Archive of Our Own ^beta

“I...actually have heard of something like this before.” Polnareff doesn’t sound like he wants to impart this information, but that only piques Giorno’s interest further.

“Please explain.”

Polnareff sighs, leaning forward to set his teacup on the coffee table. They’re in Mr. President’s room, taking a short break before Giorno has to make an appearance at a meeting, and Polnareff’s easy-going attitude evaporated when Giorni raised his question. “It’s not actually too uncommon,” Polnareff starts. “A stand power turning inward and attacking the user, I mean. I’ve seen it a few times. Heard about it a few more.”

Giorno nods seriously, taking in the anxious drumming of Polnareff’s fingers against his metal knee.

“It usually occurs when the user isn’t strong enough to handle their stand.”

“I assure you, that is not true in this case.”

“No, I know that, kid.” Polnareff pats him on the arm. “Trust me, I know that. It can also happen when a stand user’s heart is...infirm. Or confused. When their conscious intentions don’t match their unconscious ones.”

Furrowing his brows, Giorno sits forward. “My intentions have never wavered.”

“I’m just telling you what I know. Stands are reflections of your true self, you know? Sometimes they know stuff you don’t.” Polnareff scratches the back of his head. “Though I’m probably not the best person to ask about...your situation.”

“But you’ve seen something like it?”

“I’ve seen people go catatonic when their body rejected their stand, but your case...I’ve only seen one like it.” He takes a deep breath, eyes growing distant in a way Giorno recognizes. He’s remembering Egypt. “One of my traveling companions...something similar happened to him on our journey.”

“Flowers?” Giorno asks. He’d like to be sensitive, but they really don’t have the time.

“No, gemstones. One of his stand abilities could manifest emeralds to shoot as projectiles, and after we left India, he….” Polnareff swallows, lips pressed into a thin line. “Started coughing them up.”

A buzz of anxiety creeps down Giorno’s spine. “What happened?”

“Well, we weren’t sure what to make of it,” Polnareff explains. “We couldn’t go to a doctor because it was obviously stand-related. And he insisted he was fine. They were just tiny shards anyway. We decided we’d keep an eye on it and deal with it after we’d accomplished our mission.”

“His condition—” Giorno prompts, “—did it worsen?”

Polnareff smiles grimly. “Never got a chance to find out. He was killed in Egypt. We never found out what was causing it or how it would progress.”

“I’m sorry,” Giorno says genuinely. He’s apologized countless times for his father’s monstrous actions all those years ago, and he means it every time. Atoning for events he had no control over is useless, but attempting to provide comfort to a friend isn’t.

Polnareff waves a hand. “Nothing we can do about it now. But—” he levels Giorno with a somber look. “If you think your stand is causing you to cough up flower petals, we might have a problem.”

“Yes, it would be inconvenient to drop dead of some unknown ailment,” Giorno agrees. “I’m finally getting things in order with Passione.” After nearly four years, he’s managed to get a handle on the majority of Italy’s underground activities, and it would be such a waste to let it all go now.

“Plus, your life might be on the line.” Polnareff rolls his eyes. “You Joestars are all the same. Speaking of—” he retrieves a pen and pad from the coffee table and scribbles on it. “I don’t know much about what might be causing your problem, but I’m going to give you my old friend’s number. He was closer to Kakyoin than the rest of us. We never talked about it after the trip, but he might know something.” Polnareff tears the sheet off and holds it out.

Giorno accepts it and glances down at the looping scrawl.

Jotaro Kujo.

Giorno considers the scant information he gleaned from Polnareff later that day, after his meeting.

Since a stand is a manifestation of your will, it makes sense that severe infirmity might raise problems. A disconnect between conscious and unconscious desires. Giorno can’t think of anything that’s been giving him pause lately, but he’s not so vain as to believe he has complete mastery of himself. He knows enough about psychology to understand the complexity of the human mind, and while Gold Experience has always been completely in tune with him, he’s still young and growing. Any number of things could have affected—

“Ah—!” Giorno’s thoughts scatter like marbles at a particularly vigorous thrust from Mista, and he grabs at Mista’s shoulders, shuddering.

“Am I not entertaining enough for you, Boss?” Mista asks, using his grip on Giorno’s waist to lift him up and yank him back down, burying himself to the hilt again. “Something else got your attention?”

Giorno moans, squirming in Mista’s lap. They’re behind Giorno’s huge desk, seated in his leather desk chair and filling the ornate office with heavy breathing and the wet slap of skin on skin, as they do fairly frequently these days. When Giorno turned eighteen, they naturally found their relationship turning physical. It only made sense; they both needed the stress relief, and it wasn’t like they could have relations with many other people. Giorno was always busy, and while Mista had a few girlfriends in the intervening years, the nature of his job made long-term relationships with people outside of the organization tricky. Giorno, seeking intimacy, could hardly turn to any of his other immediate subordinates. As attractive as Buccellati is, he’s not really Giorno’s type. Same with the others.

Mista, on the other hand, swarthy and muscular, experienced in sex, knows how to give Giorno exactly what he needs.

Like when he grinds up, quick and filthy, striking deep before pulling out and dragging the head of his cock deliberately against Giorno’s g-spot, Giorno cries out, hairline prickling with sweat.

Mista laughs, deep and throaty, lifting Giorno completely off his cock. Giorno can feel the tip just brushing his folds and twists impatiently against Mista’s grip.

“There we go,” Mista hums. “Focus up, lucky boy. We have to finish before the car gets here.”

“Since when are you such a taskmaster?” Giorno pants, flexing his fingers against the dense muscles of Mista’s shoulders. “Usually, I have to remind you about appointments.”

Mista smiles crookedly, slipping one hand down to pump two fingers into Giorno’s dripping cunt. “Not when the appointment is at Notte Piovosa. They make the best white sauce in Napoli.”

Giorno breathes out harshly through his nose, clenching around Mista’s seeking digits and moaning when they press his g-spot. “I apologize for losing focus.”

“You’re very docile today.” Mista teases his thumb against Giorno’s clit, flicking his nail against the hardened nub, and Giorno squeaks, abdominal muscles contracting with the zing of pleasure that zips through him. “Something on your mind?”

There is, but Giorno doesn’t want to think about the petals he’s been finding in his teeth every morning, or the whole flowers that fall from his lips during private, uncontrollable coughing fits. Right now, all he wants to think about is Mista’s broad, calloused hands on his skin, Mista’s deep, smiling voice in his ear, and Mista’s long, hard cock in his pussy.

“Nothing that’s not always on my mind.” Giorno bucks down, chasing Mista’s thumb and lodging Mista’s fingers deeper into himself. “But that’s what I have you for.”

Mista laughs. “Can’t argue with that.” In one fluid motion, he slides his fingers out and replaces them with his cock, slamming home instantly.

Giorno gasps, throwing his head back. Mista’s mouth latches onto his pulse point, planting hot, open-mouthed kisses along his throat as Giorno rocks in his lap, savoring the stretch of Mista inside him. Giorno doesn’t have anyone to compare him to, but he knows Mista is bigger than average, possibly much bigger than average, and he can’t get enough of how full he feels. It rides the line between satisfying and painful, but today Giorno is wet and gagging for it, so they fit together smoothly, Mista nestled deep and throbbing in his cunt.

Taking charge, Giorno lifts up, feeling his walls flutter in the wake of Mista’s length, then drops back down, stuffing himself full again and moaning.

“Alright, Boss,” Mista rasps, settling his hands on Giorno’s thighs, squeezing the muscles. “Take what you need.”

Giorno blinks down at him, through the golden hair escaping from his buns to drape over his eyes, and winds his fingers into Mista’s own hair, gripping the coarse black curls usually hidden by his hat, which is discarded on Giorno’s desk. “Cheeky today.”

When Mista smiles, his left dimple winks at Giorno. “I’m cheeky every day.”

He is, and Giorno wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Tightening his grip on Mista’s hair, he rises up again before slamming down, setting a punishing pace, in time with the rapid hammering of his heart. Work is going well, a far cry from those shaky first few years as the Don of Passione, and thanks to his team’s diligent work, Giorno’s stress levels have mellowed considerably, and yet he finds himself craving this more and more. It’s a little perplexing, but as long as Mista is willing to indulge him, Giorno doesn’t see a problem.

And Mista is always more than willing, enthusiastically fucking Giorno’s lights out every time Giorno so much as hints that he’s in the mood. It really is beneficial that his right hand man is able to read him so well. Like now, when Giorno finds himself gasping for breath, thighs shaking with effort, Mista picks it up immediately and wraps his arms around Giorno’s waist, rising fluidly to his feet.

“Wha—” Giorno’s words cut off on a moan as the motion causes Mista to jerk inside him, and then the world is tilting. Suddenly he’s flat on his back on the desktop, Mista leaning over him with a self-satisfied grin.

“Nevermind,” he says, hooking his hands under Giorno’s knees and spreading his legs even further. “I’ll take care of things, boss. Just lie back and enjoy it.”

