Actions

Work Header

Irrational

Work Text:

Giorno dislikes Mista for several reasons. He keeps a running list on his phone, Exhibit A summarized below: 

1) Mista is an obnoxious person.

  • He laughs too loud and sounds like a goose honking when he does.
  • He makes crude, unfunny jokes constantly that get on Giorno’s nerves.
  • He is entirely too self-absorbed with his chiseled abdomen and his physique.
  • He has the worst fashion sense and hat Giorno has ever seen. 

2) Mista is an awful debater.

  • He relies far too much on his charm and his promiscuity to get him success.
  • He refuses to prepare beforehand.
  • He is much too cavalier about their “friendly” rivalry.

3) Mista is a casanova. Or ‘man-whore’, as Trish puts it.

(Giorno is still having a bit of trouble writing sub points for point 3, but he is positive he’ll think of a way to articulate his feelings on the matter later.) 

 

Frustratingly, Giorno would be remiss to ignore Mista’s undeniable attractiveness and charm (see Point 1, subpoint C, on his acknowledgement of Mista’s chiseled physique), which allowed him easily to dodge criticism and flirt with any being with a pulse in his vicinity. It is the sort of aggravating machismo that simply was the antithesis of Giorno’s style. Logic, reasoning, rationality are the core tenets to a clear mind. And Giorno had nothing if not his clear mind. 

 

Giorno’s clear mind is suddenly interrupted by a particularly deep thrust into him. He jerks back on the desk he’s sitting on and shoots a sharp look at the offending boy in front of him. 

 

“Hey,” he snaps. “That one hurt, dipshit. Be more gentle.” 

 

Mista sends him a cheeky smile. “Sorry, princess.” He slowly pulls his dick out of Giorno, smirking the slightest bit when Giorno whimpers at the gaping emptiness it leaves inside of him. 

 

They’re at Giorno’s house under the guise of “prepping” for an upcoming debate tournament. However, any notions of productivity had flown out of the window the second Mista laid an absolutely sinful gaze on Giorno’s generously low-cut shirt. Giorno doesn’t even remember the trip to his bedroom, just the sensation of clothes flying off of them and the desperate drive to have Mista stuff himself inside of him. Which Mista really needs to do right now. 

 

As if hearing Giorno’s thoughts, Mista places two hands on Giorno’s hipbones and tilts his hips forward as if set on granting Giorno’s wish. Instead, though, he dangles the tip against the entrance, tiptoeing across the line in a way that makes Giorno’s toes curl in anticipation.  His smile only grows wider when Giorno unintentionally moans and wraps his hands in Mista’s curls.  

 

“Harder,” Giorno hisses. “Oh my god, Mista-”

 

Mista pauses, still achingly far away from giving Giorno what he needs. “What was that? I thought you wanted me to be gentler.”

 

Giorno sends him a sharp kick in the thigh. “Maybe your stupid hat was covering your ears. I said, go harder.”

 

“I can’t hear youuuu,” Mista coos, in a clear imitation of the Spongebob Squarepants theme song narrator. “You might have to beg for it.”

 

“I”m not begging for it,” Giorno snaps. “It’s already humiliating enough that you and I are doing this in the first place.”

 

Something Giorno can’t quite discern flashes in Mista’s eyes, but whatever it is remains fleeting, because Mista is back to his self-absorbed, conceited self in no time. He shrugs and steps back, taking his glorious dick and his glorious hands with him. Giorno tries his best not to groan at the loss of contact. 

 

“When you say things like that, it makes me really not want to fuck you anymore. You know that, right, princess? ” Mista tilts his head, the motion causing his shoulder muscles to flex. Giorno’s eyes track the movement like a panther on the prowl.  

 

“Mista,” Giorno whines, clutching the edge of the desk underneath him to stop the dizzy feeling in his head. “You tease, come on, just do it.”

 

“Do what, exactly?” Mista says with a smug smile. “You’re smart, use your words. Spell it out for me.”

 

Giorno snarls and collects his legs from hanging haphazardly midair onto the desk to pounce onto Mista. He wraps his arms around broad shoulders, legs around chiseled hips. Mista makes a surprised noise and stumbles back up against the wall, only keeping Giorno from collapsing on the ground by hoisting him with two hands on his ass. Trying to cop a feel, probably. 

 

“I said,” Giorno grits his teeth. “To fuck me harder and faster. Even you can understand that simple enough of a command, right?” He tries to shove himself onto Mista’s dick, but Mista jerks his hips at the last second to move out of the way. 

 

“Try again?” Mista says, slowly running calloused hands along Giorno’s shoulders.  

 

Giorno rolls his eyes. “Fuck me hard in the ass until I’m raw and sobbing, stud. Pretty please?” 

 

“Feisty,” Mista says with a glint in his eyes. “You’re lucky I like that.”

 

Finally, finally, Mista’s hands return to their home on Giorno’s waist and steady themselves as Mista shoves into Giorno once more, lodging his cock so that it hits right in that spot, the one that sends shivers down his spine and makes him arch his back to send a far too loud moan right into Mista’s ear. 

 

This was the best part - the part where Giorno’s mind disappears into nothingness but nirvana, and he feels nothing but the slap of wet skin and the overwhelming sensation of pleasure. Mista throbs inside him, and it’s the most addicting feeling he’s ever felt. 

 

“God, you’re so tight,” Mista pants. He slams harder in one fluid motion, enough that it sends Giorno out of orbit, the pulsing dick in him finally giving him exactly what he needs. 

 

Giorno clenches around Mista just to hear him cry out. He steadies his grip around Mista’s neck and sucks angrily at the skin, leaving tiny little love bites in his wake. He loses focus, though, when Mista hits that spot again. When he shrieks, Mista takes the hint and aims his dick to that spot over and over again, until Giorno is reduced to a babbling mess, his sticky curls plastered against his face, his hands shaking around Mista’s chest. 

 

In his lust-addled state, Giorno thinks irrational thoughts, like how he could let his hands roam the expanse of Mista’s torso forever, how he could lock them in a room and throw away the key so Giorno could mark Mista, make everyone know that Mista was under his possession, his ownership, his proprietary. 

 

It is, of course, fantasy. It sends him over the edge though. 

 

“Mista, I’m-” Giorno chokes. He tries his best to focus on saying words, and think through the haze of ceaseless endorphins coursing through his body. “I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m-”

 

“Me too,” Mista grunts. “Where do you want it? The usual?”

 

Giorno barely manages a nod before his orgasm hits him like a bolt of lightning and he reels, moaning against Mista’s muscled chest. The room smells lewd, like perspiration and sex and Mista and he feels intoxicated by it, like he can’t get enough of it. 

