Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The house atop the cliff faced the ocean, the surrounding little garden sculpted out of the mountain, defying the natural shapes of the black volcanic rock with two winding roads from the back and the front. Here, the grasses were dark in the fall and pale in the summer and the decorative pine were like their antithesis, always the same, more hardy than the evergreen or even the palm trees that could be seen like stems springing up along the sands on the shorelines by the port and outside the beach hotels. The bush of garden roses by the back wall was as old as the house itself, judging by the weathered, roiling nest of thorny branches at its center, only revealed through the wilted green in the coldest winter months.

It was July. The heat of summer was pressing, suffocating, even the ocean breeze offering little salvation. The roses were in full bloom, possibly for the fifth hundredth time. They were rosa chinensis, specifically Old Blush roses—easily recognizable by their dense, silvery-pink petals—and while they’d been officially bred and cultivated in Europe from the 18th century onward, some Italian renaissance paintings had depicted them already two hundred years prior. Or, that was what Giorno had said to him that one time, at least.

That morning, when Mista came into the first floor living room, its dark, low ceiling ribbed with dark, bare logs of wood, he found a large, disorderly pile of them on the table next to the terrarium, their stems intertwined with the hooked thorns. Dressed in black—tight pants and a broad-shouldered suit jacket, both with black floral embroideries—Giorno took one from the pile, ripping the petals off fistfuls at a time, his eyes half-lidded and his lips smooth and hard like marble. A mesh shawl laid on his head, the thin fabric like a shadow over his hair, its narrow width only reaching down to the back of his neck while its length fell down over his shoulders and down the length of his body.

Walking past him and taking a seat in one of the low little armchairs by the coffee table, Mista poured himself some coffee while he watched Giorno’s back, the layered fabric moving over his shoulder blade, his tightly braided hair adorned with a golden hair clip of an anatomically correct ladybug spreading its wings in flight. The repeated, rippling sound matched the rhythm of his moving arm, the pink petals gathering between the clenching fingers on his hand. Behind the glass, up on the high table in front of Giorno, Polnareff rested in his soaking pool, his eyes closed.

Still only half-awake, Mista blinked, raising his head to stare out the little window on the thick wall, the bright line of the ocean visible between the dark wooden planks of the open shutters. He yawned, reaching for the milk.

The sound of the ripping petals stopped. Lowering his hand, Giorno laid the gathered bunch down on the table.

“When are the others getting here, anyway?” Mista asked as he raised the saucer from the table with one hand and then the cup from the saucer with the other.

Giorno reached for another rose, the inside of his hand striped with harsh red lines. “Shouldn’t be much longer.”

“Are they late?” Mista asked, amused. He had a sip of coffee. The bitterness was fortifying. “They are, aren’t they?”

“They are,” Giorno confirmed and Mista watched as he brought his hand to the crown of the flower, grasped it inside his palm and ripped half the petals off with a furious flick of his wrist.

Unable to suppress a smile, Mista averted his eyes and drank his coffee in silence.

Once all but one of the chairs by the coffee table were full, Giorno still stood by the terrarium. The pile of roses was yet to be depleted. A new one in hand, he stood with his back leaned against the high table’s edge, his face tipped down. “That concludes everything we already know, then,” he said disinterestedly, ripping the petals out one by one, half of them slipping out of his overfilled hand and falling to the dark floor.

Fugo watched him with a shiny brow, his index finger tapping against his cheekbone. His bare skin was pale and dewy above the deep neckline of his mossy tweed suit, the branding on his underwear showing between the open flaps of the jacket and above the low waistline of his pants. The sun was harsh on the small little windows and from the dark ceiling the heat descended like a pressing weight.

“I’ll apologize again on behalf of the others in regards to our tardiness,” sitting with her knees close together and her butt on the edge of the seat, Sheila bowed her head, the long, thin shoulder straps on her beige and purple tassle-covered dress pressing down against her chest, her robust green bra fully visible, the cups enforced with silver vire.

“It’s no matter,” Giorno ripped the last few petals off, reaching for the next flower without emptying the bunch in his hand. Staring at him in silence, Sheila clasped her hands in her lap.

With a rumbling groan, Mista leaned over the table for the coffee pot, the leather of the chair squeaking against his denim pants. “So, what will it be?” Mista asked, pulling at the front of his sleeveless denim crop top, zipping down the large, bulky zipper in the front in a futile attempt to cool himself down. He blinked heavily. The caffeine had awakened his thoughts, but not his mind nor his body, his limbs limp and his joints heavy.

“Go to Rome,” Giorno said simply, his eyes on the falling petals, their numbers only increasing along the bloodied scratches on his palm. “We’ll be in touch.”

Mista set the heavy coffee pot down with a clatter. “We’re going to Rome?” He’d been invigorated by a burst of excitement.

“No,” Giorno said. In his chair between Fugo and Sheila, Murolo leered under the brim of his hat. Mista gave him a tired side-eye. “They are.”

“When are we going?” Fugo asked, his tone equally calculated and sincere and Mista squished his cheek with his other hand as he reached for the milk to fill his cup back up to the brim, his thoughts turning back time to the days when Fugo would speak to Bucciarati just like that, on early morning meetings just like this.

“You’re free to go back to the mainland and pack as needed. But then, you shall be off,” Giorno replied as he ripped off the last petal which slowly fell to the floor past the straight line of his aligned legs.

“Of course. I understand,” Fugo replied and the clock wouldn’t stop turning back. Mista stirred his coffee, his eyes on the swirl of light and dark combining. He reached in under his hat to scratch his hot scalp behind his ears, the dense hair follicles irritated by the humidity under the rough texture of the distressed denim.

“With that in mind, it’s best you left as soon as possible,” Giorno curtly turned around, facing the glass wall of the terrarium where the sun laid like a flare as he reached for another rose. Mista blinked, flinching as the reflection of the shiny metal clip in Giorno’s hair hit him straight in the eye. Holding his hands over the terrarium, Giorno ripped the petals off with a furious grip of his hand, letting them fall down into the soaking pond, their velvety surfaces staining with pearly droplets as they stacked on top of Polnareff’s shell under the water.

With a slow turn of his little head, Polnareff watched them all rise, the feet of the armchairs squeaking against the floor. Sheila stood first, her back rigid. Fugo followed, rubbing his brow with the back of his hand and Murolo’s cane hit the floor with a low clack as he rose, dusting off his patterned flannel pant leg. “Take care now, the three of you,” Polnareff said to them wearily. He turned, trotting out from the shadow of Giorno’s body as the petals fell steadily from above. “Travel safe and make sure to stay in touch.”

“Naturally Mr Polnareff,” Fugo said kindly and Sheila nodded her head.

Mista took a big gulp from his cup and stood from his chair which scraped against the wooden floor with a loud whine. “Mista,” he whipped his head around. Giorno’s back faced him. The rippling had stopped. In his hand he held innumerable petals, their soft, squished shapes like a pink mass between his fingers. “Come see me in my room.”

Polnareff looked up at Giorno with a blink and his beak opened soundlessly, gaping as his face, shell and body was buried in petals, only his clawed little paws sticking out from under the heap. “Oh. Sure,” Mista replied, glancing at Fugo who gathered the china with a clatter before his eyes flickered back to Giorno. He scratched the top of his neck, reaching in under his hat. “Why?”

“I’ll tell you,” Giorno brushed him off nonchalantly as he whirled around, quickly striding past him. He walked alongside Murolo before stopping by the archway to the modest little foyer. “I’ll see you, Mr Murolo,” he said, giving him a nod and in turn, Murolo tipped his hat. Fugo and Sheila joined them, walking across the weathered old creaky floors.

“We’ll be in touch, rest assured,” Fugo said humbly yet ceremoniously. Giorno idly raised his hand before him, his palm still rosy with scratches, and Fugo took it, bowing his head and lightly touching his knuckles with his lips. “Be well.”

With a silent sigh, Mista turned away, stepping toward the terrarium where Polnareff was shaking his head under the pile of petals. Mista reached down between the glass walls and brushed the petals of his shell as Sheila approached Giorno, telling him goodbye with a stout curtsy. He took a step forward and cheek to cheek he spoke to her as she laid one hand on his shoulder in half an embrace, “I’ll send my word to our people in Rome before lunch. I’ll let you know.”

She stepped back. “My heart is with you always.”

Giorno nodded. Then, as the three of them left under the arch, he returned to the pile of roses. Not having been given as much as a glance all morning, Mista stared at him with crossed arms before he stepped back to the coffee table and took his coffee cup, which had already been stacked by Fugo on top of the others, and gulped down the rest of his cooling coffee before he rapidly stepped over the floor, hurrying after the others with long, springy steps.

Facing the shade, the hallway before the door was stuffier but cooler. Mista leaned his shoulder against the rough wall. “You’re getting sent all around the place lately, huh. I’m kinda jealous.”

With his index finger squeezed in between his heel and his shoe, Fugo looked up at him as he stood back up, tapping his foot into place against the tiled floor. “Are you really?” He asked with sober disbelief.

“I mean, a little, I guess,” Mista admitted. “It’s fun, though. Ain’t it?”

“It is what it is,” Fugo said simply and Mista couldn’t help but crack a smile. “But if I could, I'd request to stay in Naples for a few weeks when I next get the chance…”

“You’re usually not the one to complain,” Sheila rose from the stool by the wall, having tied the straps on her green platform sandals back on her leg. “I always thought it made working with you so much more tolerable.”

“He doesn’t complain?” Mista’s grin widened as he used his thumb to point at Fugo. “Well, I guess you don’t, do you? You keep it all pent up in there.”

Fugo returned his gaze tiredly. “And you were always terribly opinionated.”

“Giorno never said anything about it, so…”

Fugo’s sweat-speckled and fatigued face formed a little smile. “Take care now. And look after GioGio, too.”

“Sure,” Mista shrugged. “That’s what I always do,” he couldn’t help but let his voice rise with fondness, his chest barely puffing up with pride. He stepped forward and caught Fugo in a one armed hug. “Mwah!” He said out loud as he kissed his cheekbone.

Fugo stepped back with a mutter as the door came open. “Car’s here,” Murolo’s eyes peered through the gap in the door. “Hurry up now. Or we’ll miss the ferry.” It closed with a loud click of the lock.

Mista squeezed Sheila’s hand gently before pressing his cheek to hers. “Bye now,” he said lightly. “Take it easy.”

“Yes sir,” she said with a nod as she stepped back. She paused. “It is probably just my imagination,” she withdrew her hand from his light grip. “And surely you’d know better than me, but…” Fugo opened the door and cast a glance at her over his shoulder. “He seems… a little different today,” she lowered her voice, her eyes migrating towards the archway. Fugo let the door fall back shut without a sound.

“I dunno,” Mista said earnestly. He scratched the hair behind his ear. “Maybe. It’s probably nothing to worry about, though.”

“Yes,” Sheila said with wavering certainty. “As long as you’re here, I ought to have no reason to worry about him.”

She turned towards the door, stepping forward and Fugo hesitated for a second, looking at her with his hand on the door handle. “...Ready to go?”

“Yes.”

He pushed the door open and the blinding sliver of light cut into the musty dark room. Mista squinted. “...What do you need to get before we leave?” Fugo asked.

“I should be able to go as I am. How about you?”

“What, you don't need anything? Not even a change of clothes?” He was instantly concerned. “We haven’t even had breakfast. We should eat first.”

“We can eat when we get there.”

“Look, if we’re going to pack we might as well get food…” Fugo’s voice faded as the door closed behind them. Mista stood and stared into the dark, his eyes seeing nothing but stars in a sea of black for a lingering moment.

A minute later, he was still standing there, arms still crossed and shoulder still leaning against the wall as the sound of the car engine faded into the distance. Then, he heard it. A low, rhythmic, rippling sound. Mista cast his eyes in a glance towards the arch, the edges of his lips drooping and his brow tensing.

With a sigh, he pushed away from the wall and turned around, stepping down the hallway and up the creaking stairs as Giorno stood in the room overlooking the ocean, ripping petals off roses in a neurotic, absorbed manner.

He walked up the stairs with heavy steps. The little corridor at the top was dark and narrow and he thoughtlessly walked the familiar route down to Giorno’s allocated room, ahead and then to the left, across from the little library and next to the bathroom. There, Giorno resided; in the modest master bedroom. Not out of necessity for space or a longing for grandeur but simply because the first time they’d ever stayed at this house, that was where the driver had left his bags standing on the crooked old threshold. Mista’s palms tingled and heat gathered in his gut with expectation and excitement. For the first time in many weeks, satisfaction wasn’t what he’d come to reap but it was as if his body didn’t know. His head was light when he set his hand on the door handle and opened the creaking old door.

The bare white walls and dark wooden window shutters greeted him as always, but a glance around the room revealed it to be unusually barren of its usual signs of life. The other door on the left wall leading to the second floor living room had been left shut. The bed was made, the white linens crisp and the musty yellow covers were free of crumpled up, discarded clothing. Mista stepped over the whining floors, past the foot end, sitting down at the edge of the creaky bed frame near the pillow, facing the window. The master bedroom overlooked the ocean to the west and from this very spot Mista had stared at the horizon through its deep-set little windows many times.

He set his hand down on the rough covers. It wasn’t often that Giorno would bother to make his bed. The yellow covers would usually be crumpled up by the foot end, the white linens wrinkled and thrown to the unoccupied side of the bed. This time of the year, sleeping in the heat was rough. With the ocean breeze, Giorno’s room was cooler at night than his own, but surely he couldn’t manage more than a single sheet. Such were Mista’s thoughts as he set his elbow on his knee and simply waited. The dented little desk under the window before him was almost strangely bare of books or files. Giorno was a reader, but today there wasn’t a book, newspaper or magazine in sight. The tall old dresser next to the other little window was also oddly in order, not a single hanger or garment left hanging from the top edge or the handle.

The room was spartan, humble in its old age and charming despite the wear. Giorno liked this house and it had grown on Mista too; but perhaps what he loved most of all was the privacy and anonymity of it. There was no sound of traffic, no sudden visitors. Giorno would change, too. He became more fluid, more candid, something true about him shining through stronger at the edges. Sometimes, Mista could see it on his features before the words came out of his mouth; on those mornings, the tension would ease in his shoulders and his brow would smoothen and Mista would savor his own secret excitement and anticipation, knowing he would say ’pack a bag, we’re going to Ischia.’

Staring at the distant blue ocean, Mista waited. Perhaps Giorno was talking to Polnareff, or perhaps he was having a cup of coffee as he’d never sat down during the meeting. Mista kneaded his hand on his thigh and glanced around the room. If he were to go downstairs now, would he find Giorno where he’d left him, silently ripping up the flowers? Mista’s flat lips widened and a cold shiver inhabited his chest. Well, he had an inkling.

He tapped his foot soundlessly against the floor. The rays of the sun laid on the floor before him, contained in little squares, rising towards him. The heat under his clothes made him daydream drowsily, his heart beating slow and hard. He glanced at the door on the left wall. The caffeine had indeed awakened his thoughts but not his body nor his mind.

He drew his fingernails across the surface of his pants from the knee up to his thigh. His palm tingled and he rubbed his teeth on his bottom lip. How much longer was Giorno going to take? How many more minutes? He rolled his head on his shoulders and tapped his finger on his leg, wondering how many minutes he’d need. No more than four or five, surely. He cast his eyes to the side and eyed the pillow on the bed.

He put his hand on the edge of the cover. A silent creak on the other side of the door made him freeze, cold rushing from his gut. The door handle pushed down and Mista slowly withdrew his hand as Giorno entered, his body appearing in the gap.

“...You sure took a while,” Mista said smugly as he set his elbow back down on his knee. “I almost thought you forgot me for a second. Even though I’m always doing nothing but thinking about you,” he gave a weak but theatrical shrug. “Or are you making me wait just because you can?”

Giorno glanced at him disinterestedly. Mista’s smile stiffened. It was the first time Giorno had looked at him all morning. “I was speaking to Mr Polnareff,” he said, tossing the edge of the mesh shawl over his shoulder, the fabric creasing against his neck.

“Right, right,” Mista said lightly, playing off his comments as a joke. “What is it, anyway? That we couldn’t talk about downstairs.” With his back to the window, Giorno stopped in front of his desk, leaning against its edge. With a dull look in his eyes, his gaze idly passed over Mista’s face. “Hello? Are you listening?” With a twinge of annoyance, Mista impatiently leaned forward where he sat. “Come on, tell me.”

“...I’ll tell you,” Giorno said slowly as he turned his face away against the light. “As soon as I’ve thought of how to phrase it.”

“...Huh?” The cold rush that had rippled across his skin at the sound of Giorno outside the door returned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Giorno remained unmoving. Mista laughed nervously. “Come on. You’re stressing me out. Just tell me.” Giorno crossed his arms in silence. Sweat dotted Mista’s brow. His hand flopped down, hanging limply from his leg as he sank with a slow, silent exhale. “...Well, how long is it going to take?” He asked tiredly. “Can I go do something else in the meantime?”

“You don’t have anything to do,” Giorno’s features sharpened and his firm voice made Mista’s lips thin. “Be quiet.”

Mista laxly set his gaze on the floor and propped his head in his hand. He’s mad at me, he thought tiredly. What does he even have to be mad about? I haven’t done anything. Have I? Mista peered up at Giorno’s averted face and puffed up his lips. It’s not often that you’re mad at me, he thought, staring at Giorno’s moving lashes before the blurring white light and his slender fingers which creased the floral embroideries on his sleeves. The cold in his gut melted away. Are you going to scold me? Well, what will it be? Mista scratched his face with his pinky as the edges of his lips twitched into a smile. Are you going to berate me, yell at me?

Giorno glanced at him tiredly. “You like staying at this house, don’t you?”

“Oh, sure? I do,” Mista admitted, straightening his back. “But you’re the one who really likes it here, right?”

“I’m asking about you,” Giorno said with an earnest sigh, embodying the candidness that had invited Mista’s comment.

“I do like it,” Mista repeated. “It’s calm. It’s secluded. It’s different,” he shrugged. “I was never much for the countryside to be honest but I guess it’s grown on me.”

“The countryside… has grown on you, has it?” Giorno crossed his legs where he stood. He tipped his head to the side. “This is hardly the countryside. Nor is it especially secluded. The tourist complexes are just ten, twenty minutes away.”

“To me, this might as well be the countryside. We’ve got our own quiet, hidden little cliffside here, don’t we?” Mista argued lightly. “And sure, the town gets pretty crowded, but we don’t stand out as much with all the tourists coming and going. You seem a little more relaxed when we’re here, too.”

“Do I?” Giorno asked sincerely, tilting his chin up and Mista’s heart rose with a creeping foreboding of something unknown.

“I… I mean, yeah, a little?” He said casually, hesitant to double down.

“In what way?”

“I… I dunno,” Mista laughed awkwardly, caught off guard by the question. “You just seem a little more at ease.”

“Would you care to describe what you actually mean? Or would you prefer to keep listing synonyms for the word ‘relaxed?’”

Mista deflated. “Look, I just thought so ‘cause you take it a bit easier, mornings aren’t as early, you’re a bit more spontaneous… you know. It’s really not that deep… is it?”

