Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Giorno stays up all night thinking.

He wakes up still confused and conflicted. When he makes his way downstairs, he is also irritated again because Mista still is not back. Trish takes one look at him and sighs, but she thankfully does not press him.

The irritation does not fade through the day. He gets sharp and merciless towards the unfortunate souls that have to meet with him today. By early evening, Polnareff not so subtly suggests – pleads - for him to consider calling it a day and leaving early. He feels guilty enough over losing his composure that he agrees and does not call Polnareff out on it.

He drops the turtle at home and leaves before Trish can say anything with the hurried excuse that he wants to go clear his head.

Giorno wanders through the farmer’s market, not really focusing on the wares or stalls. He idly notes some pairs of eyes following him and recognizes them as Passione members. Mista must have assigned them to watch over him while he left, unwilling to let Giorno go unprotected despite their argument. The clear evidence of Mista’s protective streak leaves Giorno feeling even more conflicted.

Mista cares about him. Giorno knows this. He has not ever questioned this. But . . . But clearly, it is of fierce brotherhood and loyalty, isn’t it? Trish’s conversation replays in his head. He is not certain anymore. Surely, Mista would have done the same for Bucciarati or any one of their old gang.

Giorno absentmindedly looks over the stalls of cherries and strawberries. The conspicuous absence at his side grates against his nerves. Usually, they go grocery shopping together. Giorno frowns. Have they become too co-dependent?

He steps away and pivots, abruptly bumping into a body before him. Damn it. He is getting too distracted. Giorno frowns at himself and politely says, “I apologize.”

The rather tall man hums and says good-naturedly, “No, no. I was not looking.”

Giorno glances at the stranger, intending to nod and move on when his eyes catch the slicked back, wavy ginger hair, piercing gray eyes, and devil-may-care smirk. He knows this face. The image from Biscotti’s files flashes forward. He narrows his eyes.

The man, dressed in an expensive white polo shirt, a belted pair of navy and gray striped trousers, and dark brown loafers, turns to him with feigned surprise. “Good evening, Giovanna. Fancy meeting you here, huh?”

He grins, hands tucked lazily in his pockets.

“Mandarino,” Giorno acknowledges curtly. The blasé tone does not escape his notice. He lifts an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t I be the one surprised? What brings you to Naples?”

It is not a coincidence that Mandarino happens to be in the same farmer’s market that Giorno is in, much less the one in Giorno’s city where Mandarino has no business being in. Bold too, to seek Giorno out first when Passione’s stance towards him is decidedly unfriendly.

Mandarino hums, looking for all the world like they are friendly colleagues. “Ah, visiting my sister.”

“Is that so?”

Giorno knows full well from Biscotti’s investigations that Mandarino and his half-sister are not close at all. Although she does live here, Mandarino is not visiting Naples for family reasons.

Mandarino’s eyes flash knowingly as if he can tell that Giorno sees through his ploy. He shrugs and admits rather freely, “Yes. Well, that’s not my only reason for coming here.” He grins. “Care to join me for a chat?”

Giorno lifts an eyebrow. He answers coolly, “A phone call would've sufficed.”

Mandarino blinks, visibly caught off guard by Giorno’s curtness. Satisfaction lights up his expression though like he finds Giorno all the more interesting for not agreeing to his suspicious invitation.

Giorno suppresses a frown. People like Mandarino are the most irritating to deal with.

Mandarino rolls back his shoulders lazily. Lips tilting up, he answers with amusement, “I prefer person-to-person conversations. You leave a better impression on the other person that way.”

Giorno cannot help but raise his eyebrows. Better impression? It sounds hypocritical coming from someone who provoked him first and pulled a reckless stunt like sending arms dealers into his city.

Mandarino bobs lazily back on his heels and nods his head towards the left. “The place I’m staying is my sister’s. A ten minute walk. Shall we?”

Giorno stares, unsure if he heard right. He wants Giorno to come with him? Even though he has to know that they’re hunting down his men right now? Even though he is in Naples? His forehead creases. Is he insane?

“What’s the matter?” Mandarino croons in mock concern. A smirk plays across his lips. He tilts his head in a show of consideration. “Ah, would you be more comfortable somewhere else? A Passione-owned hotel maybe? I notice you don’t have any guards.”

Except, his eyes flick to Giorno’s right where Giorno knows for a fact that the bored woman sipping her coffee with her headphones on is a Passione member. Mandarino knows. When he looks back, his gray eyes dance with amusement, and Giorno knows that he knows that Giorno understood the subtext.

Mandarino is completely unbothered by the fact that he is on Passione's home turf. Giorno knows his type. Cunning, shrewd, and with a paradoxical habit of taking big risks for big returns. A gambler at heart.

Giorno finally understands now why Mandarino upon taking over would attack Passione so soon.

What a pain.

Unimpressed, he lifts an eyebrow. He says smoothly, “That’s because I am in my city.” Deciding to play along, he discreetly signals to the incognito Passione members to stand down. He steps forward and looks expectantly at Mandarino. “Lead the way.”

Mandarino does not miss the way Giorno’s words come out less as a request than an order, but he looks oddly thrilled by it. It makes Giorno instantly wary. Mandarino seems strangely excited that Giorno is defying his expectations.

He grins and leads Giorno out of the marketplace, down a small street, and part way up a beach trail to a residential area. Curiously enough, although Giorno sees Passione members discreetly following them, he does not see anyone else do the same. Perplexed, he glances over Mandarino humming as they continue walking. Did he come alone?

They stop before a luxurious villa tucked away behind towering trees. The ornate metal gate swings open. Giorno watches as Mandarino’s subordinates, some of which he recognizes and some of which he does not from Biscotti’s preliminary investigation, visibly startle in surprise. One of them, someone with short tawny hair and a scar across his left eyebrow, hurriedly makes his way towards them. His eyes dart anxiously towards Giorno. Tugging Mandarino aside, he whispers furiously at a level Giorno cannot help but overhear, “Boss, weren’t you just in the house? Why are you out? And with him? Please don’t tell you walked into town alone without –“

Mandarino waves his concerns away. He says cheerfully, “Oh, don’t be such a worrywart. He graciously accepted my invitation. And by the way, no one enter the sitting room, yeah?”

His subordinate sighs. He nods tiredly, resigned. Clearly, Mandarino’s capriciousness is an unfortunate personal quirk that his men are used to by now.

Mandarino turns to him. Eyes still gleaming with amusement, he beckons. “Please, follow me.”

Giorno inwardly sighs. This is starting to be more trouble than it’s worth.  

He follows Mandarino into the house. They curiously bypass the sitting room in the front and go up the gleaming cherry wood and gold detailed stairs to the open area on the second floor balcony instead. Two ornate emerald green couches sit with a baroque silver coffee table in the middle. A rather well stocked bar stands against the wall, opposite to the arched window where the glimmering blue sea fills the entire view.

Giorno eyes the elaborate white and gold Persian rug. Clearly, Mandarino’s tastes veer to the opulent and expensive.

Mandarino heads straight to the bar. Giorno pointedly takes a seat on the couch. He does not want to be here longer than he needs to.

“Wine? Whiskey? Bourbon? What’s your poison?” Mandarino calls out as he pours himself a tumbler of whiskey.

“Water,” Giorno answers calmly, expression unimpressed and unchanging when Mandarino looks over with a raised eyebrow.

“Mm, alright,” Mandarino concedes with a chuckle as he leans down to the minifridge for the pitcher of water.

He brings the drinks over and sprawls lazily on the opposite couch. He takes a deliberate slow sip. His eyes glint over the rim of the glittering tumbler, no less sharp or bright. “You know, I imagined you different than from the rumors.”

“Rumors?”

“Your reputation precedes you, of course.” Mandarino raises his eyebrows in emphasis. “The youngest don to date. And one who took over Passione, no less.”

His lips curl back, mockery in the corners of his mouth.

Giorno ignores it. He settles back and remarks, “I heard you recently took over from your father.”

“Yes," Mandarino answers without hesitation. He takes another sip and continues offhandedly, “Less impressive and bloodless compared to yours.”

There is a curl of sarcasm and double-edged criticism to his words. Giorno does not know if he is calling out how other dons view the role of nepotism in Mandarino’s rise to power or the violence that occurred when Giorno was still staking his claim over Passione. Perhaps both. The word choice of impressive catches Giorno’s attention though. He replies placidly, “I would not say a clean takeover is less impressive. No one desires to have adversaries.”

Mandarino pauses at the last phrase. His eyes flash a steel gray. He gives Giorno another considering look like Giorno has done something else that defied his expectation. He nods. “Yes. I agree.”

“What do you want to discuss with me?” Giorno prompts, watching him closely.

“Straight to business, huh?” Mandarino drawls, the amusement flickering in his eyes again. He hums. Running his finger along the rim of his tumbler, he says slowly, “I hear some of my men . . . got ahead of themselves.”

Giorno raises an eyebrow. “So they are your men.”

Mandarino shrugs. He answers shamelessly, “You already knew that. I believe they are in your custody as of now.”

“You’re very well-informed.” Giorno had only received the news from Polnareff an hour ago. He folds his hands in his lap and says steadily, “They are. What of it?”

“I want to ask for their release.”

Giorno’s eyebrow lifts again at the point-blank statement. He reminds, “That’s a daring request considering what you ordered them to do.”

“Ordered?” Mandarino clucks his tongue and says ruefully, “Oh no, I’m afraid they unfortunately initiated that plan by themselves.”

“Did they now?” Giorno asks, unimpressed and unconvinced. He highly doubts that anyone would do something so reckless of their own initiative. What a bold-faced lie.

His suspicions are confirmed when Mandarino gives him a knowing look, expression highly entertained. Still, Mandarino feigns ignorance and continues, “Yes. But they are my men, so I must claim responsibility for them.” He looks straight at Giorno and declares in that same affable, easy-going tone, “I sincerely apologize on their behalf for their reckless behavior. What do you wish in exchange for their release?”

Mandarino is a smooth talker. It’s hard for even Giorno to get a read on him. He idly answers, “I do not know since I still am considering whether or not to release them at all.”

Undeterred, Mandarino hums. His lips curve up in a suggestive smirk. “Ah, so I must be more convincing then.”

Unamused, Giorno reminds him, “Your men were caught smuggling in illegal weapons. I’m afraid I’m not in a mood to be persuaded.”

“Ouch. This is the first time I’ve been rejected so harshly,” Mandarino says with a teasing drawl. He leans back lazily against the sofa, arms slung over the back, and deliberately looks Giorno over with a wolfish smirk. “You have quite the sharp tongue for such a handsome face.”

Suppressing the strong urge to roll his eyes, Giorno deliberately says disinterestedly, “I believe we have nothing else to discuss. I have more important matters I need to attend to.”

He makes to stand up. Mandarino immediately gets up to stop him and chuckles. “No, no. Please sit. Excuse my frankness. It’s a bad habit of mine.” He fishes out a plain manila folder from a nearby table and holds it out towards Giorno. “Here.”

