pull him from the bed and gathered fresh clothes as Giorno made his way slowly to the bathroom. It felt amazing to wash off all the fever sweat, the hot steam working to open his sinus as well.
He almost didn't want to get out of the shower, but his energy was nearly depleted just from standing under the water for fifteen minutes so he reluctantly turned it off and got out, toweling off and blow-drying his hair so he wouldn't have to feel it stick to his neck again.
When he reemerged and headed back to his room, he was shocked to see the transformation it had taken.
Lights had quickly been strung around the room, garlands placed across the head of his bed, and his dresser top and the pile of presents had been moved from where they had been sitting under the Christmas tree in the living room to the foot of Giorno's bed.
Everyone else was crowded into the room, Trish and Mista handing out hot drinks.
They all looked over at Giorno as he entered.
"Merry Christmas, Giorno!" Trish told him with a smile.
"You didn't have to…"
"And let you miss Christmas?" Mista snorted as he came over and wrapped an arm around Giorno's shoulders, pulling him back toward the bed where the blond was settled carefully and a cup of tea was placed in his hands. "No way. This is your first one with us. It's special."
More than Mista could imagine, Giorno was sure. Especially since he had never really had the chance to actually celebrate Christmas at all.
"We really don't mind having it here," Narancia assured him, plopping down at Giorno's feet. "Makes no difference to me as long as we're all together. You can even sleep through most of it if you get tired. Maybe later we can move to the couch to watch Christmas movies."
Giorno smiled into his tea, feeling warm from more than just the hot drink. He didn't know why he had ever let those nightmares worry him. He had been fevered after all. He knew there was no way that his team, his family, would ever kick him out.
"Thank you," was all he could manage, so overwhelmed.
Bucciarati stepped forward and placed a hand on the top of his head as he set a small wrapped box in Giorno's lap. "Of course, caro. Merry Christmas, Giorno."
As much as he hated being sick, Giorno couldn't deny the fact that maybe, in this case, it had been a blessing in disguise.