Giorno has half a mind to scold him for being cocky, but that half quickly dissolves under Mista’s renewed rhythm, unable to focus on anything but the sweet glide of Mista’s length in and out of his cunt, the addicting burn of his walls expanding to accommodate, the pleasure buzzing through his limbs and pooling in his stomach. He reaches up and grabs the edge of the desk, bracing himself against the motions. Mista may be cocky, but it’s definitely not unearned. He’s clearly experienced and confidence shines through every expert snap of his hips, every rough handprint on Giorno’s body.

Using one hand under Giorno’s knee to keep him spread helplessly, Mista skates his other hand up Giorno’s bare chest, lightly pinching his nipple. Giorno arches his back, pushing into the touch and Mista chuckles, squeezing harder and twisting slightly.

“Hn!” Giorno’s hands go white-knuckled on the edge of the desk and he clenches down on Mista’s cock as he feels the familiar heat surge in his core. “M—Mista—coming—!”

“Yeah, me too,” Mista pants, flattening his hand against Giorno’s chest. Giorno’s skin is so flushed, deep pink blooming across his shoulders and down his torso, that he shouldn’t be able to feel a difference in heat, but Mista’s large, calloused hand still sears directly into him. “Come on, GioGio—I’ve got you—”

With a wordless cry, Giorno lets the scorching tide overflow. He screws his eyes shut as the blaze rips through his muscles and whites out his brain, shuddering from the force of it. Distantly, he feels Mista’s pace stutter, his cock stilling in Giorno’s clenching heat, as Mista comes with a throaty groan. For an absurd second, Giorno wishes Mista was coming in him instead of in the condom.

Heart fluttering behind his ribs like a trapped bird, Giorno struggles to catch his breath, arms going slack as Mista pulls out, but before he can gather his wits, he feels two wide fingers once again sinking into him and he jolts, eyes flying open to stare down at Mista. Mista smiles impishly, ducking down between Giorno’s legs.

“One more, ladybug,” he says, crooking his fingers and drawing an overstimulated hiss out of Giorno.

“Mista, I don’t know if—”

“I believe in you.” And Mista lowers his head, licking over Giorno’s clit as his fingers scissor against Giorno’s walls.

Giorno squirms, planting both feet on the desk and throwing an arm over his eyes. Never one to slack when it comes to pleasure, Mista makes it a habit to wring as many orgasms out of Giorno as he can every time they do this, and he always prevails despite Giorno’s skepticism.

It isn’t difficult for Mista to coax the heat back into Giorno’s core with his wide fingers stroking right over Giorno’s g-spot and his tongue circling his swollen clit, and the echoes of Giorno’s orgasm creep through him tantalizingly. He gasps, chest heaving, and weaves one hand into his own hair, clutching at the long blond locks for lack of anything else to ground himself.

Mista seals his lips over Giorno’s mound, tracing his tongue through his folds, and Giorno jumps at the hint of teeth against his clit, just brushing the sensitive flesh, but even that’s enough to send bolts of electricity up his spine. His toes curl, legs shaking, and he clenches around Mista’s fingers.

“Ah—Mista—more, like that—” he babbles, words and high-pitched abortive noises falling from his mouth without his control.

Obediently, Mista increases his attention on Giorno’s clit, licking and sucking with purpose.

Giorno’s stomach tightens, spasming as waves of pleasure ebb harder and harder through his trembling frame, mounting uncontrollably until Giorno’s spine bows off the desk, heat crashing through him for the second time. He throws his head back with a keening whine, muscles locking up, thoughts silent in the buzzing pleasure flooding his senses.

Mista coaxes him through it, rubbing Giorno’s g-spot gently and keeping his mouth against Girono’s clit until Giorno goes slack on the desk, legs collapsing to dangle off the edge. When he finally pulls away, Giorno feels his cunt twitch around the sudden emptiness.

As the blinding haze starts to lift, Giorno takes a deep breath to steady himself and blinks his eyes open to see Mista leaning over him, elbows braced on the desk. The chandelier overhead backlights Mista with a soft yellow glow, haloing his thick curls and throwing the chiseled cut of his jaw into sharp relief. Black eyes glitter down at Giorno from under strong brows and Giorno’s mind wanders dazedly into reminders that Mista is a very handsome man. The perfect Sicilian male specimen. And he’s gazing down at Giorno like he’d be able to look forever.

“What?” Giorno asks hoarsely, heart thudding as his body hums, muscles still twitching.

Mista smiles, shaking his head. “You just look really good like this.”

“Like this?”

“All fucked out. Thanks to me.” Mista lowers his head to graze his teeth along the shell of Giorno’s ear and Giorno shivers weakly. “We should just run off together and do this all day.”

A strange sensation swoops low in Giorno’s chest. “Don’t...don’t say useless things.”

Mista chuckles, low and resonant in Giorno’s ear. “Just a joke, boss.” He traces Giorno’s askew buns with one finger. “But there’s nothing like a good fuck to straighten your head out, huh?”

Giorno can barely focus with Mista’s warm weight bearing him down, but he struggles to school his thoughts back in line and answer Mista’s question. “Yes. Your services are always greatly appreciated.”

Another rumbling laugh and Mista nuzzles under Giorno’s jaw. “I’m yours to command, lucky boy.”

Giorno turns his head, still blinking away stars, and meets Mista’s eyes, and for a brief, dizzying second, as Mista’s gaze darts down to his lips, Giorno thinks Mista is going to kiss him. But then Mista smiles toothily and stretches up to plant a chaste peck in Giorno’s messy hair before pushing himself up.

“Ugh, I needed that,” Mista groans, rolling his neck. “And we’ve still got twenty minutes. Not bad.”

Giorno swallows down the lump inexplicably lodged in his throat and sits up carefully, watching Mista fish a package of sanitary wipes out of a drawer and start cleaning up. The condom is quickly tied off and disposed of and Giorno permits Mista to help him get himself in order, wiping away the sweat drying on his skin and gathering his scattered clothes.

“We still on for Saturday?” Mista asks as he zips his own pants, referring to their standing weekly coffee date.

“Of course.” Giorno pulls a small mirror from his desk and tries to pat his hair back into place, still sitting naked on the edge of the desk. “Soffice has a new flavor of granita. Shall we meet there?”

“Hell yeah!” Mista beams, delighted by the simplest things as always. “We should hang at my place afterward. I’ll rent a movie.”

Giorno crosses his legs, tilting his head as a smile breaks across his face. “If you’d like.” His chest gives a now-familiar throb and he swallows. “Why don’t you go downstairs and confirm with Narancia that he’ll be coming tonight? He said he might have plans.”

“You got it, boss.” With a cheeky salute, Mista pulls his hat on and bounds out of the office, letting the door shut behind him.

As soon as he’s gone, Giorno doubles over, sliding off the desk to land kneeling on the floor as harsh, hacking coughs wrack his chest. He braces an arm on the seat of his office chair and presses a hand to his mouth, gasping and choking around the little pinpricks of pain forcing their way up his throat.

It’s worse this time than it’s ever been, and when Giorno finally catches his breath, heart hammering, and pulls his hand away, his skin is speckled with blood, dripping down his wrist and staining the delicate petals collected in his palm.

Giorno hisses through his teeth and curls his fingers into a fist, hiding the petals from sight.

Jotaro Kujo’s phone rings three times before a deep, curt voice answers.

“Professor Kujo speaking.”

“Professor,” Giorno greets, staring grimly out the window of his bedroom at the dark, rainy street below. “I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”

There’s a beat of hesitation on the other end of the line before Kujo speaks again: “You haven’t.”

“Good. And I apologize if my Japanese is rusty. I haven’t been back in a long time.”

“Giovanna.” Of course, Kujo doesn’t need to ask who he is. Giorno is almost impressed.

“Yes. I had the pleasure of meeting an associate of yours some years ago, but we’ve never spoken, despite our relation.”

“I never thought you and I would have much to say to each other.”

“No, normally, we would not.” Giorno shifts his weight from foot to foot, uncharacteristically nervous. “But I’m calling at the suggestion of Mr. Polnareff.”

Giorno can almost feel Kujo relax over the line. “I see. How can I help you, Don Giovanna?”

No questions about what his old friend is doing with the Italian mafia, just acceptance. Giorno almost wants to smile. “I’m afraid it’s a little...personal.”

Relaying the story to Kujo isn’t pleasant. The whole thing is fairly embarrassing, and admitting weakness to a man he doesn’t know makes Giorno grit his teeth, but the time for pride is long past. Kujo listens quietly until Giorno is finished, then, after a moment of dead air, he sighs.

“It’s possible your problem is similar to Kakyoin’s,” he says dispassionately. “Of course, there’s no way to know for sure, but it sounds similar.”

“Did you ever suspect the cause of your friend’s ailment?”

Another pause, but this one hangs heavily on the line. “I did. But there’s no guarantee that his cause and yours are the same.”

“Professor Kujo, this is the only lead I have,” Giorno states blandly. “I understand this is personal, but I have nowhere else to turn.”

He hears rustling on the other end, followed by the creak of what could be a desk chair. “Right,” Kujo mutters. “Now, I don’t know for sure, but I think you’re right in assuming this has something to do with an uncertainty of the heart. Kakyoin...wasn’t my friend at first, but we grew very close on our journey, and when he started coughing...I had a theory about why his stand would be rebelling like that.”