Giorno does not grab it and merely looks at him. “What is this?”

Mandarino grins. He assures, voice completely confident, “Something that might change your mind.”

Giorno sighs. He reluctantly takes the folder and sits back down. Not expecting anything of value, he idly glances over the papers and pauses. He looks over at Mandarino who sports an extremely self-satisfied smirk. He narrows his eyes. “Where did you get this?”

Mandarino quips, “Well, like you mentioned, I am very well-informed.” He points to the folder and crosses his foot over his knee. “We may have gotten off on the wrong foot, but I think a relationship between the both of us would be mutually beneficial.”

“Mutually?”

“Yes. Supporting my fellow countrymen is definitely mutually beneficial to me. It’s better than letting some outsider assholes encroach our territories.”

Giorno gives him a dry look. He points out, “By that logic, I could work with any of the other dons. It does not have to be you.”

A laugh startles out from Mandarino. Eyes suddenly gleaming sharply with intrigue, he notes, “You play hard to get.”

The close attention, for the first time, makes Giorno’s skin prickle with wariness. He eyes Mandarino.

Mandarino leans forward. He comments, “You know some people still are uneasy with Passione’s new direction. Diavolo wasn't the only one profiting from the drug trade, and I hear you’ve been discreetly shutting down the drug route beyond Naples too.”

“Have you now?” Giorno replies neutrally, neither denying nor confirming the observation. However, he mentally notes that Mandarino seems to be dangerously well-informed and connected. He states, “So you’re offering cooperation in exchange for the release of your men. You must value your people.”

But, does he though? Mandarino came suspiciously well-prepared to negotiate. It’s almost as if he knew his men would inevitably get caught and apprehended. Is striking an alliance with Passione the main goal all along? Or – Giorno narrows his eyes – is Mandarino simply playing a game here with something else entirely in mind?

Biscotti told him that the other dons most likely provoked Mandarino, capitalizing on the fact that he is still relatively young compared to them, reckless, and newly assuming his position too. But really who is playing who here?

“As every good don should, right?” Mandarino answers without missing a beat. He pauses and adds, “I’ll pay full compensation for any damages incurred by my guys and then some too.” He smiles. “I don’t need an answer now. Please. Take your time and think it over.”

“How accommodating of you,” Giorno answers wryly.

Mandarino gives him a lascivious wink. “Only to people who catch my eye.”

Disdain rises up strongly. More than done with this conversation, Giorno stands up and does not bother pointing out the absolute arrogance in Mandarino’s request for negotiation, much less his flirtations. “I believe we have nothing further to discuss for today then.”

If Mandarino’s information proves to be correct, then Giorno will have to act. A foreign drug cartel sneaking its way in and thus, hindering Giorno’s plans for shutting down the drug trade entirely is intolerable.

“Sure. Although, there are other things we can discuss besides business.” Mandarino smirks at him and continues with a suggestive tone, “Will you not join me for dinner?”

“I have other plans,” Giorno answers curtly and turns to leave.

Mandarino laughs, a genuine satisfied sound like he expected Giorno to turn him down. It makes Giorno wonder if Mandarino only did so to provoke him. He gets up and follows Giorno down the stairs. “Then let me see you out.”

“That is not necessary,” Giorno refuses flatly. He tries to sidestep, but Mandarino sidles up anyway and claps a hand on his back.

Ignoring his frown, Mandarino says good-naturedly, “Oh, no. I could not possibly be so rude. I insist.”

Giorno makes sure not to tense because revealing any weakness to Mandarino is the last thing he wants to do. However, he greatly regrets wearing the loose, lilac dress shirt with the sheer back panel today. The thin material might as well be air. Giorno can feel the heat of Mandarino’s palm seeping into his bare skin, its weight like a brand.

However, as soon as they step out of the front door, Giorno does tense because a dozen different scents roil in the air. He registers Mandarino stiffening next to him as well. Giorno scans the yard.

Mandarino’s subordinates are all standing up with matching scowls and hostile glares. He follows their line of sight to the newcomers standing defiantly opposite them, already well inside the front gate. The intruders, Giorno recognises, are Passione members.

They must have followed him despite his signal to stand down. Giorno’s eyes flick across their faces, noting their challenging smirks and equally belligerent stances. Dor some reason, they are all a hair trigger away from brawling with Mandarino’s men. His gaze stops abruptly on the figure in the middle. Giorno stills, breath catching in his throat.

Mista.

Mista lazily leans back, legs spread wide on a chair that seems to be part of the outdoor set to his right. There is an ominous trail of broken glass shards near his feet.

Giorno’s eyes rove over him. He is dressed rakishly today in a pair of black cargo trousers, a bright red and purple tiger-striped collared, short sleeved shirt that is completely unbuttoned revealing the wide expanse of bronzed skin and defined muscles as well as the sharp gleam of the revolver, and a red and black knit cap. His eyes are dark and unreadable, but his lips curve up in a dangerous smirk that makes Giorno’s mouth run dry.

Did his guards for the day go and tell Mista? Or did Mista come looking for him as soon as he finished his mission?

As soon as their eyes meet, Mista gets up in one fluid movement. The tension in the air thickens as Mandarino’s men stiffen as if poised to react and the rest of the Passione members observe them sharply in response. Mista pays them no heed and does not look away from Giorno. He saunters to them in easy, loping strides that reminds Giorno strikingly of a prowling panther. Power effortlessly exudes from his unhurried demeanor.

It’s such a shame that Mista really hates being called the underboss when he looks like the perfect epitome of one right now, Giorno faintly thinks, his heartbeat thrumming, as everyone instinctively lets him go unhindered, the Passione members looking to Mista for cues. In his peripheral view, the tawny haired man from earlier moves closer to Mandarino.

Mista stops right before Giorno and asks nonchalantly, “You ready to go boss?”

Giorno nods. “Yes.”

He steps forward, forgetting that Mandarino’s hand is still on his back. It hovers conspicuously in the air before dropping. Mista immediately notices. His eyes narrow and his lips flatten in a displeased line.

To Giorno’s dismay, Mandarino also steps forward and smirks at Mista. He drawls, “So you must be the infamous watchdog.” Mandarino deliberately takes another step closer to Mista. With a challenging gleam to his eyes, he comments with a brazen grin, “I was wondering where you were.”

Giorno watches warily as Mista returns the look unwaveringly back at Mandarino. The scent of gunpowder thickens the air like a storm, acrid and hot, as the new scent of oranges and grapefruit blooms almost dizzyingly in response, sharp and crisp. It sends a warning trail of goosebumps down the back of Giorno’s neck. There is something distinctively oppressive and uncomfortable about their scents now, and Giorno thinks he finally understands what Polnareff means by scents being a powerful thing.

He eyes the others stiffening in reflex due to the two alphas posturing before them. Giorno frowns and catches Mista’s eyes. Mista’s jaw clenches but his scent subsides. He turns to Giorno, pointedly ignoring Mandarino, and says briskly, “Car’s ready out front.”

Giorno nods. Before he can move though, Mandarino, in a surprising show of reflexes, grabs Giorno’s hand for a handshake. “I enjoyed our chat. I hope to hear from you soon.” He leans in closer and whispers in Giorno’s ear, “Your scent is very interesting, by the way.” Giorno immediately narrows his eyes, letting no other emotion but irritation flit across his expression. Does Mandarino know or is he merely fishing?

The scent of gunpowder and smoke suddenly bombards Giorno’s senses. It surges angrily and intensely in the air like an actual thick cloud of smoke. Nose prickling, Giorno side-eyes Mista in alarm. Mista’s eyes are dark and threatening, focused entirely on Mandarino. The bloodlust writhing off him venomously has even Giorno tensing instinctively.

Mista looks like he is a millisecond away from tackling Mandarino away from him.

Mandarino chuckles and promptly drops his hand. “And so is your bodyguard over there,” he adds before stepping away and looks to Mista with an amused grin. He holds up his hands in mocking surrender.

It only makes the murderous intent swirling in the air sharpen to a keen blade.

Giorno does not deign to respond to Mandarino’s taunts and instead disdainfully walks out. “Mista, we’re leaving.” He does not look back – does not need to - because no matter how pissed off Mista is, Giorno trusts that Mista will always follow him.

And he does after giving Mandarino a warning glare. He strides after Giorno, neatly falling into step besides him. The other Passione members smoothly close ranks behind them. Mandarino’s subordinates give them wary, disgruntled glances but they otherwise let them all pass without hindrance.

Well beyond the gate, at the start of the trail, where a compact dark grey car is parked with conspicuous skid marks, the members trailing after them finally speak up.

They nod to Mista and greet Giorno with a respectful, “Boss.” The woman with the headphones from earlier addresses Giorno, “We’ll keep an eye on them just to make sure.”

Giorno nods. “They already expect to be put under surveillance, but please report back if you notice anything suspicious.”

“Understood, boss.”

Giorno waits until they disperse before he turns warily to Mista whose scent still thickens the air. “Mista?”

Mista’s expression is stony. He goes to the car and pulls open the front passenger door for Giorno. “Do you want to go straight back home or is there somewhere else you need to be?”

Giorno pauses, caught off guard by Mista’s brusqueness. Wondering if Mista is just still pissed off from Mandarino, Giorno answers briefly, “Home.”

Mista nods and waits for Giorno to get in before he closes the door and heads around to the driver’s side.

Giorno tries not to frown. This does not seem promising. He hoped that after Mista returned, they might sit down and talk things over. Even if Giorno still is undecided on what to do concerning Trish’s advice, talking should be a good first step.

Giorno eyes Mista’s stiff jaw and irritated scowl. Well, perhaps not now. He is not sure how he can talk to Mista now if he is clearly still so worked up.

Mista’s jaw ticks. He glares unseeingly out the window, unable to suppress the red-hot irritation still running through. That goddamned bastard. What the actual hell does that jerk think he’s even doing in Naples to begin with, huh?

His fingers tighten on the steering wheel. As soon as he finished the job with Marinara, he intended to come home, so Mista called the members he explicitly told to keep watch over Giorno. He wanted to check in on his location in case Giorno was still at the office. Except, they told him unhappily that Giorno had accepted Mandarino’s request to a private meeting in what seems to be the guy’s vacation house or something.

What followed after was a very annoyed Marinara, the resulting commandeered car, a fast and furious drive that broke probably all of the traffic laws, and a very, very long soundtrack of Mista cussing to the universe.

He is not sure what karma he accrued for this week to be incredibly frustrating. He left conflicted, became only more exasperated during the nearly week-long stakeout, and came back angry and slightly hysterical.

He left to clear his head but he came back with his temper boiling to new extremes. Great. Wonderful. Awesome.

Their house comes into view, and Mista pulls up into their driveway. He twists the key, turning off the ignition, and leans back against the car seat with a scowl.