 

Mista moans and buries himself deep inside of Giorno, gasping for air and relief as he finishes. They both sit in collective, euphoric silence for a moment, their ragged, staccato breaths the only noise in the room - that is, until Giorno feels something slick run down his thigh. He grimaces. 

 

“Mista, pull out,” he says, irritated. “You’re going to ruin the carpet.”

 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Mista says lightly as he gently places Giorno back onto the desk, before sliding his dick out with a wet, slick pop. He misses the loss of contact. 

 

“I’m serious,” he says, reaching for the tissue box he keeps by his desk for this very purpose. He wipes his thighs and the wet stain on his desk clean. 

 

Mista chuckles. “I’ll be more careful next time, how’s that?” He takes a tissue to wipe down Giorno’s forehead, which Giorno knows is full of perspiration. It always is. 

 

Giorno waits for Mista to finish dabbing at his temple before swatting his hand away. “There’s not going to be a next time,” Giorno says, the line sounding practiced because, well, it is; he’s said it after every time they’ve hooked up. “We can’t keep doing this.”

 

Mista’s small, humored smile makes Giorno mentally note to add Mista's "scary ability to see right through him” to his list of reasons why he despises him. 

 

“Aw, what a shame,” Mista pouts. “One more time in the shower for the road, then?” He punctuates the proposition with an outstretched hand and an easy grin. Giorno takes it, without even thinking. He doesn’t have to. 

 

“You’re insatiable,” Giorno bites as he hops down from the desk and follows Mista out the bedroom door. 


To be clear, Giorno does genuinely despise Mista. See the list referenced earlier for why. They’re unofficial rivals as two of the top debaters at Passione High School, so it’s very natural that they compete with each other for wins, clever arguments, and speaker points. That is to be expected. What is much more unexpected is the strange, yet easy way they slide from debate rivals to rivals with benefits. 

 

Long story short, they started hooking up after drunkenly making out at a party after State, where the team had placed third overall. In the haze of celebration and alcohol, Giorno vaguely remembers arguing with Mista about a particularly contentious round he had lost, and then grabbing Mista’s shirt with his fist to pull him for a wet kiss. One trip to a random bedroom and the most mind-blowing sex he’s ever had later, they end up chalking up the whole encounter as just being drunk and horny, before fucking again and chalking that up to being hungover and horny. 

 

Then, when Mista had spewed some bullshit about the number four and not leaving their number of sexual encounters to the dangerous square root of 4, well, Giorno almost embarrassingly readily agreed to fucking Mista’s brains out in the back of Mista’s pickup. And then Giorno’s kitchen table. And then the living room sofa. And then the floor. And even in a public bathroom, once, which Giorno is ready to never repeat again. 

 

The point is, Giorno and Mista are pent up, hormonal teenage boys who have grown to rely on each other for hate sex to let out steam. In secret, of course, since Giorno has a prodigy reputation to protect, and Mista has a playboy reputation to protect. Despite its strangeness, it’s doing wonders for Giorno’s cortisol levels and GPA, thank you very much, so he’s not complaining. The only downside is the way that he starts to crave their encounters, like an addict with withdrawal symptoms. 

 

Like right now, for instance. They’re at a typical Monday after-school debate practice. Bucciarati, the team captain, is finishing up announcements, while the rest of the squad is spread out over the room around him. 

 

“As you know,” Bucciarati says. “Lakeside Open is this weekend, and you all know what that means.”

 

“Decent competition?” Giorno says. 

 

“An overnight tournament?” Mista squeals. 

 

“Yes to both,” Bucciarati says with a smile. “We’re facing up against the toughest local competition you’ll get before State - La Squadra, Morioh, and Crusaders are all going to be there, so we need to be on our A game. But, since the tournament is a four - sorry, Mista - three and a half - hour drive from here, we’ll be staying at a hotel!”

 

“PARTYY!” Narancia shrieks, pumping his fists in the air. When he sees Bucciarati’s disapproving look and Abbacchio’s glare, he reluctantly returns his fists back to Earth. 

 

“A reminder that Lakeside Open and hotel policy states no parties ,” Bucciarati says sharply. “As long as you’re not caught, though. I hear that the chaperone for our floor conks out at 10 PM, but you didn’t hear it from me.” He punctuates the thought with a small wink. 

 

“Ugh,” Abbacchio groans. “Time for more high Narancia and pointless Mista and Giorno bickering. Kill me now.”

 

Leone,” Bucciarati admonishes. “Not around the kids.”

 

Mista makes a high-pitched, offended noise. 

 

Bucciarati shrugs apologetically. “It’s not how I would put it, but Le- I mean, Abbacchio, is correct in that you two really need to sort out whatever ‘rivalry’ you have going on.” He gestures between Giorno and Mista as if the subject of his lecture wasn’t obvious. “ We’re on the same team, we work together.” 

 

Giorno sends a clipped nod to Bucciarati. Mista gives an ironic “Yessir” and salutes. 

 

Trish ignores Mista to turn to Giorno. “Giorno, aren’t you excited?” she grins.

 

Giorno gives her a rare smile. “Of course.” Of all the teammates on the Passione debate squad, Trish was the closest to him because she was the only other sophomore on the team, and the newest recruit, so Giorno held a little soft spot in his heart for her that definitely did not exist, if anyone else asked. Regardless, he makes a point to look out for her, and she does for him. 

 

Trish nudges him on the arm gently. “How are debate parties?” she asks, with a twitch in her eyebrow. “Different from regular high school parties, probably?”

 

That question implicitly assumes Giorno has a frame of reference for both, which he does not. He’d rather that Trish not know that, though. He shrugs. “It’s not that different, I suppose. I-”

 

He’s cut off by Mista spinning around in his chair to give Giorno a conniving grin. 

 

“Giornooo,” he says in a sing-song voice. “I need you to settle a debate for me.”

 

Giorno rolls his eyes. Every week, Mista somehow has another fantastical scenario and hypothetical for Giorno to argue with him over. It’s astounding, genuinely, how Mista’s brain works. He’s still scarred from the time Mista tried to convince him cannibalism was a good lifestyle. “Fine,” he says tiredly. “What is it this time?”

 

“Could air be considered a cloud?” Mista says excitedly. “Because the definition of cloud is a ‘visible mass of condensed water vapor’.”

 

“Air isn’t visible,” Giorno says immediately. 

 

“Yes, but if air has pollution in it or if it’s really cold outside, it is visible!” Mista grins, looking far too proud of himself for the stupidity of the question. 

 

“In general, though,” Giorno argues back. “The common, reasonable person would not say that air is a cloud, which is a preferable because ‘cloud’ isn’t a legal term of art-”

 

“Blah, blah,” Mista waves his hand dismissively. “What would you know about the common, reasonable person?”