Giorno waits patiently, wrapping his free arm around himself as he stands at the window.

“He never told me,” Kujo continues, “and I never asked. I was young, and that wasn’t how I...did things. I wish—” he breaks off, swallowing audibly. “But I wasn’t completely blind. The fact of the matter is that Kakyoin got sick around the same time he fell in love with me.”

A peculiar coldness crystallizes in Giorno’s gut. “Pardon?”

“I didn’t put it together until after everything was over, but it made sense in retrospect. We weren’t really in a position where confessing was an option, and Kakyoin was very proud. If there was turmoil in his heart, it was about that.” Kujo huffs out a breath. “At least, that was my theory.”

“I see.” Giorno stares through the hazy glass of his window, jaw tight.

“Does that help?”

Giorno hesitates. “I’m not sure. But thank you for speaking to me.”

“Work this out, kid.” Suddenly Kujo sounds much older, voice weighed down with weariness. “Life’s too short to fight yourself.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“And call if you need something,” Kujo says briskly. “We’re family.”

Before Giorno can respond, the line disconnects.

He lets his phone slip from his lax fingers as he bolts for the bathroom, blood cloying the back of his throat.

In love.

It’s such nonsense that it turns Giorno’s stomach to even think about. Love is for other people. People like Bucellati and Abbacchio, with their casual touches and soft words, finding solace in each other after facing the unimaginable together. People like Trish and her sporadic stream of flighty, bubblegum romances, each one as giddy and sincere as the last. People like Mista and his tales of wooing women with music and good food, chasing the heady bliss of temporary infatuation like he chases bliss in everything else.

Not people like Giorno.

Giorno has too much to accomplish. He means too much now to the people of Italy, even if they don’t know his name or face. Passione and what it stands for are his first priority, and he knew from the moment he set his sights on the mafia that he’d never be able to share enough of himself with another person to make it worth it. And he’s never desired to.

He knows that Kujo’s account was merely meant as a suggestion and that his problem likely lies elsewhere, but the whole thing has him in such a bad mood that he can hardly hide it from his subordinates.

And to make matters worse, Mista gets himself torn up on a routine patrol and Giorno barely makes it to their privately owned clinic in time to regrow his stupid, foolhardy organs. At the very least, this whole flower situation hasn’t impeded Gold Experience’s other functionality.

Giorno doesn’t want to imagine what might happen if his powers fail him at a time like this.

“It’s as though you don’t hear a word I say,” Giorno spits, ripping his bloodstained coat off and throwing it down on the floor. A 2,000€ trench, completely ruined thanks to someone.

Mista storms through the door after him, wrestling with his own stained clothes. “I already said I was sorry!” he protests loudly. “But the reconnaissance was wrong—what do you expect me to do about that?”

“I expect you to stop flinging yourself into danger at every opportunity!” Giorno strides through the living room into his bedroom. After being freed from the clinic, Giorno wordlessly demanded that Mista come back to his flat, mostly to yell at him in private. “Believe it or not, it’s possible to do your job without winding up full of holes—hundreds of operatives do it every day!”

A scoff behind him makes Giorno bristle and he whips around to see Mista glaring at him from the doorway. “Something to say?”

“You sure are pissy today,” Mista bites out. “What crawled up your ass and died?”

Rage thundering through him, Giorno charges up to Mista, thrusting an accusing finger in his face. “It was a miracle that I got there in time today, Mista,” he hisses, head tilted back to accommodate the few inches Mista’s gained on him over the years. “If I hadn’t already been in Vomero, you would be dead right now!”

Mista grabs Giorno’s wrist, moving his hand to the side with a scowl. “But you did get there and it’s fine! You’re the one who always says it’s useless to think like that!”

True. Normally Giorno would write hindsight off as pointless and not waste time on it. The present is the present and they can only move forward, but Giorno is far too angry for that kind of logic. He bares his teeth. “If you won’t show concern for your well-being, I’ll have to reconsider your position at my side.”

Mista’s eyes widen. “Boss—”

“I can’t have an operative running around that I have to worry about,” Giorno snaps, yanking his wrist out of Mista’s grip. “If I can’t trust you to protect your life, how can I trust you to carry out your missions?”

“It’s for the sake of the mission that I—”

“We are not an organization of death anymore, Mista! We have a higher purpose!”

“I know that! That’s why I—”

“How many times do we have to go through this before you get it through your thick head!”

“I’m sorry!” Mista bursts out. “I’ll be more careful, I promise!”

Giorno scoffs and whirls around to pace into the room. “You always say that, and yet here we are!”

“I can’t change who I am!”

“If nearly dying is so integral to your sense of self, then maybe you really shouldn’t be going out into the field!”

“Giorno—” Mista’s voice cracks and then there are broad hands on Giorno’s hips, a warm chest pressed against his back. “Please don’t remove me from your side—everything I do, I do for you, and for Passione—without that—”

“Prove it,” Giorno breathes out.

Mista pauses. “What?”

Giorno turns around and seizes him by his collar, the fabric stiff with dried blood against his hands. “Clothes off, now.”

Despite his obvious confusion, Mista hastens to obey, scrambling out of his pants as Giorno pulls his shirt off impatiently.

“Get on the bed,” Giorno orders, working on his own buttons. “And don’t move.”

“Yes, sir,” Mista says breathlessly.

A few minutes later, Mista gasps, hands curled into the duvet, as Giorno seats himself completely on his cock. “How—exactly—” he pants, “—is this…proving my commitment—?”

Giorno breathes deeply around the intrusion, rocking slightly to adjust himself. He’s not as prepared as he usually is, so the stretch burns, but Giorno finds himself leaning into it, seeking the edge of pain that every motion brings. “Proving that you’re capable of listening,” he responds evenly. “Don’t touch me.”

Mista freezes, hands halfway to Giorno’s thighs, and looks up at Giorno incredulously. “What?”

“I hate repeating myself, Mista,” Giorno frowns. “This is a punishment. You’re not allowed to touch me until I decide you’ve earned it.”

“Giorno—” Mista slams his hands back onto the mattress, chuckling roughly. “Alright—you’re the boss.”

“I don’t need your permission.” Giorno rises up on his knees before sinking back down slowly, letting Mista fill him inch by inch, savoring the stretch.

“Jesus Christ—”

“No talking,” Giorno snaps, grinding down.

Mista chokes out a groan, tipping his head back.

Giorno runs his hands up Mista’s chest, over the sculpted ridges of his abs, fingertips lingering on the outlines of the new skin Giorno just grew to plug his wounds. In a few days, the scars will fade, but now, even in the dim light from the window, Giorno can see the edges clearly. He grits his teeth and lifts up again, using the hand on Mista’s abdomen to balance.

“Insolent,” he seethes, pushing down, then back up, setting a torturous pace. “If any of my other subordinates dared to speak to me as you do, I would never stand for it.”

Mista huffs out a sound that almost sounds like a laugh, but it fizzles into a cracked whine as Giorno speeds up.

“Though I suppose you have special privileges,” Giorno mocks, heat flashing through his stomach and spreading across his skin in a deepening blush. “After all we’ve been through—is that what you think? You’re beyond my authority?”

Mista’s mouth drops open, but he seems to remember himself in time and grits his teeth, hissing in a breath. Giorno feels his ribs expand under his hands and slides his touch up to grab Mista’s pecs, squeezing the firm muscle. Mista jerks, legs crooking up behind Giorno. Leaning forward to knead Mista’s chest, Giorno bounces faster, the new angle dragging the head of Mista’s cock over his g-spot with every thrust in and out, and his heart pounds harder in response.

“You’re free to make your own path,” Giorno pants, grabbing Mista by the jaw and forcing him to meet his eyes. “But as long as you choose this path, you’re mine. Your life belongs to me. Understand?”

Mista nods dumbly, eyes glassy and bright.

“Don’t ever forget that.” Giorno slips his hand down to rest around Mista’s throat, applying the slightest pressure. “No one is allowed to kill you,” he whispers harshly.

When Mista swallows, Giorno can feel the bob of his Adam’s apple against his palm, and he presses harder, just enough to hear Mista’s breath stutter. Mista twists his hands into the duvet, but he apparently can’t keep his hips from rolling up, and Giorno moans, clenching at the heat rippling through him.

“Brazen, even now,” Giorno gasps.

Mista gapes soundlessly, shaking with the effort to keep from moving. His cock throbs in Giorno’s cunt and Giorno’s breath hitches.

“Are you going to come?”

Mista grunts, hips twitching, and Giorno clicks his tongue.

“Disobedient. You can’t come until I tell you. Understand?”

Mista whines but nods jerkily, eyes squeezed shut.

“Good boy.” Releasing Mista’s throat, Giorno arches back and reaches behind himself as he rises, planting a hand on Mista’s raised knee. He slides back down, slamming home so hard he feels Mista’s cock hit his cervix and he shudders, repeating the motion until he’s riding Mista furiously. He’s definitely not prepared enough for this, but he doesn’t care, chasing the scorching pleasure of Mista’s cock spreading him just a little too wide, pounding just a little too deep.