Giorno curiously makes no move to get out. When Mista turns to glance at him, he sees Giorno watching him closely. Expression pensive, Giorno asks, “What’s wrong?”

The thing is there are many, many things Mista could – should - say, like the apology he owes Giorno for losing his temper over the heat agency, the things he has been racking his head over the past month, or even the details of the job and the two guys they finally caught. Heck, “Mandarino is an absolute dick” is also right on the tip of his tongue too. But, because his mouth has no filter and has a habit of condemning him, he says instead, “You went in alone.”

Giorno blinks and says slowly, “Technically, I had the bodyguards that you assigned with me.”

Mista purses his mouth unhappily. Because this right here, Giorno’s mindboggling blasé attitude about dangerous situations sometimes, is also something that Mista is not quite thrilled about either.

Giorno immediately narrows his eyes and asks, a warning tone in his voice, “What?”

Mista frowns harder because he knows in the back of his mind that they already have had many iterations of this same argument and it is always a landmine for them.

Triggering a land mine in the middle of their cold war is definitely not wise.

“Mista?” Giorno repeats, voice sharper. Mista can tell that Giorno is getting irritated now.

Drop it. Drop it. He tells himself, except his common sense has been on a miserable losing streak all month and the image of Mandarino pressed up into Giorno’s space makes an unpleasant feeling itch through him. Mista blurts out, “I just don’t know why you would do something so reckless. Guy’s an arrogant asshole alpha and you just waltzed in there without - ”

Mista abruptly stops himself but it’s too late. Giorno gets the implication because his eyes flash warningly and he prompts curtly, “Without what?”

“Without being careful!”

The earthy scent of rainfall surges in the car just like it does when dark clouds gather in the sky. Giorno looks at him disbelievingly and says coldly, “I’m not weak. I dealt with alphas before and I still can even after going off my suppressants.”

“I never said that you were,” Mista grits out, offended now despite himself because Giorno is not weak. He has never, ever thought for a single moment that Giorno is weak. Finding out that Giorno is an omega does not change the fact that he is one of the strongest people Mista has ever known.

It does, however, mean that there are things Giorno has to look out for that he did not need to before, and honestly, isn’t it reasonable for Mista to be a little worried?

“Is this really all you have to say to me after leaving without a word?” Giorno suddenly demands sharply. There is an edge of hurt and anger in his voice that makes Mista’s eyes widen in alarm.  Giorno’s expression darkens and he adds icily, “You know, for all your complaining about Mandarino, you’ve been an asshole this whole week too.”

Mista stares at him speechless. Giorno narrows his eyes and punctuates his point with a rare, loud slam of the car door. He stalks off into the house without looking back at Mista.

Shit.

Mista hurriedly gets out the car and scrambles after him. “Giorno! I – Giorno, wait up! I did not mean that! I’m sorry - Giorno!”

Giorno does not falter and storms up the stairs determinedly.

Mista blinks. It’s rare for Giorno to lose his temper like this. Is he angry over something else too? The bedroom door slams in the distance. Mista grimaces. Hand rubbing his neck, he mutters aloud, “What’s up with him?” He turns his head and flinches in surprise at a bewildered Trish staring speechlessly at the stairs. “Oh, Trish! When did you get back?”

Trish surveys him critically and frowns. “You come with me.”

Mista raises an eyebrow. “What? Where are we going – Oi! My ear, my ear!”

Mista stares bewilderedly down at the shopping bags hanging heavily over each of his arms like a clothes rack.

What . . . what is happening?

He glances at Trish who is drawing the attention of many interested onlookers both because she looks striking as per usual, this time in a strapless yellow bandeau top with coral flowers and a flowing bright teal skirt with matching coral blossoms and her signature mid-thigh slit, and because she struts through the shop on her impossibly high wedges like she is walking in another one of her fashion shows.

Mista grimaces. He hates shopping with her.

Trish stops before a row of bohemian patterned dresses and surveys them with a considering expression. “What do you think?”

“I think I want to go home,” Mista mutters as he sinks down onto the nearest seat. He spies the shop attendant hovering nervously near the racks, no doubt recognizing Trish either as their VIP customer or as a model. He groans aloud.

He really, really hates shopping with her.

Trish lifts an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. “Well, we can go home once you get your shit together.”

He bristles at her. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that Giorno is mad for a reason, and from where I’m standing, it looks pretty justified to me.”

Offended, he retorts, “I’ve been gone like the whole week! How could I have possibly irritated him now?”

Trish stares flatly at him from over the racks and in an even flatter tone, says, “You being gone for days is kinda the problem.” She pushes aside a blue and purple calico patterned dress and continues, “He’s pretty mad that you left without saying anything.”

“I left him a note!”

Trish deadpans, “Yeah, like I said. Without saying anything.” She shakes her head and says, “He was worried too. I mean, he didn’t say anything but he kept glancing at the phone so that was a dead giveaway.” She pauses and stares at the white and yellow v- patterned dress before shrugging and pushing that aside too. “He’s been restless too. I’ve never seen him like that.”

Mista frowns. Guilt claws into him. “I didn’t mean to worry him. I just needed space.”

He pauses as Marinara’s inane babbling runs through his mind once more. That absolute crazy bastard kept going on and on about communication and relationships and even more blood pressure inducing, the benefits of make-up sex afterwards. Geez, if he had known, he would have stayed home and not gone to help at all.

At the memory, Mista scowls and grumbles, “And the whole reason it took so damn long is because Passione is full of delusional idiots.”

Trish looks curiously at him, but he shakes his head, not willing to divulge the hours – days - of crazy he had to endure in an overheating car with a way too straightforward Marinara as they kept following new leads.

Trish shrugs and prompts instead, “So the reason you needed space wouldn’t be whatever happened during Giorno’s heat, would it?”

He immediately flinches and whips his head towards her. Blanching, he asks shakily, “He told you?”

Trish furrows her eyebrows at his reaction but nods. “Yes. Everything. Or what he knows at least.” She gives him a pointed look before he could ask any further and admonishes, “I won’t go into specifics because I’m bound by best friend confidentiality but I have to say it’s a jerk move to not tell him what happened. I personally would have throttled you, if it was me. You can’t just leave someone in the dark about what happened or what they did, especially if it’s because they were in heat.”

Mista cringes because Trish is right. The guilt and self-recrimination digs even harder into him. Damn, Giorno was right. He has been an utter asshole about this.

Mista drops his face into his hands and acknowledges miserably, “I know. I know. It’s just – ” Mista pauses and gestures helplessly in the air. The words burst out of him and he babbles, voice high with hysteria, “It’s not even his fault! It’s mine! But he keeps assuming that it’s all because of what he did and he doesn’t even remember what he did so I don’t even know how he got to that conclusion!”

Trish quickly walks over to him, concerned. Discreetly waving away the attendant, she kneels down in front of him and says soothingly, “Alright. Calm down. It’s okay.” Mista inhales deeply. Trish waits until he recomposes himself and then asks, worry swimming in her eyes, “What did happen?”

He looks at her reluctantly. Should he tell her?

Mista wavers but what the hell? He needs to get everything off his chest before it smothers him and he cannot get any lower than having a mental breakdown in a clothing store anyways.

So he tells her. He tells her everything.

He tells her about waking Giorno up for breakfast and finding him out of sorts. He tells her how he realized Giorno was in heat, so he did his best to make things more comfortable, like the food, the pillows – Trish smiles amusedly at that – and checking in on Giorno. He tells her how he dozed off and then Giorno’s Stand dragged him to the room where, where – Mista stumbles over his words – he found Giorno in a compromising position and how the room was thick with his scent. Mista tells her how he tried to leave but Gold Experience would not let him go and then Giorno noticed him and Mista found out that he was having a really high fever so he could not leave anyways. He tells her he tried to lower Giorno’s fever by making him take a bath and how they both sat together in the tub because Giorno was nervous and uneasy about the bathtub.

He tells her how Giorno finally slept after that, how he was even able to get Giorno to eat some soup. He tells how the effects of Giorno’s heat returned so Mista tried scenting to help calm him down. And how it did but not really because they ended up cuddling in bed and Giorno was calming down but he was not. He tells her the urge to kiss Giorno in that moment felt almost unbearable and how as if reading his mind, Giorno kissed him and Mista kissed back even though he should not have and how he knew it was wrong so he pushed Giorno away and sat by Giorno’s bedside instead throughout the night, scenting him by their wrists.

Mista finishes, chest heaving from the volume of confessions he unpacked in one long panicked breath. He swallows hard and warily lifts his head up to gauge Trish’s expression.

Surprisingly, she looks thoroughly confused. Trish is silent for a terrifyingly long moment before she finally summarizes slowly, “He kissed you. And you kissed him back.” She waits and looks at him for confirmation. At his miserable nod, she blinks and says rather anticlimactically, “Oh.”

“Oh?” Mista nearly squawks and stares at her disbelievingly. Oh? That’s all she has to say after listening to his confession?

At his clear outrage, Trish bristles and counters defensively, “It’s just – You made it sound like you did something terrible!”

“What did you think I did?” he asks, aghast. What’s wrong with people today? Is she implying that – Did Trish think – What? Mista lets out a strangled noise as his mind combusts at the implication.

“Nothing! I didn’t think whatever it is you are thinking right now!” Trish exclaims, cheeks flushing in embarrassment.  “It’s just . . .  I mean, so you guys kissed. He kissed you first even, and you stopped right after you realized that he was still in heat and that it would not have been what either of you actually wanted. Mista, it really is not as bad as you make it sound!” She jabs his chest accusingly like it’s his fault she jumped to wild conclusions. “You don’t have to look like you committed some atrocious crime and deserve to be sent to the gallows for it!”

“I betrayed his trust!” Mista protests, more than just a little insulted. What is wrong with her? What does she not understand about this?

Trish rolls her eyes. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“Excuse you, I am not a – Trish! Stop laughing, damn it! This is not funny,” He objects, outraged as she laughs again, eyes twinkling with amusement. Is she still suffering from jet lag?

Trish calms down but there is an annoying grin on her face now. She shakes her head and says teasingly, “You’re such a softy.” At his unamused expression, she rolls her eyes again and comments, “You know, not every alpha would have even half of the self-control you showed if they were that close and personal with an omega in heat.”

He raises an eyebrow and quips sarcastically, “Great. So that excuses my actions because the standards for alphas are low and shitty?” Mista pauses as he runs over Trish’s words again. He frowns and asks suspiciously, concern and outrage already streaking through him, “What kind of assholes have you been hanging out with?”

“Ok, my sex life is completely fine, thank you,” She deadpans, green eyes flashing warningly. Mista cringes because ugh, Trish’s sex life really is not what he wants to think about either. Trish moves on and remarks, “And Giorno would forgive you if you told him what happened. In fact, I don’t even think he would be mad.”

He shakes his head and frowns. “You don’t know that.”

“I know that Giorno is more level-headed than you are,” Trish shoots back.

“Oi.”

