Chapter Text
Young Master Giorno was the most eligible, most sought-after bachelor in all the kingdom.
Seventeen years old, firm of body and sharp of mind, with a slender noble neck and golden curls that graced his forehead and tumbled down his back. He also stood to inherit the vast fortune and estates of his deceased father, Dio Brando, upon his 18th birthday and marriage.
Weekly balls and dances were thrown in his honor, along with an interminable procession of hunts and fetes with all of the most beautiful young ladies for leagues around in hopeful attendance.
Yet Giorno had no desire to inherit the Brando family’s riches or lands. Nor did any of the charming and lovely young women at the balls catch his fancy.
“You must choose a wife soon,” his conservator reminded him often, scowling. “This estate isn’t going to inherit itself!”
And so Giorno fled from the manor whenever he was able, preferring to ride alone about the acres of fields and woodlands that surrounded it. This was his escape and his greatest pleasure: to feel the breeze of the cool autumn air through his golden curls, the warm sun on the black velvet of his riding clothes, and the hard muscles of the powerful beast between his legs as he bent it to his will.
“Ahhh… why must I be the most eligible, most sought-after bachelor in all the kingdom,” Giorno sighed aloud as he alighted from his horse after one such ride. One very rough, very strenuous ride.
“Um… you talking to somebody?” The new stable boy grabbed for the reins that Giorno casually tossed to him, deep brown eyes narrowing in confusion.
Giorno lifted one black-gloved hand to his cravat, eyeing the impertinent stable boy haughtily.
“Nothing you would understand,” he muttered, lifting his chin and striding past.
“Oh right. Right, no problem then.” The stable boy grinned disarmingly.
Giorno paused, scrutinizing the young man’s handsome features for any hint of insolence. There was none. His bright smile was broad and genuine, his dark eyes guileless and innocent.
“You: stable boy. What is your name?” Giorno demanded.
“My… name? It’s, um, Guido Mista. But you can just call me Mista, young Master.”
“Are you new here?” Giorno asked, eyeing him up and down. Quite a change from the old stable boy – an older man with a dour face and a bit of a limp, matted hair and lips that unconsciously mirrored the beasts he was charged with tending to.
By contrast this Mista was well-shaped, muscular, healthy and handsome to a fault. His skin was sun-kissed and his dark brown hair highlighted with gold in the autumn afternoon. Giorno found his gaze unwillingly drawn to the deep V of the man’s flowy linen workshirt, unlaced to give a peek of his firm chest sprinkled with soft, sparse hairs.
Giorno flushed and turned to walk away.
“I am new here. You noticed!” Mista babbled, leading the horse along after Giorno as the young Master stalked towards the stables. “That’s cool. Before he left, the old stable guy told me to just keep my head down and say ‘yes, young Master, no young Master.’ I didn’t think you’d actually talk to me. Wow, the young Master is talking to me…”
“Young?” Giorno raised an eyebrow. “I’m seventeen years old, boy.”
“Oh. Oops. Sorry about that. I’m nineteen, so yeah it’s a little weird of me to call you young. I guess I mean ‘young’ more as in ‘not old,’ if you catch my drift. Like, I imagine your old man would be the ‘old master’… Okay now I’m really running my mouth…”
Giorno once again paused. “You’re impertinent. You shouldn’t be speaking to me. And my father is deceased. I’ll be the lord of the house soon.”
“Right, whoops. I think I remember hearing that.” Mista lifted one finger and scratched idly behind his ear. He glanced at the horse who was worrying at the bit, its mouth flecked with foam and its sides sweaty from exertion. “Say, you sure rode this one hard. Not gonna put him away wet, are you?”
“No. You’re going to take him to the courtyard and lunge him until he cools down,” Giorno snapped, pulling off his leather gloves and slapping them impatiently in his palm. “That’s your job, stable boy.”
Giorno spun on his heel and strode off through the cool passageway of the stable, through the garden, around the ornamental fountain and straight up the marble stairs to his chambers. From there, he could get a good view of the stable boy from behind the curtains.
He watched, mesmerized, as Mista pulled off his flowy linen shirt, took up his long leather lunging whip and, bare-chested in the orange autumn sunset, began urging the horse around the courtyard in a circle at the end of a thin rope.