 

“Because I am one,” Giorno bites, jabbing a thumb towards his chest. It points directly at the exposed cleavage in his low-cut sweater. Mista’s eyes track the movement. 

 

Mista swallows roughly and tears his eyes away from Giorno’s chest to his face. “Yeah,” he says, in a voice that clearly indicates he did not hear what Giorno said. He coughs. “So, last time was pretty good, huh?” he says, almost nervously. 

 

Giorno furtively darts his eyes around the room to make sure no one is listening in. Trish is talking to a serious looking Bucciarati and Abbacchio, presumably about her case for the upcoming tournament. Fugo and Narancia are squabbling over Narancia’s algebra homework. It seems like no one is paying attention to their conversation. 

 

He turns back to Mista to give him a wry smile. “It was acceptable,” he says. When he notices the dazed expression on Mista’s face, he frowns. “You’re not thinking about having intercourse right now, right? At school?”

 

Mista grins crookedly. “If I said no, would you believe me?”

 

“You’re terrible,” Giorno scoffs. “The most horny man I have ever had the displeasure of meeting.”

 

Mista gives him an overexaggerated wince. “Ouchie, my injured pride! Kiss it better?"

 

Giorno rolls his eyes. “God, I hate you. Meet me on the second floor closet in ten minutes. Don’t be late.” 


The second floor closet is the ideal hookup place at school because it’s a fairly small, out-of-the-way supply closet that he used to frequent for Post-It notes when he was a TA for his French class. It’s also difficult to find, which makes the likelihood of them getting caught infinitesimally small. 

 

Mista stumbles in the closet exactly nine and a half minutes later, panting with exertion. “God, how the fuck do you even know where this is?” Mista chokes, shutting the door behind him. “I searched the entire fucking floor before I got here.”

 

“Aww, you big baby,” Giorno faux-croons, before pawing at Mista’s waistband insistently. “Let’s just get this over with, I’ve been craving it all day.”

 

“Really?” Mista says a little too excitedly. 

 

Giorno realizes what he just admitted to; essentially, thinking about how Mista’s cock feels in his mouth and how he’d like to suck Mista silly until he was writhing underneath him. No matter how true it was (and it was very true), it was not good to admit it. 

 

“Just take your pants off already,” he says irritably. He roughly palms the growing bulge in Mista’s pants, smiling smugly when the boy whines at the feeling. Mista hurriedly unclasps the buttons on his frankly sinfully skin-tight pants, struggling to pull it down past his thighs. 

 

“Good enough,” Giorno says quickly when Mista’s briefs are in view. Eagerly, he grabs Mista’s hardening dick out. He spits onto his hand, before sliding it along Mista’s length, lightly thumbing the vein underneath. 

 

Mista lets out a sigh, grabbing the back of Giorno’s head and slowly guiding it towards the tip of his erection. “Come on, princess,” he begs easily. “Put it in, I know you want it.”

 

Giorno would normally hate to be commanded like this, but it’s just Mista, so he begrudgingly obliges. Sensuously, he sticks out his tongue and licks the underside of Mista’s dick, letting the dribble of pre-come on the tip fall past his lips. 

 

Mista is panting lightly, but he isn’t moaning Giorno’s name yet, which means Giorno needs to step up his game. With a frown, he opens his lips and takes as much of Mista’s cock in his mouth as he can, using his hand to pump the rest. As much as he hates to admit it, Mista is well-endowed, which means that his hand is necessary. It’s worth it, though, to hear the high-pitched squeak that comes out of Mista’s mouth. 

 

“Yes, yes, yes, take me with that little pretty pink mouth of yours,” Mista babbles nonsensically. “Oh my god, it feels so good-”

 

Giorno is careful to not let his teeth graze Mista as he sucks, first slow and long, then quick and short, switching paces intermittently. Mista tries to lean Giorno’s head forward to fuck his mouth, but Giorno quickly withdraws, Mista’s dick sliding out with a slick pop. 

 

“I’m calling the shots today,” Giorno says authoritatively. “Got it?”



Mista opens an eye to smile lazily. “Anything for you, princess,” he teases, which makes something squirm in Giorno’s gut, probably lust. Giorno ignores it and returns to the task at hand, taking in as much of Mista’s length in one go. He focuses on breathing through his nose and pushes past the gag reflex in his throat. 

 

“Giorno, Giorno, Giorno,” Mista says like a mantra. “God, you’re so beautiful like this, I just want to fuck your throat raw. Please?”

 

Giorno rolls his eyes. So greedy, so needy all the time. “Fine,” he snaps. “But only because my neck is getting sore, not because you asked for it.”

 

Mista barely waits for Giorno to finish his sentence before his hand clenches around Giorno’s braid. He shoves Giorno onto his cock and pounds into his throat, which makes Giorno gag.

 

When Mista hears the sound, he stops and pulls out. “Sorry, I got a little carried away,” he apologizes quickly. “Are you okay?”

 

Giorno nods sharply before placing Mista’s dick on his tongue once more and looking up at him with wide, shimmering eyes, the sort of face he knows Mista has wet dreams about seeing. On cue, Mista groans and resumes his furious pace, moaning when he feels the wet expanse of Giorno’s mouth around the base of his cock. 

 

When Mista’s moans become more high-pitched, Giorno recognizes the tell-tale sign of an impending orgasm. He quickly slides his mouth off Mista’s dick, only to replace it with his hand, jerking him off at lightning speed. The movement is easy with Mista’s dick so thoroughly covered in Giorno’s saliva. 

 

“C-coming,” Mista grunts before he finishes. Giorno, thankfully, has the sense to close his eyes as his face is covered with Mista’s come. When Mista’s pants slow, Giorno opens his eyes, unconsciously licking his lips. 

 

“You taste terrible,” he says. “At least you didn’t finish in my mouth this time.”

 

“Giorno, you’re amazing,” Mista says breathlessly, completely ignoring Giorno’s words. “God, I could do that forever.”

 

“Let’s not,” Giorno says sharply. There it is again, the weird stabbing pain in the pit of his stomach. It’s a strange feeling that he’s not sure he likes. “Can you go grab a towel from the bathroom? I can barely see because you don’t know how to aim your dick towards the lower half of my face.”

 

“No worries, princess,” Mista smiles, reaching into the pockets in his pants. He pulls out a crumpled pile of tissues. “All taken care of.”

 

Giorno reaches for the tissues himself, but Mista moves right past him to wipe off Giorno’s face, dabbing lightly at Giorno’s perfectly plucked eyebrows, then his forehead, saving Giorno’s mouth for last. 

 

Mista gazes down at his lips, and for a second, Giorno thinks he is going to lean down and kiss them, but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes two fingers to open Giorno’s lips, which Giorno closes his lips to suck automatically without even realizing. 