Trish sighs and looks questioningly at him. “Why are you so reluctant to tell him?”

“Because what if?” Mista pauses. The fear pacing in the back of his head sprints through his thoughts again. He swallows hard and looks away from her. “What if he acts different around me once he finds out?”

“An accidental kiss really is not that unusual during heat.”

Mista looks to her in surprise. Trish stares steadfastly back at him and asks seriously, “Is the kiss really the only thing you do not want him to find out?”

His stomach drops. Heartbeat hammering in his chest, Mista looks away and denies quickly, “I don’t know what you mean.”

Shit. Does she know? Does she know that maybe it’s not the possibility of Giorno treating him differently after knowing they kissed that terrifies him the most but rather these uncontrollable emotions swarming inside of him that Mista is too afraid to name? That maybe the biggest obstacle to returning to their status quo is him? That Mista is the one struggling to reconcile his feelings?

Mista grabs the shopping bags and gets up. “You know, it’s getting late. We can go shopping another day. Are you hungry? Because I am. And Giorno probably is too. So let’s head back and get some - ”

“Do you love him?” Trish interrupts. Mista freezes and stares at her wide-eyed. She repeats mercilessly, “Do you love him?”

The question rings out uncomfortably in the air. He shifts uneasily on his feet, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck anxiously, “What – what kind of crazy question is that? He’s my friend.”

“And?”

“And?” Mista swallows and fights the urge to pace. “And, uh, friends don’t love each other like that.” He squirms, sweat breaking out on his forehead. He presses desperately, “Look, can we go now?”

Trish does not give in and remarks, “You know, friends normally are not practically dating either.”

“What?” He asks faintly. He can feel the blood draining from his face because it’s one thing for Marinara to talk nonsense but for Trish to do the same is . . .

Trish ignores his shell-shocked expression and continues, “Do you realize how adorably domestic you two are? You guys do everything together. Like you even have daily routines together. You do chores together like a married couple.”

“That’s because we live together!”

“I used to have to nag you to do your laundry at least once a month," she retorts with another roll of her eyes. "And now whenever I call home, you two are happily doing the dishes together or curled up together on the sofa watching TV or watering the garden that I know you only help out with because Giorno gets disappointed when his flowers die or something else incredibly mundane without a word of complaint.” Trish narrows her eyes and accuses, “I bet you guys even sit around the house doing absolutely nothing together and you guys see it as a perfectly pleasant way of spending a Saturday afternoon.”

Mista blinks at her and stammers, “That’s – That’s -”

“All true,” Trish answers for him and continues ruthlessly, “You always cook for him too. Like I know you’re pretty picky about eating on time - “

“I have to be! The Sex Pistols literally refuse to work if they are not fed - ”

“But you keep careful track of when Giorno eats too – ”

“Well, yeah! Sometimes he gets so focused working that he forgets to eat! I can’t let him starve - ”

“To the point that even Giorno automatically waits to eat with you without realizing. And neither of you are even bothering to look for dates! I know you guys are not busy every Friday or every weekend even and yet you just stay at home or go out with each other!”

Mista opens his mouth to protest and them promptly closes it. Because Trish does have a point. He has not ever seen Giorno going out on dates, and he would know because . . . because he has not really gone out either.

Has it really been that long?

Trish nods victoriously, evidently taking his silence as agreement. “You know, you only have one night stands now or one week stands I guess, since you only meet women when you’re in rut.”

“Trish!” He hisses because he does not want to discuss his sex life with Trish either.

Trish only lifts an eyebrow and comments, “I think you have only been in one relationship so far, and that was ages ago.”

Is she really going there? Mista sinks back in the seat and looks at her exasperatedly. “It was not really a relationship.”

“Yes, because it lasted like a week,” Trish affirms with a nod. She pauses, lips hiking up in a mischievous smirk. Dread twists through Mista. “Do you remember why?”

“No,” he denies adamantly and shoots her a warning glare. He wishes she would stop talking.

“It was because you kept mentioning Giorno in front of her and she thought you were cheating on her!”

“Trish!” Mista groans and frustratedly drops his head back in his hands. He remembers that, both the outrageous accusations she flung at him and the smarting slap she delivered even though he tried to explain. That remains the most embarrassing moment of his life. Wishing he could be anywhere but here, Mista mutters crossly, “I’m never going out drinking with you again.”

Unfazed, Trish continues, “You know why you got mad about Giorno considering the heat agency?” He looks up in surprise. Giorno told her that too? Trish does not give him time to reply and answers her own question. “It’s because you were jealous.”

Jealous?

He thumbs over the word. Jealous. He thinks of the ugly, possessive feeling crawling through his insides, the anger that even he cringed at later when he reflected. Yeah, that sounds about right.

Mista sighs in resignation.

“Admit it. You’re in love with Giorno,” Trish demands and props her hands on her hips, eyes gleaming challengingly. “Or do you need me to list more examples so you could break out of your self-denial? Like about how sometimes when you’re drunk you just talk about how pretty you think Giorno’s hair looks and how you wish he would wear it down more often. Or how about when - ”

“I got it, I got it, ok?” Mista interrupts hurriedly. There is no need to drag up all of his embarrassing moments out in the open much less a clothing boutique. He shakes his head and grouses, “Geez, you should have been a lawyer instead of a model.” He feels like he’s been wrung dry before a jury.

Trish lifts an eyebrow expectantly.

Love. Mista thinks of the way Giorno always lingers in his thoughts like a permanent phantom, the way Mista’s fingers twitch with the impulse to touch Giorno even when he is near, the way he cannot tear his eyes away from Giorno because somehow even Giorno’s most insignificant personal quirks are fascinating and captivating, the way the familiar fierce loyalty that burns in his heart for his friends has shifted into an unfamiliar ardor that blazes even hotter and wilder for Giorno, and the way his heart sometimes clenches and he is suddenly overcome with a sense of yearning when he looks at Giorno.   

Love. The truth settles uncomfortably but inevitably on his tongue. There is no point in denying it anymore. What else can describe the storm of emotions brewing in him this whole time?

Mista sighs and surrenders. “Fine. Yes. I love Giorno. So what?”

Trish gapes at him. “What do you mean, ‘So what’? Go confess already!”

“I can’t!”

“Why not?!”

Mista turns away from her earnest expression. He already feels dizzy just processing the newly put label on the feelings plaguing him this whole time but he feels downright nauseous dredging up the real reason why he never wanted to acknowledge the truth. He shakes his head and yells frustratedly, “Because it’s obvious he does not like me the same way!”

Complete silence reigns in the air. Trish stares at him, completely caught off guard. Mista swallows down the unexpected wave of hurt that rolls through him as his own words echo damningly in his ears. He glances around instead and absentmindedly notices that this part of the shop is conspicuously empty, which means that the employees here are very considerate and Trish really does have to go buy something now.

Trish throws her hands in the air and huffs in exasperation, “Oh for Pete’s sake. And you’re sure of that because?”

He glares at her because seriously, does he need to spell this out? He scowls and bites out, “Because the only time he wanted me like that was when he was in heat!” Trish’s forehead creases, and Mista continues, resenting her just a little for making him spill his heart out like this. “He’s not interested, alright? It’s Giorno we‘re talking about. Have you ever seen him hesitate to fight for what he wants? If he felt the same way, he would have said something by now.”

Trish stays silent for a long moment before she sighs and says quietly, “You two are so frustratingly similar.” She reaches out and gently flicks his forehead. “Have you ever considered that maybe you’re worth being careful about? That maybe he might be scared of losing you too?” Trish holds up a hand to hold off his protests. “In any case, that’s what you think. You don’t actually know that Giorno thinks the same way. You cannot decide that for him. Shouldn’t you at least give him the chance to decide for himself what he wants and how he feels?”

Mista frowns, unable to deny the logic in her statement but also unwilling to believe it. Trish offers, “Give him a chance. Give yourself a chance. You never know.”

She smiles encouragingly. Mista sighs deeply but nods to appease her. He points tiredly behind her. “That one.”

“Huh?”

He points again, and she turns to follow his gaze to the long flowing black halter dress with two thigh slits and bands of rainbow geometrical patterns on the top of the dress and the bottom half of the skirt.

“Oh, that does look nice,” Trish remarks and goes to try it on. She does not call him out for the blatant subject change and lets him brood silently the entire drive back home.

Dinner is painfully uncomfortable.

Trish tries her best to draw them both into conversation but Giorno only gives quiet hums here and there and Mista answers in terse, single syllables.

Her eyes dart to catch his gaze but Mista ducks down and stares determinedly down at the plate of roast chicken and vegetables. The clear tinkling of porcelain plates and silverware rings out incredibly loud in the tense silence.

Trish gives up and instead chats with the Sex Pistols instead who thankfully happily answer all of her questions while munching on their food.

Mista gets the very strong impression that Giorno only came down to eat because Trish asked him to. Giorno does not once look in his direction. A sharp pang of hurt hits him. Maybe Trish does not know what she is talking about.

Itching to leave, Mista rushes through dinner and somehow manages to swallow the food down, even though everything tastes like ash on his tongue. He excuses himself abruptly, much to the Sex Pistols’ dissatisfaction. But one pointed look from him quiets them, and they thankfully dissipate.

He will make it up to them later with chocolate or something.

Trish frowns disapprovingly at him but does not push him. Giorno stays silent, fork idly pushing the food around on his barely eaten plate, and still does not look up at him.

Swallowing hard, Mista turns away and heads straight to his room.  As a result, he does not see Giorno’s shoulders slump and he does not hear the hushed conversation between Trish and Giorno that starts as soon as he leaves.

Except when he gets to his room, the thoughts ricocheting in his brain have nowhere to go. He paces automatically, unable to control the anxiety and stress buzzing under his skin.

He needs to get a grip on himself.

Mista glances around his room and toes the random bunched up shirt on the ground. With nothing better else to do, he leans down and starts picking up the dirty laundry. He throws them without looking into the laundry basket. Still restless, he marches over to his closet and yanks the clothes out.

It’s about time anyways that he sort out his closet. He cannot exactly wear sweaters and leather pants in this weather and Mista gets annoyed every time he has to wade through them to get to his summer clothes stashed away in the very back or crushed underneath the admittedly messy pile on the floor.

He sits down cross-legged on the floor and starts the tedious task of sorting them into two piles first: one for summer and one for every other season.

Soon enough, two hills of clothing begin to rise from his bedroom floor. Deciding to leave the summer pile for last, Mista starts folding the clothes in the other pile first. After the fifth shirt, his hands move deftly on their own accord and he finds himself lulled by the methodical steps of folding clothes.

He glances at his closet. He really should get shelves or drawers below the closet rod too but furniture never ends up on the top of his shopping list.

Oh well. Cardboard boxes, it is then.

Mista is the middle of filling up the second box with his pants when he hears a knock. Agh. That must be Trish. He should have known better than to assume she would leave him alone to brood forever.

A second knock raps shortly on the door.