*
“Oh stable boy.”
“Unh?” Mista looked up from the saddle he was polishing to find his young Master Giorno standing over him.
Every day, for days now, Giorno had gone out riding. And every day he returned to the stable with some new request with which to pester the good-natured and handsome servant.
“My riding gloves are worn. Take them, clean them, then soften and color them.” Giorno thrust out his gloved hands.
“Uhhh… yeah, sure.” Mista swung one leg over and turned on the bench, uncertain, looking at Giorno’s gloves.
“Well?” Giorno thrust his hands further at Mista until the stable boy’s eyes were nearly crossed beneath his nose. “Take them.”
“Of course, young Master.” Mista hesitantly took Giorno’s delicate fingers in his large, polish-stained ones. He gently squeezed one finger, then the other, trying to decide how to do this… he finally took Giorno’s slender wrist in one hand and pinched the tip of Giorno’s thumb with the fingers of the other. He slowly began working the glove free, finger-by-finger, head down and eyes narrowed in concentration.
Giorno regarded the top of the stable boy’s head, resisting the urge to plunge his other gloved hand into the enticing, thick brown curls and squeeze. He bit his lip, worrying it with his teeth to suppress the sudden desire rising up in him.
“You don’t need to call me ‘young Master,’” he said, his voice hitching strangely.
“Oh no?” Mista successfully slid of one glove and tossed it onto the bench. “What should I call you, then?”
“Just Master,” Giorno breathed.
Mista looked up at him, puzzlement crossing his innocent, expressive features, Giorno’s hand still squeezed in his. “Okay. Master, it is.”
*
The next day Giorno stopped by the stable boy’s room first thing in the morning, unannounced.
Mista’s quarters were behind the livery room, occupying the back half of the coach-house. Giorno slid past the spotless carriage sparkling in the beams of light shining down from the dormered windows, past the racks of immaculate saddles and bridles on their holders, past the buckets of curry brushes, hoof picks and combs. He inhaled the warm scent of healthy animals and leather polish.
“Stable boy,” he announced, pushing the door open. He took in the room curiously. It was spare but comfortable, clean and filled with the heady aroma of hay and saddle soap.
Mista got up from his simple breakfast table, hurriedly setting aside his can of Sprite and wiping his hands on his trousers.
“Something I can help you with, young… I mean, Master?”
“I’ve come for my gloves. I intend to go out riding this afternoon.”
“Oh. Of course.” Mista turned to a shelf and pulled down a small parcel carefully wrapped in tissue-paper.
Giorno eyed him discreetly. Mista was wearing nothing more than form-fitting breeches and his usual flowing linen shirt, undone in the front. He again bit his lip.
“Here you are,” Mista turned, handing Giorno the gloves. “Be careful – they might still be damp. I worked the softening lotion in real good.”
“I’m sure you did,” Giorno agreed, taking the gloves and tucking them under his arm. His eye lighted on a jug high up on a shelf.
“Anything else I can do for you?” Mista smiled earnestly.
“I, umm…” Giorno whirled, his back to the shelf. He pointed up. “Fetch that water jug down for me, stable boy. It looks familiar. I want to see it. Did you steal it from the manor?”
Giorno knew full well that the jug was from a set taken apart and distributed to the servants several years ago. But he was enjoying Mista’s flustered expression far too much…
“Well, no… of course not,” Mista looked concerned. He approached Giorno who was standing beneath the jug in such a way that he was obligated to lean over his Master, chest-to-chest, to reach the offending piece of crockery.
Giorno closed his eyes and inhaled deeply as Mista reached up, his face nearly pressed to the stable boy’s warm neck.
“There, y’see?” Mista lowered the jug carefully between them. He rubbed one polish-stained thumb over the swell of the jug. “It’s probably been here for years. See the dust? It was here when I moved in, for sure.”
“Certainly.” Giorno swooned slightly at the sight of the stable boy’s strong fingers stroking the creamy, smooth ceramic, its glaze lightly veined with fine crazing.
“Happy now?” Mista smiled gently, his dark eyes boring into Giorno’s.