“Spontaneous?” Giorno looked at him quizzically. “You’re the one who seems more spontaneous if you ask me,” Mista scraped his fingers against the surface of his pants. “Or perhaps adventurous is the better word.”

“...What do you mean?”

“Nevermind,” Giorno set his head straight on his shoulders, his voice calm and cold with a detached undercurrent. Mista intertwined his fingers on his knee, his joints tensing. His arms still crossed over his chest Giorno took two steady strides forward. “Truth is, I meant to ask you something.”

“What is it?” Mista thought of his weirdly mundane question, repeating it in his mind. Was it related or had he just been killing time?

“It’s come to my attention,” Giorno sought his gaze and though he’d craved his attention all morning Mista was vexed by his watching eyes. “That someone has been coming into my room.”

“...What?” Mista asked, heat gathering under his shirt. He glanced around him. “You mean in here?”

“Yes,” Giorno confirmed dryly.

“You mean like an intruder, or…?” Mista’s throat tightened. “Anything stolen? Compromised?” He narrowed his eyes up at Giorno whose expression flattened with indifference.

“Depends on how you define intruder, I suppose,” Giorno said humorlessly.

A shriver rushed across Mista’s sweaty back. He held back a laugh. “What?”

“How would you define it?” Giorno tipped his head to the side and took a single step closer. “Tell me.”

Mista reconsidered. No, he thought. This is his game. Don’t play it. You can’t win. He inhaled sharply. “We had an intruder in the house and you didn’t tell me?” He retorted angrily, raising both hands to his chest. “Why wouldn’t you—”

“Don’t start,” Giorno dismissed him firmly. “You know what I’m talking about.”

The blood drained from Mista’s face. “I can barely even follow what you’re trying to—”

“Mista,” Giorno was eerily calm. “I know you’ve been coming into my room,” the edge of his smooth lips twitched. “So, please. Don’t waste my time with your diversions.”

“...What do you mean?” Mista retorted with as much confused irritation as he could muster. “Am I not allowed to come into your room?” Giorno loosened his tightly crossed arms and they slid down on his body. His finger tapped his arm as he tipped his head to the other side. Mista’s chest tightened painfully. He swallowed. “I mean, that’s kind of absurd, don’t you think?”

“I’m going to ignore that,” Giorno’s expression settled into a familiar, neutral mask. Chilled to his core, Mista dragged both of his sweaty palms against the surface of his pants. “Mista, tell me,” Giorno’s tone was pleasantly level and carefully articulated. “Why have you been coming into my room?

Mista forced a smile. He inhaled slowly, crossed his arms over his thighs and mimicking Giorno he rested his head to the side and looked up at him. ”I’m not sure what you’re accusing me of.”

Giorno’s expression hardened with a crease over his right eyebrow. “For the past six or so months, whenever we stay here, it’s come to my attention that someone has been coming into my room, uninvited, when I’m not here. Usually around… this time, to be exact,” he swayed to the side as his narrowed eyes scanned Mista’s expression. Fortified, Mista’s hands tensed. “In fact, as recently as yesterday, it happened again.”

“And you think it’s me?” Mista had to crack a little smile or else he knew his anxieties would bleed through.

“I know it’s you,” Giorno replied simply, eyes narrowing.

“How do you….” It was a lost battle, he feared, but he couldn’t accept it or he’d be immobilized. “You can’t know it’s me for sure, can you?”

“It could only be you, giving how and when it happened.”

“How do you even know for sure anyone’s been in here?”

“Do you want proof?” Giorno straightened his back. “I have more than enough.”

Mista grit his teeth. The chance that Giorno was bluffing was small. Not non-existent, but small. “Listen,” his voice matured with ripe determination. “I don’t—” Giorno reached inside his pocket and Mista froze, his words ceasing. Pulling his hand back out, Giorno extended his index finger in the air beside him. Mista stared at Giorno’s fingertip against the burning white light above the ocean, his brow furrowing. Giorno brought his hand towards him and just as Mista’s blood ran cold at the sight of the short, black strand of hair stuck to his fingertip, the pale little bulb at the end darkened, black little legs sprouting. The strand thickened, growing little hairs of its own, sprouting fully mature little speckled wings that spread to reveal a brown and aquamarine pattern. Its wingspan no more than a centimeter at most, the tiny butterfly took flight, fluttering in a jagged line towards him. Withdrawing himself, Mista half-heartedly swatted in the air and the butterfly’s fighting little wings rose on the draft of air. He let out a silent grumble as it landed on his thigh, its wings flexing. “Look,” exasperated, Mista spoke, swatting above his leg. The butterfly took off under Giorno’s watchful gaze, only to land higher up on his leg, “that could have gotten in here at any point. It doesn't mean anything.”

“I found that in here this morning,” Giorno said flatly. “Between my bedsheets.”

Mista’s nervous smile trembled. The butterfly’s wings stood upright on his leg, closed together, only the brown, dotted underside showing. “So,” Mista steadied his voice, squishing the budding fear in his heart. “I didn’t want to admit it, but sure,” he shrugged. “I did come in here on and off. So what? It’s not like I was snooping or anything,” he pointed at Giorno with a wiggling finger. “So I don’t know why you’re so upset.”

“...Do I seem upset to you?”

“Yeah, kinda,” Mista muttered.

“And you think I don’t have the right to be upset when my privacy has been invaded by someone I trust?”

“Look, I wasn’t—” Mista sighed. “I wasn’t like that, okay?”

“What was it like then, then?”

“If you knew and it was bothering you that badly, why didn’t you just tell me off way sooner?”

“Answer my question,” Giorno demanded. “What have you been doing here, in my room?”

“Just—” Mista gestured vaguely with his hand. “Napping. ‘Cause it’s cooler on this side. And drier. My room, downstairs? Facing the bush? It’s humid and clammy.”

“Maybe if you’d been coming in here at night I would have believed you,” Giorno was quick to dismiss him. “There’s no protection from the sun at this side. It’s hardly cooler. If anything, at this hour, it’s too hot. In addition, it has been a very dry summer, so I wouldn't say it's been especially unpleasant downstairs.”

“My door’s also in the corridor between the front and back entrance and I dunno, I can’t quite relax,” Mista shrugged, ignoring his retorts. “Plus, in here? I know no one’s gonna bother me. No one comes in here uninvited.”

“It’s my room,” Giorno said firmly, his voice gaining a steely tone. “Am I not coming in here?”

“Evidently not?” Mista grinned. “I know when you’re busy. So I sneak up here to take it easy. That’s all.”

“...Are you finding it hard to sleep at night?”

“Huh? Well—”

“Since you're napping during the day,” Giorno cut him off. “Do you need more time off? Or do you want to see a physician?”

“No, look,” Mista instantly regretted his denial. Under Giorno’s focused, piercing gaze he couldn’t take it back. “I just like a nap, okay?”

“Normally you wouldn’t be quite so inclined,” Giorno broke eye contact with a slow turn of his head. “To lie to me, that is.”

Mista’s heart tightened. “I’m not lying,” he said tiredly. “This is silly.”

“I decide whether or not it’s silly,” Giorno retorted calmly. “So, now,” Mista’s fingers curled against his leg, his fingernails scraping his palm. The butterfly twitched its antennae. “I want you to answer my question,” Giorno took half a step closer over the weathered old floorboards. “Mista,” averting his gaze with a tense little defiant frown, Mista shrunk under him. “—Look at me,” Giorno’s voice hardened before his reluctance and with his mouth tense and his eyes flickering, Mista nonchalantly tilted his head back up at him. “Why have you been coming into my room?”

With fear reigniting in his heart under the stern, unwavering look on Giorno's face, Mista reconsidered. Maybe he could simply give Giorno a satisfyingly humiliating answer and this conversation could be over. His mouth drying out behind his tense lips, he pushed out a sigh. “Alright,” he started reluctantly. “You got me. If you really wanna know that bad, then sure,” he muttered. He pushed out a sigh. “Yeah, so, I might've been… coming in here to jerk off. Okay?” He looked up at Giorno, putting on a bothered and ruffled tone as he defensively made his confession. Before him, Giorno silently watched, only tilting his chin up with a knowing stare. “Should I have?” Still on the defense for there was no other role for him to play, Mista shrugged tensely with a jerk of his shoulders. “Probably not. But I did, ‘cause again, there's no real other place for me to go, so…”

“There's no reason why you couldn't do it in your own room,” Giorno closed his eyes with a twitch over his brow and Mista braced, hoping to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

“It just doesn't feel as private. I can't relax,” Mista stubbornly stuck to his incoherent story. “Alright? I don't want anyone knocking on my door when I'm in the middle of it.”

“But the idea of doing it in someone else's room is acceptable to you?”

“Like I said… I shouldn't have,” he took an apologetic tone. “I won't do it again,” Mista’s heart settled, and the tension over his chest dispersed. “Okay?”

Giorno's gaze went off him, slowly migrating to the wall until he turned around where he stood, showing Mista his back. Mista breathed a silent exhale and setting his hands on the edge of the bed he heaved himself up to his feet, the butterfly taking flight, flickering into the air. “What are you doing?” Mista’s eyes shot up, and from over his shoulder, Giorno’s eyes watched him. “Sit down.”

Flinching, Mista's hands trembled. He sat back down with a thump. Giorno walked up to the window. “You know I don't like repeating myself. And there's been more than enough of that already,” Giorno clasped his hands on his back. The butterfly rapidly beat its wings to stay airborne, floating towards the bright spot of sun on the floor before circling back around. “And if I ask you again why, why you choose to masturbate in my room,” Mista scratched his nose, suffering a painful shiver up his spine as Giorno spoke clearly, carefully articulating each word, “I fear you'd say some more nonsense. What will it be?” Giorno spun back around, revealing his stern frown, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with disapproval. “That you like the view? That the sight of the ocean arouses you?” Next to him, the pale shining waves creased with bubbly foam in the far distance, “or will you say that it's a matter of feng-shui? That you depend on the cosmic current for sexual gratification? Or perhaps—that you get off at the idea that you're doing something that would make other people uncomfortable?”

“Listen, I'm not that kind of freak, okay,” Mista blurted out.

“What manner of deviant are you, then?” Giorno retorted quickly. “Care to enlighten me?”

“...I don't have anything more to say to you.”

“...Has it ever occurred to you that it hurts me when you hide things from me and then lie straight to my face?” Giorno asked him with a dry, detached tone.

Mista stared at him in disbelief. “I’m sorry?” Is that what this is about? Mista had lost sight of Giorno’s intentions. “Do you want me to apologize?” Giorno watched him with a bored, stone faced expression and in the lasting silence Mista fought the chilling dread that was building in his gut. Perhaps he had never had a grasp on Giorno’s intentions in the first place. “Look,” his voice trembled. “Like I said, I won’t do it again, okay?”

“I would certainly hope so,” Giorno said coldly. His colors were starting to show. Mista bit his cheek inside his mouth. “But that’s not the conversation we’re having right now, is it?”

“Then, what—” On the cusp of panic, Mista’s blurted out words were silenced by Giorno taking a step forward.

“Do you remember what I asked you a moment ago?” It was becoming agonizingly clear that this conversation was far from over. Mista swallowed, the four walls of the room closing in on him. Giorno’s body blocked the light from the window, his head eclipsing the sea, the sunlight rays like a halo around the crown of his head. “Well, do you?”

Mista’s stomach dropped with nauseating vertigo, his heart cold with fear. Giorno was not going to berate him or yell at him like he’d hoped. Instead, a very familiar scene was starting to play out and Mista found himself playing a role he had never imagined himself cast in. Descending with a flickering, jumping flutter of its wings, the butterfly returned to its spot on his thigh, slowly crawling towards the top of his leg.

Mista had regrets. He regretted his actions. He regretted his naivete more so. He regretted simply standing there, watching the door as it closed behind Sheila and Fugo. It was nothing but frivolous escapism but the idea that he could’ve been running down the winding island roads and onto the freeway, perfectly ignorant of what had been waiting for him upstairs just moments later was about the only comfort he had right now.

“I’ve answered all of your questions,” Mista said firmly, emotionlessly. He had seen Giorno’s interrogation tactics at work countless times. He could only hope and pray that experience would give him the leeway he needed.

“Not satisfactorily.”

“What, you’re gonna stand here and keep asking me until you get the answer you want?”

Giorno narrowed his eyes. He crept closer. “Don’t twist my words. You know how I feel about that,” he said and terror silenced Mista’s thoughts. “Answer my question.”

Mista paled, his body chilled by an anxious rush through his veins. He shrunk with a nervous twitch across his face, his breath crushed in his chest. Would another devastating confession be enough? He’d known that his life would end one day, but he hadn’t realized it would happen so soon, nor that it would be shame that would take his life. His hand clenched on his thigh, pain sparking in his joints. Well, he swallowed hard, his lip twitching, his eyes flickering up at Giorno’s face, I guess it’s only appropriate that you’d be the end of me. “I do it in here cause, well,” he pushed his voice out with a reluctant melody, fighting through the painful tension in his throat. He bobbed his knee. “It’s your room.”

Giorno’s expression did not betray an ounce of emotion. “Meaning?”

“It, um, it means that…” Mista’s lips trembled. He just had to say it. “Being in your room turns me on.”

“Why?”

Mista’s eyes stared at the brightly glowing square of light at Giorno’s feet. “‘Cause it’s… it’s your room.”

“Let me rephrase that,” Giorno’s flat voice carried an undercurrent of dry impatience, a tone associated with derailed negotiations, failed missions and traitors. A burning pain welled up in Mista’s chest, his heart sinking and sinking with each passing second. “What about it being my room arouses you?”

Mista grit his teeth. Giorno’s elusive intentions had become terribly clear. This was not a quest for the truth. It never had been. This was his punishment. He swallowed, his mouth increasingly dry. “You, or, uh,” he'd lost his ability to phrase himself. “The idea of you. Being in here.”

In the corner of his eye, he saw how Giorno shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “Go on,” he urged him idly.

With his breath completely crushed and blood rushing away from his brain, Mista failed to grapple anything. There were no words, just shame. “L-Look, I… I don’t…” His voice was pitiabe as it came out.

“I suppose I simply don’t understand,” Giorno said in a bored tone as he turned his face away and Mista thought that it was fair, because he must be a sad sight to behold. “So, please, explain it to me in more detail.” Mista inhaled slowly, fighting to regain his composure, fighting to find something he could say that might make it all end, even if it meant complying to Giorno’s demands.

“It helps me get off,” Mista said simply, yearning for complacency.

“It helps in what way?”

“‘Cause, I… I like to,” his mouth moved on its own, every word like a nervous tic. His forehead prickled with sweat. “I like to think about you.”

“What do you mean by that?” Giorno’s voice had gained an aggressive monotone in his feigned ignorance.

Anger sprung up as a secondary emotion. “I mean—” it evaporated instantly, like water on scorching pavement. Mista’s eyes stung. “I mean that I… I fantasize about you,” his whole body crawled with a sickening sensation. “When… when I jerk off,” his voice diminished but the sound of it lingered, painfully loud in the silent room. Mista’s hands clenched painfully in his lap.

“What do you fantasize about?”

Mista ripped his head up, his thoughts dispersing with alarm and confusion. Giorno turned his head and their eyes met and in his apprehension Mista couldn’t look away, frozen at the sight of his expression of blank indifference. “I-I said,” he stuttered, his aching heart clenching, staring at Giorno who stood before him with his shining, golden hair and warm, smooth skin. “That I fantasize about… you.”

“I heard,” Giorno tipped his head to the side, his plain expression unsettling Mista as much as it fascinated him. “I’m asking you to tell me how.”

“Um,” Mista tore his eyes away, stumped, because the answer truly eluded him. ”Se… sexually?” He tried nervously, knowing it wouldn’t suffice.

“I think that was implied,” the edge of Giorno’s lip twitched with irritation.

Through Giorno’s few-worded and absurd demands Mista found his footing. “What is it that you want to know?” He asked, his trembling voice fortified through his frustration.

Giorno sighed lightly, shaking his head with dismissive disapproval. Mista’s heart shuddered with a chill. Giorno straightened where he stood before him and crossing his arms he spoke with renewed intent. “Give me a scenario.”

A painfully icy shiver seized him anew. “I… I can’t…” Mista stuttered. “It’s not like—”

“What?” Giorno’s patience was swiftly running out.

“I don’t know, like, how I’m supposed to…” His skin crawled all over his body.

“You’re eloquent, quite the storyteller,” Giorno encouraged him curtly. “So, tell me.”

Mista grit his teeth. “I-I got… I dunno, I… I got… a few… so like,” he muttered, his voice shamefully diminishing.

“Pick one,” Giorno demanded. Excruciated, Mista pulled at the front of his shirt, his thoughts rushing away with the mind-numbing stress. “You were in here yesterday, weren’t you,” indeed, it was the truth. Mista closed his eyes tight, squeezing them shut. Giorno spoke faster with a condescending, icy tone. “What were you imagining then?”

Right, yesterday, Mista thought and wondered if it would be less painful to simply pass away and leave it all behind, along with all of life’s joys and sorrows. Under the bombardment of Giorno’s demands, he grieved; he grieved his greatest self-indulgent pleasure, the comfort of his fantasies and his wishful infatuation. Nothing would ever be the same between them now. That was what Giorno wanted—that was a part of his punishment, too. “Um, so,” under Giorno’s pressing gaze, Mista faltered. He knew the scenario. He’d gone over it many times before. “I’m… in here,” he started, slowly.

“Sitting where you are right now?”

“Y-Yeah…” It was excruciating to admit. He’d fallen victim to the force of habit. “And, you… you come in—”

“Through which door?” Giorno was quick to ask. “The one to the corridor? Or the one to the living room?”

“Living room,” Mista admitted pensively, raising one hand to grip his face.

“Just how I came in before?”

“Yes,” Mista confirmed before he sucked in a slow, silent inhale but the attempt to fortify himself only made his head spin faster.

“And then what?” Giorno was not letting him think.

“Then we… we talk…”

“About what?”

“About… work, usually. Or whatever else has been going on. You tell me a bit about your day, and… we-we have that sort of… conversation,” Mista stared at the floor before Giorno’s feet with flickering eyes and as his voice died Giorno allowed him some impatient, anxious silence. “Then, uh, you’ll… sit by your desk…”

“Facing you, or with my back to you?”

“Your… your back… is facing me,” Mista’s mind reeled at the question but the detail was so vivid in his mind the words forced themselves out from between his unwilling lips. “And you… you do your hair, like, you’re getting ready for bed,” knowing that questions would come, Mista elaborated hurriedly, “undoing it, brushing it, um—”

“And at that point, are we still conversing?” The interrogating tone of Giorno’s voice was physically painful to his ears.

“Y-Yeah, still… just about, the same stuff,” he said, fearful that it would sound like a lie, the mundanity painfully standing out to him more and more as he recounted his own scenario of make-believe. He glanced up at Giorno who was silent with a vain focus. “And, I dunno, maybe I tell a joke. I make you, well, I don’t make you laugh, but, you turn around, and you look at me…”

“How?”