Mista is shouting now, face turned to the side, chest heaving, and the sight of Mista completely undone beneath him sends thorns of heat directly into Giorno’s core. The only warning he gets before his orgasm hits is a twisting flutter in his stomach, and then his muscles are locking up with the crash of pleasure emanating from his pussy. He lets himself fall onto Mista’s cock completely, forcing another wave of heat through his body, and moans, head thrown back, walls pulsing in time with his racing heart.

Dimly, as he comes, he feels Mista trembling, and he blinks to see Mista staring up at him, hunger shining in his gaze. Another throb of pleasure takes his breath away.

“Go on, Mista,” he gasps. “Come in me.”

Mista wastes no time seizing Giorno around the waist and fucking into him with a sharp snap of his hips. The last threads of Giorno’s climax reignite and he spasms as a renewed surge of heat courses through him, extending his orgasm into something helpless and almost painful. He’s barely even coherent enough to understand what happened when Mista goes rigid against the bed, thrusting up one last time and crying out as he empties himself into Giorno’s pulsing cunt.

Giorno feels the hot rush release inside him and shivers in satisfaction.

For a second, Giorno can only sit there, with Mista’s cock softening in his pussy, and breathe, trying to calm his heart and sort out the sensations skittering through his body.

Mista’s hands flex on his waist, thumbs stroking the skin of his sides absently. “Shit,” Mista breathes. “A condom—I’m sorry Giorno, I—”

“It’s fine.” Giorno inhales deeply, patting Mista’s chest. “I wanted it.” Truthfully, when he started sleeping with Mista, Giorno invested in a birth control implant. Better to be safe than sorry.

Mista offers him a half-smile. “I guess that means I can talk now?”

Giorno responds with an unimpressed stare. Sighing, he lifts up, letting Mista slip out of him, and dismounts, sliding off the bed. His entire lower half feels frayed and over-sensitive, his labia tingling uncomfortably, and he nearly jumps at the sensation of Mista’s cum dripping down his thighs.

“Holy shit.”

Turning, Giorno finds Mista propped up on the mattress, staring at him through the dim light. His eyes are focused between Giorno’s legs and Giorno feels an unwelcome zing of heat.

“We should do it raw more often,” Mista rasps. “That’s a good look on you.”

Giorno shakes his head. “You’re insatiable.”

Mista barks out a laugh, pushing himself upright and standing up beside Giorno. “Big words from the guy who just shoved me down and had his way with me.” He swoons theatrically, placing a hand on the small of Giorno’s back. “How will I ever wed a respectable man now, Mr. Giovanna? You horrible brute!”

All of Giorno’s rage from earlier has been doused, either by sex or by the fact that Giorno just can’t stay mad at Mista, and so he can only smile, leaning against Mista to ease the strain in his burning thighs. “I hope you at least learned your lesson.”

“Nope!” Mista supports Giorno over to the bathroom and pushes the door open, flicking the light on. In the sudden wash of brightness, his eyes shine playfully. “Guess you’ll just have to teach me again.”

Before Giorno can reprimand him, Mista reaches down and cups his hand between Giorno’s legs, rubbing his fingertips through the spend leaking from Giorno’s folds, and Giorno jolts, grabbing Mista’s arms. “Ah—!”

Mista smirks. “Maybe I’ll listen better in the shower.”

Giorno narrows his eyes. “Insolent.”

For some reason, Kujo’s words creep back into his head, but he shoves them aside. He doesn’t have the energy to think about them right now.

“You look tired, Giorno.”

Giorno glances up from the letter he’s writing and quirks an eyebrow at Buccellati. “So do you, Buccellati.”

His Capo chuckles, depositing the USB Giorno asked for on the desk. “Not much I can do about that.”

Indeed, after his literal brush with death at the hands of Passione’s former boss, Buccellati’s health was irrevocably damaged. He’s definitely among the living, thanks to the burst of power Giorno got from the arrow, and he depends on his own stand to maintain his energy, but he’ll never be what he was. Still, he looks better and better with each passing year. His skin is still pale, his frame still thin, but some of his old vivacity has started to come back, and he maintains his usual level of poise. Giorno keeps him out of the field, but he wouldn’t trust anyone with the title of Capo more than he trusts Buccellati.

“Thank you.” Giorno picks up the USB and eyes it, hoping that the footage he needs is saved within.

“Is something wrong?” Buccellati asks, never one to beat around the bush.

“What makes you think that?”

“Don’t play with me, Giorno Giovanna.” Buccellati plants his hands on the desk and leans forward, forcing Giorno back. “I can tell when you’re lying, remember?”

Giorno holds his imperious gaze unflinchingly. “How would Abbacchio feel about you licking another man?”

“Leone is very understanding.” Buccellati squints. “And I know you well enough by now that I don’t need to lick you.”

“I have been busy,” Giorno says calmly. “You know as well as I do that we’ve been having issues with headhunters from Venice. Any weariness you’re sensing is from that.”

Buccellati regards him coolly for a moment. “Interesting.” He pulls back, standing up straight, and tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. He’s grown it out a few inches and today it’s pulled into a casual half ponytail to match his loose sweater and slacks. “You haven’t lied to my face like that since I met you.”

Giorno bristles. “I—”

“Save it,” Buccellati waves a hand. “You’re not a child anymore. If you want to keep secrets, then that’s your business. Just don’t let it get in the way of our work.”

Giorno purses his lips. “If you know me as well as you say you do, then you know I would never allow that.”

“Hm.” Buccellati casts him a searching look but doesn’t press the issue. “Fine. Just get some rest tonight.”

“Of course, madre.”

Buccellati shakes his head at the old joke and checks his watch. “Trish said she was coming by around now. I’ll go greet her.”

“Ah—yes—” Giorno sets his letter aside and drops the USB into a drawer for later perusal. “Send her up when she gets here.”

“Yes, sir.” With one last suspicious scan, Buccellati excuses himself.

As soon as he’s gone, Giorno digs his hand mirror out of his desk and squints at his reflection. He hasn’t noticed any significant changes to his appearance, but, admittedly, he hasn’t been looking. If they occurred gradually, he might not realize, with how frequently he checks his hair throughout the day.

Now, he looks closely and, sure enough, his cheekbones seem a little too prominent, his skin a little too pale, the hollows of his eyes bruised and heavy. He curses silently and reaches back into his desk for the tube of concealer he keeps in there, mostly to cover hickies or other marks that Mista leaves on him.

Holding the mirror in one hand, he dabs the makeup carefully under his eyes, blending it out with his ring finger until he at least looks a little less like a sleep-deprived corpse. The fact that his condition is becoming visible is troubling. While he doesn’t feel much different, aside from a little fatigue and the increasing coughing fits, his body is clearly being affected. If this keeps up, he shudders to think what might ultimately become of him.

A series of sharp knocks on the door startles him from his thoughts and he quickly stows the mirror and concealer away just before Trish sweeps into the room with a bright “GioGio!”

She’s dazzling in a skin-tight black dress and gladiator heels, pink hair styled perfectly atop her head, draped in a glittering shawl. Her jewelry glints in the light as she hurries across his office, arms spread.

Smiling, Giorno meets her in front of his desk, letting her throw her arms around his neck and squeezing her back. “Ciao, stella! How have you been?”

She laughs in his ear. “Dreadful! I had to lose two cars of paparazzi on my way here!”

Giorno leans back. “One word, and I can keep them away.”

“Then I would just be bored.” She beams, rubbing her hands up and down his arms. “It’s been too long!”

“One month is too long?”

“Far too long.” Pursing her lips, she pinches Giorno’s cheek. “For you too, apparently—look at you! You’re skin and bones!”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I would never.” Boldly, Trish presses her hands to Giorno’s sides. “I can feel all of your ribs. What has kept you from taking care of yourself?”

Giorno sighs. “This job has ups and down, like any other. Like yours.”

She tuts and paces away. “You think that silver tongue will get you out of anything.”

“Trish, I truly—”

“Where’s Mista?” she cuts him off, glancing around the office as though just realizing they’re alone.

Something clenches in Giorno’s chest. “Why?”

“I thought for sure he’d be in here with you. He always is.”

That brings Giorno up short. “He...he is not always with me. He has his own work.”

“His work always seems to be beside you,” she shrugs.

Giorno furrows his brows. “Are we truly together that much?”

“Don’t be silly, Giorno. This is the longest I’ve seen you alone in years. And on our dates he’s always chirping Giorno, Giorno—honestly.” She rolls her eyes, but her mouth is quirked up fondly.

Mouth inexplicably dry, Giorno darts his eyes down to the floor. “He’s very devoted to his work.”

“Oh, he’s devoted to something, alright,” she laughs.

Before Giorno can ask what she means, the sound of rapid footsteps invades the office and then, as though summoned by the mention of him, Mista appears in the doorway, shirtsleeves rolled up, hat askew, looking winded.

“Cara mia!” he exclaims, charging across the office to sweep Trish into an excited hug. “Why didn’t you tell me you were back from Paris?”

“I only flew back yesterday!” She smacks him playfully on the back. “Put me down! You’re creasing my dress!”

He laughs loudly, setting her back on her feet. “You could have called me!”

“I have higher priorities than you.” She plucks at the fabric of his shirt. “You smell good, for once. New cologne?”