Giorno swallowed thickly.
“Very.”
“Is there… anything else I can show you?” Mista reached up again, on tiptoes, one hand on the shelf and the other arm raised above Giorno to set the jug back in its spot. Giorno found himself caged in by Mista’s arms against the shelves. They were so close that Giorno could clearly see the little golden cross dangling from a chain around the stable boy’s neck…
Mista finished putting the jug away and lowered his arms. He regarded Giorno curiously, lips quirked up at the corners. “Anything else you’d like to see?”
“N- no.” Giorno stuttered, his tongue thick and strangely clumsy in his mouth. “That’ll be all.” He slid away from Mista, heat blooming up the back of his neck and between his legs, his breeches suddenly uncomfortably tight. “Thank you for the gloves.”
“Anything you desire, Master. Glad to be of service.”
*
Giorno rode as hard as he’d ever ridden that afternoon, driving his snorting steed up hillsides and over hedges until both man and beast were sweating and winded.
He rode as if he were trying to outrun the thought of those deep, brown eyes… that wide earnest smile and those broad, well-muscled shoulders. How would those muscles feel beneath his gloved fingers, if he were to stroke and admire them as he did his horses?
Nonsense. Giorno kicked his horse faster, urging him forward with his heels and the weight of his seat in the saddle, hips surging and rocking with the rhythm of its canter as he took a fallen fence in stride and splashed through the muddy puddle on the other side.
He was Giorno Giovanna: soon-to-be Lord and master of the estate. Why should a lowly stable boy get under his skin? Why on Earth could he not rid his mind of those soft, smirking lips… those polish-stained, capable fingers… that linen shirt begging to be unlaced and pushed aside, exposing that warm olive chest…
He thundered through another puddle, heedless of the mud splashing him.
He did have the presence of mind to slow to a walk a good distance from the stable in order to cool his horse. By the time he got to the stable both he and the horse were collected and in control.
But the stable boy was nowhere to be found.
Giorno looked about the empty grounds, frowning. The sun had already lowered in the sky, casting cool shadows across the neatly-trimmed grass surrounding the stable.
“Stable boy!” He cried imperiously, dismounting. There was no answer.
Finally he found himself obliged to attend to his own horse, flinging the bridle and dressage saddle over the fence rail and loosing the horse into the paddock.
“Stable boy!” Giorno strode through the barn, his black riding crop twitching in his hand. Out the back, through the yard and to the coach house. Truly, this was too much! For him, Giorno, to have to attend to his own horse and go out in search of a servant!
“Stable boy!” Giorno pushed the door to Mista’s room open and let it fly wide, his fist with the riding crop in it set angrily on one hip.
“Oh! Oh shit! Sorry Boss… I mean, Master!” Mista jumped up from where he was reclining on his simple, rustic bed, tossing aside the fashion magazine he was perusing.
“What is the meaning of this!” Giorno leveled his crop at the stable boy. “I had to unsaddle my own horse.”
“Yeah, I’m, uh, real sorry. I was just taking a break,” Mista sheepishly admitted. “I thought everybody was in for the evening.”
“I wasn’t.” Giorno stalked into the center of the room, tugging his gloves off and tossing them on the table.
“Well… uh… is there anything I can do for you?”
Giorno paused.
“Yes. In fact, there is.” He spun and sat himself on one of the wooden chairs, gesturing at his feet, tapping them with his crop. “My boots are filthy. There was a lot of mud today.”
“Okay…” Mista hurried over and knelt in front of Giorno. “Ahhh… what did you want me to do about it?”
“Help me out of them!” Giorno thrust out one foot, gesturing towards the tall black leather riding boot.
“Of course, Master,” Mista nodded hurriedly.
Giorno watched as the stable boy found a clean spot on his boot-heel and wrapped one capable hand around it, placing the other on his calf. He gripped the edges of the chair with both hands and braced himself as Mista tugged first one boot off, then the other.
“There you go,” Mista soothed him, running one hand up Giorno’s shin and squeezing gently. “You can just leave them here. I’ll get them all cleaned by tomorrow.”