“With like, a little smile,” something gave way, a gaping hole opening in his chest. Mista pressed his hand against the side of his face and the nervous tremble in his body was gone. Instead, his heart had turned to stone.

“...What happens next?”

With a spiraling darkness piercing his gut, Mista pressed on. “You get up. You walk over to the dresser,” he gestured vaguely to the wardrobe behind Giorno by the other window, “and, uh, you start to undress, but…”

“How?” Giorno only allowed him a second’s worth of hesitation.

“J-Just… n-normally…” Mista barely managed to articulate the words, fear sparking in his heart.

“Normally?” Giorno asked in disbelief, his voice studded with irritation.

“Yeah, uh,” Mista rolled the wrist on his free hand, his breath stopped. “L-Like I said, you’re just getting ready for bed…”

“Am I facing you?”

Mista paused, the clear image apprehending him as it flashed before his eyes. “No, you’re… you’re facing the wardrobe…”

“What am I wearing?” Giorno asked with a droning disinterest and Mista’s throat tightened. “Before I undress, that is. Did you have anything in particular in mind?”

“Well,” he didn’t feel like he could lie about anything anymore. He’d been cracked open, bleeding it all out, exhausted to the point where there was no zest or theatrics left. “Yeah,” he admitted unwillingly. “I, uh, I really li—” no, no, no, he thought, panicking, stopping himself, “there’s that… set you wear sometimes. The pink jacket with the black details. With the black pants. You tend to wear it with that, uh, black cropped mesh shirt underneath. The jacket has that brooch with the… um, how do you say…”

“The 1995 Chanel suit?” Giorno was unimpressed, a crease forming at the top of the bridge of his nose. “...You like that one, do you?” Mista only suffered through Giorno’s first outright acknowledgement of his preferences. “What do you like about it?”

Mista embraced the discomfort with a full-body cold shiver. He spoke on a thin exhale, suppressing his voice, “the jacket’s really short and the pants are really tight so it shows off your ass.”

“What do I take off first?” There were no more acknowledgements to be had.

“Your shoes, along with your socks,” Mista said hurriedly, intonating sloppily, the syllables all joining together. “Then your jacket,” he’d seen Giorno slide that jacket off his shoulders before. “Then your pants, your underwear. Lastly, your shirt.”

“At this point, are we still talking?”

“Yeah, I… yeah.”

“About what?”

“About… everyday stuff, I guess…”

Giorno raised his hand to his face and his eyes shifted with an unworded question and Mista suffered. “Then what?” He asked, his impatience showing.

Mista turned his face away, “you… you come over to me—”

“Look at me while you're speaking.”

Straining every last ounce of his remaining willpower, Mista turned his head on his neck and set his eyes on Giorno's face. “You come over to me,” he forced the words out, lips trembling and throat burning. He wanted this to be over. He wanted it to be over more than anything. “You lean down. You touch my face and you kiss me.”

Before him, Giorno's unwavering indifference towered like a wall. “What kind of kiss is it?”

Mista's back curved as he sank and his face strained with a twitch, his brow furrowing. “A dirty kiss,” he said simply, reluctantly. “With a lot of tongue.”

“And I kiss you for how long?”

“You kiss me until I'm fully hard.”

“And how long might that take?”

“Not… too long,” Mista replied, his thinning breath stinging his lungs, his voice coming out staggered with frustration. “Is that… satisfactory? Or do you want a more specific estimate?” Mista asked with resigned contempt.

“It'll do,” Giorno said humorlessly with a limp, dismissive shrug. “Then what?”

“You—” Mista's lips wouldn't move, despite how far he'd come. He was horribly dizzy, the floor swaying under his seat. He stood before a daunting threshold. “You take my pants off. Slide them all the way down to my ankles,” the skin under his shirt flashed cold and despite the pressing pain over his chest his loins stirred with heat. “And then you get on your knees and suck me off.”

Giorno's unchanging expression left him breathless with humiliation. He tapped his lip. “At this point,” he paused, but there was nothing uncertain about him, “are you touching yourself?”

Mista's eyes flickered off his face and despite his dizzy lightheadedness there was still some blood left to sting his cheeks. “Yeah,” he admitted with quiet reluctance, his voice suppressed to a whisper.

“When would you usually start?”

“Probably around that point.”

“And in the case of an exception?”

“Then well, probably already at the very start,” Mista forced a cynical melody into his voice.

“I see,” Giorno said disinterestedly. “How would you describe it?”

Mista hesitated with a twitch over his dry and strained lips, “...how I'm jerking it?” He muttered with weak, defiant confusion.

With stern impatience Giorno pushed back a sigh. “The fellatio.”

“Wet,” Mista said without thinking, having let go of something more beyond his pride. Perhaps his sanity. He scraped his fingers against his leg, his hand cramping painfully. “Shallow. Like you're just messing with me,” Giorno's silence had become a clear indicator that the answer was not yet satisfactory. “You tease me, just… playing with my tip.”

“Is that all?” Giorno questioned him flatly and Mista clenched his fist hard enough to make his wrist burn with pain. “Go on. Tell me what happens next.”

Mista's breathless despair stole away his thoughts. Darkness descended upon the bright room. The passing cloud behind Giorno's back was wispy. “You get up. You sit down in my lap,” his voice thinned and hardened. “You push up against me, grab my dick and slide down on it.”

“Would you mind rephrasing that?”

The demand was rap, coldly unforgiving, and with his stomach turning and his loins burning, Mista raised his hand to his face and grit his teeth. “You put my dick in your ass.”

“Dry?”

“No.”

“...How so?”

Mista pressed his hand down over his eyes. “You came prepared.”

“...I came prepared, even though the narrative had clearly established this as a spontaneous scenario?”

“Yeah,” Mista admitted weakly behind the hand on his face.

“...Then what?” Giorno moved on from the continuity error with a tired request for more.

“You ride me.”

“Describe it.”

Mista could only draw a thin stream of air into his constricted lungs. Tattered and defeated, he slid his hand towards his temple. “Uh, so,” his voice shook, “You start real slow but, uh…” Mista's vocabulary failed him. He knew the scenario. He knew how it played out. He still didn't know how to phrase it. “You start to go faster. I grab your hip and I start thrusting into you. You push me down and you kiss me,” word by word it became equally mundane and revealing.

“And are you still thrusting into me at that point? Or am I the one moving?” Giorno asked with a low, calculated voice and the floorboards creaked as he took another step forward, his shadow encroaching behind Mista's shielding fingers.

“It's like… we're both moving. Together,” his voice had thinned nothing.

“How?”

Mista's fingernails dug into his temple. “Like, in sync, o-or like…”

“That's not what I meant,” Giorno’s faint irritation, as if he couldn't muster actual anger, delivered a hard and heavy blow directly to his heart. “How?” He repeated and Mista's jaw locked in place. Giorno took another sweeping step closer and Mista could sense him standing right before him, he could feel the radiating heat of his body. “Fast? Or slow?” His voice dropped, remaining crisp and clear. “Rough? Or gentle?”

Mista forced his trembling lips to move. “Fast and… rough,” his throat strained painfully.

“You said I kiss you,” Giorno's quiet voice was bordering on demure. “How do I kiss you?”

“Gently,” Mista replied earnestly, his bottom lip trembling.

“Gently?” Giorno repeated, as if he hadn't heard him.

“Yeah.”

The silence lingered and Mista's heart ached for the bustle of the city. Maybe if they'd never come here, then he never would've found himself in this situation. He'd certainly deluded himself. Seconds before Giorno had opened the door and stepped over the threshold, he'd still had his head in the clouds. “Go on,” Giorno urged him with a detached tone. “What happens next?”

“There's not that much more.”

“Which is to say?”

Mista closed his eyes behind his palm. He knew he couldn't get out of this and yet he bargained. “That's all there is.”

Giorno's silence filled him with dread. “Mista,” he said and hearing his name in that dismissive, cutting tone he could only brace. “Explain.”

Having demanded yet another answer he undoubtedly already knew, Giorno loomed above him. His punishment was thorough. The wounds would be deep. “I… I usually,” Mista wringed the words out of his body. There was no point in putting it delicately. “I usually cum around that part.”

“I see,” Giorno's voice was unchanging. For Mista, there was no relief. He’d prayed for it to end, but now that the end was in sight, all he knew was pain. “Well, tell me,” Giorno's detached voice gained a strange and silky quality. “...What does it for you?”

The sun came back out from behind the cloud. Mista's eyes stared into the pulsating red of his palm. He lowered it slowly, tipping his head back as the meaning of the words connected, his body saturating with fear. Above the edge of his fingers, less than an arm's reach away, Giorno looked down at him with a stern, inquiring expression. The slight crease on his forehead tattled on his irritation, but his lips were smooth, signaling his indifference. The simmering anger Mista had once sensed had evaporated. Contempt was all that was left now. “Did you hear me?” Giorno asked and Mista couldn't answer, his body frozen. “I asked, what does it for you?” Giorno leaned in above him and Mista averted his stinging eyes, apprehended by a searing, full-body reaction of shame. “What pushes you over the edge?”

The shining ocean was calm above the dark line of the window sill. With its vast breadth and depth, it was indifferent to his suffering, incapable of anything else. Giorno was the same; indifferent. He’d remained that way, even as he’d plucked and plucked and plucked, tearing bits and pieces away just like how he’d plucked the petals off the roses one by one only to thoughtlessly discard them. Mista had often thought of him as a force of nature, as an extension of God’s will. He would give him anything he asked for, even if reluctantly, but now, before Giorno’s final demand, the well was dry.

Mista had no fantasy scenario to match Giorno's pressing question. There was no such thing. All he had was fragments, knitted together into a tight and roiling mess, plucked straight from his memories. Like how his fingertips would pass over his knuckles in idle motion when he wordlessly wanted his attention, or how his lips would brush his cheek when they said a lengthy goodbye. Like the tired smile he might reward him with whenever he said something just a bit too outrageous. His fantasies might bridge the mundane with the obscene, but when the surging pleasure peaked, what he thought of was Giorno’s face, his voice, his smile—and that was when his mind would numb him to the aching pain in his moving wrist and shoot the burning pleasure from his loins all the way up to his beating heart.

“Look at me,” Giorno urged him with a tired, growing impatience, the edge bleeding though in his voice and unwillingly Mista’s body trembled, his neck refusing to move. Pain burned his sinuses, prickling his eyes, and with a stout, audible inhale he blinked again and again. “What is it? Something I say? Something I do?”

Mista fought the tears. The answer was not out of his grasp—he held it close, close to his heart. He’d admit to his transgressions, to his misdemeanors, to his indulgences. This, he couldn’t let go. His eyes widened and his heart, which desperately clutched to his confession of love, jumped as Giorno’s firm hand gripped his chin and twisted his head to face him. “Are you listening?” Flinching, Mista retaliated, pulling his head away. At the sight of his wet eyes, Giorno’s lips thinned and he sighed tiredly. He let go and Mista covered his face, shrinking away and sinking into himself. Giorno crossed his arms and took a step back as Mista fought every urge in his body to weep. “I suppose that’s enough,” Giorno said dismissively as the battle was lost and the tears started to roll.

Mista turned his body away, gripping his jaw where Giorno had held it in his firm hand. By the window, the light burned Giorno’s face into nothing behind the blurry veil. As quickly as it had gushed up, the spring dried, leaving only a salty streak on his cheek.

“You’re free to go,” Giorno said as he always would on any day. The mundanity was painful and Mista’s chest was aflame with aching sorrow. Giorno had made himself very clear. With a silent sniffle, Mista roughly dried his cheek with the back of his hand. Giorno turned to the door. “Now, I have to make a call to Rome. Excuse me,” Mista watched his back as he strode over the floor, the golden hair clip still shining. The door opened with a creak and stopping with one foot on the threshold, Giorno spoke. “And in case it has to be said; please don’t come into my room uninvited anymore.”

The door closed behind him with a heavy slam. Mista pressed both hands against his face and clenching his jaw he let out a low, grumbling whine as he stretched the skin and dug his fingernails into his forehead. Oh, how he longed for yesterday, how he longed for the dreaming behind his eyelids, for the sunny spot on his face, warming him where he’d imagined the imprint of Giorno’s lips. Now, Giorno had turned his back to him. The sun itself might as well have averted its eyes and denied him its warming light.

His hands fell down into his lap. On his thigh, the butterfly flickered its wings. He sniffled as his battered heart cracked with no one to witness it, shattering into pieces.

Chapter Text

The scorching hot water rushed against his flushing hands. The foam bubbled as he scrubbed his palms and fingers meticulously, eyes unblinking. Turning off the tap, he dried his hands on the starchy floral towel hanging on the hook next to the sink. Opening the cabinet, he squirted three pumps of moisturizer into his palm, the sandalwood scent absorbing into his skin as he gently rubbed it on his hands, interlinking his fingers to spread it evenly before pressing his fingertips to his face and massaging in the excess.

Giorno ran the pad of his index finger across his temple, the dry little patch of skin rough against his oily fingertip. The gentle bumps of the hair follicles deepened the harsh shadow under his lips. He flipped the yellowed old light switch with a click and blinded by the flash in the mirror his reflection blinked, his vision burning with black and red. He ran his finger down the arch of his brow, the strands bending under his fingernail. He reached inside the cabinet. The sharp metal edge of the tweezers scraped coldly against his skin, teasing the pale and thin baby strands below the sculpted line. One by one, he ripped them out, uprooting them. The skin blushed red from the smoldering pain and the metal tweezers clattered into the bowl of the porcelain.

The bath water drained with a lurching groan and under his own steady gaze, Giorno firmly scraped his nails against his scalp, tightly gathering the hair on the left side of his head. Angling his chin, he stared at the directions of the strands between his fingers, tightening and easing the tension before he started braiding, weaving a french braid. He tensed his fingers with each forming link and tightly pinching the hair between his fingertips at the side of his head, he reached inside his open vanity bag. The pink rose petals were outlined in black. The cold metal edge of the hair clip ran against his scalp as the tub emptied, the water disappearing down the old pipes with a low gurgle. With the end of the braid fastened tight in place, the rising waves of his hair billowed up into a fluffy peak. With a steady focus Giorno gathered the hair the other side, counting the links one by one as he carefully weaved another braid with steady fingers. Fastening the second rose, he withdrew his hands. Staring into the mirror, he straightened his back and centered his head on his shoulders. He moved his head side to side, angling his chin, his gaze drawing a line between the center points of the two fabric roses. He tightened the right one, inching it upwards before he repeated the motion, his head turning side to side as his hair swept his shoulders.

Giorno held up his hands, his palms appearing in the mirror. He closed them, forming fists before extending the thumb and the index finger on both hands. In the mirror, he aligned his thumbs with the horizontal line of his bare shoulder. Slowly, he raised his hands until he saw the line drawn by his gaze aligning with his thumbs. He watched the space at the top of his head as he yet again moved his neck, to the right and to the left. He stopped, staring into his own eyes as he brought his hands back down. In the mirror, the edge of his lips twitched.

Giorno inhaled slowly, the voice on his breath lowering into a deep hum. He reached inside his travel size jewelry box for his golden huggie hoop earrings. He pressed his lips together and on the exhale the air gently vibrated through his throat. It was an improvised melody, quietly contained within his body. Giorno touched his earlobe and water dribbled onto his fingertips. He withdrew his hand, touching the towel before he slid the golden post through the piercing.

Attaching the second earring, he parted his hair in the back, combing through it with his fingers and gathering it in his hands. The heat and humidity tightened his natural waves while the set curls on his head would quickly droop and sink. The seasalt in the air only made the frizzy shapes stick, cementing them. Slipping through his fingers, his hair fell back on his shoulders and the waves settled and rose before his eyes.

A drop of water hit the bottom of the porcelain tub. His humming tune meandered, finding a familiar path. Giorno reached inside the cabinet and holding the pencil in one hand he grabbed the cap with the other. The old melody from his hometown paused with an audible pop echoing between the tiled walls in the cramped old bathroom. As Giorno set the cap down on the sink, his tongue moved behind his still lips as the words formed silently on his breath. “Sulo a guardà, sulo a guardà,” staring at the edge of his lips, he lined his cupid's bow, tracing it down to the curving edge of his mouth.

“Jamme, jamme 'ncoppa, jamme jà—” with a low hum and quiet, fragmented lyrics on his breath, Giorno outlined his smiling lips.

It was Wednesday. A week had passed, but to Mista, who'd counted every hour, who’d suffered through every moment of silence and sound alike, who'd laid awake in his bed at night listening to his own blood rushing in his veins, it had felt more like a year. He'd grieved his losses in fall, been numb through winter, and though spring had given him hope, summer had snatched it from his hands, unforgivingly bright and numbing.

As the same scenes had played out each day in the old little two story house, Giorno wouldn't smile nor frown before Mista's soulless guise of normalcy and his indifference had kept the gashes on his broken heart fresh and bleeding. Professionally, nothing had changed—but not once had Giorno cared to linger, cared to touch him or converse with him. It gave him no peace.

A few years ago, he would’ve denied any implication that he was attracted to Giorno in any way. Then, he’d transitioned to a partial state of denial—bargaining while refusing to reflect on his sexuality. Then, he’d entertained the idea of Giorno as his ’exception’, but before he'd gotten all his excuses in order, that reality had started to crumble, too. He had suffered with every piece of the puzzle. He had always mocked and pitied men who desperately clung to their masculinity, who served deluded narratives and superficial ideals just to claim access to a sense of superiority. Thus, his self-image had doubly come into question and he’d suffered doubly for it. Ultimately, he wasn’t one for self-flagellation. He wanted to enjoy life. Now, he wondered if that was where he’d gone wrong. A week of shame and heartbreak had been enough to make him certain. When he couldn’t bear to meet Giorno’s gaze or when he fumbled to speak to him, he wished he’d stayed in denial forever.

So, that afternoon, when he heard the pebbles on the driveway ripple under tires, he was torn between dread and relief. At least he would have something to occupy himself with, even if it meant enduring the presence of others.

Sheila sat in one of the low armchairs by the coffee table and stared into her empty cup. Her long, sheer lilac dress was neither tight nor loose, the creases on the flighty fabric like striped patterns all over her pale body. Under her dense, straight bangs her eyeliner was smudged and her bleached sections had been let down into messy, frizzy tresses. Next to her, Fugo crossed his legs, straightening the dewy white collar on his wrinkly shirt with shaky fingers. He wore a worn-out brown cord suit embroidered all over with large oval patches of sky blue. Seated across from them by the wall, Murolo tapped his cane against the floor, his argyle blazer thrown over the armrest of his chair.

Mista stood leaned against the terrarium and inspected his cuticles, the sound of Polnareff scraping in the dirt next to him diluting his thoughts. The two buttons on his cropped little leather vest strained as he inhaled, the cotton backpiece expanding over his shoulder blades. The pale leather matched that of his hat, the asymmetric shape of its raw-edged hems resting over his eyebrow on the left side, the low little flaps barely covering his ears.

“He's late,” Sheila spoke with a tense, quiet voice.

“Yeah, seems like it,” Mista muttered without raising his eyes. Flicking his fingertip, he cleaned out dirt from under his fingernail.

“Is everything in order?” Sheila’s question was sternly worded.