“You’re so obsessed with how I smell.” Mista wraps his arms around himself, shuddering dramatically. “It’s creepy!”

They both laugh and Mista reaches over to tug Giorno into his side. “But yeah, Giorno gave me a new bottle last week. It’s nice, yeah?”

It is nice, and Giorno is bombarded by the scent, mixed with Mista’s natural musk, as Mista slings an arm around his shoulders.

“Was that counted in your salary?” Trish asks, smiling impishly.

“Nah, I just get special treatment ‘cuz I’m his favorite.”

“Slander,” Giorno deadpans, fighting back the blush threatening to color his cheeks.

Trish sobers instantly and punches Mista in the arm. “That’s right! I’m mad at you!”

“What?” Mista jerks away, rubbing his arm. “Why?”

“I leave for a month and when I come back, this is what I find?” she gestures indignantly at Giorno, who sighs. “Look at him! What have you been doing? I thought you were supposed to take care of him!”

Tensing, Mista peers at Giorno. “What do you mean? Giorno, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Mista,” Giorno quickly soothes him. “Trish thinks I look a little tired.”

“Well—” Mista flicks his gaze between Trish and Giorno, “—you’ve been working a lot lately. Everyone knows that.”

“See, Trish?” Giorno crosses his arms. “It’s as I said.”

She huffs and waves her hands. “Fine, fine. Whatever you say, GioGio. You’re right, as always. Now!” She claps. “We’re all going out to dinner tonight! All of us—call Abbacchio back from whatever belfry he’s hiding in—I’ve made reservations for seven at Fiore.”

Giorno opens his mouth to point out that a group dinner on such short notice might not be feasible, but she rolls right over him: “No, don’t even start. Italy’s most famous model is giving you an order. And bring Polnareff too, I’ve got pastries for him!”

With that, she glides out of the room and Giorno takes a deep breath.

“Hurricane Trish makes landfall again,” Mista chuckles.

Giorno smiles. Truer words.

A hand on his waist breaks Giorno out of his Trish-induced daze and he looks up into Mista’s pinched gaze. “Now that she’s mentioned it, you do look pale,” Mista murmurs, sweeping his thumb over Giorno’s cheekbone. “You sure you feel okay, boss?”

Giorno’s cheek burns. “Of course,” he says evenly. “We’ve all been busy lately. Now let’s go.” He steps out of Mista’s radius and heads for the door. “I’ll call a car.”

Mista hurries to catch up. “Nah, let me.”

It’s nice to have everyone together again, and Giorno enjoys the evening, even though he has to excuse himself several times to lock himself in the bathroom and spit out bloody flowers.

Mista opens the car door with a flourish and Giorno slides into the backseat, spine still stiff.

“Damn,” Mista whistles, plopping down beside him and pulling the door shut. “You fucking showed those assholes, Giorno!”

“My flat,” Giorno tells the driver before pushing the button to roll up the tinted divider.

“And the look on Cattaneo’s face—” Mista snickers, stretching his arms across the back of the seats. “Fuck, I never get tired of seeing you hand those stupid old men their asses.”

Giorno shucks his coat and loosens his tie to relieve some of the heat creeping up his neck. The rush of exerting his authority to the most feared men in Italy never really goes away, even after four years, but tonight he’s feeling particularly wound up. Maybe it’s the mounting stress of his secret ailment, or maybe it’s the memory of all those supposedly unflappable mobsters shrinking in the face of his cold fury, or maybe it’s how tight Mista’s suit jacket is around his biceps, the rakish fall of Mista’s curls across his forehead, the meaningful glint in Mista’s eyes when Giorno switches the car radio on and turns the volume up on some lilting orchestral piece—

“Makes me hard just watching,” Mista smirks.

“That’s convenient.” Giorno leans across the seat between them and unbuckles Mista’s belt, unzipping his pants roughly. “Because I need you to fuck my mouth.”

“Whoa—okay—” Mista shifts as Giorno palms the bulge just starting to tent the front of his underwear. “I’m definitely not complaining, but are you sure?”

Giorno doesn’t have the time or patience to explain how sure he is, how being the most powerful man in Italy occasionally leaves him with the itching, wretched need to be used, dragged down from the pedestal of fear and respect he’s placed himself on. So he just nods and pulls Mista’s underwear aside to free his swelling erection.

Fortunately, Mista knows him, and Giorno can tell he’s clued in by the way Mista hums and weaves a proprietary hand into Giorno’s hair. “Then get on with it. We’ll be back at your place in ten minutes.”

With single-minded determination, Giorno wraps his hand around Mista’s shaft, feeling it twitch heavily in his palm as it fills out, and pumps it a few times. Satisfied that it’s hard enough, Giorno licks broadly over the tip, tasting the first bitter splash of precum, before ducking his head and taking it all the way in one smooth motion.

“Shit—” Mista swears, tightening his grip on Giorno’s hair. “Hungry for it, huh?”

Giorno hums, closing his eyes and focusing on the thick weight filling his mouth, the heady scent seeping through his skull. He keeps his hand around the inches he can’t fit inside, squeezing firmly, and pulls back until his lips are resting on the head. He’s already drooling, Mista’s length glistening with saliva as it hardens even further, and he lets it pool in his mouth, coating Mista’s cock more when he goes back down.

“Yeah, alright—” Mista says above him, sounding strained. “God, that’s so good, Giorno—shit, look at you—”

Giorno forces Mista’s cock as far back as it will go, until the head is bumping the back of his throat, breathing through his gag reflex when it tingles uncomfortably, then he looks up at Mista through his eyelashes, silently demanding.

Mista, pupils blown and hair askew, angles a sharp smile down at him. “Okay, ladybug, I get it.” Without any more preamble, he fists both hands in Giorno’s hair and guides his head up, slipping him almost completely off his dick. He shifts his weight in the seat, sliding down slightly and positioning Giorno above his lap. “I’m gonna give you what you need.”

Giorno barely has time to drag in a quick breath before Mista slams his hips up, pulling Giorno down by the grip on his hair. Forcibly relaxing his jaw, Giorno plants both hands on the seat beside Mista’s legs and closes his eyes. Mista pulls out, then pushes back in, breathing hard. Giorno works his throat muscles intentionally, swallowing around Mista’s cock head, and that finally seems to do it. With a low growl, Mista tightens his grip on Giorno’s hair and fucks up into his mouth, pistoning his hips with no care for Giorno.

Giorno lets himself be used, drunk on the scent of Mista washing over his senses, the slick friction of Mista’s cock pumping in and out of his mouth, each thrust deadening a different part of Giorno’s brain until there’s nothing but Mista. The hands in his hair maneuver his head like he’s nothing but a toy, and the contrast between who he was fifteen minutes ago and who is now sends heat flooding between his legs.

All too soon, Mista’s pace is stuttering, cock lingering longer and longer at the back of Giorno’s throat. He frees one hand from Giorno’s hair to pat him twice on the back. Breathing shallowly, Giorno responds with two taps to his leg, and Mista lets out a breathy chuckle. After a few more deep thrusts, Mista stills, pressing Giorno’s head down until his nose is buried in dark, wiry pubic hair, and groans deep in his throat.

Giorno, buzzing from arousal and lack of oxygen, feels the warm release drip into his throat and he swallows reflexively, savoring the filthy slide. Mista relaxes against the seat, breathing heavily, and pulls Giorno off of his cock with a wet slurping noise.

“Fuck,” he pants, tracing his thumb over Giorno’s swollen bottom lip.

Dazed, Giorno flits his tongue out and licks Mista’s thumb, fasting his lips around it and sucking, eyelids fluttering.

“Goddamn, GioGio—” Mista smooths a hand over Giorno’s hair, grabbing his unraveling braid and pulling lightly. “It’s like you were made for this.”

Giorno moans shamelessly, the words sending another pulse of heat to his groin.

Mista smiles wickedly. “Yeah? You like that?” He pushes his thumb further into Giorno’s mouth, stroking over his tongue. “You like hearing how you were made to take my cock?”

Were he any more present, Giorno would be glad the car interior is soundproof, but as it is he just whimpers, curling his tongue around Mista’s calloused thumb.

“All those old men, and everyone in Passione—they think you’re some untouchable Apollo—” Mista hooks his fingers under Giorno’s chin and forces him back, across the seat, until he’s crowded against the car door. Giorno goes willingly, heart pounding. “But I’m the only one who knows you’re just a desperate cockslut.” Releasing Giorno’s hair, Mista reaches between Giorno’s legs and presses the flats of his fingers against where Giorno can feel himself getting wet through his fitted trousers. “Fucking—gagging for it, huh?”

Giorno jerks, squeaking around Mista’s thumb, the heat creeping all the way through him now.

“Yeah—don’t worry, lucky boy.” Mista tilts Giorno’s head to the side and licks up his throat just as the car slides to a stop. “I’m gonna put you in your place.”

The trip up to his flat is a blur to Giorno, his head filled only with Mista’s strong arm around his waist and the cloying need clawing through his veins. They don’t even make it to the bedroom, Mista forcing Giorno onto his knees in the living room and shoving Giorno’s pants down just enough to get to his pussy.