Giorno sucked in a breath, eyelids suddenly heavy and stomach fluttering as Mista’s fingers closed around his ankle, then smoothed their way up his calf. He’d seen those capable hands run up and down the horses’ legs as he groomed them, massaging and checking for infirmities. Perhaps Mista was doing it instinctively… he couldn’t possibly know the effect it was having on Giorno…
Mista looked up, one eyebrow raised.
“Does that hurt?”
Giorno shook his head, biting his lips.
“Seems like it does. You’re all tensed up…” Mista’s hands continued onwards and upwards, over Giorno’s sensitive knees until he was gripping his thighs.
“I did ride very hard today,” Giorno admitted weakly, tapping his riding crop thoughtfully against the table.
“Here, let me do something for you.” Mista rose quickly, spinning Giorno in his chair. Before the young lord had time to react strong hands had found his shoulders and were kneading at them firmly.
“Ooohh…” Giorno groaned, letting his head fall back loosely on his neck. “That’s… very nice.”
“Good, right?” Mista continued kneading and massaging the tense flesh of Giorno’s shoulders in his large hands. He slid one beneath Giorno’s chin and the other beneath the golden curls at the nape of his neck, pushing his head forward and rolling it about, loosening it gently.
“Ah, Mista,” Giorno gasped as calloused fingers ghosted over his neck and collarbones.
“Get on the bed,” Mista suddenly ordered, releasing him.
“I… what?” Giorno blinked up at the stable boy who had suddenly retreated to the shelves, selecting a jar of ointment. The riding crop slipped from his startled fingers and clattered to the floor. He was not used to being ordered around.
“C’mon, get on the bed. I’m giving you the full treatment.”
“I’m not sure if this is proper…”
“Pssht. I rub down the horses, don’t I? How’s this any different?”
Giorno was certain this was quite different, at least from his perspective. He had to move from the chair carefully, trying to conceal the embarrassing bulge in the front of his riding breeches.
“Okay shirt off.” Mista set the jar on the flannel quilt and pulled off Giorno’s velveteen riding coat, setting it aside neatly before returning for his cravat.
“Really, it’s okay…” Giorno protested weakly, attempting to brush Mista’s fingers aside.
“Oh come on… don’t want to get this ointment on your fancy clothes…” Mista was insistent.
“I’ll… I’ll do it myself,” Giorno protested, loosening the lacy bit of fabric and unbuttoning his shirt. He turned away from Mista as he did so, glancing back over his shoulder as he eased the fine fabric down over his shoulders and worked the cuffs off.
“There we go.” Mista took the shirt and set it aside, then grasped Giorno by the hips and tossed him lightly onto the bed.
“Oh!” Giorno gasped as the stable boy maneuvered him onto his stomach and swung one leg over, straddling his upper thighs. His shock melted into ecstasy as Mista scooped a glob of the ointment out of the jar and smoothed it over his shoulder blades.
“God that’s good,” Giorno groaned, resting his cheek on the soft flannel of the quilt. It smelled like Mista: healthy, masculine and natural, like sun on hay. The smell of a pure mind, the very same smell that comforted and soothed the horses in the paddock… It mixed headily with the aroma of the ointment: lavender and oak and leather.
Encouraged by Giorno’s euphoric noises Mista leaned into it, thighs tensing, his pelvis rocking against the smaller man’s firm backside as he worked him into putty.
“God… Mista…” Giorno exclaimed, wriggling against the mattress in an attempt to surreptitiously maneuver his growing arousal into a more comfortable position.
Sensing his discomfort Mista paused and backed away, wiping his hands on his thighs.
“Stable boy, why did you stop,” Giorno frowned, brushing away a fallen curl of golden hair from his forehead and looking back over his shoulder.
Mista responded by sliding his hands around Giorno’s waist and fumbling for the closure at the front of his pants.
“Oh!” Giorno flushed prettily, his lips parting in surprise.
“Don’t want to get ointment on your waistband,” Mista grunted, tugging down Giorno’s breeches a few inches to expose the divots on his lower back and just a peek of the firm swell of his ivory buttocks.
Mista leaned back, spreading his thighs further until he was settled snugly against Giorno’s backside. He placed his palms on the small of Giorno’s back and pressed down firmly, thumbs rubbing soothing circles.