 

“I’m trying to clean out your mouth,” Mista laughs. “I’m a little too tired out for Round Two. Oh shit, I didn’t finish you off. Do you want me to-”

 

“It’s fine,” Giorno says, cutting him off. “I’m tired too. Next time. You owe me.”

 

“Oh, so there’s going to be a next time?” Mista teases. When Giorno’s mouth opens to retort, Mista takes the opportunity to wipe his tissue around the inside of it, which Giorno realizes was probably his plan all along. Bastard.

 

When he’s done, Mista lingers a little longer than is necessary beside his face, but he eventually stands up to wipe himself off, rolling his pants up and buttoning it back up. Giorno follows suit. 

 

“You better not have gotten your come in my hair,” Giorno complains. “It’s going to be a nightmare to clean out.”

 

Mista squints his eyes to get a better look at Giorno’s hair. His face falls. “So,” he says with a strained voice. “Do you want the good news or bad news first?”

 

“Bad news,” Giorno says instantly. “Dio always says you should get the bad news first, because the good news is actually more bad news but repackaged as good news, which makes it worse.”

 

“Uh, your dad seems kinda crazy,” Mista laughs nervously. 

 

“It’s too generous to call him my ‘dad’, because that implies he parented me,” Giorno corrects. “But you’re indeed correct that he is crazy. So what is the bad news?”

 

Mista blinks. “Right,” he says, collecting himself. “Bad news: you have come all over your hair. Good news: you get to wear my hat to cover it up.”

 

To emphasize his point, he takes the lopsided cap on his head and plops it onto Giorno’s, who is glaring intensely at him. 

 

“Jesus, Mista,” Giorno snaps. “You know there’s several hundred dollars worth of product in my hair, right?”

 

“My baby batter is priceless,” Mista grins cheekily. “Sperm donors make bank, you know. Also, don’t use the lord’s name in vain. I’ve got a Catholic momma that would die if she heard that.”

 

“You’re having kinky gay sex with a blond twink,” Giorno says irritably. “We’re bound for hell, regardless.” He gets up. He fails to see how Mista can be so aggravatingly cavalier about the situation.

 

"Anyone ever tell you you're so uptight?” Mista says. “I mean, it is great for my dick, but not for my soul or your stress levels. Chill out, already.”

 

Giorno rolls his eyes. “I’m plenty 'chilled out'. I just have different priorities than you.”

 

“Prove it,” Mista says like a challenge. “Wear my awful, unfashionable hat.”

 

Giorno narrows his eyes. “Fine,” he sniffs haughtily. Gently, he readjusts Mista’s hat on his head until he thinks it’s not too crooked, and opens the door to step out into the hallway. 

 

“Wait, actually?” Mista says from behind him. 

 

“It was your idea, wasn’t it?” Giorno says coolly, striding down the hallway.

 

“Well, yeah,” Mista splutters. “I just wasn’t expecting you to, you know, go through with it.”

 

Giorno pauses to turn to see Mista’s expression. Mista looks a little pink in the face, but that’s normal given the nature of the activities they were doing just moments earlier. The strange thing is the way his gaze is affixed to the sight of Giorno in his hat with a sort of unreadable expression. It makes Giorno just the slightest bit self-conscious. 

 

“It doesn’t go particularly well with my outfit, with the blue and red on pink,” Giorno admits. “But it’s a statement piece, and it’s only for the bus ride home. I’ll return it to you at the tournament on Saturday.”

 

“I mean, I wasn’t worried about that,” Mista blurts out. “It’s not that I think it looks bad, it actually looks...good?”

 

Giorno frowns. “I’ll give it back if you really don’t want me to have it,” he says, exasperated. He reaches to take the hat off his head, but Mista’s arms shoot out to stop him. 

 

“No, no, don’t,” Mista says hurriedly. “You look cute! In a no homo way, obviously.”

 

Giorno laughs, the compliment sending off another strange twist in his gut. “I think we’re well past the point of no homo, but fine, I’ll keep it on. Besides,” he reaches up to pat the now free black curls on Mista’s head. “Your hair looks far better like this than trapped underneath your hat.”

 

“Really?” Mista says hopefully. 

 

“It’s a low bar, because your hat is atrocious,” Giorno says, backtracking. “But, yes.”

 

They make their way down the staircase, still sending jabs at each other about the others’ hair, when Giorno sees Trish waiting at the end of the hallway. He checks his phone and sees that practice has already ended. 

 

“Crap,” Giorno hisses, darting back behind a wall out of Trish’s vision. He grabs Mista’s waist to drag him back with him. “I forgot, I’m supposed to meet with Trish to walk to the bus stop together. We can’t be seen together.”

 

He smooths the wrinkles on his suit and thinks about their plan of action. “I’ll go down first and if anyone asks why I took so long, tell them the janitor locked the bathroom on me. Mista, what was your excuse?”

 

Mista blinks. “Uh, I didn’t have one...exactly?”

 

Giorno uses the Lord’s name in vain once more. “Fine, just tell them you went to the corner store and chatted up a girl, or something, it will explain why you don’t have your hat on.”

 

“What do I say if they ask why I gave her the hat?”

 

Giorno throws his hands up in the air. “I don’t know, you gave it to her as a souvenir after your pickup line didn’t work. You’ll come up with something.”

 

“So you think giving someone your hat is a flirty thing?” Mista says, looking right into Giorno’s expression. Giorno snorts. 

 

“Perhaps typically. If you’re trying to extrapolate that to us, though, it would be ridiculous for obvious reasons,” he says, before looking back over his shoulder to ensure Trish hasn’t heard the commotion of their conversation. She hasn’t, thankfully. 

 

“What do you mean, ‘obvious reasons’?” Mista says. His insistence on this train of thought is confusing, to say the least. Giorno sends him a withering glare. 

 

“Because we are rivals?” he says matter-of-factly. “Because we don’t like each other? Why would it be flirting if we already have a transactional sexual relationship? You do the math, Mista.”

 

“Right,” Mista mutters. “Yeah, really obvious.”

 

Giorno’s phone buzzes in his hand, and he checks it quickly to see that Trish has texted him. "Where r u???? "  the message reads.  

 

He stands up straight. “Okay, I’m going down now, don’t follow me,” he says quickly. “I’ll see you at the tournament.” He doesn’t wait for Mista’s response before striding down the stairs, carefully putting on the put-together mask that he always has on his face.


Trish glances up at him and laughs. “Giorno,” she says between giggles. “Why do you have Mista’s hat on?”

 

Giorno raises an eyebrow. “I’m proving a point to him,” he says smoothly, which is close enough to the truth. “I’m winning.”