“Should be as far as I know,” Mista hadn't cared to worry or fret about anyone but himself. “Though I haven't seen him since morning.”

“...You haven’t seen him since morning?” Fugo was concerned. “How is that even possible?”

If you try hard enough to actively avoid each other then anything’s possible, Mista thought tiredly. “I had lunch downtown. I was running a few errands and I had a meeting so I just got back. That’s all.”

“I’d still like to think you'd keep an eye on each other.”

“Giorno's fine,” Polnareff said with a sigh, putting Fugo's worries to rest. “He'll be here in a minute.” Mista glanced down at Polnareff. Arguably, Giorno had timed things very well. If Polnareff had noticed the strange atmosphere in the past week, he probably wouldn’t have thought much of it.

The door handle behind Mista’s back clicked. Fugo raised his head, staring past him and Sheila stood from her chair. “You're here,” she said with a glimmer of relief in her eyes.

“Yes, my apologies,” Giorno replied simply. “Good evening.”

Sheila sat down promptly. Giorno’s footsteps were light on the wooden floor. Mista’s stomach dropped with a nauseating rush of adrenaline at the flash of pink in the corner of his eye. Without a glance, Giorno passed in front of him. The belt hoops on his tight, black pants were strung with a fine gold chain and above the high waistband the strip of bare skin rose all the way up to the outline of his bottom ribs. The edge of Mista’s lips twitched as cold sweat prickled all over his back. The black hem of the cropped, pink jacket was tight on his body and the long sleeves had tailored, rolled up cuffs buttoned tightly to his wrists. The black details on the pink jacket's hems and pockets matched the pink roses that adorned Giorno’s symmetrical braided updo, their petals outlined in black. Pink and purple gems formed a cross on the large, square golden brooch that obscured the top button on his collar. Mista’s crossed arms tightened against his body. Dizzily, he stood frozen, blinking, averting his flickering gaze as Giorno sat down across from him, slowly lowering himself onto the edge of the armrest before slanting his legs and leaning his arm against the headrest. Mista brought his hand to his tightening throat, his fingers kneading the skin as his dry, uneasy eyes drew to the rising black edge on Giorno’s bare waist and the dark creases drawn over the tight fabric on his thighs. His eyes darted to Murolo who tapped his cane one last time before stopping.

“Please,” Giorno said mundanely through the tense atmosphere, his painted pink lips moving without a crease and Mista’s throat burned. “Have some coffee.”

Mista lowered his gaze to the china on the low little table, an ache spreading through his empty stomach. Fugo slid his leg off his knee but only Sheila reached for the coffee pot to pour some pure black brew onto the white porcelain.

“Mr Murolo,” Giorno clasped his hands in his lap. “If you don’t mind.”

“Certainly.”

Mista’s chest was painfully tight, his darting eyes settling on the shadow under the brim of Murolo’s hat. In the corner of his eye, Giorno’s hair swayed above the line of his shoulder as he tilted his head to the side and Mista thought that his cruelty knew no end.

Giorno’s leg bobbed slowly atop his knee, his gaze dull with a hard stare into the air. Sheila had poured each of them a cup and Giorno had finished his in a hurry, the shot of espresso downed with a single flick of his wrist.

“We struggled to map out the activity as the transmissions were both sparse and sporadic,” Sheila relayed the information with a steady monotone. “However, the date of the final transmission can be confirmed without a shadow of a doubt.” Inside the pages of the folder the little feet of the eight of spades rushed past and with a twinge over her brow she shooed it with her hand. “The communication channel was last active on the 8th of August, 1998, revived for a final encrypted transmission after a few days of inactivity. Since then, it's been completely silent.”

“This information is all exactly what I had hoped to hear,” Giorno said emotionlessly, his foot swaying above the floor. His body had become slanted against the side of the armchair. “And yet, I can’t seem to find it satisfying at all,” without as much as a sigh, Giorno closed his eyes. The heavy silence returned to the room. Mista, who’d yet to say a word, rubbed his chin.

“I’ll have to admit, I can’t help but feel the same way,” Fugo admitted quietly. “In the past week, we followed every lead. But all the evidence we could gather points to it simply having been an abandoned one-way communication line,” his voice was tense. “As hard as that may be to believe.”

“It truly evokes the imagination,” Giorno said dryly, tipping his head back. “Who was on the other end? What was their job? Why are they now seemingly gone?” Sheila pressed her hand down on the page, her expression stonelike even as the third of swords ran over her knuckles. “And if they are gone, where did they disappear to?”

“...It’s not unprecedented,” Polnareff said grimly. Mista glanced down at him. “I had to crack down many phony communication lines and dead end leads in my day.”

“What is curious is that this one avoided detection,” Murolo gave a faint shrug under the shadowed brim of his hat.

“Definitely,” Polnareff muttered, lost in thought as Giorno’s bobbing leg came to rest and his eyes glazed over.

“If we dare assume that it’s really that simple,” Fugo was hesitant, “then, well…”

“We can’t assume no such thing, can we,” Sheila turned to look at him.

“Even a phony communication line, even something meant as a distraction or decoy, should contain proof of such,” Giorno said and both Fugo and Sheila’s eyes darted to his face. “I suppose that is why… none of us feel satisfied with these finds.”

“Let me have a look at your finds,” Polnareff offered, “I know you’ve gone over and compared the records already but maybe it can jog something in my memory.”

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” Giorno said simply, his voice draining of interest quickly despite Polnareff’s eagerness to put himself to work. “I was planning to let you hold onto the records anyhow.”

“How about,” Mista spoke, his thoughts connecting. “We simply do what we used to do, and, you know,” his voice rose with a hint of excitement. “Use the line? And see if we get a response.”

Eyes averted, Giorno straightened his back atop the armrest, his expression unchanging. “We haven’t done anything that risky in years.”

“That… might actually not be a bad idea,” Polnareff hesitantly came in Mista’s support. “I don’t think now is the best timing, but… if we dare wait a bit then…”

Murolo gave an amused huff. “That takes me back.” Mista smiled tensely.

Giorno set his elbow on his knee. “It’s worth considering,” he said reluctantly and Mista’s gut stirred with a weak sense of satisfaction, his anxious discomfort not yet trumped. “In the event that Mr Polnareff can’t find any more leads it might be just about the only thing we can do.”

“If we could find even just a single lead on a physical location I could crack the case wide open,” Sheila said quietly to herself. Her hand lashed out and the king of hearts gave off a weak whine as she grabbed it in her fist. Frustrated, she gave it a squeeze as it wiggled in quiet protest.

Giorno slid off the armrest, both of his feet coming down on the floor with a clack. “Mr Polnareff, please accept the documents,” reaching down, he took his espresso cup and saucer off the table.

Closing the folders and gathering the files in her arms, Sheila stood from her armchair, passing Giorno as she approached the terrarium. Mista inched to the side to make space while Giorno stepped around the table with his saucer in hand, leaning forward as he stacked his dishes on the tray and Mista’s eyes darted down to his backside, past the strip of bare skin and to where the tailored fabric strained around his ass, the seams hugging the insides of his thighs and shaping the space between the top of his legs with a gentle, arching curvature. He stroked his chin and with a flickering gaze he glanced sideways at Sheila who steadied the heavy folder on the edge of the table before his eyes zipped back to the widening strip of bare skin around Giorno’s waist, the jacket inching up his body. He took a step to the side, turning his body away as Giorno straightened his back.

“Mista,” Giorno addressed him sharply and Mista’s blood ran cold.

The short, silent seconds that passed as Sheila lowered the documents past the walls of the terrarium and into the room inside the key was enough to drive him to the cusp of panic. “Yeah?” Mista replied, fabricating some casual confusion. In front of him, Fugo stood from his seat.

“Go upstairs,” Giorno said plainly. “As soon as I see the others off I’ll see you in my room.”

“...Sure,” Mista managed to reply lightly despite his tight throat.

“I’m sorry,” Fugo cut in and in the corner of his eye Mista saw Giorno turn his head to look at him. “Do you want us to go back to Rome?”

“No,” Giorno said with a shake of his head. “You’ve done enough. Any more and we might just make things more difficult for ourselves. Go back to the city. Take a few days off.”

“O-Of course. Thank you,” Fugo bowed his head.

“It’s no matter. You’ve earned it,” Giorno offered them his humble sentimentalities, “and right now, there’s not much that can be done. It’s best if you remain on standby.”

Murolo stood from his chair. “I’ll see you, Polnareff. I’ll be in touch.”

“Ah, yes, though chances are I’ll be the one in touch with you first,” Polnareff replied heartily with a nod.

“Mista,” Murolo tipped his hat at him and in reply Mista gave him a nod. He left through the arch to the entrance and behind him, Giorno followed, walking Fugo and Sheila to the door.

“Do you have any plans on returning to the city?” Fugo asked hesitantly.

“Perhaps in a few days,” Giorno replied airily. “I’ll let you know if we return.” Mista stared at his back where he clasped his hands, his thumb rubbing against the inside of his palm. His gaze shot down to the floor, his hands clenching. Surely, Giorno would release him from the clutches of this house sooner or later.

As Giorno saw Murolo, Fugo and Sheila through the arch to the entrance, Mista let a sigh escape. “Thanks for backing up my idea, I guess,” he mumbled quietly.

“Huh?” Polnareff muttered, his attention divided. “You’re welcome? I guess… I mean it was the next logical step even if it escaped my mind at the moment.”

“Right,” Mista set his hands down on the table and looked down into the terrarium where Polnareff sat in the dirt and moss. “Well, in the meantime, if anyone can make sense out of this, it’s probably you.”

“I dunno,” Polnareff said sheepishly. “Those three couldn’t crack it. So don’t get your hopes up.”

“You’re the only reason we were able to take over those communication channels so quickly in the first place,” Mista stretched his back and looked up at the wooden beams on the ceiling. “So don’t sell yourself short.”

“I’ll do my best, that’s all I can say,” Polnareff replied. “I could use an extra pair of eyes or two from you boys, too. Whenever you have time.”

“Right,” Mista turned to stare at Giorno’s dark outline through the arch as he bid the others goodbye in the dim hallway, pressing his cheek against Fugo’s and giving Sheila a reserved embrace.

“How did your meeting go today?”

“Hm?” He glanced back down at Polnareff who looked up at him with his dark little eyes.

“Your meeting. How’d it go?”

Mista shrugged. “Fine, I guess.”

“Oh, huh. I thought… maybe something happened,” Polnareff reasoned. “Since Giorno wanted a chat.”

“Oh, uh. No idea. Maybe? We haven't had a chance to really talk about it yet,” Mista’s gut was twisting into knots. Before his eyes the door closed with a rumble through the house. Mista watched Giorno turn and disappear down the corridor, following each of his sweeping strides, his hair lifting from his shoulders. “Not that… I have much to say about it…”

“Well, I won’t keep you. If you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna turn myself in for the evening,” Polnareff said and Mista stared out into the empty hallway, thinking of how he’d stood there a week prior. “I’ll need to get to work anyhow.”

The creaking sound of the wooden steps on the staircase resonated through the house, rising past the wall and out of earshot. “Right,” Mista grumbled. “I should… probably do the same, huh…” Unwillingly he tore himself away from the terrarium.

“Oh, good evening!” Polnareff bid him goodbye in a jolly voice. Mista just gave him a wave as he left the room, each slow step increasing the nestling dread in his gut.

Through the crack the orange light of the setting sun blinded him. Mista closed the door to Giorno’s bedroom behind him and found to his great confusion that the room was silent and still without a breath. He glanced at the left wall where the door to the upstairs living room sat closed on its hinges and then at the empty desk under the window. The white sheet laid strewn on the bed in a lumpy mess and the musty blanket was but a large wrinkle at the foot end. Perturbed, he stepped into the room with steps as light as he could manage, casting a restless glance around him.

He stopped by the left wall, across from the foot end of the bed, standing where a large old chest boasted nothing but a cloth and an antique oil lamp. He leaned his hip against the chest, crossed his arms and waited. On the nightstand by the headend of the bed stood the weathered old clock that usually sat next to Polnareff’s terrarium downstairs. Repeatedly blinking, Mista stared at it, its round little face indifferent to his confusion. The dust in the room glimmered in the bright evening sun and he drew the last, lonely sigh he’d be allowed.

He flinched at the sound of footsteps. The door opened with a creak before him. Giorno’s furrowed brow revealed itself as the door fell past his features. He turned his head on his shoulders, looking at Mista with mild bewilderment. “...What are you doing over there?”

“...Waiting?” Mista asked hesitantly, ruffled. “Where… were you, anyhow?”

“Next door,” Giorno paused before he took his eyes off him. He closed the door behind him firmly. “I was reading until I heard you come in here. Since you were taking your time.”

Mista shrugged. “I was having a chat with Polnareff.”

“I see,” Giorno said lightly.

“What did you want to talk about?” Mista asked directly.

Giorno pulled out a newspaper from under his arm. Eyes widening, Mista unfurled his arms. Gripping the top edge with his fingertips, Giorno held it up in front of him, his eyes peering at Mista right above the headline as the newspaper unfolded itself with a rustle. “Did you see this?”

Mista’s eyes wandered down from his face to the bold headline text. “New survey reveals head to head battle in mayoral election?” Mista read out loud, each word linking to the next with building hesitation. “What? Did we do that?”

Giorno’s expression faltered, his features washing clean of emotion. He turned the paper over and stared at it with narrowed eyes as if he hadn’t seen it before in his life. “Hm,” he paused. Mista stared at him in disbelief as he hurriedly flipped through the pages with a tense, quizzical look over his flickering eyes. “Here,” he said with faint, rising finality. The paper rustled loudly as he folded it, crinkling, the page bulging at the inner side. He straightened it with a flick of his wrist. “Under LTE.”

“LTE?” Mista blurted out, perplexed.

“You, young man with the cowboy boots and snakeskin pants,” Giorno read out loud, his features smoothening and Mista’s mouth fell open, “who burst into the alley from the wrong direction and parked your green Fiat Regata on the narrow sidewalk curb and burst your door open right in front of us as we tried to inch past,” blood rushed to Mista’s cheeks, “causing my husband to screech to a halt, our precious maltese almost flying out of my lap and over the windshield,” Giorno drew a silent, calculated breath, “this is not the wild west. This is the 21st century. You endanger us, yourself and by extension every person seated outside the restaurant in the alleyway had my husband swerved any further to avoid hitting you,” Mista idly scratched the side of his face. Giorno’s lips curved with a smile as he continued to dictate the words on the paper and Mista couldn’t tear his eyes off the refined edges of his pink lipstick and for a fleeting moment it was almost as if his heart wasn’t broken. “In addition, you had the audacity to yell at us for making you spill your coffee. I’m sure my feelings came across clearly in our shouting match, but people like you truly are the reason this country is on the decline and in case your own mother hasn’t told you, I feel compelled to let you know how deeply disappointed I would be if I had a son like you,” Giorno raised his eyes from the text and sought his gaze, “signed, a concerned citizen.”

Mista grumbled. “There sure are some truly unhinged people out there, huh,” he said, full of half-hearted astonishment. “Driving in the wrong lane, parking on the sidewalk… can you believe it?”

Giorno slapped the paper with the back of his hand. His smile widened. “You never did get that stain out of your pants, did you?”

Mista’s hands flew down to the splotch on his right knee where the orange and blue scales had darkened. “Look, is there a problem? Sure, I made a scene, but like…”

“Were you in a hurry?” Giorno folded the newspaper back up, his voice light with a gentle chuckle and Mista’s confusion only grew, his rapidly blinking eyes drawing to Giorno’s midriff as his mind twisted itself to recall the events of that long and dreadful day.

“...That fucking guy they put in charge of the collection in Vicaria after old man Sesamo died, what’s his name?” His gaze wandered further south, only to zip back up as Giorno opened the window shutters next to the wardrobe to let in more light. “I forget, but, yeah. He got into some legal trouble and wouldn’t stop bombarding me with calls, as if I'm the to-go guy for that.” It had been less than a week ago. Mista hesitated. “And… yeah.”

“Entertain a fool and you become a fool, I suppose,” Giorno said with a sigh, his shoulders sinking as he meandered over to the desk. “What, was he arrested?”

“Not yet as far as I know,” Mista admitted hesitantly. “But knowing him we’d be better off that way.”

“Perhaps,” Giorno said disinterestedly as he set the newspaper down on the desk. He shot Mista a glance over his shoulder. “Why are you standing over there? Sit down.”

“Oh, sure,” Mista said, forcing the words out with the ready nonchalance he had practiced and perfected all week. He walked steadfastly towards the bed but as Giorno pulled out the chair and sat down by the desk, Mista faltered with hesitation. He grit his teeth, manually bent his stiff legs and sat down at the edge of the bed frame.

“How did the meeting go today? You met with the real estate agent, didn't you?” Giorno asked as he reached for his ear and unhooked the chunky gold earring from his left ear, the thick hoop tightly hugging his earlobe. “...Did you manage to park and get out of the car without causing a scene or ruining your clothes?” He asked with a side glance and Mista forced a smile through his painful embarrassment.

“Sure,” he said. Giorno opened the top desk drawer with a faint creak. “It wasn’t easy… but I managed.”

Pinching the earring between his fingers, Giorno set it down in the open drawer. He reached for his other ear, tilting his head and the sun grazed the flying tips of his wavy hair. “Well, what did he say?”

Mista shrugged. “Nothing much, everything’s coming along. He’s always complaining about having to come out here in person, but like, I’m not gonna humor him about any of that stuff,” Giorno drew the thin golden post of the second, identical earring out of his ear and put it in the drawer. “But, uh, other than that… he confirmed the money’s gonna move next week so everything’s looking good.”

“Perhaps we should go have a look,” Giorno peered into the drawer, picking out a pair of simple, golden studs.

“At the house?” Mista asked cautiously as Giorno slid the piercing into his right ear.

“Yes, before we sell it,” bringing his hands to his other ear Giorno’s brow creased with concentration as he used both hands to attach the second earring. “It’s a significant amount of clean money. I don’t want anything to go wrong.”

“That’s fair,” Mista took his eyes off him, his throat dry. He idly rushed his fingers over the smooth, scaly texture of his pants.

“Though I’d like to keep things discreet, as I’ve mentioned… perhaps we could arrange something,” Giorno’s expression smoothened as he closed the drawer with a squeal.

“I mean yeah, probably,” Mista watched as Giorno slid his feet under the desk and opened the second drawer from the top. He pressed down against the braid on the right side of his head with one hand and with the other he slid the pink rose hairpin out, unraveling the end of the braid. The tension in Mista’s throat coursed with pain. He averted his face, watching in the corner of his eye as Giorno set the hair pin down in the open drawer before he reached for the other one, letting the unfastened hair sink down towards his shoulders.

“I’ll try to schedule it next week,” Giorno said with a distant tone that lingered with a contemplative sigh as he reached back into the drawer and took out his hairbrush, placing it on the desk in front of him before closing the drawer with a light creak. At the edge of the faded coffee stain, Mista’s fingernails dug into his skin through his pants. “We should be able to make time.”