“Ahh…” Giorno struggled to his elbows, arching his back.
“Just… relax…” Mista whispered, hands sliding on his master’s skin, caressing every inch of it. “Wow… seems like you needed this. You’re so tense…”
Mista quietly slipped his own shirt off, discarding it to the side of the bed, his pelvis pressing against Giorno’s backside as he leaned forward.
Giorno gasped with sudden realization. Mista was obviously aroused… as was he. The hardness pressing between his buttocks was unmistakable.
Rather than draw away horrified, Giorno found himself rising to meet the growing heat behind him. He lifted his hips from the bed, pushing back to meet Mista’s firm pelvis.
All pretenses were gone as Mista ground into Giorno, falling onto him hungrily, brushing aside a mound of tumbled golden curls to run his tongue along his neck.
“M- Mista…” Giorno stammered, eyes squeezing shut as firm fingers found their way into his waistband, tugging his breeches down further. The stable boy’s warm, hard chest pressed heavily into his own bare back.
“Shhh… S’okay,” Mista soothed, fumbling at the front of his own pants.
Giorno’s eyes flew wide as he felt the stable boy’s hot, rigid cock pressed bare against his exposed backside, leaking a trail of warm wetness.
“That’s good… that’s so good… god that’s fucking good,” Mista praised him breathlessly, reaching down to angle his cock between Giorno’s slender thighs and closing them tightly with his own.
Giorno squeezed as tightly as he could, feeling Mista’s rigid length between his legs, rubbing his cheek against the strong forearms caging him in. He barely noticed when Mista reached again for the jar of ointment, scooping out a fingerful.
“Ahh!” Giorno gasped as Mista pulled back, lifting his hips to follow. He looked over his shoulder, pink-cheeked and needy. “Don’t stop!”
“Couldn’t if I wanted to, Master,” Mista grinned. The stable boy’s shy, deferential manner was gone, replaced by something steadfast and determined.
Giorno felt himself on the edge, about to topple over. A chasm of need yawned beneath him, mirrored in the dark eyes gazing longingly down at him. He glanced at the other man’s cock, thick and heavy and warm, cast into shadows in the impossible valley where their bodies nearly met. He opened his mouth.
“I…”
Before he could finish the thought warm, capable fingers slid between his buttocks, coated in the sweet-smelling ointment. Giorno twitched away reflexively, mild shame rising in him that was nowhere near sufficient to overpower his desire.
Mista grunted, concentrating, searching for something. He sighed in satisfaction as he found it, sinking one thick finger into Giorno.
Giorno straightened beneath the other man, startled at the invasion. It didn’t necessarily feel good, but it didn’t feel bad. Oddly, it left him wanting more.
Mista chuckled, watching as his finger sank into Giorno, watching as his master struggled against the confines of the breeches around his thighs to open his legs wider for him, lifting his smooth backside yearningly to meet his finger that had worked its way in until his knuckles touched soft flesh.
“Tight,” Mista murmured to him, gripping one of the soft mounds and squeezing, rubbing his thumb along the crease just below Giorno’s buttock and massaging gently as he worked his finger in and out. “You gotta loosen up, Giorno.” He added another finger.
Giorno lifted his head, mouth falling open. This did feel good. It stung, yes. The two heavy fingers inside of him were straining his delicate flesh, and the strangeness of the experience tore at some corner of his mind. But if he concentrated on relaxing, on allowing the stable boy access… the tips of those sturdy fingers were grazing against something promising absolute pleasure in a space beyond the reach of all inhibitions…
“Huh, yeah…” Mista gasped admiringly, sensing Giorno’s capitulation. “That’s right… just like that…”
Mista reached carefully to the ointment, scooping out another glob and smearing it around the fingers still buried inside Giorno, working them carefully in and out.
“Stable boy…” Giorno gasped.
“Yes, Giorno?”
“M- More…”
Mista groaned deep in his throat, withdrawing his fingers and grasping Giorno’s hips. He pulled him to his knees and stripped off first Giorno’s breeches, then his own, leaving them in a pile next to the bed.