Without looking up, he calls out, “Yeah, come in!”

He glances at the fifth pair of red and black tiger striped leather pants. Huh. Did he really buy that many? Mista peers down the box and shrugs. Whatever. The more, the better. He goes through clothes quickly anyways, what with the surprising number of bizarre Stand users who pop up every now and then.

“Are you packing?”

Mista nods distractedly. He probably needs another box to put away his thicker coats and jackets. Oh, and his socks too.

A wounded sound comes from the doorway. Mista automatically stiffens in alarm, eyes already whipping in that direction and oh. It’s not Trish. It’s Giorno.

His eyes widen – Why did Giorno come? – and he says aloud, surprised, “Giorno.”

Giorno does not meet his gaze and instead looks wide-eyed at the boxes and piles of clothes at Mista’s feet. There’s a deep furrow between his eyebrows. The scent of roses and cherry blossoms wafts up to Mista’s nose but it smells different somehow. It unsettles him. Warning bells blare loudly in his head.

Something is wrong.

Mista instinctively stumbles to his feet, eyes still on Giorno. Giorno grips the doorframe tightly – Mista notices with worry the whitening knuckles – and says in a shaky voice that Mista has never heard from him, “You can’t be serious. You’re leaving? Mista. I - ” Stopping, he tilts his head back and lifts trembling fingers to slide over his eyes. Mista’s eyes widen in alarm. Giorno continues, voice quiet, “I won’t ask you anymore. So just – just stop. Please.”

The last syllable is laden with so much desperation that it cannot be mistaken for anything but a plea. Mista immediately steps forward, the sense of wrongness screaming through him. Giorno should never ever, ever sound like that. To anyone. Least of all to him.

What is wrong? He – he does not understand. Leaving? Where is Mista going? Why does Giorno think he’s leaving? Giorno just stepped in the room and he somehow thinks that Mista is leaving? Mista glances panickedly around him, hoping for a miraculous answer to appear.

He was just organizing clothes, for Pete’s sake! What on earth is Giorno think – Wait a minute. Mista pauses and stares at his entire wardrobe folded on the floor, the cardboard boxes. From Giorno’s point of view, did it look like he was packing to leave?

“No!” Mista blurts out with horror. He turns to Giorno, still standing with a hand over his eyes and fingers tightening so hard on the doorframe that there must be dents on there by now. Mista’s heart breaks. Without hesitating – thinking – he scrambles over to Giorno and reaches out to tug away the hand on the doorway.

Giorno makes a sound of surprise. Mista pulls him along frantically and tightens his grip over Giorno’s fingers. He can feel them trembling in his hand, and Mista cannot hide his panic anymore. Shit, how much of an asshole was he this week for Giorno to take one look at him sorting his clothes and assume that he was leaving? Mentally kicking himself, he brings Giorno over to the boxes and gestures wildly to them. “I’m sorting out my clothes because I practically swim through my clothes every day to fetch out what I need, you know? Cuz I keep forgetting to get those drawers and I uh, I don’t know. I just dump everything on the ground. So everything’s all mixed up. I have hangers but they only have my sweaters and there’s no way I can wear those right now. It’s way too hot. So, I was just trying to sort out my summer clothes from my other stuff. I’m not moving out or anything!”

He kind of yells out the last line hysterically but he cannot help it. Finally remembering that there is a person attached to the hand he suddenly grabbed, Mista tears his eyes away from the boxes and watches Giorno anxiously.

Giorno still does not look at him, eyes fixated on the boxes, but Mista catches the flush of pink on Giorno’s cheeks. He says quietly almost as if to himself, “Oh.”

Mista watches Giorno’s ears redden as embarrassment visibly radiates from him. Giorno’s fingers flex under his, and Giorno makes to pull his hand away.

Mista immediately laces their fingers together to stop him.

Giorno jerks and glances up at him in surprise. “Mista what are you -?”

“I’m not leaving,” Mista asserts firmly, if not a bit desperately too because Giorno needs to understand this. He repeats, “I’m not leaving. Not unless you want me to. And even then . . .” His voice peters out, and he looks away, sheepish and embarrassed. “And even then, it’ll be hard to get rid of me. I’m kinda stubborn.”

His eyes dart to Giorno to check his reaction. Giorno gazes back at him, eyes wide and glimmering with relief and fondness. Mista’s heart immediately clenches. Ah, how could he not have recognized this feeling before?

Noticing Mista’s stare, Giorno clears his throat and asks, voice soft and even a bit amused, “Only kind of stubborn?”

Relieved, Mista nods repeatedly. “Very stubborn.” He hesitates and then adds sincerely, “Sorry I left without telling you in person.”

Giorno looks at him in surprise. The way Mista’s apology catches him off guard tells Mista that Giorno really was bothered by him leaving like that.

Oh.

And because Giorno is kinder than Mista, he apologizes too, “I apologize for ignoring you.”

Mista shakes his head. “No, I deserve it. You were right. I was being an asshole. I shouldn’t have lost my temper, especially not about the heat agency. It is your decision. It’s none of my business to interfere.”

Giorno looks searchingly at him but nods.

“And – and,” Mista pauses and hesitates. Unbidden, Trish’s words run through his mind again. Heartbeat hammering, he takes a deep breath because Trish is right. Giorno deserves to know. He starts carefully, “About what happened during your heat . . .”

Giorno stills. Mista curiously feels a heartbeat drumming through his fingers. He glances at Giorno. For someone who wanted to know the truth this whole time, Giorno looks oddly apprehensive.

Just say it.

Mista steels himself, and confesses, “You kissed me -”

Giorno’s fingers jerk under his. A strange expression that Mista cannot place flits across his face and Giorno visibly swallows hard. “I – I’m sor - “

“And I kissed you back,” Mista finishes, not tearing his gaze away from Giorno.

Giorno’s eyes snap up to his in shock. He asks haltingly, “You did?”

He sounds incredulous, so much so that the apology sitting on the tip of Mista’s tongue immediately dissipates. Giorno’s turquoise eyes are impossibly wide and wondering. There is no hint of discomfort or revulsion in his eyes. None at all. Instead, he gazes up at Mista, transfixed like it’s not the fact that Mista kissed him that makes him speechless but that he did at all.

A tendril of hope, treacherous and fragile as it is, rears its head up from Mista’s heavy doubts. Maybe Trish is right. He does not know what Giorno feels, after all. The only way to know is to ask.

Not looking away, he unconsciously steps closer and asks carefully, “You’re not mad? Because you can hit me, if you are.”

Giorno shakes his head wordlessly, eyes still darting over Mista’s face like there is an answer there that he missed.

Mista swallows and presses, barely able to keep the tremor from his voice, “No?”

Giorno looks uncertainly at him, eyes still wide, and says bewilderedly, “I kissed you first.”

“You were in heat,” Mista reminds him. “And I wasn’t.”

“Yes but – ” Giorno abruptly stops himself and shakes his head again.

Heart in his throat, Mista steps even closer and clasps Giorno’s hand even tighter. Giorno makes a small noise. His eyes flick to their linked hands and back to Mista. Giorno deserves to know this too. Mista murmurs, “Hey, Giorno. Ask me.”

Giorno, usually so perceptive, asks slowly and unsurely, “Ask . . . you?”

Mista nods. “Ask me why I kissed you.”

Giorno blinks, startled. He stares at Mista like maybe he misheard. His eyes flick back to their linked hands and then Giorno raises his head to look at him squarely, gaze open and brave, “Why did you kiss me?”

“I kissed you,” Mista answers softly, “because I’m in love with you.”

The words slip off his tongue easily despite the weeks he spent struggling to bury the truth. Mista watches Giorno nervously, His heartbeat drums so loudly in his ears that he thinks there is no way Giorno cannot feel it jumping through his fingers.

Giorno stares at him, eyes widening even further and lips parted. He repeats, voice a bit strangled, “In love with me?”

“Yeah.”

Giorno does not actually exhale, but it’s almost as if all the tension whooshes out of him in one breath because his shoulders suddenly slump, the furrow between his brows disappears, his expression softens, and he confesses breathlessly, “I’m in love with you too.”

Mista automatically nods before he stops, stiffening as his brain actually registers Giorno’s response. Wait, what? Eyes widening, he stares at Giorno and chokes out, “You are?”

Giorno nods.

Mista’s head spins. He did just confess, but he – he didn’t actually think it would be returned. Giorno loves him?

Oh, wow. Is this really happening?

“Mista?”

Mista shakes himself out of his daze and focuses back on Giorno, who takes a step closer to him. His heart stutters. Despite himself, anticipation twitches through him. “Yeah?”

Giorno steps even closer to him until they are almost pressed together. He looks up at Mista, his eyes the clearest shade of turquoise Mista has ever seen, and asks softly, “Can I kiss you again?”

Mista lets out a garbled sound in lieu of human speech because his brain short-circuits.

Giorno’s cheeks redden but he presses, “I don’t remember the first one. So please?”

Please? Like Giorno even has to ask. Like the thought of kissing Giorno again has not been imprinted on his mind ever since Giorno’s heat.

“Yeah. Yeah.” Mista nods fervently, voice rough. “C’mere. Please.”

And Mista is not really sure who does move first, but suddenly Giorno’s lips are pressed lightly against his, soft and warm. It is a chaste peck. Giorno pulls back a bit, eyes darting to check Mista’s expression. Mista’s fingers itch to tug him back.

So he does. He presses even closer and winds his arms around Giorno’s waist and tugs. Giorno lets out a small sound of surprise that gets cut short when Mista tilts his head and slants their lips together, kissing him. Giorno hesitantly presses forward, fingers curling into Mista’s shirt. Mista kisses him slowly, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. He keeps it short and sweet before peeking at Giorno.

Giorno’s cheeks are a pretty pink and his eyes are wide and wondering. Mista cannot look away from him. He asks nervously, “Good?”

Giorno nods and leans in again for another kiss. Mista’s heart pretty much melts as he indulges Giorno in a series of sweet, gentle kisses.  It outright disintegrates when Giorno experimentally licks at the seam Mista’s lips. Arousal jolts through him. Mista’s tongue darts out to press the tip of their tongues together. Giorno’s lips part in a moan.

The sound sends a trail of goosebumps raking across his back. Desperately wishing to hear Giorno sound like that again, Mista delves in, deepening the kiss. And then the kiss is no longer chaste and sweet, not with the warm drag of their mouths against each other, slick tongues pressed together as they explore each other with increasing intensity.

Mista dimly registers Giorno’s arms sliding up around his neck as they press close. His hands tighten on Giorno’s hips before they move across Giorno’s lower back, tracing the firm lines of muscle there. He kisses Giorno, tongue flicking out to trace Giorno’s bottom lip before pulling back for air. Giorno makes an unhappy sound and chases after him. The gesture sends a wave of affection and desire crashing over Mista helplessly.