“Right,” he said, engulfed by the piercing unease in his gut, the insides of his palms tingling as he watched Giorno carefully unravel his right braid with his shining fingernails, taking care to undo one link at a time, the hair holding the wavy shape of the braid’s weave even as he withdrew his hands to unravel the next. It came undone and as Giorno reached for his hairbrush a cold sweat gathered at the base of Mista’s neck, a sickening nausea climbing up his tight throat. “By the way, uh,” he hesitated as Giorno brought the brush to his head, the words slipping out of his grasp. “If… If we’re gonna drive anywhere then I should let you know the Ford’s, um, not roadworthy right now. I'm in the uh, business of getting that fixed, though.”

Giorno’s hand paused mid stroke as he turned his head around and Mista involuntarily squinted at him. “It’s not roadworthy?”

“Yeah, that was why I was driving the Fiat,” Mista explained, his knee bobbing nervously. He licked the corner of his mouth as Giorno brought the brush to the other side of his head, angling it to pass through the locks formed by the braid. “Last week I uh, I took it downtown but a cop stopped me and… well, he saw that the right tail light was smashed. So he was gonna write me a ticket but, uh… then he realized that the vehicle inspection was long overdue, so…”

“...So?”

Mista clenched his jaw. The passing teeth of the brush smoothened the waves of Giorno’s hair. Head swaying on his shoulders, Mista forced his lips to move. “I got a ticket. And, uh… it got towed.”

“...You got the Ford towed and you didn’t tell me?” Giorno asked with rising amusement, his hand guiding his hair to lie over his shoulder as he brushed through it.

“I thought… I thought I’d just pay the fines and get the car back silently and hope you never noticed,” he admitted, scratching the side of his face. “I had the license to go with it, but I had a bunch of other unpaid tickets so… uh, I didn't get a chance to fix it just yet.”

Giorno set the brush down on the desk and stood from his chair. “And you weren’t compelled to... talk to the officer?” Pushing the chair in, he stepped back towards the door.

It had been just under a week ago. Mista had headed downtown to lick his wounds Thursday morning, aimlessly driving about—anything to just be out of the house. “I would’ve but it was early and smack in the middle of main street, so,” Mista rolled his head on his shoulders, his lips freezing as Giorno stopped in front of the wardrobe and turned his back to him. “I had the eyes of about fifty coffee-drinking German tourists on me. So, uh, I thought I better not risk it. He was just a young guy, too. The type who might start acting stupid…”

“Oh, was he?” Giorno asked with a light sigh as he set both hands on the door handles and opened the wardrobe. “Those are always the worst.”

“Right?” Mista said with a nervous smile forming and dying on his lips with a cold flash shooting through his heart as Giorno bent down and slid his right sock down his ankle and into his shoe. As he lifted the heel, he took them both off at once. Giorno set his bare foot down on the wooden floor and Mista’s mouth went dry, sweat rushing off his back. The warm evening sun burned his staring eyes and he blinked and blinked as Giorno slid his other sock down, lifted his foot out of the shoe and lined his shoes up side by side. He reached inside the wardrobe, grabbing two wooden hangers in one hand, hanging them on the handle to the wardrobe as Mista’s heart swelled with a crushing pain in his chest, his fingernails digging deeper into his skin.

“Well,” Giorno said with a light exhale. “How much is it? The fines. I'll get you the money.”

“N-No, I got… I got money, so don't worry about it,” Mista couldn’t eliminate the painful stutter in his voice. The hangers clattered as Giorno opened the wardrobe drawer and put his socks away. Closing it, he brought his hands to his neck. He opened the jewelry box inside the wardrobe with a click and Mista’s chest tightened, his breath stopping as he saw the glimmer of the brooch under Giorno’s arm as he put it away, carefully closing the leather lid.

“I'll get you the money,” Giorno repeated and Mista’s dry lips pressed together tightly. “So, tell me,” he inquired kindly, straightening his back as he brought his hands to the front of his body and Mista's thoughts went from stuttering to non-existent as he watched his elbows sink while the hem hugging his waist loosened.

“I, um… I’d need to look it up, I uh, I don't… remember,” the words were just a muscle memory on his lips, his hands clenching atop his thighs as Giorno drew the jacket off his shoulders, revealing the skin-tight black mesh top underneath. Carefully he drew out his right arm, then his left. Holding the jacket up in front of him he straightened it with a whip of his wrists before taking one of the hangers and guiding its edge into the shoulder.

“Well, I suppose we'll figure it out,” Giorno let it slide as he hung the jacket back onto the door handle and Mista sat frozen, his joints burdened with painful, searing tension as he saw Giorno’s waistband loosening under the gold chain strung through the belt hoops. His eyes darted to the window, to the hairbrush left out on the desk, to the light on the floorboards and the blood in his veins thinned until he couldn’t breathe. “Mista,” at the sound of his name his eyes darted back, the blood draining from his face as his gaze fell on the bare skin of Giorno's thighs. Lowering the waistband down the length of his legs, he bent forward, stretching the thin jersey of his underwear over his ass. “You don't recall how long overdue the inspection was, do you?”

“...No,” the single syllable took all his willpower. “Sorry.”

Giorno stepped out of his pants and with his peachy, slender legs bare in the warm spot of sunlight he grabbed the pants by the front seam, folding them before sliding them onto the bottom bar on the hanger under the jacket. He put the suit back into the wardrobe, the fabric rippling silently. “I was certain we had another few months left…”

“Yeah it kinda surprised me, too…” Mista's tight, thumping heart rose, his gaze tracing the inside of Giorno's leg up to his thigh, “I'll… I'll take care of it though. I'm already in touch with our guy. I'll talk to him for you.”

“...Would you?” Giorno asked gratefully as he started sliding his light and stretchy underwear down his thighs and Mista thought that he would do anything.

“I mean… yeah, sure,” his voice cracked weakly as the soft waistband expanded over Giorno’s ass, slipping down with a firm tug of both his hands. The fabric crumpled on the floor and Mista’s eyes fixated on the shadow at the top of his thigh, right under the gentle curve of his ass cheeks as he leaned down to pick his underwear up.

Giorno pulled out the next drawer, putting his underwear away. Under Mista’s dizzy gaze the thin, sheer fabric creased on Giorno’s skin as he grabbed the hem with both hands, his body slimming against the dark wood of the dresser as he raised his arms, revealing his shoulder blades as the black, tight little crop top crept up on his body. Surging heat pounded in Mista’s gut, the cold sweat rushing off his back. Giorno dressed the second hanger in the black mesh shirt and it became nothing but a slack piece of fabric on its frame and Mista tore his eyes away as he set it to hang inside the wardrobe.

The ocean's still waters were like a mirage. Giorno closed the wardrobe with a creak. His steps were silent on the floor. The light in the room burned out the edges of his silhouette as Mista's anxious, flickering gaze fled his bare, naked body. Giorno returned to his desk, facing the sea before turning around, setting his palms on the wooden edge. His face eclipsed the setting sun, his hair aflame with its red light. “You said something interesting before,” he said, making his hair sway with a side tilt of his head as rested his body weight on his right leg. “About using the communication line,” Mista stared into Giorno's eyes, his willpower straining, the edges of his vision bleeding with fuzz. “It really would seem like the next logical step,” the sound of Giorno's light, casual tone made his sanity rush like grains of sand between his fingers, “at least if I want to rest easy at night.”

Mista's dry eyes blinked and blinked, Giorno’s bare shoulders tempting him. He stepped forward and Mista froze with tension in every limb. Fixating his gaze on Giorno’s face, Mista angled his chin with each step, his eyes stinging. He crumbled. His hands clutched the covers and his eyes darted down his body past the soft horizontal curves of his shoulders, past his perky pink nipples, past his gentle straw waves, his heart stuttering with a flickering beat at sight of the rising shadow against his thigh. Giorno stopped right before him and a shaky, weak breath escaped Mista as Giorno's hand latched onto his chin, angling his face up as he tipped his head down. “Do you remember,” Giorno's voice was demure, “the name of the officer who stopped you?”

“N-No… I don't think… he told me,” Mista stammered with a nervous quiver at the edge of his lip, swallowing as heat pooled in his gut.

“Did you catch his license plate or the ID number on his badge?” Giorno's grip loosened and his thumb gently stroked his cheek, the light, sweeping touch sending a cold shiver up Mista's spine.

“I know the ID ended in 48,” Mista admitted under Giorno's steady gaze, “and I'll… I’ll know his face if I see him,” the faint surge of energy in his voice wasn’t enough to mask the underlying tremble, his loins burning with Giorno’s light, sweeping touch.

“I'll go down there with you,” Giorno said steadily, his eyes glimmering with the familiar shine that would accompany his praise, his smiles, his rare, gentle bouts of laughter. “I'll speak to him… and sort everything out.”

Mista exhaled audibly, his eyeballs darting down, the bare skin of Giorno's nude body drawing his gaze like an uncontrollable reflex and in retaliation Giorno's guiding hand angled his chin up higher. His grip tightened and Mista crushed a breath in his chest as Giorno's bare knee pressed down against his thigh. Giorno leaned down and with their eyes interlocked Mista froze with surging adrenaline, hit with a gut punch of heat at the sight of Giorno's tongue sliding out from between his parting lips.

Consumed by a full-body shiver of anticipation, Mista slid his trembling lips open. Giorno's face darkened to a shadow above him and Mista closed his eyes as the stabbing pain of Giorno's knee cut onto his thigh. Giorno's thumb stroked his chin, his hot breath hitting his face. Slowly, the hot tip of his tongue slid past the inside of Mista's dry and trembling bottom lip. Mista inhaled sharply, tasting the heat of his breath in the air as Giorno connected the tips of their tongues, the singular touching point sparking with an electric tingle. Reaching with a weak and shaky breath, Mista inched his tongue forward, sliding it out of his mouth. Stroking his cheek, Giorno gently rubbed the tips of their tongues together, the searing, white-hot sensation at the point of contact shooting straight into his heart before pouring into his gut and spreading to every nerve in his body. Mista couldn't stop the shaky gasp that escaped him. Giorno's pressure was light and tender, building the heat with a slow and steady sweeping motion and Mista's knees weakened with a tingle through his joints as his penis rose against the tight fabric of his pants with a pounding heat surging through the shaft. He gripped the covers with aching fingers and with a stout wave of motion Giorno leaned forward, sparking pain in Mista's thigh with the crushing pressure of his knee. His parted lips hovered right above Mista's mouth as the flats of their tongues connected with a flash of heat before Giorno swayed right back up.

Mista's grip on the covers unfurled, a dull ache lingering over the back of his hand. The smooth and gentle sweeping touch of Giorno's thumb on his cheek resonated down his spine, the sensation granted a sharp cutting edge by the gentle friction between the tips of their tongues. Compulsively Mista wiggled his tongue, matching Giorno’s gentle sweeps, the searing tingle dulling the thoughts in his swimming mind. Giorno's grip on his chin tightened and he was breathless, the rippling tension in his core building. His erection strained up against his pants, throbbing with the hot blood pumping in his veins. As Giorno pushed down against him, his grip steady, reaching deeper into his mouth with a full lick of his tongue, a single hot droplet escaped Mista’s tip, spotting the inside of his underwear as he inhaled dizzily.

Giorno slid back up the length of his tongue with a wet lick and Mista couldn't smother the low grunting moan that escaped him. Giorno held him in place as he leaned back in, his kneecap painfully digging into his thigh. Mista opened his eyes a crack with another trembling breath and at the sight of Giorno watching him steadily his exhale was crushed in his chest, blood rushing to his cheeks as Giorno reconnected the tips of their tongues without breaking eye contact.

Giorno brushed the tips of their tongues together lightly, easing the pressure. Suffocated under his staring eyes, Mista remained frozen without a breath, his heart racing. Giorno touched his shoulder, the warmth of his free hand bleeding into his skin, moving towards his neck until his fingertips reached the pulsating artery. A shallow breath made Mista’s head spin as Giorno’s touch drew to the back of his neck, rising, his fingernails scraping in a light, circular motion, matching the rhythm of his moving tongue as he teased the dense hair follicles. The tip of Mista’s tongue sparked ceaselessly, his gut aflutter as his stiffening penis seared hotly with every tender repetition of movement. Giorno’s eyelids sank in a slow blink and Mista’s face burned, the raw, restless tingle spreading across his skin amplifying as the wet sound of Giorno’s moving tongue was crisp in his ears.

Clenching the hair at the top of Mista’s neck, Giorno guided his head further back, his wavy locks sliding forward on his shoulders as he leaned in. He ceased the gentle caress of his fingers and slowing the gentle rubs against the tip of Mista’s tongue into nothing, he pulled away, a hot trail of saliva dripping down onto Mista’s lower lip. With the stern grip of his hand he held Mista’s head in place and with staring eyes Mista saw how the lipstick had faded on Giorno’s lower lip, smudged across the center. Giorno’s thumb traced the bottom edge of Mista’s lips, gathering the saliva and withdrawing his hand he brought his thumb to his mouth, closing his lips around his fingertip.

Mista inhaled slowly, his whole body flushed, heat rushing under his skin. Giorno's knee slid down the inside of his thigh until it hit the edge of the bed frame. Letting go of his neck, he grabbed the handle of his revolver, drawing it out from the waistband, the barrel rushing against his skin. With a limp, lax hand he tossed it aside and it landed atop the crumpled covers with a thud. Giorno grabbed Mista's waistband with both hands, his brow creasing over his focused eyes as the backs of his fingers slid against his bare skin. Mista's throat tightened painfully as Giorno pushed the metal button out of the slit, the raging, raw anticipation triggering a twitch across his face.

Ignoring the zipper, Giorno gripped the leather at his hip and pulled his pants down, revealing his bulging penis outlined against the straining fabric, the stretched threads under his head darkened with spots of pre-come. Renewing his grip, he tore the pants down to his knees, letting them drop to the floor with a thump. He set his hands on Mista's bare thighs and it was enough to make him shiver, ripples slithering across the surface of his skin. Giorno lowered himself, his smooth, naked body sliding between Mista's thighs, pouring against his skin like liquid as he kneeled between his legs. Giorno’s hand traced the inside of his thigh and with wet, tense lips and aching, clenching hands, Mista zipped his dizzy head up, staring at the red sun above the ocean as Giorno's sweeping touch teased the tender hair follicles, making his erection twitch under its soft constraints. Mista bit his lip and his heart soared as his gliding fingertips bent the hairs at the base of his leg under the stretched hem of his boxer shorts, his lips tingling with the memory of Giorno's tongue and the radiating heat from within his mouth. He pushed back a silent groan as the gentle scrape of Giorno's fingernails repeated the sweeping motion over his skin, unable to stop the gush of hot pre-come that leaked from the head of his fully erect penis and darkened the stain on the wet, spotted fabric.

He let out a silent, slow exhale, his eyes burning from the red and orange sunset as Giorno's hands went up his waist, his fingertips passing in under the edge of the waistband. The smooth fabric rubbed against his erection as it came down and he braced, his tight chest crushing his breath as Giorno's hot lips pressed against the tip of his penis in a light, mind-numbing kiss, the supple pressure tightening his throat as the heat rushed from his shaft all the way up to his dizzy head. Giorno's lips tensed with a light ripple as he kissed him, making his core pound. He inched downward, sliding the tip of the head into his mouth and Mista stared at the swaying horizon as Giorno's mouth tightened before rising back up, his lips rejoining. Mista clenched his jaw as hot drops escaped him right against Giorno's mouth, gushing up against his already wet lips, mixing with their combined saliva. His chest expanding painfully with another breathy inhale, Mista shivered.

Giorno licked his lips clean, the back of his tongue brushing against the side of his flushing penis. Leaning in, Giorno closed his mouth around the tip, sucking shallowly, the tender pressure giving Mista a rush under the soles of his feet, his toes curling as his dick throbbed with his heavy heartbeat. Lips creasing, Giorno slid back up. Angling his head, he pushed back the foreskin, inching downward with tight, hot lips. The tension in Mista's chest let up as his fists unfurled. Before his hazy eyes the glowing horizon swayed. Giorno's tightening, sucking lips inched up and down the head of his penis, abiding to a slow but steady rhythm and behind Mista’s wet lips his mouth watered as the restless tingle in his gut built to a searing, shuddering tension. Squeezing his eyes shut, he savored the burning heat of Giorno's mouth, licking his lips, tasting the residue of his tongue, the very same that made his blood rush and his breath quiver as it rubbed the tip of his erection behind his tight lips.

Mista exhaled with a grunt so weak it was just a vibration in his chest. Giorno's lips slid off his penis and Mista's eyelids twitched. Under his eyelashes the orange light of the setting sun was like a veil and as Giorno took him back into his mouth the world yet again plunged into darkness. Using his tongue, Giorno drew back, licking his tip with a sweeping motion before leaning back in for another gentle suck, the sound of his kiss wet in the silence. The gentle scrape of Giorno's teeth rubbed against the side of his dick as he slid it back into his mouth only to rise back up. Giorno's lips drew away from the wet and glowing skin, leaving only his hot breath against his dick and Mista’s heart stirred with a burning curiosity in his chest. His squinting eyes stung, his hands clenching as he lowered his gaze, forcing his stiff neck to move.

Giorno's hair had all fallen past his shoulders, his loose curls sliding down on his forehead. Kneeled between his bare thighs, he stared back at him with bright eyes as he leaned back in with his tongue extended, giving his burning, blushing erection a lick up the thin, milky trail leaking from the tip. Mista froze, the edges of his trembling lips curving with a nervous twitch. Giorno held eye contact as he pressed his mouth back against his penis, parting his lips with a sweeping tongue before lightly sucking him off, barely closing his lips around the tip as he gently bobbed his head.

Mista failed to breathe. With the tip of his erection between his lips, Giorno returned his smile before rising back up. His hot breath made a tingle rush down his shaft and as Giorno leaned in and took the tip back into his mouth, moving his neck as he lightly slid up and down, his bare skin rubbed against the inside of Mista’s legs with that very same weak rhythm. His hair swayed on his shoulders, his loose lips tightening in ripples of tension each time he slid down past the tip. Closing his eyes, Giorno drew back, leaving his dick bare and shining with moisture. Mista swallowed tensely as he pressed his tongue against the base, rising as he tenderly licked the full length of his erection with the flat of his tongue, his lipstick smudging on his curved lips as he rose back up to the head.

Mista’s legs trembled. Pressing himself closer, Giorno spread them open wide and placed his hand on his inner thigh and rubbed the skin firmly, goosebumps rising under his touch. Giorno took him back into his mouth and Mista's mind slipped as he watched his lips sink down the length of his dick, going deeper and deeper until the tip hit the roof of his mouth. Mista exhaled freely, heavily, and muffled from behind Giorno's lips a quiet groan vibrated against his erection as he went back up, sliding the full length out at once, leaving behind a slick coat of saliva. Giorno exhaled audibly, his face tinted with a touch of color. He placed his hand on the top of his thigh and Mista's chest tightened, his mind connecting just as Giorno pushed himself up. Giorno rose like the wave of daunting, eager excitement that left Mista frozen with anxious apprehension. His thoughts singular and with a slow, shallow breath on his lips, he stared at the slit dip of Giorno’s defined belly button, at the soft waves of his blond pubic hair and at the fully hard rising shaft of his slender penis.