 

Trish stares at him disbelievingly, but doesn’t press it. “Okay, Giorno,” she says, extending an arm, mimicking the posh flair that Giorno carries with him at all times. “Shall we take our leave, then?”

 

He laughs and takes Trish’s arm. The two push open the exit doors and step out into the hazy sunlight of mid-autumn evening, walking past leaf piles and barely-kept grass to reach the street. Trish looks behind them both, and whatever she sees seems to make her smile. 


“So,” Trish says casually. “What’s up with you and Mista?”

 

“We’re rivals,” Giorno says coolly. “Nothing more and nothing less. Why do you ask?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Trish says with a sing-song lilt in her voice. “Just a hunch. You two seem very...fierce about each other, that’s all.”

 

“Yes,” Giorno says simply, knitting his brow. “That is what rivals do. Or perhaps you’d rather we brawl it out in the street?”


“I would love to see that, but you know that’s not my point,” Trish says. “Cards on the table, I saw Mista stare at you with the most lovelorn, pining expression I have ever seen, like something straight out of a romantic comedy.”

 

Giorno shakes his head. “I’m sure you would be very acquainted with that expression, given that is how you stare at Narancia,” he says wryly. 

 

Trish flushes red. “What- how do you know?” she screeches, looking around nervously to make sure no one is around to hear them. There isn’t: Giorno already checked. 

 

“It’s obvious,” Giorno says dismissively. 

 

“Okay, well,” Trish says, her cheeks retaining a pink color. “I like him, and I want to date him. Romantically. Not a big deal. That’s how you should be thinking about your feelings for Mista, you know.”

 

“You can not be serious,” Giorno says, deadpan. 

 

“Why, yes I am, good sir,” Trish says, imitating Giorno’s posh voice. “You’re whipped for him. You simp for him. You want to have his babies. You loooov-”

 

“That’s enough,” Giorno interrupts quickly, before Trish can say the dreaded L word. “And that’s ridiculous, frankly. I despise Mista. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

 

Trish places a finger on his lips to shush him. “Giorno, Giorno, Giorno,” she says, clucking her tongue. “You poor, naive little boy. You insist you hate a boy whose hat you wear and whose presence lives in your mind and your Notes app rent free.”

 

“You like Narancia so much you’re starting to sound like him,” Giorno says, bemused. “You’ve used approximately five Narancia phrases since this conversation has begun.”

 

“Shut up,” Trish says, as they approach the bus stop sign. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. But I, as your sexiest, most beautiful, amazing friend, do.”

 

“You’re my only friend,” Giorno grumbles. “So don’t get too ahead of yourself.”

 

“One of these days,” Trish says, shaking her head. “You’ll tell me I’m right, and I’m going to laugh in your face.”

 

The bus rolls to a stop ahead of them, which is enough of an excuse for Giorno to change the subject. Thankfully, Trish is merciful enough to let it slide, which gives him the space and time to mull over her words. 

 

Romantically liking someone - now that was rich. Giorno’s feelings for Mista were nothing like the sappy, fluffy, light-hearted emotionalness of romance shows and movies. That pounding in his chest, the rough filling feeling of Mista inside him, the angry twist in his gut - all of these were painful, dark emotions. It frankly didn’t make sense to find them to be thought of as romantic at all. 

 

It wasn’t like he had a good frame of reference in real life. His mother abandoned him for a lifestyle of being a distant aging socialite. His stepfather was an abusive, chronic alcoholic. Hell, Dio ran a fucking sex cult, for god’s sake, and, if Giorno’s theory was correct, was fucking a priest, which was exactly the kind of blasphemy that would really shake Mista’s mother up. He snickers at the thought. 

 

Look, Giorno desires sex with Mista because Mista is good at it (not that he ever intends on ever telling Mista that) and because meaningless sex with strangers is not only a walking, STI-riddled nightmare, but also not as fun as sex with some sort of emotional connection. And, well, if the easy, bickering rivalry he has with Mista is a way to fulfill that requirement, then that was even better. It’s far more uncomplicated than trying to piece together their feelings on the subject as “romantic”. The thought makes his stomach squirm. 

 

He has never felt more uneasy with a conclusion his mind had drawn in his life, despite the perfect rationality and logic behind it. This is dangerous. Giorno prides himself on his clear mind and his strong sense of self. Mista, however, seems to be insistent on tearing down all those ideals and tearing him apart from the inside out. Literally. 

 

Yes, this was just fun sex for now, but eventually it would end, right? Mista was like the number pi - irrational, ceaseless, and far too popular for his own good. Soon enough, he would find a sweeter, prettier thing with a higher libido than than Giorno, who doesn’t talk back to Mista, who will openly gush about his attractive qualities instead of bitch about his annoying ones, and then Giorno will get dropped like a hot potato. Or maybe, Mista would simply get tired of Giorno’s constant grating personality and leave their strange companionship behind. He would get abandoned all over again. 

 

The thought makes his heart go cold. He had to reassert control, he had to remove the unknown variable that was Guido Mista from his life. Taking sex out of the equation - the emotions stirring in Giorno’s chest were far too complicated and unwelcome for him to stick around for it. He had to end things off with Mista now, cut his addiction off cold turkey. This was the only way. 

 

He repeats this thought to himself like a mantra when he is in the car ride to Lakeside Open on Saturday morning. Cold turkey, reasserting control, he recites.

 

It’s difficult, though, when Mista is acting more affectionate than usual. Like, when Giorno attempts to return his hat back, Mista insists that he keep it. 

 

“Trust me, it looks better on you than me,” he said with a crooked smile. “Plus, I’ve got a new one coming next week.”

 

Giorno’s heart does a funny little dance that makes him check WebMD for what illness his heart palpitations could be a symptom of. 

 

Moreover, he is forced to sit in the very back seat with Mista and feel Mista’s thigh brush against his own whenever the road gets bumpy, or when Bucciarati’s minivan takes a sharp turn. It’s definitely intentional, too, because Mista would have to have the weight of a rag doll to be so thoroughly shoved up against Giorno’s lap, sprawling all over him whenever Bucciarati so much as switches lanes. 

 

He’s so absorbed with his thoughts that he nearly jumps when Mista places a warm hand on his upper thigh. “Are you okay?” he asks, looking at Giorno’s face. Giorno carefully schools his expression into a more neutral, impassive one. 

 

“Just a little stressed for the upcoming tournament,” he says smoothly. “That’s all.”

 

Mista’s hand inches higher on his waist. He leans closer, his hot breath tickling against Giorno’s ear. “I know the perfect way to destress you,” he says huskily. “We could always stop at a public restroom, sneak off for five minutes…”

 

“That’s really all you’re planning on giving me?” Giorno snorts. “Not exactly a compelling argument.”