He groans aloud and kisses back, tongues curling together. Giorno moans. The arms around his neck tighten before warm hands slide over the nape of his neck. Mista reflexively shivers as Giorno unknowingly brushes over Mista’s bonding site. Tendrils of warmth immediate radiate from his point of contact. He moans.

Giorno moves on though, slender fingers carding up through Mista’s short hair, as he kisses Mista again. Mista’s beanie slips hazardously off his ears and drops with a loud clatter as the bullets spill out on the floor.

“Bed?” Mista mumbles against Giorno’s lips as he thumbs the sharp jut of Giorno’s hipbone.

“Y- Yes.” Giorno stutters into the kiss and does not break away even as Mista walks them back somewhere that he hopes is the vicinity of his bed. He cannot really see anything right now besides blue eyes, gold hair, and reddened lips.

Mista’s eyes widen as Giorno’s knees bump into the bed and Mista promptly trips them both over onto the mattress.  The room tilts dizzyingly sideways and Mista suddenly find gold hair in his face.

“Mmph.”

“Oof.”

Mista quickly lifts himself off Giorno and apologizes, “Shit, sorry.”

He glances down at Giorno, clothes disheveled and gazing back up him with flushed cheeks and kiss-bruised lips curving up in an amused grin. His heart jumps erratically. Mista swallows hard.

Beautiful.

He only realizes he says it aloud when Giorno shakes his head, cheeks uncharacteristically blushing even more with embarrassment. If he realized that this is what makes Giorno blush, he would have sung praises and compliments all the time to Giorno.

Mista pulls Giorno up towards the headboard. Giorno takes him by surprise when he pushes Mista gently back against the headboard as he carefully slings a leg over Mista and settles onto Mista’s lap with a distinctively more uncertain air than he did during heat. Mista rubs over his hip bone to reassure him and lets Giorno shift around until he gets comfortable. The squirming grazes teasingly against his hardening cock though. Arousal flares through him red-hot.

He idly wonders if this is all a dream. He certainly feels like he is dreaming.

Any doubts disappear when Giorno leans down to kiss him, short and sweet again. Mista smiles into the kiss.

Giorno breaks away and asks curiously, “What is it?”

“I just – I dunno. I can’t believe this is happening,” Mista admits. He leans down and kisses the corner of Giorno’s mouth before dragging his lips down his neck. He murmurs against the soft skin, “I feel like I’m dreaming.”

Giorno shivers as Mista presses open mouthed kisses along the lovely, vulnerable slope of his neck. “You – ah  - dream about me?” he questions, a teasing note in his voice.

“Yeah,” Mista agrees unabashedly, surprising Giorno who apparently did not think he was serious. But why wouldn’t he be? It’s the truth. He worries the skin gently with his teeth, enjoying the sharp gasp that it elicits from Giorno. A sensitive spot here then? “I daydream about you all the time.”

“Mmm - You do?” Giorno asks breathless as Mista kisses to sooth the reddened patch of skin. He sighs and tilts his head back to bare his neck further.

“’Course I do.” He moves down, lips skating across the soft skin, before Mista mouths at another spot. Giorno’s scent drifts up and wraps enticingly around him, fragrant and powerful. It reminds him of a summer rain. “Especially now with your ridiculous shirts.”

“You – ah – don’t like them.”

“I do but they’re distractin’.” Mista pulls back a bit to look admiringly at his handiwork, eyes trailing over the reddening love bites littering Giorno’s skin. “I like ‘em better off too.” Curious, he traces over the sharp line of Giorno’s clavicle because he always wanted to and now he can. Giorno shivers again under the light touch. Humming, Mista fingers the collar of Giorno’s shirt and looks up to meet Giorno’s eyes. “Can I?”

Giorno bites his lips and nods. Mista leans up and kisses him again as his fingers clumsily unbutton Giorno’s shirt. He kind of wishes that Giorno wore another one of those other shirts because there are far too many buttons on this thing than his motor skills can handle right now.

He finally undoes the shirt. Giorno arches a bit so that the shirt slips off his shoulders easier. Mista’s eyes trail down the now exposed expanse of creamy skin and toned muscle. His mouth runs dry. Giorno looks like a fever dream sitting in his lap like that, messy curls slipping out of his braid and completely topless.

“Mista?”

His eyes snap back up to Giorno who watches him carefully, uncharacteristically unsure like he is still gauging Mista’s expression.

Which won’t do at all. Giorno has absolutely nothing to be worried about. He’s perfect. Mista has never seen anyone more perfect than him. He blurts out, awed and wondering, “Shit, you’re so gorgeous.”

Giorno blinks. His lips twitch upwards, and he shakes his head, embarrassed and amused. He reaches down and tugs Mista’s shirt. “Your turn.”

Mista nods and shrugs back his shoulders to let Giorno push the shirt off. It falls down to his wrists and he shakes it off blindly to the corner of the bed.

Noticing the sudden silence, Mista looks up curiously and finds Giorno looking him over distractedly. Mista immediately feels heat flooding his cheeks. Giorno did confess back, but saying it is one thing. Seeing it returned this physically makes Mista squirm in embarrassing satisfaction.

He slips his fingers into Giorno’s hair, palm cradling Giorno’s cheek. Mista swallows hard, heart clenching, when Giorno nuzzles into the touch and leans forward for another kiss. Perfect. So perfect. He does not know what he did to deserve the beautiful being before him.

Their lips meet, and the kiss turns long and filthy. Mista drags his palm up from Giorno’s hip over the firm lines of muscle and then up and over Giorno’s chest. Giorno shudders under his palm and lets out a small sound of pleasure. When his thumb accidentally brushes over a soft nipple, Giorno twitches.

Oh. Intrigued, he breaks the kiss off and instead trails his lips down Giorno’s throat to his chest. Pressing a small kiss in the middle, he experimentally thumbs over a pink nipple.

Giorno immediately flinches and lets out a strangled noise. “What are you doing?”

“Does that feel good?” he asks curiously as he repeats the motion and feels the bud harden under his touch.

“I don’t know. It feels weird. I – W-what are you – Oh!”

Giorno moans when Mista leans down and licks a flat broad stipe across the nipple. He reaches out with his other hand and thumbs the other one. It feels different. It is not the soft, plumpness of a full breast but the firm pectoral muscle feels nice too under his fingers. Mista eyes the stiff nipple. No less hot either.

He leans down and latches onto it, tongue swirling around the hardening bud. Giorno whimpers. The sound sends a bolt of arousal racing down his spine. He groans. “You’re so sensitive here.”

Giorno lets out another strangled sound for an answer. Mista laves over the hard bud again before he sucks. Giorno moans. His chest flinches away even as his fingers card through Mista’s hair and pull him closer like he cannot decide whether he wants more of the touch or not.

Fuck. That’s hot.

Not forgetting the other nipple, Mista rolls the hardening bud between his fingers and experimentally tugs. Giorno whimpers again, hips bucking up involuntarily. Mista groans at the accidental friction against his throbbing erection.

Damn.

Turned on, he continues sucking and licking, enjoying the breathless moans it elicits from Giorno and the way his hips rock erratically against him. Pants tightening painfully, Mista shifts his attention to the other nipple. Giorno’s breath audibly hitches. Arousal ignites through Mista once more like electric fire as he revels in the feel and sound of Giorno shuddering in pleasure in his hands.

Gorgeous. Honestly, how is Giorno even real?

Giorno gasps as warm, wet heat envelops his hardening nipple. His sensitive flesh tingles sharply. The pleasure crackles through his nerves like a thousand lightning bolts. He arches and whines, a high pitched sound so desperate that even Giorno cannot recognize himself.

It feels so good it almost hurts.

“Gorgeous,” Mista mutters, syllables slurred and rough. Giorno’s cheeks burns. He looks down at Mista helplessly. Any insecurities or doubts about Mista being attracted to him are dismantled in the litany of praises and compliments Mista murmurs aloud without even realizing it.

He cannot believe it.

Mista sucks again. Fingers rub and pull teasingly. Giorno’s eyes widen as pleasure stabs through him relentless. He whimpers, shuddering as his nerves alight with the sensation. His nipples feel like they’re on fire. Too much. It’s too much. Fingers scrambling at Mista’s scalp, Giorno thrashes and pleads desperately, “No – Hnngh – Stop, it’s too – too much.”

His hips buck hard, uncontrollable. It’s too much. It feels almost like he is in heat again. The pleasure keeps rolling over him in undulating, merciless waves. Arousal coils hotly in his gut when he accidentally grinds up against Mista’s stiff bulge.

Giorno cannot help but moan aloud, turned out by the very real confirmation that Mista feels equally good and desperate from this.

Mista shudders at the sound and breaks away from Giorno’s nipple. Giorno makes a sound of surprise as Mista rocks forward, hand hefting Giorno’s hip and pushing Giorno fall back flat against the mattress instead. Giorno blinks up at the ceiling, before he stares down at Mista who drags his lips down Giorno’s sternum and across his stomach. Giorno squirms at the ticklish feeling as Mista’s lips graze lightly against his skin. A trail of goosebumps follows Mista’s touch. Mista hums and bites gently at a soft spot at his side.

Giorno jerks slightly at that. Mista presses a small kiss over it before moving to another area. His thumb rubs soothing circles over Giorno’s hip.

Giorno bites his lips and tilts his head back, arousal still running hard through him. The scent of gunpowder simmers hotly in the air, like the haze of heat left behind in the wake of a gunfight. The familiar notes of chocolate and mocha swirl heavily in the room, dark and indulgent. Giorno breathes it in. He likes how it settles over him, warm and familiar. He likes even more the feeling of Mista’s palms over his hips, how warm and solid they press against him. He bucks automatically as Mista kisses the sensitive skin near his navel and swallows hard when Mista reflexively holds his hips down.

That feels nice too.

But his erection throbs in the tight confines of his pants, and Mista’s teasing touches only adds to the frustrated arousal thrumming hard through him. He needs more, wants more. “Mista?”

“Hmm?” Mista mumbles distractedly as he licks over Giorno’s belly button. Giorno shivers and looks down at him, mouth running dry when Mista tilts his head up to look at him, eyes dark and heated. A thrill of desire shoots through Giorno. Giorno swallows and whispers, “You can take them off.”

“Off?” Mista questions, confused.

Giorno pauses and then reaches down to grab Mista’s hand and press it pointedly over his waistband. He nods and confirms, “Off.”

Giorno watches nervously as Mista stills, worryingly silent before realization seemingly dawns upon him. He glances at Giorno and flushes, bronze cheeks turning an attractive shade of red. “Oh. I – yeah, ok.”

Mista fumbles a bit as he undoes the button and zipper. Giorno suppresses a groan as his fingers trail over his length as he does so. He lifts his hips up to make it easier for Mista to pull his pants off.

Mista pulls everything off in one abrupt tug. Startled, Giorno blinks at him, overwhelmed by how vulnerable and bared he suddenly feels. His thighs tremble as he fights the urge to close them under Mista’s close scrutiny.