With a steady hand Giorno guided Mista's chin up. Their eyes met and as Giorno's gentle caress returned to his cheek, Mista’s anxious heart shuddered. Tracing the line of his smudged lipstick, Giorno licked his wet bottom lip, his glimmering eyes narrowing under his smooth brow. Gripping Mista’s shoulder with his other hand, Giorno leaned down, tipping his head forward and wrought with disbelief, his hands trembling, Mista swallowed hard, pushing the rising tension back into his gut. He'd narrated the story himself, and yet. Even as Giorno's erection pressed against his body like a glowing imprint, even as Giorno slid his leg over his thigh, tilted his head and pressed his hot, wet lips against his neck, Mista’s hands trembled.

His tongue still tingling and his body crawling with a hot, restless slithering through his limbs, Mista yearned for his lips with earnest, deep-rooted desperation. Defying Giorno’s grip on his chin he was only met with a strengthened resistance as Giorno’s fingers tensed, firmly holding his head in place as his lips lightly moved against the skin on his neck. The supple heat of his naked body slid against him as he lowered himself into his lap, straddling his bare thighs. Giorno's mouth drew away from his neck and as he lifted his head Mista’s heart hitched as his breath hit his lips, Giorno's eyes seeking his gaze with an uncompromising stare.

He rose like a wave, his legs tensing atop Mista's thighs, their chests colliding. Giorno inhaled tensley against his wet lips and Mista stifled a weak, muffled groan as Giorno grabbed his penis with his other hand, forming a strong grip around his pounding shaft. Mista held his breath with a shuddering heart as Giorno slid downward and his thoughts ceased as the tip of his penis slid in between his warm ass cheeks. He swallowed, a searing shiver rushing up his spine. Giorno exhaled with a trembling breath into his mouth, rocking his hip slowly, making his erection slide, sandwiched between his tensing buttocks. Wet from saliva and pre-come, Mista's dick was slick against his hot skin and as Giorno's muscles rippled around him, his heart jumped against the weight of Giorno's chest. With a slow and calculated rhythm, Giorno rolled his hip, leaving Mista breathless. Giorno's steady expression flickered with a quiver across his lips, the tint on his cheeks deepening.

Tilting his head to the side, Giorno leaned in, gently pressing his lips against the wet spot he’d left behind on his neck. Mista's gaze wobbled and he stared at the bleeding sky over the line of Giorno’s shoulder, the bottom of the sun breaching the ocean as Giorno's gentle lips parted to make way for his hot tongue. With a single, eager thrust Giorno clenched his cheeks and Mista groaned as the tip of his dick slid past the hot dip of his anus. Giorno jerked his hips back up, wetly kissing Mista's neck, his lips rushing up towards his ear before parting to latch onto his earlobe. Drawing it in with his tongue, he sucked on it hard and Mista stared at the creases of the distant waves with a pounding heart and a throbbing dick, his earlobe tingling inside Giorno’s hot mouth. The ocean blushed under the bleeding sun and Mista thought of Giorno's tinted cheeks. His eyes stinging, the edges of Mista’s trembling lips curved more and more as Giorno’s clenching muscles hugged his dick with the movement of his rolling hips.

Giorno's teeth grazed the skin on his ear with a hard suck. He let go before reattaching himself, his hip rising and rising until Mista's dick was bare and glowing without his warmth. Giorno shifted with a wobble, his tight, sucking lips parting with a gentle smack directly into Mista's ear.

With a shaky, bated breath Giorno leaned against him. With an unhindered reflex Mista grabbed his arm right above the elbow to steady him. Giorno pressed his face against his neck, breath quivering as his fingers returned to grip his slippery dick. Shivering, Mista inhaled his sweet and earthy scent thickly into his lungs, the light of the sun veiled by Giorno's hair as his locks draped over his face. Giorno's grip was gentle as he pushed Mista's tip back in between his ass cheeks. He slid down with a breathy exhale against his neck. Mista blinked, Giorno's hair heavy on his eyelashes, his hand gripping his arm tighter and tighter, the muscle straining inside his grip. Giorno's frame grew heavier against him as he relaxed and Mista angled his face against his fragrant neck, his lips tingling and his body flushing with a searing rush as Giorno pushed the tip of his penis inside him. He sank, lowering himself bit by bit and Mista parted his lips, gasping weakly again and again as the searing warmth engulfed him, rising to his head like a fever. Mista's grip on Giorno's arm loosened as his erection melted into his body slowly, agonizingly, his penis sliding deeper and deeper into the slick, tight heat of his ass.

Eyes unblinking, Mista stared into the darkness of Giorno's neck under the curtain of his hair, his heart tight as the heat spread through his body. Giorno had been late. Mista had stood by the terrarium, waiting as both Sheila and Fugo had grown antsy in the passing minutes. Giorno had sat through the meeting with an empty stare on his face, his tone full of dull, impatient frustration. Afterwards, he'd promptly gone upstairs. Mista exhaled through his straining throat, pushing out the air, the fingers twitching on his hands. Giorno had learned everything there was to know. He'd forced it all from Mista's reluctant lips. Giorno had been ready for him. He'd come prepared from the beginning. Mista’s mind swayed. It was strange how his fantasies had never felt further away.

Giorno’s thighs sunk into his lap. Mista was fully submerged inside him. Giorno's heartbeat thumped against his face under the skin on his neck and inside the heat of his body the same pulse throbbed through his erection. Mista slid his hand down to his waist, his touch hovering above the skin. Giorno leaned against him, shifting his dick inside his body and Mista closed his eyes, submitting to the feverish warmth under his eyelids. Rising, Giorno inhaled, his breath rushing hotly against the wet skin on Mista's neck. Sinking, he exhaled, sliding back down on his dick, pressing down harder, his muscles tensing atop Mista's thighs. Mista’s hovering hand made contact just above his hip, his fingers grazing the skin.

Giorno rolled his hip, rising and sinking with a gentle, wave-like motion. Mista's fingers tensed, the warmth of his skin radiating into his palm. Exhaling with a light moan on his lips, the next roll of his hip linked directly into another, building a rhythm inside the squeeze of his tight body, each pump searing with heat. Giorno laid his arm around Mista’s body, his fingernails digging into the skin through the fabric on his back. In his oscillating movement he leaned forward, his hard erection rubbing against Mista's stomach with every slow jerk of his hips. With Giorno's hot, steady breath hitting his neck, Mista caressed his side, the bare skin smooth under his hand. A cold shiver ripped through the burning heat in his core as he rushed his hand over Giorno's bare back, the skin pouring with gentle warmth, a twitch in the muscle rippling under his touch. Giorno tipped his head back with a breathy sigh, parting the curtains of his golden hair and Mista saw the darkening sea under the bleeding sky, his body saturating with spiraling desire, his thoughts parting to make way for his urges. His heart shuddered. Giorno rose and with a gentle, rumbling groan on his lips and a faint dribble of his hot discharge spotted Mista’s stomach as he sank back down on the length of his penis, the clenching, burning heat making Mista throb. He drew a deep breath into his tight chest, the hot rush shooting from his dick up into his core and sparking behind his eyes. He bit his lip, his teeth sliding gently over the flesh as his head pounded with heat, his inhibitions manifesting as pain coursing through the straining muscles constricting his lungs.

His anxieties melted away inside the beating heat of Giorno’s body. He knew how the story went. Mista rushed his other hand over the covers, his palm tingling. With his breath held tight in his chest he gripped Giorno's sides, his fingers grasping the hipbone under his skin. His fingertips indented Giorno’s flesh as he parted his lips with a shaky breath. Excitement spread across his skin like a cold shiver and inside his grip Giorno moved, rising on his dick, sliding against his body and as he sank down Mista rose up against him, thrusting his hip with a steadying hold onto him. The muscle in Giorno’s hip rippled against his palms and Mista’s mind swimmed with the tightening sensation around his hard dick. Giorno sank down against his raised groin and Mista rolled his hip again, the old mattress swaying under them. Giorno exhaled with the next thrust, a breathy moan leaving his lips and the final shred of fickle, paper-thin hesitation gave way. Mista’s hands cramped with the clutch on Giorno’s body as his hip shot up with renewed power, driven by thoughtless desire, one thrust chaining into another and another, the movement linking together into a fluid, ceaseless motion.

Giorno’s hands grasped his back and his voice bled through on every bated, shallow breath with light, rumbly moans. Tensing, Giorno squeezed him, pressing down against his moving hip as the creaking sound of the old bed frame came to match the rhythm of his breathy moaning. Mista held his breath until his lungs burned, finally inhaling deeply with a desperate rush, the shiver through his whole body audible on his breath, his body flushing with the rush of oxygen. His dick burned inside the building friction of Giorno’s body and his gasping breaths too became one after another, fueling his moving hip. Mista quivered with a twitch across his face and his lips brushed Giorno's neck without a kiss, only trembling with a quiet whine against his hot skin. Under the low ceiling the creaking bed frame and their synched breathing resonated dully, stoutly. The world swayed no longer dizzily on Mista's tense and anxious shoulders but steadily with the movement of his thrusting hip and the heat of the bright red sun was like a light caress on his face compared to the feverish, burning friction building on the skin of his rapidly pumping erection inside Giorno’s body.

Giorno’s parted lips hovered next to his ear, a crunchy groan welling up from deep inside him. Mista’s hands left his hips to crush his body to his chest, both arms wrapping tightly around him. Responding to his growing need and staying true to Mista’s indulgent fantasies, Giorno pressed down on the next thrust of Mista’s hip. Wobbly but insistent, he moved, jerking his hip inside Mista’s tight embrace, riding him eagerly as he rubbed his erection up against his stomach again and again with every thrust. With shorter and faster jerks of his hip under Giorno’s moving body, Mista pushed through the ache in his straining muscles, defying them. Pain sparked in his knees, egging him on further.

Revealing his flushed cheeks and shining wet lips, Giorno raised his head, steadying himself on a missed beat, groaning inside his throat as Mista’s hip rose with a hard thrust to slide all the way inside him, as if to defy him. Giorno’s head blocked the setting sun and his wide open eyes pierced him with their gaze, his heavy breath pushing past Mista's parted lips. Mista squeezed him tighter and Giorno’s hands drew to his sides, clutching firmly. As the air surged beside his head, Mista remembered. His back hit the mattress with a loud thump, the springs groaning as Giorno moved restlessly on top of him, his hips grinding wildly and at the sight of him riding him without restraint, his wet and hard dick wobbling, Mista couldn’t thrust up into him fast enough. The elongated shadows cast by the setting sun lowered the ceiling and as the bed frame creaked below them the floor settled with a loud crack in the cooling dusk. Giorno gasped through quivering lips, moaning freely, the color on his cheeks saturated, his long and slender shadow dipping up and down as he did, the edges of his body bleeding with a red and golden glow.

With his hair and dick bouncing, he set his hands down on Mista’s chest where the heat had turned into moisture. Giorno’s pink nipples stood hard and perky from his chest, the skin on his shoulders glossy under the beams of the sun. Mista held onto Giorno’s sides tight, fingers numbing as he moved his hip, pushing down against the springy mattress and thrusting up into him as he bounced. With a tense brow over his wide eyes, Giorno rested his swaying head to the side and Mista dug his heels into the floor, steadying his thrusting motion, his knees rising and Giorno’s parted lips trembled with a hearty gasp as Mista reached deeper inside him.

On his stomach, the wet spot left by Giorno’s discharge glowed on his skin. Unblinking, Mista stared at Giorno’s parted wet lips, his flickering eyelashes, his rising and sinking chest draining the width of his slim waist with every breath. He leaned forward, moving ceaselessly, the groans on his lips drawn deeper and deeper from within his body. He relaxed, sliding easier, and Mista pushed out a long hot breath as Giorno’s insides loosened around his hot, pumping erection. Faltering, Giorno braced against the covers with one hand, his head tipping forward and Mista stared at his creasing, glossy lips as his face merged with his own shadow, his backlit form shrinking against the light, drawing closer as he swayed up and down. Mista swallowed, his mouth watering, the surface of his lips sparking with a white-hot tingle, the anticipation eating away at his sanity as Giorno continued to move with him, building the friction inside him. Giorno leaned down and engulfed by his shadow Mista registered the dark outline of his eyelashes just as they fell closed.

He inhaled just as Giorno’s lips brushed his, his mind spiraling with maddening desperation. Carrying the faint, burning taste of pre-come and sopping wet with saliva, Giorno’s mouth aligned atop his own, his lips tender with light pressure. Giorno kissed him sweetly and Mista returned the kiss haplessly, his lips trembling as if he was just a boy on the schoolyard, a shy, uncertain virgin, his wits lost. His hands squeezed Giorno’s hip, his legs burning with the ceaseless movement and his mouth tingling with the light, sweeping kiss. Giorno’s tongue slid hotly against his bottom lip and tilting his head he moaned directly against Mista’s mouth. The bed swayed and creaked under their moving bodies and their innocent kiss ended with a slip of Giorno’s lips, reconnecting with the next steadying joint thrust of their hips. Mista leaned his head back and Giorno closed his lips against his with a gentle push. Obsessed with the washed out taste of his own discharge, Mista’s aching, burning body and hot, pounding erection dulled to his senses as the gentle, pouring sensation of Giorno’s lips against his own was crowned the focal point of his feverish mind. Giorno’s wet, light kiss weakened his moving joints. Giorno parted his lips to brush their tongues together as he tightly squeezed Mista’s thrusting dick inside his ass, making him gasp inside their kiss with the building resistance against his moving hip. Giorno pulled back, hovering above his mouth, their lips connected through the shared moisture. He groaned as Mista thrust harder into him, reaching deep inside his tightening muscle. Mista’s breath quivered as he reached up to try for another kiss and Giorno merciful granted him his wish, planting a full kiss directly onto his lips. Breathing against his mouth, Mista parted his lips and his heart shivered, rising in his chest as Giorno kissed him back fully, sweeping his tongue inside his mouth.

Giorno’s generosity instantly made him greedy. He pushed up against him and Giorno drew a sharp breath against his lips, pressing down against Mista’s thrusting hip as he leaned his weight into the kiss, his lips tensing like his ass around his dick. Mista’s heart rushed faster, harder, his head dizzy, his hip slowing down with painful, desperate thrusts as Giorno kissed him hard and deep, reaching into his mouth with the full length of his tongue. His dick still glowing with heat and with pent-up, enduring desire saturating his body, Mista faltered, his hip falling down limply under Giorno’s tight body, apprehended by his kiss. He raised his hands to Giorno’s face, his wavy hair tickling his palms and with a gentle caress passing through his locks, Giorno snapped. With a moan welling up from between their lips he kissed him wildly, desperately whisking his tongue in his mouth, gasping through his nose, squishing their faces together with the full weight of his body. Mista’s hands balled into fists in Giorno’s hair, the heat of his mouth leaking into his own just as his lips leaked moisture, saliva dribbling down his lip and onto his chin. Their bodies unmoving, still joined together, all their energy was poured into the kiss.

They parted only to rejoin. The sound of their wet, messy kisses made Mista’s dick quiver. Giorno squeezed him inside his ass and Mista let out a moan with a heavy exhale before their lips rejoined yet again. Giorno reached into his mouth with a wild frenzy and Mista was smothered under his kiss, moaning haplessly as Giorno’s moving, swirling tongue matched the rhythm of his muscles as he tightened and relaxed, squeezing his dick again and again. Mista drew his trembling hands down to his neck, rushing them down his body, squeezing him in his embrace. Giorno’s body slipped on top of him as he pushed down into the kiss, the shifting center of mass making the mattress shift under them.

Mista’s sanity crumbled as the cool air hit his base, his dick slipping out. Grabbing Giorno’s waist he limply raised his hip to thrust back into him. Giorno pulled away, sighing heavily. He rose, his wet lips drawing away, the fading sunset faintly outlining him with its dying glow, his body rising from within Mista’s unraveling arms. Giorno sat back up, gently sliding back down on his dick and Mista chased him, pushing his heavy body back up and together they wobbled on the edge of the bed.

Giorno’s eyes fell shut as he leaned in to reconnect their lips in a slow, shallow kiss. Mista’s arms wrapped around him as he drew a deep breath, his stirring body restless, his hot and tingling erection insatiable. Inside his embrace, Giorno rolled his hip and with that single thrust all of Mista’s self-control gave way, his body tensing with a moan inside their kiss. His grip on Giorno’s body tightening, Mista rose inside him with one fast and hard thrust. Giorno’s breath quivered against his lips and Mista gave in all over again, thrusting wildly. The sound of the whining old bed frame was overpowered by the sound of their colliding hips and Giorno groaned, panting as he tensed, increasing the resistance, urging Mista to thrust harder. Together they shook with the rapid motion and Giorno tipped his head back with a rising groan, the tremble passing through his chest against Mista’s body. The surging sensation made him burn, the heat of Giorno’s body leaking into him through his pounding dick, amplified through the motion. He pressed his face against his neck, inhaling again and again, panting, his scent and the tender softness of his quivering voice making his heart rise and rise until he was too light headed to think.

Giorno’s skin was dewy against his lips. The sun had set but its light still burned Mista’s eyes under his eyelids. A chill rushed up his spine, tingling at the memory of Giorno’s footsteps on the other side of the door. His hips moving ceaselessly, he recalled how Giorno had passed into the room, how he’d slid his jacket off his shoulders, how he’d gently stroked his cheek with his hand. Now, that very same hand clutched his shoulder, his fingernails drawing red lines on his skin as he clung to him through the wild, unyielding motion. In this new, exhilarating place there was something familiar to be found. Mista groaned, the image of the creasing, smudged edge of Giorno’s lipstick crisp in his mind, surfacing through the rush. With his thoughts numbed, his lips moved on their own. “Giorno,” his voice was heavy, muffled against the skin on Giorno’s neck by the rough moan that welled up from between his lips. “Giorno—”

He drew a sharp breath, his head light, the burning pain in his moving joints bleeding all the way to the bone. The vice grip that formed on his jaw shattered his absorbed concentration and the feverish motion ceased, his hip sinking down limply on the mattress. Mista’s heart shuddered and the pit of his stomach went cold as Giorno pushed his head away from his body, staring down at him with half-lidded, unblinking eyes above his flushed cheeks, his chest settling with only a faint breath leaving his lips. Mista’s lips parted soundlessly, his dick painfully hard and searing with his unresolved climax. “Let me ask you,” Giorno’s words were pristine in the silent twilight, the burdened undertone not lost to Mista who heard his moaning, groaning voice replay in his muddled mind over and over. “In the past, whenever you came in here to touch yourself,” he continued slowly, carefully articulating himself and unable to take his eyes off Giorno’s smudged lipstick, Mista’s insides twisted painfully. “...Would you say my name then, too?”

“I—” Mista's voice came out so quiet and feeble he faltered at the sound of it. “I… yeah,” he confessed, mustering a weak but earnest constitution under Giorno’s steady gaze.