Giorno was panting as he stole a glimpse at his stable boy’s naked body beyond his own. It was breathtaking: the smooth planes of his muscular thighs and abdomen glistening with perspiration in the last rays of the setting sun filtering through the curtains, his thick dark hair mussed, his soulful eyes deep as he settled dutifully onto his knees behind his master…
Mista was looking down at Giorno’s figure, stroking his fingers worshipfully along the curve of his backside.
“Ready?” Mista asked, his eyes smoldering with desire as they caught Giorno’s.
A tiny nod. Giorno laid his cheek on the flannel quilt, twisting the soft fabric in his hands in anticipation.
Nothing could have prepared him.
With a groan Mista slid in, pausing as he encountered resistance.
Giorno’s breath stuttered with pain, his fists tightening on the quilt.
“It’s okay… just relax… I’ll stay here. I’m not going any further… not until you’re ready,” Mista soothed, his own breath hitching. He worked his hips gently, prodding patiently. “Loosen up, Giorno. Breathe through it…”
Giorno closed his eyes obediently, focusing on his breathing, pacing himself to Mista’s gentle urging, trying to let his body go lax and accept the stable boy’s invading hardness into himself. He mumbled something, tears starting from his eyes.
“What was that, Master?” Mista adjusted his grip.
“More.”
With an enraptured sigh Mista lowered himself to a seated position, resting on his ankles. He pulled Giorno back with him, and in one smooth motion settled him fully onto his cock.
“Fuck… so tight…” Mista gasped, running his hands along Giorno’s heaving flanks and helping him upright, cradled on his lap.
Giorno groaned, overcome by the feeling of fullness straining his limits. He grasped Mista’s hands in his, placing them over his abdomen, his chest, then releasing them to twine his own arms up and around the stable boy’s strong neck.
“Go ahead and move, Giorno. You’re not going to break… I’ve got you.”
Giorno ground experimentally against the other man, relieved to find that most of the pain had subsided, leaving him free to work out the most pleasurable angle. He bounced lightly, eliciting a grunt of pleasure from the stable boy.
“Like that, don’t you?” Mista’s lips curled into a grin against Giorno’s shoulder as he fell into a rhythm, bouncing against his heated thighs and taut stomach. Mista reached around carefully, settling deeper onto his ankles and separating Giorno’s thighs with his calloused hands.
“Ungh… God… Mista…” Giorno panted as capable fingers closed over his turgid cock, urging out a thin dribble of silky wetness.
“That’s right. That’s good. Just like that,” Mista encouraged, his fingers sinking lower to find his master’s sensitive balls drawn up tightly against his body. He rolled them gently in his palm, then continued onward, his breath escaping him in a whistle of admiration as his fingers found Giorno’s opening and his own swollen member buried deep inside of it.
Overcome by desire, Giorno allowed his own hands to follow the stable boy’s, exploring his own body as if it belonged to a different person. It felt foreign – like a stranger’s. His body, he was sure, had never felt such ecstasy. Not even when riding the strongest horse in the stable, its hardened body sensitive between his legs, responsive to his every touch and desire… Mista’s hard muscles behind him, his powerful hands on him slamming him down onto his lap… it was more exhilarating by far.
“More?” Mista asked between panting breaths, placing both hands on Giorno’s slender hipbones and assisting his motion.
“Yes, yes… god yes…” Giorno whined, increasing the pace of his bouncing. He wrapped his slender hand around his own cock, feeling it slip through his hand as Mista thrust harder into him. “Ahhh… Mista… that’s good.”
“Yeah it is… it’s… ahhh Giorno…”
Giorno’s eyes flew wide, his mouth dropping open as he clenched around the stable boy’s hardness. A feeling was rushing over him, intense waves that coursed throughout his body, numbing his lips and causing his limbs to tremble. A feeling of inevitability, of pleasure so intense it bordered on oblivion. He reached for it blindly, unaware of the tangled pleading half-words falling from his lips, unaware of the bruising force slamming into him, unaware of anything but his own impending release speeding towards him like a bright point of light growing larger, threatening to overwhelm him.
“Fuck… Giorno!” Mista clasped him, forcing him down onto him tightly, thighs straining, eyes sinking closed in ecstasy so sharp it bordered on pain as Giorno’s hot release splashed over his fist and striped his slender chest and Mista’s forearms.