“So wet for me,” he teases, spreading Giorno’s folds. “Just from sucking my dick.”

Giorno curls his fists against the carpet and bites his lip as Mista runs a finger along his slit, spreading the slick leaking from his cunt. When Mista brushes against his clit, Giorno’s stomach muscles spasm and he whines.

“Impatient.” Mista’s touch retreats, swapped for a hand wrapped around his hip and the unmistakable pressure of a thick cock head sliding against his entrance. “I’ve got what you need—”

All the breath punches out of Giorno’s lungs as Mista buries his cock completely in one rough motion. He gasps, but Mista doesn’t give him any time to adjust, pulling out and thrusting back in. His head is a mess, shorting out from the sensation of being stuffed so full so suddenly, and he shudders helplessly, the waves of pleasure making his arms shake. A particularly violent thrust buckles his elbows entirely, but a hand in his hair keeps him from hitting the ground.

Mista hoists him up, supporting him with the grip on his hair and one hand locked around his arm, forcing Giorno’s body back to meet his thrusts. Giorno can only hang there, overwhelmed by the cock slamming in and out of him, hitched, pitchy noises falling from his slack mouth.

“That’s it—” Mista groans, “—this is where you belong, right? On the floor—with a cock in your tight pussy?”

Beyond words, all Giorno can do is clench down, cunt throbbing, toes curling inside his shoes. The hair that’s come loose from his buns is plastered to his forehead with sweat and every punch of Mista’s hips knocks his vision out of focus until the dim room around him is nothing but blurred, shapeless colors.

“Can’t even answer me anymore, huh?” Mista laughs. “Don Giovanna’s golden tongue—silenced by my cock—I could get used to this.”

Riding the relentless waves of heat crashing over him, Giorno doesn’t even realize he’s coming until he’s halfway through it, breath stuck in his chest, muscles rippling as pleasure slams into him.

Mista must feel him tighten up because his pace slows somewhat. “Did you just come?”

Giorno whimpers, slumping against Mista’s grip. Mista lets him fall this time and Giorno finds his cheek pressed into the carpet, arms limp and useless at his sides. A dense, scorching weight plasters itself to his sloped back and then Mista’s hand is back in his hair, pushing him even harder into the floor.

“Slut,” Mista hisses in his ear. “You really were made for this.”

Weak from his orgasm, with Mista’s rigid cock still buried in his cunt, Giorno can only moan.

“I should keep you like this all the time.” Mista grinds his hips mercilessly. “Docile and pretty. Full of my cock.” To illustrate, he rocks back, then forward with deliberate intensity, and Giorno feels his walls spread for every solid inch of Mista’s length. “All to myself.”

Giorno stares sightlessly ahead, fingers twitching, drool seeping out of his open mouth.

“I’m gonna come inside you,” Mista grunts. “I’m gonna stuff you so full of cum that you’ll feel it tomorrow. In all those meetings, you’ll feel it dripping out of your cunt and you’ll think about me, think about my cock in you. You’ll never be able to come with another man.” Teeth, sharp, prick Giorno’s ear and he trembles feebly. “I’m gonna ruin you,” Mista growls.

You have, you have—Giorno’s mind sings, but the words don’t form.

Mista leans back, planting one hand on the small of Giorno’s back, and resumes his frantic pace, fucking into Giorno’s lax body with renewed vigor. Giorno can only lie there and take it, gasping in shallow breaths, consumed by the heat licking up from his core. He’s barely come down from his orgasm and already another one is starting to tighten in his gut. When Mista’s other hand snakes around and presses against his clit, Giorno chokes out a low noise

“Come with me, Don Giovanna,” Mista pants, circling his finger expertly around the swollen nub. “Come on my cock again.”

Giorno feels like he’s going crazy. Mista’s heavy hand keeping him pinned to the floor, Mista’s cock pistoning in and out of his dripping cunt, Mista’s wide finger teases his clit, Mista’s hoarse voice surrounding him, chorusing with the filthy wet sounds filling the room—it’s too much. With a pitiful mewl, Giorno convulses again, seizing around Mista, and his eyes roll back as a torrent of searing pleasure takes hold of him.

Dimly, he feels Mista still, buried to the hilt, and the burst of liquid warmth deep inside him pushes Giorno over another, hidden edge, until he’s floating in a sea of buzzing, tidal heat.

He’s not sure how long he’s suspended like that. Distantly, he feels Mista pull out, and he thinks he starts to collapse to the side, but then there are solid arms around him—a feeling of weightlessness—

He vaguely registers Mista peeling his clothes off, carefully maneuvering his limbs to pull the surely ruined suit off of him. During his next flash of awareness, Mista is wiping a cool cloth over his flushed and sweaty skin, and he sighs, raising a sluggish hand to brush the hair out of his face.

“Shh,” Mista hushes, pushing his hand down and smoothing a hand over Giorno’s forehead. “Go to sleep, GioGio. I’ve got you.”

Giorno leans into the gentle touch, allowing the warm tide to carry him away again.

Giorno blinks out of dreams of piercing thorns and bloody roses to the sound of music.

The sunlight is slanting across his sheets, illuminating his state of disarray as he throws the blanket back and sits up. His loose, tousled hair falls around his bare shoulders in layered golden waves and he sweeps it out of his eyes drowsily. The music persists as he stumbles to his feet and pulls on a pair of underwear, deep and accompanied by the muffled noise of the radio.

In the bathroom, Giorno stares blankly at his reflection. Dry lips. Dark under-eye shadows. Ribs contrasting like piano keys against his ashen skin. Not a good look for the most powerful man in Italy.

Spitefully, he summons Gold Experience just to glare at its unreadable face. Nothing he tries gets any information out of the stand and he childishly wishes GE could speak like the pistols. Maybe then they wouldn’t both be so frustrated and confused.

Unwilling to look at himself anymore, Giorno grabs the shirt hanging over the shower rod and slides it on, realizing that it’s Mista’s when it nearly swallows his skinny frame. Good enough.

Running a hand through his hair, he wanders out of the bedroom, following the soft singing and the homey scent of baking bread. As he expected, Mista is in the kitchen, shirtless in a pair of sweatpants, swaying to the music drifting out of the radio and singing along absently while he putters over something on the stove. The sunlight streaming through the window casts his bronzed skin in a honeyed glow, catching in the rich chocolate of his hair, and when he turns and sees Giorno in the doorway, he lights up.

“Good morning, lucky boy!” He sets aside his pan and hurries over to catch Giorno around the waist, grinning. “I thought I’d let you sleep. After last night, you needed it.” Giorno feels his self-satisfied smirk in the chaste kiss he presses to his temple.

“What are you making?” Giorno asks, inhaling the wonderful scents filling the kitchen.

“Well, since Trish got on me about not taking care of you, I decided on something a little more substantial.” Pulling back, he leads Giorno by the hand to the kitchen counter. “How does a frittata sound?”

“If you’re cooking? Perfect.” Giorno can’t help but smile, peering down at the egg mixture Mista is combining on the stovetop.

“And of course—” Mista pops open the oven with a flourish, wafting the scent of fresh bread throughout the room. “Homemade croissants.”

“You’ve been busy this morning.”

“Anything for my dear boss,” Mista beams, sliding on an oven mitt and pulling the tray of golden crescents from the oven. He sets them aside to cool and returns to the stove, tilting the skillet skillfully to ensure the eggs are evenly spread over the vegetable. “It’s been a while since I cooked for you.”

Giorno watches, warmth spreading inexplicably in his chest, as he slides the skillet into the still-hot oven and sets the timer. “We’ve been busy lately.”

“That’s no excuse.” Mista removes his oven mitt and crowds Giorno against the counter, a wall of firm muscle and smooth olive skin. “Nothing beats a homemade meal. No wonder you look so skinny.”

“As if I need you to feed me.”

Mista quirks an eyebrow down at him. “Don’t you?” The song on the radio switches into something light and flowing and Mista perks up. “Oh, I love this song, come here, ladybug—”

Giorno is helpless to resist as Mista, all sun and warm hands, leads him into an impromptu dance around the kitchen. It’s ridiculous—they’re both barefoot, in various states of undress, and Giorno is positive they’re not doing the correct steps—but with Mista’s hand firm on his waist, keeping him pressed to Mista’s chest, and Mista’s smiling voice crooning along gently in his ear, Giorno can’t spare the will to care.

He laughs along, allowing Mista to dip him dramatically in time with the music, and when the world rights itself, he’s staring right into Mista’s twinkling, caramel eyes.

“You should look like this all the time,” Mista hums, leading them into a soft sway.

“Disheveled?” Giorno asks breathlessly.

“Loose.” Mista dimples at him and braces both hands on Giorno’s waist. Giorno offers no resistance as he’s lifted easily and placed on the counter. Mista lingers between his legs, trailing light fingertips up his thighs. “Sunny.” He tugs pointedly at the hem of Giorno’s shirt. “Wearing my clothes.”

Giorno shivers as Mista’s hand creeps higher, tracing over his hip. “We used to be the same size. What happened?”

“Guess I still had some growing to do.”

“Unacceptable.”

Mista chuckles, low and rumbling against Giorno’s shoulder. “I like it. Makes it easier to cart you around.”