The edge of Giorno’s lips quivered. He leaned in and Mista inhaled shallowly as his body shifted around his pounding dick. “I appreciate your honesty, I do,” Giorno’s voice was pouring—quiet, but not a whisper. “And I know that it is the truth.” Mista held his breath. The last sliver of sunlight above the horizon revealed all the creases on the calm ocean, shading its dark blue with purple and orange. “Eight days and eleven hours ago,” Giorno’s quiet voice diminished, the breathiness bleeding through. “It just so happened that the ocean was perfectly still and the wind was perfectly calm and the seagulls did not make a single yap,” Mista’s brow creased, sweat rushing down his back as he held onto every syllable that left Giorno’s lips. “I stood by the door,” Mista's eyes widened with a cold shiver up his spine, “with my hand on the handle,” Giorno clutched his chin firmly. “And at that moment, it just so happened that the house was perfectly quiet,” he inhaled silently, his bare shoulders rising as a light, wavering tension passed through his body, transmitting through the shaft of Mista’s pulsating erection, “and I heard your voice.”

Breathless, Mista closed his hot, wet lips. Just like that morning, the house fell into silence without a creak or a whisper. Straining his ears, the only thing Mista could hear was the blood rushing through his veins. “You see,” Giorno’s crisp voice wouldn’t waver, even as his thinning breath diminished, “I had planned to expose you that day. I was going to catch you red handed, in the act,” his confession was direct, perfectly shameless, and Mista swallowed hard, his heart tight, “but when I heard your voice,” his blood rushed madly, “when I heard you say my name,” a nervous twitch rippled across his face but he couldn’t look away, he couldn’t take his eyes off Giorno’s tinted cheeks nor the shining glimmer in his bright eyes nor the wild, loose mess his hair had become as the memory of the sweaty, desperate strokes of his own hand forcibly entered his mind, “I took my hand off the door handle and walked away.”

Mista inhaled a deep, quivering breath, the world swaying around him, the horizon on the white wall afloat within its dark frame. Giorno’s grip on his chin softened. “You called out to me,” he whispered, leaning closer and Mista’s wet lips burned as his breath hit his face. “And I didn’t answer,” Giorno’s low voice creased. “I’m sorry.” Mista only stared at him, his heart throbbing. Tilting his head to the side, Giorno gently caressed his cheek with his thumb. “Just now, were you about to come?” Mista's lips parted soundlessly. He could only just about nod. Giorno smiled, the edges of his lips curving sharply as his eyes narrowed sweetly. He leaned in closer, his touch tender. “It's alright,” his pouring voice rose like a rolling wave with supple vigor and the color on his cheeks deepened before Mista’s eyes. “I'm here. I’m here now.”

Mista’s heart pressed up against his throat, rising and rising until his eyes stung. Giorno stroked his cheek with his gentle hand. He leaned in, his face radiating warmth. A tingle spread under the soles of Mista’s feet, at the base of his neck, his hot skin flushing all over his body. Giorno’s warm, plush lips met his and Mista flinched, his dick and loins crawling with a maddening need for stimulation. Giorno parted his lips, sweeping his tongue inside his mouth and Mista crumbled. Tightening his embrace into a squeeze he jerked his hip with a thrust up into Giorno's body. Tensing, Giorno exhaled shakily against his mouth and Mista kissed him back eagerly, fumbling to uphold the kiss, slipping on the wet surface of Giorno’s lips as his hips rolled again and again, thrusting into him with building motion, going faster.

Their lips rejoined only to disconnect with the swaying rhythm, Mista’s mouth sliding up against Giorno’s cheek under the movement of his hip. Mista panted heavily against his face and Giorno groaned in return, his arm wrapping around his neck. Giorno tensed and tensed in his embrace as the bed creaked rapidly under them. His shallow, bated breaths intensified with a throaty groan bleeding into every exhale, his voice rich and with a shiver through his body he relaxed only to tighten all over again. His dick rubbed against his stomach with the movement in Mista's hip and with his low voice shaking with every deep thrust into him, Giorno's lips hovering above Mista's, every exhale pushing into him and every inhale drawing from his own breath. Giorno pressed down against him, clenching around his moving dick, and with his cheeks burning his voice bled with another moan. Insatiable, driven, his pleasure and agony unyielding, Mista squeezed his eyes shut against Giorno's hot face. Giorno's breath hitched with the next hard thrust into him. Obsessed with the sound, Mista pushed through the sparking pain in his straining joints. Angling his head, Giorno's lips formed a smile against his skin and Mista drew a deep and shaky breath, his mind swimming, “Giorno,” his voice was rough, burdened, his body aching through the motion as his heart soared higher and higher with every thrust. “Giorno—” his voice cracked as Giorno sucked in a sharp breath against his face. His fingernails pierced Mista’s skin but there was no pain, only searing flashes of pleasure, only the tight, burning heat of Giorno’s body. Giorno threw his head to the side, his hair whipping Mista's shoulder, gasping sharply as he trembled, letting out a rumbly, desperate cry of relief, his wet lips parting wide against his face as the pouring wet heat of his ejaculate hit Mista’s stomach, his dick going limp, sandwiched tight between their bodies.

Shedding the last shreds of his inhibiting fear and shame, Mista pushed through his waning energy and in his arms Giorno shivered with every hard, rapid thrust, his face angling down against Mista's shoulder, his tightly clenching hands unraveling and slipping on his back as he whined under his breath. Mista hung onto every sound he made like his sanity depended on it, his eyes opening to the sight of the dark ocean, his own heavy breath synching with Giorno's low, feeble gasps. Mista’s hands traced the outline of Giorno's spine and a strange calm found him. The shape of Giorno's body in his arms was not unfamiliar. His smile against Mista’s skin made the searing heat amplify and the warmth of his body was where his desire had nestled for so long. Mista’s gaze had avoided his face ever since his heart had broken but with the sound of Giorno's earnest moans in his ear and the heat of his ejaculate on his skin, it had been mended, the cracks filled in with more affection than its original form could've ever held.

His face burned hotly, and hotter still was his moving, pumping erection. The image of Giorno's nude body standing before the window, his silhouette bleeding with gold at the edges, his half-erect penis outlined against the peachy skin of his thigh, his smile widening under his shining eyes, was what descended upon him as his thoughts numbed into nothing. Chills slithering down his legs, Mista gasped at the electric surge shooting through his body, pushing through it breathlessly, desperately jerking his hip as his dick melted with the blazing friction. Mindlessly his lips moved, forming to sound the low, rumbling whisper, “Giorno—” his voice died with his own sharp, gasping inhale, a twitch traveling across his face as he forced a final thrust up into Giorno's body, ejaculating inside him with a whispering wince on his breath as he quivered all over.

He unraveled at once, his hip lowering down against the rustling mattress. His energy spent, he held Giorno close in a tightening embrace, closing his eyes as his rough, heavy breath settled and his mind returned to him with pressing clarity. Giorno rested his head down on his shoulder, his chest still rising and sinking against his soundlessly. The familiar scent of his body was studded with the salt of his sweat and the sweet musk of sex and angling his head against his neck Mista breathed it in again and again, his heart not settling, still pounding hard and heavy inside his ribcage. The words rushed to his mind and his throat tightened but in his elevated high he did nothing to stop the impulse that made his lips move. “I made you cum,” he said, lips curving, his whispering voice roughened by his fatigue. “I made you cum,” he repeated, no longer whispering, his voice rising with a boyish, triumphant tone. He inhaled shakily, his grip on Giorno's undulating chest tightening to a desperate squeeze. “What… what did it for you, huh? What was it?” The words had repeated in his head over and over, during the silent, blindingly bright hours of the day, during the agonizing stillness of the dark, restless night. When Giorno's gaze had soundlessly grazed his skin with a cold, disinterested expression, that was when he'd heard it repeat the loudest. Mista squeezed him tighter. “What pushed you over the edge?”

Giorno sighed with resignation against his shoulder. “Could you… be quiet for a second?” He said, his exhausted voice ripe with satisfaction.

Mista's eyes burned under his eyelids. Smiling to himself, he caressed Giorno's back with a firm hand, his mended heart beating steadily.

Giorno's shadow rose against the dark covers. With one hand on Mista's shoulder, his legs tensed as he raised himself up. With a shallow sigh he slid out and settled back down with a final creak of the bed frame. Giorno laid his arms around him, easing his raw muscles with his light embrace and with wet lips Mista kissed the side of his face once and then again and again. Giorno angled his face to press his lips against his neck. In the darkening room his voice was crisp. “Was it like you imagined?”

Mista's thoughts stilled to nothing. He blinked, his eyes no longer making out the horizon under the black sky. His joints ached, the skin on his back was red with scratches and the spot where Giorno's knee had dug into his thigh was definitely bruised. Tension returned to his tired body. It dispersed. He couldn't let the doubts take root ever again—not when Giorno’s interrogating question was so clearly meant just to tease him. “You were… a lot louder than I thought you'd be.”

Giorno's hands rushed up his back. His eyelashes flickered against his neck. “Was I?”

Judging by his curious tone, he was pleased with the answer. That was the only thing that mattered. “Yeah.”

“You were…” Giorno hesitated but that too was fleeting, slipping through his fingers. Mista's line of vision swayed all over again. “A bit more gentle than I'd thought.”

“Really?” Mista blurted out. He pressed his lips against Giorno’s cheek in another kiss before speaking against his face. “Do you want me to be rougher with you?”

“...I didn't say that, did I?” Giorno raised his head. Stifling his breath Mista eagerly sought to connect their lips. Still wet, with the residue of their many kisses remaining, Giorno's lips formed after his. The tender kiss quickly evaporated in a flush of excitement, deepening. Giorno drew his hands to his sides, pushing away Mista's arms and grabbing his wrists. The kiss ended but Mista still sought more, defying him as he chased Giorno’s lips, his breath hitching in his throat as he fell backwards with a shove, his back hitting the mattress with a creak.

Mista exhaled with a groan, his eyes opening to the sight of Giorno's looming face. “Truth is,” he said, his smile gone and his brow furrowing as he pinned Mista's wrists to the mattress. “I have another question.”

“...What is it?” Mista asked him dreamily, full of anticipation.

“How long is your refractory period?”

“Uh—” Mista's smile froze, “I, I don't know,” he muttered nervously, dealing half-truths.

Giorno's eyes narrowed. “I hardly doubt you don't have an estimate.”

Mista’s blood rushed through his worn and tired limbs. “Maybe, I don't know, twenty minutes?” Giorno's head sank lower, his expression unchanging. “F-Fifteen?” Mista bargained anxiously. “Look, I, uh…”

“Fifteen minutes?” Giorno repeated plainly, his voice dull.

“That's not bad, is it?” Mista asked through gritted teeth. “Why? How long's yours?”

Giorno was betrayed by the little smile that came onto his features and Mista's heart ached unendingly. “We're not talking about me right now, are we?” He reminded him kindly. “So, which is it? Is fifteen minutes your final answer?”

“We… We could probably get it down to ten,” Mista avoided eye-contact, his gaze flickering. “Like, with you? I could probably do ten—” Giorno leaned in closer and Mista stuttered, a shiver returning to his spent core, “or five. I'd have to, uh, you know… recalculate, probably…”

“You think you could do five minutes?” Giorno was mildly amused and Mista's face burned hotly. “You just said twenty,” Giorno tilted his head to the side, his smile widening.

“I-I said,” Mista forced the words out between his stiff, flushed lips, “I might have to… recalculate…” he muttered and despite his defiance his voice diminished into nothing.

“I suppose I'll do my best, then,” Giorno said and Mista's blood wouldn't stop rushing, “if you think I could get you down to five minutes.” Giorno leaned down and with his heart shuddering, Mista stared at his mouth with tingling lips. “It was about twenty-seven minutes past eight. When you came, that is,” Giorno spoke clearly and Mista's jaw tightened as he pushed back the breath he'd drawn. “So I suppose we'll just have to find out,” the first hot shiver passed through Mista’s limp dick. “In the meantime,” Giorno continued, leaning in, his voice pouring and his eyes glimmering, “how about you tell me another story of yours?”

Mista swallowed hard as the tension let up in his fluttering chest, his spent body and penis already tingling again. “...Sure,” he said, emboldened. “Like I said… I got a few.”

Chapter Text

Mounted on the white pillar, the Italian flag hung slackly from its pole in the pressing heat, its shades of green and red bleached by the sun. Next to it, the dark blue of the European Union’s banner caught the notion of an ocean breeze, barely fluttering.

He leaped the short staircase to the white building in two steps, hopping into the shade on the veranda. Knocking on the door, Mista glanced behind him, peering at Giorno who leaned against the black railing connecting the white columns.

The door opened and Mista’s hand shot out to grab it by the edge. Met with confused, abrasive disinterest, Mista explained his problem. Giorno’s steps were light on the pavement as he came up to the dark, barred door and the officer’s eyes widened, his face going pale at the sight of him removing his sunglasses. He hurriedly excused himself, eyes flickering behind him and as he backed inside Mista shoved his foot in the closing door.

They were offered coffee. Giorno politely accepted but neglected drinking any coffee machine cappuccino out of his brown paper cup. Mista recognized the reddish blonde hair and freckled cheeks of the young, broad-shouldered man as he scrambled into the room with his colleague, his face paler and shinier than Mista had recalled, his lips moving in hushed conversation before he left, the reprimanding shouts directed at him heard beyond the door.

His superior apologized repeatedly for the inconvenience. Then he apologized again, saying the car would take a while to procure as it had been impounded on the mainland, to which Giorno had crossed his legs, tilted his head to the side and politely relayed his intention to wait at the station until the car stood in the driveway. Reclined in his seat, Mista watched them speak with a widening grin as the officer continued to anxiously bargain.

It took about an hour and a half before the brown ‘81 Ford Cortina with the broken tail light stood outside the police station. Mista laid his hand on the horn for a full five seconds as Giorno peered at himself in the rear mirror, brushed his hair off his shoulder and put his sunglasses back on. The red-blonde officer clutched the railing, his face red and his lips furiously trembling as he watched next to his superior. Mista shot him a happy smile before he stepped on the gas, taking off down the narrow alleyway.

The blue sky was blindingly bright above the shining ocean. His mind was still sluggish despite the morning coffee, despite the hours that had passed since he’d awakened at daybreak. Giorno's hands gripped the wooden edge, the tension drawing lines on his fingers. His jacket had been thrown over the backrest on the chair by his desk where the layered clutter of books and papers had returned. He tipped himself forward, his shoulders rising with a sigh. The tight fabric of his shirt migrated up his back and Mista's eyes were on the hem.

“You talked to Murolo again this morning, didn't you?”

“I did,” Giorno admitted lightly.

“So? What did he say?”

“He wanted to speak to Mr Polnareff. They've discussed… their theory,” Giorno hesitated with a slow inhale.

“And you weren't going to tell me?” Mista accused him in jest.

“Once we had a chance to sit down all three of us, I was going to bring it up…” Giorno's voice diminished, letting up with another sigh.

“Right,” Mista replied slowly as he processed the words.

“What about,” Giorno turned his head, his eyes appearing above his shoulder and Mista saw the twitching edge of his lip. “The car?”

“Oh, yeah,” Mista plucked the information from the depths of his mind, the feverish heat under his skin poisoning his thoughts. “That was today, huh. He was gonna call me when he was on his way,” he admitted, the words ending with a light groan.

“Well, he didn't call yet,” Giorno muttered, tipping his head forward. His hands gripped the edge tighter, the skin over his finger joints whitening. “Did he?”

“He just has the landline number, so no,” Mista eyed the phone on Giorno's desk.

It was another Wednesday. The week had gone by in a blur of late nights, long phone calls, repeat visitors, salty sweat and bitter caffeine. A bit more intense than usual, work-wise, yet mostly unremarkable if not for the overbearing uncertainty of the lost 1998 communication line. Polnareff had become silent and absorbed, like back when they'd first met, before Mista had learned that there was so much more to his personality, like his sense of humor and his youthful zest for life. Meanwhile, Mista had been absorbed in his own way, always with a humming tune under his breath and a whimsical meandering way about him that'd made Polnareff sigh heavier and fonder over their shared morning coffee. As for Giorno, he was his usual self. That was, when he wasn't inexplicably impatient or variably snappy, always with his eyes on his wrist watch, tapping his finger on the table or swiveling his head around as soon as a guest would dabble or a phone call wouldn't end on time, leaving Mista with a nervous smile and a blossoming heat at his core.

Giorno exhaled breathily. Mista pressed his palm down on top of Giorno’s hand, intertwining their fingers. Leaning forward, he pressed his nose against the back of his head, inhaling the breezy scent of Giorno's hair, the undertone deep with the faint trace of salty sweat on his hot scalp. The desk pushed against the wall, the legs squealing faintly against the jagged floor. Giorno let out a quiet moan and under Mista's palm his hand twitched. Angling his head to reach his neck, Mista pressed his lips against his skin.

“Did you get back to the real estate agent about arranging a meeting?” Giorno's words vibrated against Mista’s lips. His body swayed.

“I did,” Mista said, angling his face down as he rolled his hips, his forehead pressing against Giorno's shoulder as he watched his penis slowly slide in and out of Giorno's ass, the hem of his pants sitting right under the rise of his asscheeks. With one hand on Giorno’s hip, Mista reached with his thumb, squeezing his ass, spreading him open on one side. He sighed happily, his face burning and his lips tingling at the sight of his slick erection pushing back into him.

“Well?” His voice airy, Giorno was slow to inquire. Mista saw him tense under the bare skin on his lower back.

“He said Monday should be fine,” Mista rolled his hip harder, reaching deeper and Giorno's shoulder rose against his face. “So we should probably… start preparing to leave this weekend…”

“I… see…” Giorno replied, groaning under his breath as the base of Mista's erection pushed all the way into him and with the edges of his lips twitching, Mista wondered if he was listening.

“I didn't wanna leave just yet, but I guess we can figure something out,” Mista said on a thin exhale, watching with a thumping heart as he slid his shaft back out all the way, sighing as he pushed his hot, slick tip back in, penetrating him all over again, triggering a flickering tension up Giorno's back, his insides constricting around his penis with a hard twitch.

“Right,” Giorno layered his one word reply with a weak, impatient groan and with his head pounding, Mista thought that he was at his limit, too. He slid his face up against Giorno's neck and with an enforced grip on his hip he thrust into him hard and fast, eagerly chaining one thrust into another, building speed. Giorno gave his approval with a light groan of relief, his head rolling to the side.

Their conversation died with the movement, with the sound of their bodies arising in the room. Still sleepily lightheaded and with his inhibitions worn down into nothing, Mista groaned freely against Giorno’s skin with every deep thrust, each rushing sensation egging him on. Giorno rose and sank with him, rolling his hip to his rhythm, moaning behind tight lips. He inhaled a lungful of air with a tense gasp, giving in, giving up his movement as Mista pinned him to the desk at the hip, grabbing him with both hands, going faster with short and rapid thrusts, desperate to build the friction. The heat ate him up from the inside, reaching up into his chest, the morning light making his burning face even hotter. The shirt on Giorno's body rustled against his chest, the sound barely detectable over their synced breathing and the sound of skin hitting skin with the motion of Mista’s grinding, moving hip.