The nervousness must show up in his expression because Mista makes an incoherent sound and leans down to kiss him, slowly but surely. Giorno relaxes into the kiss.

Mista nips his bottom lip lightly before pulling away. “You’re beautiful everywhere, you know that? It’s kinda unfair.”

The earnestness in Mista’s dark eyes makes Giorno uncharacteristically want to squirm. He shakes his head, simultaneously embarrassed and pleased. “You’re ridiculous.” He reaches down and hooks his finger under Mista’s waistband. Fighting the blush in his cheeks, Giorno insists, “Your turn. Take them off.”

He does not quite mean for it to be an order but Mista grins, eyes dancing with mirth, and drawls, “’Course boss.”

Giorno cannot help but kick him for that. Mista chuckles. Giorno bites his lips. What’s really unfair here is how easily that warm sound makes his heart throb with sheer fondness.

Mista takes significantly less time taking off his own shorts and boxers, shimmying them down and tossing them carelessly somewhere on the floor.

Giorno’s gaze lands squarely on Mista’s cock. It’s . . . big. It’s not absurdly long like the alphas in books and T.V. shows like to boast, but it’s a very decent length and with surprising girth. His eyes track the pearl of pre-cum trailing down. He notes the loose skin at the base. Is that where the knot is? Giorno observes aloud, “You’re large.”

Mista flushes dark red under the attention and rubs his neck somewhat sheepishly. “Um, yeah. I guess, but we don’t have to – Giorno!”

He yelps in surprise as Giorno experimentally reaches out with a finger down the vein. Mista’s breath hitches, and his cock twitches slightly. He mumbles shakily, “The nightstand – it’s in the nightstand. The lube I mean.”

Giorno nods and leans back towards the nightstand. He finds the lube rather quickly along with a curious amount of ammunition boxes and a spare revolver. Leave it to Mista to stash ammunition everywhere.

Squeezing out a dollop, he rubs it between his fingers to warm it up and then curls his palm around the base of Mista’s length. Mista flinches.

“Still cold?”

Mista nods wordlessly, eyes fixated on Giorno’s fingers wrapped around his cock. Giorno moves his hand up and down. Mista moans. The sound sends a sharp thrill of arousal through him. Wanting to hear it down, he alternates between light and firm touches, gradually increasing the pressure and speed as he gauges Mista’s reaction carefully.

Mista’s eyes flutter shut as Giorno continues to pump his cock. Fascinated by both the unfamiliar thickness in his palm and Mista’s sounds of pleasure, Giorno experimentally strokes up from base to the tip, thumb pressing ever so into the fold of skin on the underside. Mista immediately jolts, eyes snapping open, and grabs Giorno’s hand to stop him.

Giorno immediately stills and looks at him questioningly.

Mista shakes his head and explains breathlessly, “Sorry, I’m already really close. This is going to end a lot sooner if you keep doing that.”

Giorno eyes Mista’s angrily weeping erection and nods. He does not really mind if Mista does come but his own cock is throbbing uncomfortably and he can already feel himself getting wet down there too. He settles back down on the bed. Anticipation curls hotly in his belly.

Mista sighs and presses a kiss to Giorno’s hipbone before he pulls himself forward. He shifts up over Giorno’s thighs and lowers himself down. Giorno blinks in alarm and pushes him back. “Wait, Mista.”

Mista promptly freezes and asks worriedly, “What’s wrong?”

Giorno eyes his cock warily and explains, “You have to wear a condom. And I have to prepare myself first. I don’t think it’s going to fit otherwise.”

Will two fingers be enough?

Mista reels back and gawks at him. He asks haltingly, “F-fit? I wasn’t trying to - Are we going all the way tonight?”

Mista’s voice is high-pitched with incredulity. Giorno frowns at him. “You don’t want to?”

“Of course I do!” Mista blurts out, shaking his head vehemently. He lets out a strangled noise and gestures wildly in the air. “But – we – you – ” Mista cuts himself with a groan and says helplessly, “I’m still trying to wrap my head around you liking me back and you just go and ask me to – to “

He gestures vaguely in the air as his voice trails off embarrassedly.

Oh.

Giorno’s lips twitch upwards at the endearing reaction. He looks up at Mista amused and teases, “To fuck me?”

Predictably, the blunt word has Mista stiffening immediately. Already realizing the deliberate ploy, Mista narrows his eyes and growls, “Giorno.”

The darkening tone sends desire blazing through his veins. Giorno swallows as Mista abruptly spreads Giorno’s legs apart. Giorno immediately jerks in surprise. “What are you – “

He yelps as Mista leans down and mouths at the soft sensitive underside of his thigh. His hips buck when Mista worries the skin with his teeth before laving over it. The hot breath of air brushes teasingly against his balls and cock that Mista is deliberately ignoring. Giorno squirms and bites down on a moan. The position has Giorno’s cheeks burning. Mista can see everything like this.

Mista switches to his other thigh to the same. Giorno squirms again. He feels Mista’s lips curve into a smirk against his skin before Mista lifts his head up and suddenly pauses.

“Mista?”

Mista does not answer and instead strokes his thumb over Giorno’s slick rim.

“Uhn!” Giorno moans, legs jerking in surprise as pleasure jolts through him.

Mista does it again, pressing his thumb in ever so slightly before rubbing over Giorno’s hole. Giorno shudders. He says wonderingly and dazed, “You’re already so wet.”

Giorno can feel himself twitch at the words. Blood rushes to his cheeks and ears once more. His eyes widen as Mista pushes his legs up more until they’re nearly pressed to his chest. Mista leans down and –

“Hngh!” Giorno keens, back arching and fingers scrabbling on the bedsheet. Mista’s tongue circles his rim, flicking the sensitive flesh there teasingly. It tingles sharply, pleasure prickling through his skin. Mista tightens his grip on Giorno’s trembling legs and licks around the rim once more before his tongue delves in. Giorno immediately thrashes, seizing up. “W-wait, what are you – Mmm!”

Mista holds his hips down and refuses to pull back. Giorno shudders, whimpering. It feels strange. It does not feel like a finger at all. It feels wet, slick and hot, and it’s sliding and pushing through his clenching inner walls in a way a finger cannot. He tilts his head back, helpless against the merciless pleasure. His hips buck wildly, held down by Mista’s broad hands. Giorno whimpers again.

The heat coils tighter and tighter in his core. His legs tremble. The pleasure climbs higher and higher. Giorno thinks dazedly that he might come like this when Mista suddenly pulls out. The sudden withdrawal yanks him from the precipice of his impending orgasm, and Giorno is left blinking open his eyes that he never remembered closing. He takes a shaky breath and nearly chokes when Mista slips a finger in. He reflexively clenches on it. It too feels different from his own, not as long but slightly thicker.

Giorno moans. Mista thrusts it in carefully for a bit before he eases his second finger in. Giorno shakes at the sudden fullness, the slight burn as his hole swallows the addition. Mista presses a kiss to his trembling thigh to soothe him and then starts thrusting both fingers, spreading them apart, before crooking them and thrusting upwards again.

Giorno’s breath hitches. He lets out a long whimper. He cannot help but clench down on those thrusting fingers, hips shaking. Close, he’s already so close.

Mista groans loudly and then he’s murmuring a filthy stream of awed praises in a husky tone that sends goosebumps racing down Giorno’s back – “God, you have no idea what you do to me. Look at you. You’re so damn gorgeous, fucking yourself with my fingers like this” – Giorno flushes even harder, feeling dizzy at the white-hot heat and sheer desire flooding him. He isn’t in heat but it feels so much like he is. He feels wet everywhere, sweat sliding down his skin, pre-cum dripping down his cock, and slick squelching loudly as Mista keeps fingering him.

“T – three?” he stammers, jolting reflexively as Mista presses a third finger in. It burns, the abrupt pain slicing through the haze of pleasure. Giorno gasps and shakes his head fervently. “No, I can’t – I can’t – It’s too much.”

“Just to be safe,” Mista says soothingly. He reaches and wraps a warm, calloused palm around Giorno’s desperately throbbing erection. Giorno flinches, the pain fizzling out as pleasure buzzes through him once more. Mista pumps his cock as he steadily continues to finger Giorno. He adds apologetically, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Giorno bites his lips as he adjusts to the new sensation of fullness. It’s . . . good. Feels good. The desire coils through him once more. He moans and then reaches down to grip Mista’s arm shakily. “Enough. You – you can enter me now.”

Mista abruptly stops, eyes darting over to him to check. He asks nervously, “You sure?”

Giorno nods. “I’m going to cum otherwise.”

Mista bites his lips and nods. He gently pulls his fingers out. There’s an embarrassing wet sound and Giorno has to suppress a whine at the sudden aching emptiness.

Mista leans over to the nightstand and pulls out a condom wrapper. Tearing it open, he quickly rolls it on himself in a practiced motion and settles back between Giorno’s legs. He pauses and then in afterthought, squeezes some lube over his cock as well. He looks back down at Giorno and asks softly, “Good?”

Giorno nods, pulse skittering under his skin. He watches nervously as Mista pulls his hips up so that Giorno’s legs rest on Mista’s own hips. He tries to relax as Mista carefully presses, the blunt flared head pushing against his entrance.

It hurts a bit, even with the careful preparation as his hole widens to accept the wide girth of Mista’s cock. Giorno does not know if he cried out but Mista makes a low sound and presses a trail of kisses up from his navel to his neck, thumbs stroking soothingly over the jut of Giorno’s hips.  

Giorno takes a shuddering breath and shakes as Mista rocks his hips slowly, working his cock inch by inch into him. By the time Mista finally bottoms out, Giorno feels impossibly full and stretched. He can feel Mista pulsing inside him, can feel himself twitching around the hard length buried deep inside. The fact that it is Mista who is inside of him where no one else has been sends a bolt of pleasure streaking through him and a warm feeling curling through his chest.

He looks up at Mista staying still to let him adjust, expression tight and strained. Mista visibly swallows hard and reaches out to caress Giorno’s cheek. He asks, voice tense but concerned, “You okay? Do you wanna stop?”

Giorno shakes his head and tilts his head to press a kiss to Mista’s palm. He tugs Mista down more fully over him and reaches up for a desperate kiss. Mista’s breath hitches. He kisses him back just as fervently.

When they finally pull back, lips slick and reddened, the pleasure is back buzzing through him. Mista asks desperately, shaking a bit, “Can I – can I move?”

Giorno nods and rocks back experimentally. Mista lets out a strangled moan and mutters, “I take it all back. You’re a menace. An actual menace.”

Mista leans down for another kiss and thrusts slowly in and out. Giorno moans into the kiss as Mista continues short, shallow thrusts, gradually building up in intensity as Giorno rocks back.

He chokes on another moan as a particular thrust angles in deeper, grazing against his sensitive walls. Mista groans as Giorno clenches on him. There is an odd hardening bulge at the base of Mista’s cock that Giorno feels every time Mista thrusts especially deep, balls slapping against his skin. Is that his knot? Giorno swallows and asks, “Are you – Ah – going to knot me?”