 

Mista has a predatory glint in his eyes. “Trust me, it’s all I need.” 

 

Giorno’s stomach does that twist again, and his mind reminds him of frozen fowl enough for fear and anxiety to douse any lust in his brain. He sharply turns his head away from Mista. “Not in the mood right now,” he says in a prickly voice. “Not a fan of public bathrooms.”

 

“Why are you guys talking about public bathrooms?” Fugo says, spinning around in the seat in front of Giorno. 

 

“Uhhhhh,” Mista says with wide eyes. 

 

Before either of them can come up with a convincing excuse, Narancia yelps from the middle row. “Oh, yeah, I need to take a dump,” he says. Giorno notes that his voice sounds muffled likely due to consuming a mouthful of the ungodly combination of Lucky Charms and Red Bull that he devours like a sacred ritual before every tournament. 

 

Trish giggles. Fugo rolls his eyes and turns back around in his seat. 

 

“You’re so gross,” Fugo says. “And swallow before you talk, jeez.”

 

“Yeah, you’d know a lot about swallowing, wouldn’t you-” Narancia jabs, before Bucciarati from the driver’s seat cuts him off. He glares at the five of them through the rearview mirror. 

 

“Nope, I’m capping the blowjob jokes this time. No more. We're going to stop at the McDonalds up ahead and take a break, and no one is going to joke about sucking anyone’s dick in the bathroom there. Okay?”

 

The squad nods in silence. When Abbacchio in the passenger seat sends them a death glare, they repeat their affirmation out loud. 

 

“Jeez,” Bucciarati says, rubbing his temples. “I’m about to blow a gasket.”

 

“You’re gonna blow someone, alright,” Trish mumbles, which earns her a high five from Narancia, a groan from Fugo, and a near black eye from Abbacchio before Bucciarati slams the brakes. 


Giorno is standing in the clinically sanitary McDonalds bathroom, wiping freshly washed hands on his slacks. He leans in closer to the mirror above the sink, making sure his braid and his concealer are intact. He tilts his head when he sees, in the reflection, Mista walk in through the bathroom door. 

 

“Oh, hey, princess,” Mista says with an expression that Giorno guesses is Mista’s impression of suaveness. He snakes his hands around Giorno’s waist, leaning to plop his chin on the crown of Giorno’s curls. Giorno levels with him an unimpressed look through the mirror.

 

“Get off me, we’re in public,” Giorno says sharply, swatting Mista away. “And I still don’t know why you insist on calling me ‘princess’, by the way. I am anything but.”

 

Mista steps away and blinks. “I mean, you definitely have a Disney princess vibe with the whole pink suit and golden curly hair thing, you know? Nothing too deep behind it.”

 

Giorno hums in thought. He pats the hair on his head, making sure Mista’s 5 o’clock shadow didn’t ruin it at all. Thankfully, his victory rolls still look as composed and flawless as ever. 

 

“I can’t believe you’re already wearing your suit, instead of changing at the tournament,” Mista says above him. “They’re so stuffy. My abs have no room to breathe.”

 

“Shut the fuck up about your abs, Mista. You barely have them and somehow you have the audacity to name them.” Fugo says as he enters the bathroom door. Unsubtly, Mista distances himself from Giorno to lean on the bathroom wall, and grin cheekily. He hikes up the bottom of his sweater to showcase his abs, which Giorno most certainly does not openly ogle.  

 

“You’re just jealous of my six pack,” Mista teases. “Don’t listen to him, Uno, Due, Tre, Cinque, Sei, and Sette.” He punctuates each name with a little poke on the respective ab. 

 

“Ugh,” Fugo says poetically, and slams the stall door shut behind him.

 

“Very creative, Mista,” Giorno says wryly. “One to seven in Italian. You’re missing a number, though.” 

 

“You speak Italian?” Mista asks, surprised, as he holds open the bathroom door for Giorno to step out of. Giorno privately takes pleasure in that expression. 

 

“I learned a bit, when Dio took me to Italy on a trip,” he says nonchalantly. To be truthful, he remembers it being a very boring business trip, and more a chance to try out airport food than a vacation. He decides, executively, that the last detail was better off omitted, though. 

 

“Italian girls are the best,” Mista says dreamily, and then seems to collect himself when he realizes who he’s talking to. 

 

“I’m sure they’re great,” Giorno says with a hint of something in his voice that even he is unsure of what it is. “I’m going to get a Happy Meal.”

 

He stalks off, shoving past Mista’s shoulder as he feels a familiar uncomfortable squirming sensation in his gut. He hates this feeling, and hates the personal weakness on his part to fail to quit Mista cold turkey, like he had promised himself. He’s spiraling. He’s losing control. He needs to regain his autonomy back, if just for the sake of his clear head. 

 

He stands at the back of the queue, and nearly jumps when Mista pokes his head next to him to look at the brightly lit menu. 

 

“What are you getting?” Mista asks casually. “I know people talk big talk about the Big Mac, but there’s a four in the price tag, so there’s no way I’m getting that one.”

 

“What’s wrong with the number four?” Giorno asks, despite the chorus in his mind that begs him not to seek out Mista’s attention anymore than he has. He hates Mista, he reminds himself. This is a typical conversation people who hate each other have. 

 

“‘Cause four is bad luck,” Mista says matter-of-factly. “Anything with four is bound to be bad.”

 

“Ah, that's why there’s no Quattro, then? ” Giorno says with a smirk. 

 

“Wait until he hears Bucciarati’s minivan has four wheels,” Trish bites. Giorno turns to see Trish and Narancia crowded in a small booth meant for children half of their age. 

 

Narancia widens his eyes and slaps a hand over Trish’s mouth. “Mista, don’t freak out,” he says. “She didn’t know, she’s an innocent, she didn’t know-”

 

It’s too late. Mista’s face is already deathly white. “Narancia, give me your knife,” he says in panic. “We’re busting one of the wheels, I don’t care if we have to Uber the rest of the way to Lakeside-”

 

“Calm down, Mista,” Giorno says. He grabs onto Mista’s bicep to restrain him from lunging towards Narancia and Trish. “It’s not a big deal. You’re nearly an adult, for crying out loud.”

 

“Of course it is a big deal!” Mista cries. Several McDonalds patrons turn to gawk at him, and then Giorno, who is hanging off of his arm. Sighing, Giorno does his best to drag a very freaked out Mista away from the nosy busybody customers while also not freaking out Mista even more. 

 

He reminds himself he is collecting blackmail material to use against Mista at a later date. He is not comforting him as a friend, because they are not friends. Giorno finds a spot in the parking lot that’s far enough from the dumpster that it doesn’t smell like a vegan’s nightmare, but also far enough from surrounding cars that it doesn’t smell like a fracker’s wet dream. 