Sliding up Giorno’s neck, Mista pressed his mouth against his ear and parted his lips to speak to him whatever obscenities surfaced first in his pounding head as he'd only been rewarded for it in the past seven days. With his hips thrusting hard and fast, he inhaled but no words came out on his heavy breath, his heart stopping in his chest as the shrill tone of the ringing phone vibrated through the air. Two more limp thrusts rolled out from his body before he slowed to a stop. The desk settled against the floor with a thunk. Catching his breath, Giorno tipped his head forward with an exhausted sigh. The ringing died only to erupt again. With an itch rushing across his whole body Mista threw his arm out, reaching for the phone and Giorno swatted his hand away, giving him a tired look over his shoulder. Mista's palm fell down on the desk and huffing with exertion, the heat of Giorno's body hugging his hard dick, he rested his chin on Giorno's shoulder and averted his eyes as Giorno held his breath and picked up the phone.

“Yes?” He said in a dry, distracted tone. “Oh. Yes. That's correct.”

Mista's lip twitched. Giorno tilted his head, his hand sliding down on the telephone handle. Restless with the urge to ruffle Giorno’s feathers, his heart burning with the need to hear him gasp and moan, his dick throbbing at the memory of his tense brow and wet, flushed lips, Mista slid his tongue out and pressed it to the base of Giorno’s neck before rising all the way up to his ear. Giorno angled his face away, his throat tightening against Mista’s tongue. “He's preoccupied at the moment,” Giorno said steadily and with an itching impulse spreading all over his skin, Mista moved his hip, inching his dick out. Giorno swallowed, the wave-like muscular motion happening directly under his tongue as he slid it back down. “I'll let him know. He'll see you,” Giorno's voice faded, barely faltering as Mista’s hip shot forward, thrusting deep into him with one fast, determined motion. “Once he has the time.”

One thrust became another. Giorno's body shivered, his hand tensing on the surface of the desk. “Take a right by the church. It's really not far—” Mista pushed his erection back into him with a fast jerk of his hips, smiling widely as he heard Giorno waver. “Gate shouldn't be locked,” he spoke firmly, his constitution renewed on his diminishing breath. “Yes. Goodbye.”

Giorno hung up the phone with a slam, his two-handed grip on the edge of the desk returning as Mista repeatedly pounded into him. He let out a pleased, impatient groan that resonated against Mista’s chest as if it were his own. “Who was it?” Mista questioned him with a mutter against his ear, grunting.

“The car’s almost here,” Giorno said on another breathy exhale. “I'll send you… down,” his voice faltered with a weak, suppressed moan.

“Sure,” Mista slowed down, catching his breath. “I'll go. As… as soon as I'm free,” he leisurely rolled his hip, sliding further out before going back in as he pressed his wet lips against Giorno's neck.

“Tell me,” Giorno's burdened voice sobered. Mista held his breath, his thoughts in suspension. “These past two weeks… have you masturbated at all?”

“...No, I haven't,” he said, his heart beating faster, his words muffled against Giorno's skin. “What, why?” He smiled, knowing Giorno could feel it. “Are you already paranoid about keeping me satisfied?”

“I don’t trust you not to sneak around,” Giorno held an exhale steadily in his throat even as Mista sped back up, sliding in and out faster with a slick motion, “doing what I've explicitly told you not to do.”

Mista's heart shuddered with joy. He couldn't stop smiling. “What, I can't jerk off?”

“...That's not what I said,” despite his voice shivering, Giorno's tone grew firmer. “I know what you're like. A single reprimand is never enough—” A soundless tremble on his lips broke him off. “And I don't want you coming into my room uninvited.”

Mista pressed his smiling lips directly against Giorno's ear, his heart rising with the searing heat building up the shaft of his dick and bleeding into his body. “Liar,” he accused him without an ounce of shame or hesitation, the excitement making his lips tremble. “That's not what you asked at all,” his low, burdened voice dropped to a rough murmur. “You want it all for yourself, don't you? Isn't that why you were so mad at me in the first place?” Giorno's shoulders rose under him and his body tightened, squeezing his pounding dick. “You don't want me cumming anywhere that's not in your ass… or in your mouth—” the obscenities left him shamelessly as he built his own little narrative. “That's what it's really about, isn't it?”

Giorno rose with more tension, his body defying Mista's thrusting motion. “...Don't you think that's a lot of self-flattery, even for you?” His stern voice barely quivered, but the faint stutter and his stubborn defensiveness made Mista's heart soar.

“And don't you think you're acting really controlling,” Mista's excitement grew and grew, his voice light on his bated breath. The motion in his rolling hip was ceaseless. “Considering you know all I do is think about you—” knowing there was no way he'd be misunderstood this time, Mista’s face burned as his own words came out boldly. “Huh?” He pressed his lips harder against his ear, “...Giorno?”

Giorno's composure faltered with a weak, mumbling moan and Mista's satisfaction had never been greater. He stood upon a mountain of conquest and from his peak all he saw was glory. He exhaled heavily, panting as Giorno tilted his head, pushing his neck against his lips. Tirelessly thrusting into him, Mista kissed his neck wetly, enamored with the sound of Giorno's faint groans of approval, straining his ears to hear for though he'd already had seven days of this, it wasn't enough.

He spiraled into desperation as Giorno's lips parted with a tender, quivering moan, the sound drawn from deep within his body. With rapid thrusts he pushed against his back, pinning him to the edge of the desk, bending him over, his lips stubbornly pressing against his ear. Swimming in the sensation, his thoughts remained lucid. Inhaling, mouth against Giorno's ear, he moved his lips with conscious intent, “Giorno,” his name left him on a moan, and egging himself on he moved faster as he heard Giorno's breath hitch with a quiet gasp. Mista smiled, his heart throbbing, aflutter with fascination. Mind swaying, his excitement swelled, his heart rising in his chest as Giorno tensed and shivered under him. Oh, he's close, Mista thought, grinning to himself, he's close, isn't he? He pushed through the lightheaded rush that seized him, moving ceaselessly, making the desk creak with its wobbling legs and thump against the wall. Peering down, his eyes caught a glimpse of the front of Giorno’s body just as Giorno’s hand reached to grasp his hard, wobbling penis, pressing it to his abdomen. Giorno trembled with another shiver and urged by his desperate need to wear him down, Mista formed the syllables more clearly on his smiling lips, his voice coming out rough and heavy on his bated breath, “Giorno.”

With a sharp gasp, audible through a crisp, tender moan, Giorno's hip shook once with a sharp thrust, his whole body tensing through his orgasm and he winced and moaned with every following thrust, his drained body faltering under Mista's moving hip, his shoulders rising as he squeezed his pounding dick, upholding the tight, straining resistance and at the sound of his quiet, bleeding voice, Mista's mind had already gone blank. His lips quivered, his final moan weak and spry, his head light and his heart tight as he came, ejaculating with one last, deep thrust as the memory of Giorno's curved lips against his cheek in a good morning kiss surfaced in his mind, his naked body cool against his own under the thin covers before dawn.

Giorno slumped against the desk, holding himself steady with one hand. Catching his breath, Mista stared at his flushed cheeks as he rested the side of his face against the surface. Giorno's eyeball moved to seek his gaze. “He should be waiting for you at the door by now,” he said, speaking through his labored breathing.

Mista's thoughts were elsewhere. “You really like it when I say your name, don't you?” He leaned down until Giorno’s breath hit his face. “It was like that the first time, too,” he couldn't stop smiling, watching the tension rise to Giorno's worn expression with brimming satisfaction. “It really… it really does it for you, huh?” He pressed his moving lips against Giorno's cheek and his low, irritated grumble just made him smile wider. “It pushes you over the edge, doesn't it? It makes you cum—”

Giorno thrust his arm back and pain sparked below his ribcage as Giorno’s elbow hit him in the stomach. Mista let out a short, pleased laugh. “Are you listening?” Giorno asked tiredly, trying to catch his breath.

“Aren't you going to ask me?” Mista took his wrist with a gentle grip and Giorno withdrew his arm.

“...Ask you what?” Giorno asked with mellow, confused irritation, his face still flushed.

“You wanted to know, didn't you?” Mista leaned back in, his grip sliding up to hold Giorno's hand, his hip pushing his limp dick into him where the searing heat still pounded to the beat of Giorno's settling heart. “Don't you remember your own question?” Giorno's face washed clear of emotion, only his reddened cheeks remaining as he averted his gaze. Mista leaned down, speaking against his cheek, “well, the answer isn't too exciting.”

“What is it?” Giorno asked with faint resignation.

“So, you want to know?”

“Sure,” Giorno glanced up at him with a settling calm, a hesitant gentleness about his features and Mista was wrought with bittersweet regrets. With Giorno’s chest rising and sinking with deep, slow breaths under the weight of his body, Mista's mind stuttered as he lost the words, having to pick them back up one by one.

“...Do you wanna know what pushes me over the edge? What I think about when I cum?”

“Sure,” Giorno repeated lightly, his curved little smile making Mista's knees weak, his limp dick throbbing.

Mista's face flushed as he fortified himself, swallowing and inhaling through his nervously grinning lips. “I think about… the way you smile at me.”

Giorno's calm expression faltered with a twitch over his eye. “...What?”

“You heard me.”

“I… I did, but…” Giorno sighed in disbelief and as Mista sank down towards him he pushed himself up, turning his face away as Mista leaned in to kiss him. He shook his head tiredly and Mista's heart twinged with a renewed need for his touch and affection. He grabbed him, wrapping both arms tight around his body as he kissed his neck, inhaling a deep lungful of his scent. “Mista,” Giorno said sharply, grabbing his wrist. “You're expected downstairs,” his tone perfectly sober, he twisted Mista's hand away from his body.

“Come on,” Mista whined, blushing madly as he gave him a squeeze, pushing up against him. “Gimme a kiss,” he demanded stubbornly.

Giorno sighed tiredly, pushing Mista's arm away from his waist as he reached for his sagging pants which sat below his butt, pinched in place by the desk’s edge. Mista slid his tender, limp dick out with a wince under his breath. Straightening his back, Giorno pulled up his pants, buttoning them at the front and Mista’s hand shot out to grab his wrist. With the shape and warmth of Giorno’s lips on his mind Mista turned him around with a firm tug, his eyes darting to the side as he saw where Giorno’s ejaculate had dribbled over the back of his fingers. His lips tingling, he pulled Giorno’s hand towards him, his eyes widening as he saw the pearly white discharge darken before his eyes. Turning brown before drying with a crust over the surface, the cocoon that formed made Mista frown.

“Weren't you going to kiss me?” Giorno asked him with a quiet, pointed tone as the cocoon burst open and the head of a fluffy little moth peered out.

Gripping Giorno’s wrist tight, Mista swallowed. He leaned in under Giorno’s steady gaze, defying the anxious tension that stirred in his chest as he pressed his tingling mouth against his soft lips. Mista inhaled and Giorno rose up against him like a wave, firmly pressing his tongue into his mouth as he set his hands on his chest. Mista grabbed his shoulders but Giorno's hands held him steadily at a forearm’s length. Mista shivered as Giorno grabbed his penis, its moist imprint of lubricant and semen sticky against the thin and dry fabric as Giorno put it away, slid the waistband of his underwear back up and buttoned his pants. He embraced him lightly, his hands hooking onto his shoulders and in return Mista kissed him harder, his beating heart finally settling.

They parted to rejoin. Giorno's tongue became a light sweep against his own, the kiss slowing and slowing into nothing until their lips joined together in nothing but a calm, shared breath before Giorno pulled away, landing back down on his heels. He grabbed Mista's chin. “Go now,” he said tiredly, pushing him away, his eyes gleaming and his wet lips shining. He looked Mista up and down, suppressing the twitching curve at the edge of his lips. “I'll be in Mr Polnareff's room.”

“Right,” Mista reluctantly accepted. “I shouldn't be long.”

“Jamme, jamme 'ncoppa, jamme jà,” the staircase creaked under his feet and as he made his way down to the foyer, Mista hummed to himself his joyous tune. “Jamme, jamme 'ncoppa, jamme jà—” bending his knees, he hopped off the fifth step with a creak and landed on the worn old floorboards with a loud thump. Zipping ahead with tappy steps he ripped the heavy old door open. There, in the blistering light, stood a tall and lanky man, his whole body coming alive with a fearful twitch. “Hey,” Mista greeted him with a crooked smile, “kept you waiting, huh? Sorry about that,” he took a step back and the man leaned in, creeping towards the threshold as if he was wilting under the pressing sun. “I had some business to finish up.”

“Oh, i-it's quite alright,” the man said with a distracted voice. He came into the shade, wiping his pale forehead with his sleeve. He paused, his anxious expression evaporating. Without the sun burning away his features, Mista saw that he was quite young, bright-eyed and with a springy, nervous energy to him. He looked Mista up and down, a crease forming on his smooth forehead.

Mista crossed his arms. “What?”

“Nothing, I,” the man barely stuttered, reaching down to the bag at his feet. Mista glanced down his own body, an unsettling seed of uncertainty taking root and then instantly blooming into a spark of realization. Below the fastened button on his waist, the fabric of his underwear was visible between the open teeth of the zipper.

“Hah,” Mista slapped the man's shoulder with the full force of his arm, sending a shiver through his whole body, the dull sound like the snap of a whip. “Sorry. Left my fly down,” he admitted brazenly. He reached down and zipped it up, pushing the fabric in so it wouldn't get stuck. “Happens to the best of us, huh?”

“Yes, of course…” Was the uncertain answer he got in return. The man held out the jingly car keys with a weak hand. “Here you go… sir.”

“Thanks,” Mista ripped them from his fingers. “I take it everything went well?”

“Oh, yes,” the man barely hesitated, his eyes darting to the side. “Everything is in order. Everything was up to standard.”

“Um, the tail light was broken?” Mista narrowed his eyes with a twinge of annoyance.

“Y-Yes, that, um, it's been fixed,” the man straightened his back with a zip, blinking as he stared at Mista's shoulder.

Mista traced his line of sight. Hanging off the front of his left shoulder, the fluffy brown moth sat frozen on his shirt. Mista couldn't hold back his little laugh. “Oh, don't worry about this guy. He's just hitching a ride,” Mista pointed at it with his thumb and the man's widening eyes flickered back and forth between the moth and Mista's face. “What? Are you scared of bugs?”

“No! No, sorry,” was the startled reply he got.

“Anyway,” Mista continued dismissively, “I assume you parked it out back?”

“Yes, of course…” the man watched him, his eyes lingering before he promptly turned his face away.

“What's the matter, huh?” Annoyed with his strange mannerism, Mista questioned him with a friendly voice. “Is there something on my face, too?”

Horrified, the man took a step back. “N-No,” he hesitated, holding his hands up defensively. “Or rather, um…”

“Fine,” Mista shrugged, already bored with this little game. He reached into his pocket. “You want some money, right?” The man froze. “Here, it's what I got so better make do,” Mista pressed a scrunched up 50 euro bill into his hand. The man glanced down at it anxiously. “Say hi to your boss from me. Bye now,” the man's eyes zoomed back up and his lips parted to speak as Mista slammed the door in his face.

Mista whirled around and walked down the corridor, humming his jaunty tune. Passing the mirror under the stairs his heart went cold as saw his face in the corner of his eye. Eyes wide, he whipped his head around, gripping his chin, letting out a high-pitched, pained hiss as he touched the pink splotches all over his mouth and cheeks. The hiss turned into an annoyed grumble as his body sank before the mirror. Clutching a feeling of betrayal in his chest he hurried into the bathroom down the hallway, ripping the door open, bursting in and twisting the tap as fast as he could to get the hot water running. Scrubbing his face, the feeling of betrayal turned into one of defeat.

Creeping back down the corridor, Mista stopped by the archway at the sound of Giorno’s voice.

“Are you hungry, Mr Polnareff?”

“Oh, no. Thank you, but I'm good.”

“...Are you sure? I could get you some more rose petals if you'd like.” With narrowed eyes, Mista peered into the living room from behind the wall, spotting Giorno standing by the terrarium with his back to the entrance.

“N-No, no, uh… that's fine, really. Thank you, though,” Polnareff insisted kindly.

Swallowing some anxious tension, Mista sheepishly meandered into the room, the car keys clutched tightly in his hand.

“So,” Giorno laid his hands on his back. “Have we secured definite proof that he passed away in 1997?”

“Yes,” Polnareff confirmed confidently as Mista sauntered up to them. Giorno raised his chin and Mista grit his teeth as he saw his repainted pink lips, their edges sharp and crisp. “With the help of Voodoo Child, we were able to confirm it without a doubt.”

Giorno brought his index finger to his chin. “I see,” his shoulders sank as he gave a light sigh of relief. “That's what I wanted to hear,” Mista set the car keys down on the table next to the terrarium glass, drawing Polnareff's eye.

“Good morning,” Polnareff greeted him with a chipper voice.

“Morning,” Mista replied, unable to eliminate the irritable twitch at the corner of his eye. “Did I hear that right? Is the case closed?”

“It would appear that way,” Giorno said with rising certainty. He whipped around, showing Mista his back. “I must thank you, Mr Polnareff. Truly. Amazing work.”

“Oh, it wasn't just me, but… thank you,” Polnareff accepted happily.

Giorno walked a few short steps past the terrarium. “It is still quite strange… why keep using a communication line to a dead man?”

“...Maybe he didn't want anyone to know he was dead?” Mista said, speaking the first thing that came to mind.

Giorno turned his head, meeting his gaze above the line of his shoulder, his features smooth and his eyes wide. He spun around, maintaining eye contact. He brought his hand to his chin. Polnareff hummed. “That actually seems highly possible.”

“Yeah?” Mista agreed with a faint, nervous tremble, peering down at Polnareff. “Maybe he spent a year acting in his place while covering up his death. He probably killed the guy himself. Don't you think?”

“Yes…” Giorno agreed, lost in thought. “That would make sense.” He tilted his head to the side. “Really… not a bad way to go about it…”

Polnareff gave a little laugh. “I guess not.”

Giorno lowered his hand, giving his wrist watch a glance and a rippling tension spread all over Mista’s chest. “I'd love to delve deeper on this topic,” Giorno said, eyes on the face of his watch, “but, ah, I have a commitment in… eight minutes.”

Mista inhaled slowly, taking his eyes off Giorno with a cold sweat prickling on his back. “Oh?” Polnareff was full of mild surprise. “Well, no matter. I still need to put a more cohesive timeline together. Are you expecting a call?”

“Yes,” Giorno assured him without hesitation. “I'm afraid so. I should go prepare.”

“Oh, yes, you do that…” Polnareff was already absorbed with something else.

Mista’s thumbs nervously scraped the insides of his palms, his eyes on the car keys on the table. “Mista,” Giorno addressed him casually, making his heart leap in his chest.

Tearing his head up, Mista clenched his hands as he watched Giorno's tipped down face, his eyes glued to the face of the watch. “Yeah?”

“...Seven minutes,” he said, only his lips moving. “Meet me upstairs in seven minutes.”

“Sure,” Mista replied, lightheaded, the blood draining from his head and rushing to his gut.

Giorno's eyeballs moved, rising to pierce his gaze. The edges of his lips curved sweetly and Mista already knew that he would be thinking about that smile. “Don't be late.”