Mista’s cock immediately twitches inside him but he shakes his head adamantly and grits out, “No. I - Uhn – I won’t. Not today.”

Mista leans down to kiss Giorno’s neck. Giorno would call him out on the obvious tactic to distract him, but he is not certain that he will be able to take a knot right now. Instead, he tilts his head back to grant Mista more access. Giorno shudders as Mista sucks hard on the side of his neck. The back of his neck strangely tingles sharply.

He does not have time to wonder though. Fingers tightening over Giorno’s hip, Mista lifts Giorno’s leg up.

“Mmm,” Giorno moans, leg trembling and abdomen tensing as the new angle lets Mista slide in even deeper. The pleasure is unbearable. It mercilessly blooms in never-ending bursts and sparks that fizzle achingly through his frayed nerves.

He is close. So close. Fingers reaching down to touch his own cock, Giorno moans again. He just needs –

Mista thrusts hard upwards, hitting a spot that has Giorno arching his back and crying out. “Ungh!”

“There?” Mista asks, voice rough and strained. Giorno breathes shakily and peers through messy, sweat dampened curls to see Mista gazing straight back at him with dark, smoldering eyes roving over him hungrily. They narrow. Nervous anticipation carves through Giorno, as knife-sharp as the pleasure slicing him apart.

Giorno’s eyes widen, fingers scrabbling desperately at the bedsheets as Mista thrusts harder and faster, aiming precisely at his prostate. He moans brokenly, helpless as the pleasure ramps up and up. “Ah, ah.”

His hips buck wildly as he gasps. Mista is muttering a litany of cusses and pleas as his fingers dig hard into Giorno’s hips. One, two, three more deep strokes and then the pleasure snaps, whitening out all of his thoughts and senses. Giorno’s head rolls back, toes curling and back arching. He whimpers loudly as the pleasure erupts through him. “Nghhhh!”

Mista moans as Giorno clenches hard. His hips buck wildly until he throws his head back and lets out a strangled, deep groan as he cums, thrusting blindly through Giorno’s orgasm.

Giorno trembles, overstimulated and breathless. He whines as Mista shakily withdraws, hole clenching on the sudden emptiness. Mista groans aloud at the sight and drops a kiss on Giorno’s thigh. Giorno blinks blearily at the ceiling and feels more than sees Mista get up from the bed. The bathroom light clicks on. He dazedly hears the water running.

It turns off quickly. Footsteps head back to the bed. He feels the mattress sink and then something wet and ticklish brushes over his skin. Giorno looks up from half-opened eyes and blindly cringes away from the wet washcloth Mista is swiping over his skin. Mista croons, expression fond and relaxed, “Sorry, sensitive?”

Giorno nods wordlessly. He pulls at Mista’s hand pointedly towards the empty side next to him. His eyelids flutter shut again. The bed dips again, and Giorno sighs as solid, warm arms wrap around him from behind.

“Ok?”

Giorno wants to say better than ok. Perfect, really. But, even words are too much for him right now. He strokes a warm, tan hand and hopes it conveys the message well enough before surrendering himself to the sudden exhaustion that overtakes him.

“Hn.” Mista stirs slowly from the vague haziness of sleep. Smacking his dry lips, he squints blearily up at the familiar ceiling. He feels strangely well-rested, limbs loose and limber.

Cringing away from the bright sunlight streaming in through the blinds, Mista turns to the other side and nearly jumps in surprise.

Eyes wide, he watches Giorno sleep blissfully on, cheek pressed on the pillow and arms curled up close to his chest. Mista blinks, heart thudding loudly in his chest.

Last night he confessed. Giorno confessed. They confessed and – and Mista’s ears redden. Oh. He watches Giorno, still awed. Giorno loves him back.

Incredible.

A warm, tender feeling curls through him. He grins softly, helplessly giddy. He glances over Giorno again, eyes trailing over the curious star on his bare shoulder peeking up from the thin blanket Giorno fetched from who knows where, the love bites littered on the smooth, slender neck, the long messy curls that Giorno must have unpinned and unplaited sometime during the night.

Because he always wanted to and now he can, Mista carefully reaches out and gently brushes back the tangled locks away from Giorno’s forehead.  Giorno sighs. Mista stills, but when Giorno still peacefully slumbers on, Mista continues caressing Giorno’s hair, fingers carding lightly through the long curls and pushing them back and away. Because it makes him absurdly happy – alright, so he may have an obsession with Giorno’s hair – he loses himself in the rhythmic motions, content to just watch the way the sunlight dapples over Giorno in pretty, undulating patterns.

Slowly but surely, Giorno begins to stir. Mista carefully tucks a stray lock behind his ear before he withdraws. Awareness does not creep over Giorno in gradual stages. Rather, Giorno wakes up all at once, eyes snapping open and alert. Mista notes, inwardly frowning, that Giorno stiffens first, hands twitching as if poised to react defensively, for a brief moment before he recognizes Mista and relaxes.

Hmm. Mista tucks the knowledge away and greets him softly, “Good morning.”

Actually, he suspects that it might be afternoon already based on how hungry he feels, but well, morning sounds more suitable somehow.

Giorno peers at him, blue eyes startlingly clear, and answers in a sleep roughened voice, “Good morning.”

They both stare at each other, suddenly shy and quiet. A tinge of pink dusts over Giorno’s cheeks, no doubt in belated memory of last night. The silence trembles between them, expectant and nervous. Mista clears his throat but no words come to mind. He ends up blurting out rather awkwardly, “So last night was . . . good?”

He cringes immediately afterwards. Giorno fortunately only huffs in amusement. Idly rubbing his eyes, he nods and murmurs, “It was more than good. I’m glad you were my first.”

Mista freezes. Wait, what? First? What does he mean by that? He gapes and stares at Giorno. Please, please don’t let it be what he thinks it means.

Giorno rubs his eye once more before he notices Mista’s silence and looks back at him curiously. “Mista?”

“What do you mean I was your first?” Mista demands, voice reedy with panic.

Giorno blinks at him.

Mista bites his lips and tries to explain, “First . . . alpha? Or first – first for like sex?”

Giorno blinks at him again.

“Giorno,” Mista prompts anxiously.

Giorno stares at him again, clearly finding his reaction peculiar. He shrugs and replies blithely, “First to both.”

Mista stares at him and then covers his face with a groan. Gah. He furiously runs back the memories from last night. He wasn’t too aggressive yesterday, was he? Oh, don’t tell him he just took Giorno to bed five minutes after they finally confessed like an overeager teenager again.

 .   .  . Although being Giorno’s first means that he is the only in the world who has seen Giorno like that, shy and beautiful and erotic. Satisfied possessiveness runs hard through him. Mista swallows and groans again in his hands.

He’s a terrible person.

Giorno peers at him and taps Mista’s hand questioningly. Perplexed, he asks, “What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean what’s wrong?!” Mista looks up at him, aghast. He gestures vaguely in the air and says, “If I had known, I would have – have . . .”

His voice trails off lamely in the air because now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t have that much faith in his self-control when it comes to Giorno.

Giorno lifts an eyebrow and asks rather unimpressed, “Would have what?”

“I dunno,” Mista admits. Forehead creasing, he thinks for a moment and says finally, “I would have dated you a bit first.”

His answer startles an amused laugh from Giorno. Giorno shakes his head, eyes bright and fond. The expression makes Mista’s chest throb with sudden yearning.

Giorno does not notice the emotional chaos he inflicts and instead comments, “You’re surprisingly a romantic. According to Trish, we apparently have been dating.”

“It’s different,” Mista insists. He stops and frowns. Speaking of Trish, she’s definitely going to kill him when she finds out.

“Different?” Giorno hums, amusement curling warmly in his tone.

Mista’s lips twitch upwards despite himself. Eyes on Giorno, he nods resolutely. “Yes because now I can do this.”

He leans down and kisses Giorno. Giorno freezes for a second but returns it right after with a pleased hum. Mista keeps it sweet and short before pulling back with a smug grin. “See?”

Giorno’s eyes flick over him a bit dazedly before he shakes his head, lips curving into a small smile. “You can still date me, Guido.”

Mista blinks at the unfamiliar usage of his first name. Huh.

Curious at Mista’s speechlessness, Giorno questions, “What?”

“It’s just you never call me that.”

Giorno blinks and reminds him, “I tried before but you never answered whenever I called you.” Mista pauses. Now that he mentioned it, there were a few times in the past when Giorno tried to call him by his first name but Mista would continue on, not realizing that Giorno was trying to get his attention. Giorno gave up after that.

And well, it does not really bother him either.

Giorno watches him, eyebrows furrowing. He asks incredulously, “It is your first name, isn’t it?”

Mista shrugs as best as he can lying down. “Well, yeah. . . But no one ever calls me by that. It feels weird.”

Giorno looks at him, amusement glimmering in his eyes. “Luckily, we’ll have all the time in the world for you to get used to it.”

Mista blinks at that. All the time in the world.  He likes the sound of that. It implies that Giorno is serious about their relationship.

Giorno gives him a side-long glance and starts slowly, “Unless you don’t want me to.”

“Nah. I like it. It’s like a nickname.” Now that he thinks about it, no one ever really calls him by his first name so for Giorno to do so feels oddly official to Mista, like a solid step towards being boyfriends.

Giorno blinks and corrects, a bit exasperated, “You mean a first name.” He gestures and explains, “A nickname is more like. . .”

He pauses, visibly trying to think of a relevant example. Mista stretches lazily and suggests, “GioGio?”

Giorno turns to him, taken aback. He asks, surprised, “How did you come up with that?”

“It just came to me,” Mista hums. He likes how the name rolls off his tongue. He glances at Giorno who looks strangely mystified by the nickname. “You don’t like it?”

Giorno blinks and shakes his head. “It’s just . . . different.”

Mischievousness rears its head and has Mista parroting back with a sly smirk, “You’ll get used to it.”

Giorno stares flatly at him, even as his lips twitch upwards. “You’re ridiculous.”

Mista grins and laughs. The giddiness from earlier returns full force and the laughter shakes out of him uncontrollably. He wags his eyebrows at Giorno who snorts and chuckles too.

The room is filled with the sound of their warm laughter. Mista thinks that if he could, he would freeze the world into this very moment, just the two of them helplessly giggling together over something nonsensical. This is what he wants, forever and always. This easy, familiar closeness and sense of being.

Mista grins and turns back to look at Giorno. Giorno’s expression softens. Almost as if he knows the words on Mista’s tongue, he says them first, voice quiet and affectionate, “I love you.”

Mista’s heart skips a beat and he says without hesitation, “I love you too.” And because he is terrible, he snickers and adds, “GioGio.”

Giorno sighs, but his eyes are warm and full of happiness.

Mista smiles widely and reaches out to kiss him again.

Ah, so this is love.