 

“Let’s think about something else, okay?” Giorno says, patting Mista’s arm in what he imagines is a soothing motion. “Like what you’re going to order, or maybe your upcoming round today…”

 

“I can’t think about any of those things,” Mista hisses. “Because now that the number four is in the equation, it’s all going to go wrong. The Happy Meal is going to be poisoned, or the judge is going to actually be a serial killer, or-”

 

“Mista,” Giorno says firmly, making direct eye contact. “Think about it like this. Most cars have a spare tire in the back of their trunk, right? That’s five wheels.”

 

“Bucciarati’s doesn’t!” Mista says with a voice crack. Giorno files the noise away for future use. “Narancia borrowed the tire to roll down his takeout down a hill, once, and then it disappeared in a ravine. So our car still has four tires!”

 

“But, the driver uses a steering wheel, right? That means every car has at least five, or even six wheels, which means no cars have four wheels.”

 

Mista blinks at him. For a moment, Giorno is worried that his impeccable logic and reasoning has failed him somehow. It never has, but well, there was a first for everything. Surprisingly, though, Mista stops hyperventilating and nods slowly. 

 

“You’re right, as always,” he says, his breath slowing. “Thanks, Giorno.”

 

Giorno realizes that the reason why he can tell Mista’s breath is slowing is because he can feel it against his cheek. Their faces are close - really close - and it would only take a swift, confident motion to swoop down and give Mista a quick peck on the lips, then shove him up against the McDonalds wall and take him. It’s exactly the kind of horny thoughts he had committed himself to stop having. Giorno barely is cognisant of the way he whimpers and reaches for Mista’s waist to bring him closer. 

 

“Speaking of cars,” Mista says, his voice taking on a low, sultry character. “I’m kinda itching for a ride, if you know what I mean.” He waggles his eyebrows in a way that Giorno’s mind, for some foolish reason, immediately categorizes as ‘cute’. Ridiculous. 

 

The twisting feeling in his gut hits him again. “I don’t know what you mean,” Giorno coughs and lurches back. “I am...going to go back inside and go order something. My stomach is feeling off, today.”

 

Giorno turns to leave, only to get pinned against the wall by a pair of very muscular arms. 

 

“Wh-” is all he manages to stammer out before Mista’s face inches close against him. 

 

“What the hell is your game, Giorno?” Mista says in a low voice that rumbles in his ear like an earthquake. “I know you love this whole ‘playing hard to get’ thing, but it just seems like you’re playing and I’m hard.”

 

“Good one,” Giorno tries to say wryly, but Mista isn’t having it. 

 

“Shut it,” Mista hisses. “What do you want, Giorno? Tell me. Are you actually trying to teammate-zone me, or do you want me all to yourself? You can’t have it both ways.”

 

Giorno breathes heavily. He knows, he knows what he promised himself, but he also knows the here and now, that this position is really turning him on, and against his better judgement, he’d really much rather be screaming Mista’s name than arguing with him. He knows the temptation is delicious and so easy for him to take, and that was exactly why he had to resist it. Giorno closes his eyes to take a breath and then jabs an elbow into Mista’s ribs. Mista drops Giorno and chokes, stumbling backwards. 

 

“You’re right. If we can’t have it both ways, we might as well just be teammates,” Giorno says coolly, ignoring the quickened pace of his heartbeat and the ugly squirming in his gut. “Now, let’s just go back inside.”

 

He spins around and heads back inside the fast food joint, fighting the urge to look back over his shoulder and see Mista’s reaction. He needs to get this boy that he hates out of his head. 

 

The bell jangles as he opens the door. He pauses at the entrance, smoothing out his braid to collect himself as he surveys the expanse of the McDonalds for a familiar cluster of debate nerds, which he finds in one of the booths next to the kiddie playground. Fugo, Narancia, Abbacchio and Trish are talking animatedly amongst themselves, an inhuman amount of greasy fast food piled in front of them. 

 

Bucciarati isn’t present, most likely because he’s cleaning the crumbs out of the pride and joy that is his minivan. It would be touching if Bucciarati was not an 18 year old boy. 

 

Trish notices him and waves him over, before pushing a small box of fries towards him.



“Eat up, Giorno,” she says. “You’re too skinny, you gotta eat.”

 

Giorno makes a show of appearing annoyed, but he takes the box gratefully anyway. “Thanks, Trish,” he says, before popping a couple into his mouth. 

 

“Here, Giorno, I got you some soda,” Abbacchio says passing a plastic cup into Giorno’s hand. He has a devious smile on his face that he doesn’t even bother trying to hide. Something is wrong, because Abbacchio would never do anything nice for him, even if he was held at gunpoint. But he has to know what is wrong, first. 

 

Giorno narrows his eyes and nods stiffly, before taking the cup. Narancia makes a muffled noise of laughter as Giorno brings the cup to his nose to take an experimental sniff. 

 

An acrid, putrid scent floods Giorno’s nostrils. He strains his eye to look through the plastic lid to see that the liquid in the cup is yellow, but far too golden to be Mountain Dew or lemonade. He has a feeling he knows what it is, but Abbacchio would have to be unbelievably crude and disgusting for that to be true. 

 

He glances back up to see Abbacchio smirking. A shadow falls over the table.



“What’s going on?” Mista says casually. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

 

“You’re not,” Abbacchio says with a deceitful glint in his eyes. “I was just giving Giorno a drink. Homemade. Why don’t you drink up, buttercup?”

 

Mista tenses beside him. Giorno wrinkles his brow. He was in a tough situation, since he couldn’t back down, because that would let Abbacchio win. He couldn’t drink urine, either; while Giorno may have a few more kinks than the average person, he drew the line at excrement. So, his plan of action had to involve trickery, somehow. But how?

 

Just then, the bell above the door jingles loudly as Bucciarati enters the McDonalds and calls out for the group. Abbacchio breaks his death glare at Giorno to send a quick glance at the door, only visibly relaxing when he recognizes Bucciarati. This doesn’t escape the notice of anyone at the table. 

 

Whipped,”  Mista says in a sing-song voice. 

 

“What are you all hiding from me?” Bucciarati says warily as he approaches the table. “Narancia looks like he’s going to piss himself.”

 

Fugo chokes on his burger at the unintentional pun. 

 

“Nothing,” Giorno says smoothly. “I was just enjoying this wonderful drink. Would you like some, Bucciarati?”

 

Bucciarati eyes the pleasant, schooled expression on Giorno’s face. “What’s in it?” he asks, taking the cup and giving it a sniff. 

 

“I’m not quite sure,” Giorno says. “Abbacchio made it for me.”