With a harsh moan Mista grasped Giorno’s golden curls and thrust him forward, falling atop him on the quilt, still embedded in his accepting flesh.
“Fuck… m’gonna… gonna…”
Giorno groaned, his cheek ground into the mattress, pinned by the strong fist tangled into his hair. He struggled to raise his hips to the stable boy, again and again, swept away in the urgency and by the hardness that was growing incredibly rigid inside of him, pushing him to the absolute limits of his endurance.
“Mista… come… come in me…” Giorno panted, pleading and writhing.
And Mista came for his master, groaning as he emptied himself deep inside.
For what seemed forever they lay there, trembling together, Mista still inside of Giorno. Little by little their senses returned.
“I’m taking it out now,” Mista whispered into Giorno’s hair.
“Carefully,” Giorno replied, wincing as he withdrew, followed by a trickle of fluid that seeped down the crevices of Giorno’s exhausted body and onto the quilt.
Mista rolled to his back, heart pounding. He smiled as Giorno pulled himself over to collapse atop him, chest to chest. He wrapped his oily, sweaty arms around Giorno’s slender form, cradling him close.
“How do you feel,” Mista asked, nuzzling into Giorno’s golden curls.
“Mmm… sore. Sticky.” Giorno lifted the little golden cross from Mista’s chest, watching as it dangled from his fingertip.
Mista chuckled, squeezing him tighter. “Yeah we’re a mess.”
“I like it,” Giorno whispered, pressing his mouth full to the stable boy’s and sinking into a deep kiss.
“Cool.”
*
Giorno wondered if Fugo ever slept.
He was already at the breakfast table in the servants’ kitchen with Mina and Mista when Giorno came downstairs, his consigliere freshly showered and dressed impeccably in his usual Armani suit, sipping a cup of green tea.
Giorno himself felt exhausted, despite having overslept. He felt rumpled in his striped pajama pants and heathered-gray tee, his curls unkempt and tangled. He disliked being seen like this, instead keeping up a polished exterior and cool veneer of professionalism, even in domestic surroundings.
But he needed coffee too desperately.
“Morning, Boss,” Mista waved nonchalantly, sipping a Sprite, eyes trained on the fashion magazine on the table in front of him.
Giorno paused, blushing suddenly at the memory of the dream. The fine edges of it were dulling in the morning light, but he distinctly recalled…
“Sleep well?” Fugo asked, sliding out a chair.
“I… yes. Yes I did. Thank you, Fugo.” Giorno seated himself, taking the tiny pitcher of creamer and pouring a very sparing amount into his black coffee.
The dream had been very real… So real, in fact…
He glanced at Mina, who was absorbed in a book of Art Nouveau, her cup of cardamom tea steaming fragrantly at her elbow. She looked up at him and smiled, then back down at her book.
Whose dream had it been? The thought was uncomfortable. Mina hadn’t been present… had she? If she had, she gave no indication. Had it been his dream alone?
“You sure you’re okay?” Fugo’s brow creased with concern.
“Yes. Just overtired lately, I suppose. You were right, Fugo: I’m working too hard.” Giorno took a sip of his coffee to disguise his discomfort.
“Mina,” he asked after a moment. “May I see your book?”
“Of course, Giorno. You’re interested in Art Nouveau?”
“Yes, I am…” Giorno scanned one page, then another. The words were solid on the page, complete. This was waking life. He slid the book back to her. “I’m thinking of redecorating some of the rooms.”
“That sounds lovely.” Mina nodded warmly. “Let me know if you would like any help.”
“Yeah, sounds cool. Uh-huh. Art.” Mista mumbled absently, squinting at the newest Rolex.
Fugo looked across the table at his three companions, his concern deepening.
In the morning sunlight streaming in through the floral curtains the four of them appeared like a still-life painting in which there are human figures but the silence pervades them, rendering them into flat objects. Giorno looking at Mina, Fugo looking at Giorno, and Mista looking down at his magazine.
“Uh-huh. Cool,” Mista repeated, licking his finger and turning the page of his magazine.