Giorno smacks Mista’s bicep, half-playfully. “And who said I wanted you to do that?”

“You never complain!” Mista pulls back to twinkle down at him. “I think you secretly like your big, strong capo slinging you around like a sack of flour, boss.”

Giorno rolls his eyes. “Useless.”

“So cold!” With another laugh and a squeeze to Giorno’s bare sides, Mista moves away, drifting over to check on the bread. “All my exes loved when I carried them around, just so you know. Well, except Livia, I guess, but other than that—it shows I can take care of people! Definitely not useless.”

For some reason, the mention of Mista’s girlfriends douses the warm, bright feeling settled in Giorno’s chest, leaving him abruptly cold.

“My gun and my muscles are about all I’m good for half the time,” Mista continues blithely, scooping the croissants onto a plate. “And my dick, but that’s just between us, huh, lucky boy?”

When Mista turns to smile at him, Giorno’s chest gives a familiar spasm. He swallows hard but the pain spikes suddenly up his throat. He must make some sort of reaction because Mista’s brow furrows.

“Giorno? Something wrong?”

“No, it’s—” Giorno’s words die on an irrepressible, hacking cough and he doubles over, hands over his mouth.

“Hey—whoa—”

There’s a hand rubbing up and down his spine, but the coughs bubble out of his chest until he’s gasping, desperately trying to breath around the petals falling out of his mouth, the blood pooling in his palms. He can’t stop it—it’s not dying down—and worse, Mista can see him—

“Giorno, holy shit—what’s going on?”

“It’s—don’t—” Vision blurred by tears, Giorno struggles out of Mista’s bracing grip, sliding off the counter. He has to get out, or get a door between them—but the pain shoots through him again and his legs buckle as another wave of coughing steals his breath.

A strong arm around his middle keeps him from hitting the ground and he vaguely feels Mista sink down with him, speaking urgently in his ear, but his pulse is roaring in his ears, muting everything else.

Something is wrong. He can feel it in his bones. This is different from the other times. The pain—it’s meaningful, crystallized into something intentional, and it spears deep, past his lungs, tearing through his veins, pounding behind his eyes until Giorno is certain it’s going to rip him apart. He blinks hazily, sees red splattered on the tile in front of him, sucks in a shuddering breath—

“Giorno—!”

Another spike of agony, twisting mercilessly, sending spots flickering across his vision, and Giorno grabs desperately for Mista’s arm as the world tilts violently around him.

“Giorno, what is this? Can’t you fix this with Gold Experience?”

At the name of his stand, Giorno weakly tries to summon it, but it doesn’t come, and the effort sends more pain flooding through him. He coughs again, shaking, and clings to Mista, who tightens his grip, still babbling, but Giorno really can’t hear him anymore, sinking into thorny static—

The spots in his vision creep outward like the steadily growing pool of blood on the floor, and all Giorno can do is gasp faintly, the strength leaching from his limbs.

“Giorno—hey! Giorno! Stay with me!”

Flowers unfurl in his lungs, petals blooming from between his lips, fluttering down to land in the pooling blood, dissolving as soon as they strike the surface, and Giorno closes his eyes against the sight, Mista’s indistinct shouting ringing in his ears.

Until it isn’t anymore.

Giorno has never wished for the mercy of death.

He’s far too prideful for that. After everything he’s been through, whatever takes him out is going to have to pry his life from his hands one obstinate finger at a time.

But as he drifts in the burning, piercing paralysis, he starts to waver.

He’s not even unconscious. At least, he doesn’t think he is. He can hear, occasionally, when the static fades briefly—

“What happened? What happened!”

“I don’t know! He started coughing and—”

“Giorno! Oh god—what’s going on—”

“Leone, keep Narancia out—call Fugo—”

“Giorno, please—”

And he can feel, dimly, hands on him, always on him. Cradling his jaw, smoothing over his forehead, curled around his fingers.

“We have to take him to a hospital.”

“And what are they going to do? Look at—this! This is a stand problem!”

“This blood is real, Abbacchio!”

“He’s breathing out flowers—how do we begin to explain that?”

“Stop, you two—I’ve called our clinic, they’re at least used to stands—come on—”

If his mind wasn’t so addled by pain, he’d try to parse these snippets of conversation, but as it is it’s all just noise, scraping against the edge of his perception, and he finds himself wishing he could just sink completely into the encroaching nothingness.

“But he was fine before that?”

“Yeah! This just—it just came on—”

“Why were you at his flat, Mista?”

“What are you implying, Fugo?”

“Nothing, but I think it’s a valid question—”

“Oh, sure—”

“Guys, please don’t do this—”

The voices fade in and out of coherency, until, after what feels like years, a layer of heavy pain closes over him, blocking everything. Like the lid of a coffin.

“—tell us everything.”

“I’ll explain, but he didn’t share much—”

“Please, Mr. Polnareff. You said this has been going on for weeks?”

“He didn’t tell me when it started, but he came to me a few weeks ago.”

“Why wouldn’t he say something to m—to us?”

“Mista, I’m sure he—”

“Let Polnareff speak, guys.”

“Okay, a few weeks ago—”

“—should have realized something was wrong.”

“You can’t blame yourself like that, Mista. Giorno would be the first to say so.”

“But I’ve been with him! And I thought...I thought he looked tired, but—”

“In the end, we can’t force him to do anything, If he wanted to hide it from us, there’s nothing we could have done.”

“That’s not good enough, Buccellati! If—if Giorno dies from this, what will I—”

“Giorno is not going to die from this!”

“Oh, god, what am I going to do—”

“Stop shouting, you two—I’ve got the professor Polnareff told us about on the phone—”

“GioGio! What happened?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

“Trish, how did you know we were here?”

“I called her.”

“Narancia—”

“She’s Giorno’s friend too!”

“Do you understand how vulnerable we are right now, brat? If word gets out—”

“Leone, don’t—”

“Trish isn’t going to blab to anyone!”

“You can’t just act on your own!”

“Okay, that’s enough—everyone out—”

“—the bleeding and the...flowers seem to have stopped for now—”

“Then why isn’t he waking up?”

“Fugo, let her talk.”

“As near as we can tell, he’s in some sort of coma. He’s running a dangerously high fever, and his body isn’t replacing the blood he lost at a normal rate, but we’re managing that—I’d say he’s out of immediate danger, but there’s no way to tell...if he’ll wake up.”

“Fuck.”

“What did Professor Kujo say?”

“Basically what Polnareff said. Nothing useful.”

“Thank you, doctor. Please keep us updated—”

It’s strange, existing in flashes of sensation. The touches never stop, little anchor points shining through the haze, and before long Giorno starts to differentiate the hands on him.

He can tell the difference between Fugo’s brisk, hesitant pats, always quick as though worried he’ll be told off for taking the liberty, and Narancia’s thin, twitchy fingers, curling around his hands and drumming the sheets beside him, accompanied by a stream of nervous babbling. Buccellati’s steady touch is easily recognizable, slightly chilly skin that nevertheless feels warm against Giorno’s forehead, carding through his hair. Abbacchio is faint brushes, surprisingly gentle, and a deep, scolding voice in his ear. Trish holds tight, lacing her fingers with his and squeezing almost too hard as she speaks imperiously. He can’t always understand her, but he knows, whoever she’s talking to and whatever she’s saying, she’s right.

The coming and going helps divide them in his mind, so it takes a little while for Giorno to realize the constant, steady warmth at his side is Mista. Only when Mista starts humming softly does Giorno connect him to the weight always enfolding his hand. If he leaves, it’s never when Giorno is aware.

Uselessly, Giorno struggles against the darkness pinning him down.

“—brought you some water.”

“Thanks, Narancia. Did Abbacchio get Buccellati to leave?”

“They were still arguing downstairs a minute ago.”

“He needs to go rest.”

“So do you.”

“I’m fine—”

“It’s been hours—”

“I don’t see you leaving. Or Fugo. Or Trish or Abbacchio—why am I the only one getting mothered?”

“Well, it’s—it’s not like—I...I can’t just...leave him….”

“Yeah, so let it go.”

“But we’re taking breaks, you’re always—”

“I’m fine, I’m just—”

“You look like you’re falling apart.”

“So?”

“For fuck’s sake, Mista—”

“Brat. Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused? You can’t go a year without giving Buccellati a heart attack, can you?...Fuck. Doing whatever you want, as usual. Who said you could fuck off and die? I always knew recruiting you was a mistake. This is...I...fuck. When you wake up—you—god damn it! Just—”

“—the truth, Mista. What did Professor Kujo say?”

“A lot of things, Trish. He said a lot of things, but I don’t know….”

“What?”

“None of it makes sense. Gold Experience is rebelling? Giorno has never been uncertain a day in his life, how could that be—”

“He’s not a machine, Mista. He keeps things from us, sometimes.”

“Clearly.”

“Mista—”

“Did he think I wouldn’t care? Did he think I’d call him weak? Or—or—that I’d leave? Why wouldn’t he—”

“Mista, Giorno thinks the world of you—there’s no way—”

“Then why didn’t he trust me?”

“I’m certain it wasn’t a matter of trust—”

“Then what?”

“I don’t have the answer, Mista, I can only say what I know and I know that Giorno cares deeply for you—that you care deeply for each other—whatever he did or didn’t do, that doesn’t change!”

“Deeply...cares deeply—did he know? I—I tried to let him know—but how could I get too close—how could I tell him—”

“Mista—”

“Did I fuck everything up, Trish? Is it...is it too late?”

“What do you mean?”

“I...I...oh god—”

“Oh—Mista—”

“I love him, Trish—what—what am I—”

“Come here—”

It’s a bolt of lightning. The understanding. Whatever part of him that’s listening lights up like a forest fire and the words explode across the heavy, painful darkness.

I love him.

When Giorno opens his eyes to see Gold Experience hovering over him, he knows he’s not really awake yet, but he’s close.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “That’s what you’ve been trying to tell me.”

Gold Experience stares back impassively.

“Love. It’s love. I’m in love.” It seems so obvious now, looking back, but everything he felt with Mista was new. Alien. How could he have the words to explain it to himself? “And I wouldn’t face it.”

Ghostly, metallic fingers cup his face and he reaches up, tracing the ridges of his stand’s cheeks.

“You love him too, don’t you?”

A somber nod.

“I’m sorry. For keeping us from him.”

A current passes between them, and Giorno senses sorrow. His stand is grieving the pain it caused, not just to him, but to everyone waiting outside.

“They’ll forgive us.” Giorno smiles, the sick weight rotting in his chest finally lifting as beams of light peek through the lines of Gold Experience’s face. “Let’s go.”

Giorno gasps awake and his vision is instantly filled with flowers.

“What the—!”

Blinking, Giorno turns to see Mista shooting to his feet, surrounded by flowers seemingly falling from the ceiling. Staring at him.

“Giorno?” he chokes.

He looks terrible, wan and weary, with bags under his eyes and uncombed hair, and as Giorno struggles upright he seems to fold into himself, collapsing on the edge of the bed and reaching out with shaking hands.

“Giorno, oh god—are you okay—what happened, why did—”

Giorno leans forward and swallows the rest of his words in a hard, searing kiss, wrapping his arms around Mista’s neck.

For a second, Mista goes rigid in his grip, but then there are hands on his back, pulling him closer, and Giorno moans shamelessly as Mista deepens the kiss. Dimly, Giorno remembers that this is technically his first kiss, but he doesn’t have time to be uncertain, drinking Mista in like man dying of thirst in the desert.

“Wait—hang on—” Mista pulls away slightly, breathing hard. “What is—why—”

“I love you,” Giorno states simply and reels him in again, biting at his lips.

Mista, apparently unable to help himself, presses forward, and Giorno falls back under his weight, hitting the pillows and letting Mista take the lead. Their tongues slide together almost violently and Giorno doesn’t think he’ll ever have enough of this, heat sparking up his spine—

“Okay—wait—” Mista pants into Giorno’s mouth. “This is—great—but just, hold on a second—” He frees his hands to frame Giorno’s face, keeping him at bay when he tries to lean up.

Giorno frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s—” Mista breaks off incredulously, eyes searching Giorno’s face. “What’s wrong? What happened to you, Giorno? You just started coughing up flowers—you’ve been in a coma—the doctors—” he swallows, eyebrows pinching together. “We didn’t know if you were going to live or die and now you’re—what—fine?”

“Yes. I handled it.”

“Handled what?”

Frustrated at the fact that he’s not kissing Mista, Giorno finally glances around the room and realizes they really are surrounded by flowers. Hundreds of blooms carpet the floor and petals are still drifting down from the ceiling in a riot of different colors. “What’s all this?”

Mista makes an indignant squeaking noise. “Like I know! You did it!”

“I did?” Giorno considers the vines weaving out of the sheets over his body, the blossoms emerging from his pillows. “I don’t recall.”

“One second you were totally still and the next everything just—” Mista gestures vaguely with one hand, “—exploded! With flowers! And you—you woke up—”

“Ah, I see. It must have been unconscious then. I apologize.”

“Giorno—” Mista stares at him in disbelief, replacing his hand to trace Giorno’s cheekbones. “You—you’re really okay—”

Giorno stares back, taking in his pale skin, his glittering eyes, the tremble of his bottom lip. “I’m okay,” he promises, running a hand through Mista’s disheveled hair. “I’m sorry for making you worry.”

Mista huffs out a strained laugh, blinking rapidly. “Yeah, you better be sorry, you—you asshole—” Taking a shuddering breath, he drops his head onto Giorno’s chest, clutching at the thin material of Giorno’s hospital gown. “I thought—” he rasps, voice muffled, “—I was...I was scared, Giorno. For the first time, I thought I might actually lose you. And I never told you—”

“I know.” Giorno smooths his hand through Mista’s hair again, wrapping his other arm around Mista’s trembling shoulders. “I know. It was selfish of me not to realize. But I will never leave you, Mista. Believe that.”

For a beat, they just hold each other. Giorno savors the warmth of Mista pressed against him, breathing in the floral scent filling the room.

Then Mista stirs, flattening his hands against Giorno’s sides, and shifts up, planting a burning kiss on Giorno’s throat. “Giorno,” he murmurs against Giorno’s skin. “Vita mia.” He noses under Giorno’s jaw, trailing his lips up to Giorno’s cheek, and Giorno closes his eyes to let Mista drop chaste kisses onto his eyelids. “I love you.” Mista returns to Giorno’s mouth, and Giorno hums. “For years—I’ve only seen you. I wanted to be useful, to stay by you, but you never seemed to want more—”

“I didn’t know I wanted more,” Giorno confesses. “But I did. I think I always have.” He taps his forehead against Mista’s, eyes still closed. “I didn’t think I could love like this, but by the time I realized it, I was tearing myself apart from the inside.”

“Is that what happened?”

“Put simply. But it’s over now.” Giorno cups Mista’s face between his hands, blinking his eyes open to meet Mista’s burning honey gaze. “Every part of me loves you and every part of me knows it.”

Mista’s face breaks into a wide, beaming smile. “I see nearly dying hasn’t damaged your silver tongue.” He slips his hands up to Giorno’s shoulders. “The others are going to be so relieved,” he says. “They’re beside themselves. Even Abbacchio.”

“I wish I could have avoided making everyone suffer like that. It wasn’t my intention.”

“They’ll get over it. But for now—” Mista’s smile takes on a wicked edge and Giorno’s stomach flutters. “We’re alone. No one should be by for a while. You feel up to celebrating your miraculous recovery, lucky boy?”

Instead of responding verbally, Giorno yanks Mista back down into a fierce kiss. Mista surges forward, crawling onto the bed and pushing the flower-covered blankets aside. Giorno spreads his legs eagerly to accommodate him, heat thrumming through him.

As Mista devours him with teeth and tongue, Giorno revels in the consummation of possessing and being possessed, curling his hands into the plantlife twining around them. Symbols of love made external instead of blooming secretly, shamefully in the fearful dark of his chest. Fed on light and warmth, they gleam like jewels, a testament beyond words.

“Discharged?”

“Of course.” Giorno holds out another slice of salami for Number Six, who gleefully chomps down. “I’m perfectly fine, after all. Lingering any longer would be useless.”

Buccellati looks like he’s never disagreed with something more but Fugo beats him to the argument: “An hour ago the doctors weren’t sure if you were going to last the week and now you’re fine? Bullshit!”

“It’s not like it’s the first time Giorno’s beaten death,” Narancia says brightly, arms folded on the mattress beside Giorno and smiling broadly. “He does this all the time.”

“Don’t remind me,” Buccellati sighs, rubbing his temple.

“Let him leave!” Abbacchio rolls his eyes, sulking against the wall as though he’d rather be anywhere else. “It’s his own damn funeral.”

“Again, I apologize for causing you all to worry,” Giorno says sincerely, herding the pistols back into Mista’s hands and leveling the room with a serious look. Even laid up in a hospital bed, he’s still the boss, and he sees everyone perk up slightly at his direct attention. “But the situation is more than handled.”

Polnareff, leaning out of Mr. President’s key in Trish’s hands, hums thoughtfully. “Stand business is frequently like this, I suppose. Once it’s over, it’s over.”

“Exactly.”

“Are you ever going to tell us the nature of this stand business?” Trish asks, impatient. “Or do you want us to guess?”

Giorno slides a glance at Mista, seated beside him, and Mista smirks back as he balances all six pistols and their afternoon snack.

“It’s a private affair,” Giorno says at length.

Abbacchio makes a gagging noise while the others all groan in unison.

“Fine, do whatever you want,” Buccellati concedes with a wave. “You always do, anyway.”

Narancia snickers and Fugo grumbles something under his breath before the shrill chime of his cell phone cuts him off. He fishes the ringing device from his pocket and glances down at the readout.

“It’s Professor Kujo. He must be calling for an update.”

Giorno straightens up, holding out a hand. “Let me speak to him. I have to thank him, after all.”

As Fugo passes the phone over to him, Buccellati and Abbacchio turn to whisper to each other and Narancia starts pestering Trish about her next album. Mista settles a hand on Giorno’s knee, gazing at him far too softly for polite company, and Giorno answers the call with warmth blooming in his chest.