 

Abbacchio’s face looks increasingly purple. Giorno can hear the thought process in his head. Giorno wouldn’t make Bucciarati drink Abbacchio’s urine, right? But, he must tell Bucciarati while avoiding Bucciarati’s wrath for messing with the underclassman kid again. How much time would he serve if he murdered Giorno on the spot now? 

 

Whatever decision he arrives at, it doesn’t matter, because by the time he looks up and opens his mouth, Bucciarati is already taking a sip from the cup. 

 

“Bucciarati!” Abbacchio hollers. “NO, stop!”

 

Bucciarati swallows the drink. The table erupts, as Mista and Narancia both howl in laughter, Trish turns her head to giggle uncontrollably, and Fugo gasps for air. Even Giorno hides a small smile by taking a bite out of another French fry. 

 

Bucciarati confusedly sets the cup back down on the table. “Why is everyone laughing?” he asks. “Is the drink poisoned or something?”

 

“You didn’t taste it?” Narancia says through tears. “Giorno could tell right away!” His laughing fit lands on Fugo’s shoulder, which muffles whatever else he babbles out.

 

“Bucciarati has a piss kink,” Mista says, dazed. “This is too fucking good, oh my god-”

 

A fuming Abbacchio angrily swipes for his own drink to take a sip. He suddenly widens his eyes before spitting out his drink and gagging. 

 

“Oh my god!” he chokes. “The little shit switched the drinks!” He leaps out of the booth to run into the bathroom, presumably to get rid of the taste of urine out of his mouth.

 

The table erupts into another fit of uproarious laughter. They immediately get kicked out of the McDonalds.


Abbacchio stews in fury the rest of the ride to Lakeside. This is unsurprising, considering Abbacchio seems to always be stewing in fury for one reason or another, but it’s especially volatile with Giorno in the equation, so Giorno is careful to avoid him as much as possible. 

 

He’s not the only person Giorno is avoiding though. Giorno has been careful to stay out of Mista’s vicinity all day as well, which Mista doesn’t make difficult for him, to his credit. Being just “teammates”, whatever that meant, was supposed to be the right way of doing things, but the awkward tension between them is awful, unbearable. Giorno takes no pleasure in the way Mista’s gaze passes over him all day, or the way the persistent twist in his gut continues to torment him - a strange mixture of guilt and something else. 

 

Mista is pointedly not making eye contact with Giorno when they meet up for a debrief session at the end of the day in the hotel lobby. At this point, rounds are over, so the whole squad is gathered around Bucciarati, talking in hushed whispers about the intel gathered during rounds. Abbacchio scowls when he sees Giorno walk over. 

 

“I’m going to go check the room reservations,” he mumbles, as he stalks off, away from the group. Bucciarati sends him a sympathetic glance before returning his attention to the rest of the group. 

 

“I’ve got win-loss records from everyone except Mista and Giorno, I believe,” he says. “Mista?”

 

“Three wins, two losses,” Mista says smugly. “3-2, baby. That rhymes with ‘better than you’.” He sends a wink in Giorno’s direction, but it honestly seems more directed towards the column Giorno is leaning up against. 

 

“And Giorno?” Bucciarati asks. 

 

“4-1,” he says simply. “Lost to Risotto from La Squadra.”

 

Bucciarati nods. “Great work, everyone. We’ll get results about rankings tomorrow from the tournament. For now, we can take a break before the long drive tomorrow after Abbacchio comes back with room assignments.”

 

“Abbacchio is doing room assignments?” Narancia yelps. 

 

“Abbacchio is doing room assignments?” Fugo whispers, his face devoid of any color. 

 

Bucciarati frowns. “What’s wrong with Abbacchio’s room assignments?”

 

“Yeah, what’s wrong with my room assignments?” a low voice growls from behind the group. Had Giorno been a more sensitive person, he’d have jumped back and screamed. Instead, he cocks his head to see Abbacchio with his arms crossed and some key cards and brochures in his hands. 


“Nothing!” Trish pipes up. “We love them! They’re definitely not always the worst pairs of people forced to room together!”

 

Giorno internally shudders when he recalls being forced to room with Narancia one tournament, and having to sit through the boy’s ADHD induced babbling until 2AM. He nearly threw all of his rounds the day after from exhaustion. 

 

Abbacchio grins, and in the strange lighting of the hotel, it almost seems villainous. “Good. Now, here are the assignments, and DON’T bitch about them. Bucciarati and I will be in the first room, Trish will be in the second one, and the rest of you in the last one.”

 

Mista counts mentally in his head. “Wait, that’s four people!” he yelps, immediately violating the one rule Abbacchio had set. “This is a bad idea. One of us is going to die if all four of us bunk together.”

 

“Sleep on the floor in the hallway, then,” Fugo sniffs. “So you can get hotel lice and finally have a reason to wear that stupid hat of yours all the time, instead of choosing to because you’re as blind and unfashionable as a mole rat.”

 

“I resent that.” Mista snaps. “Also, I’m not a fucking mole rat, stop calling me that, I don’t even know what that means-”

 

“Why are Bucciarati and Abbacchio alone?” Giorno muses aloud. “Wouldn’t it make more sense for us male-identifying debaters to, ergonomically, split into two rooms of three, instead of a 4-2 split?”

 

Abbacchio’s ears go red. He shifts a glance at Bucciarati, who has taken a sudden fascination with a modern art painting hanging on the wall, the kind that litters every four star hotel lobby for some inexplicable reason. 

 

“What does ergonomically mean?” Narancia says. 

 

Before Abbacchio can sputter out an answer, Trish interrupts. 

 

“Why am I alone?” Trish huffs. “You guys always exclude me because I’m the only girl on the team- shut up , Mista, Narancia isn’t a girl - and I’m so sick of it. Plus, you guys always do your prep work in your rooms, which means I’m always out of the loop of whatever strategy you guys have.”

 

“Well, you know,” Fugo stutters. “You have to room apart from us because you are a girl, with, you know…”

 

“Breasticles,” Mista adds helpfully. 

 

“Okay, everyone, listen up,” Abbacchio snaps. “We’ll move Fugo and Narancia to Trish’s room. Giorno and Mista can have the second room all to themselves. Happy now?”

 

He sends a conniving smirk at Giorno. So that was Abbacchio’s game this whole time - trying to humiliate him by pairing him with the one person he could not be around right now. An admirable attempt, but it was going to take a lot more to phase Giorno, though. Giorno refuses to indulge Abbacchio’s short-fused temper with a reaction.

 

“Good problem solving, Leone,” Bucciarati obliviously praises. Or non-obliviously; to be honest, Bucciarati had incredible intuition and social intelligence, but dubious intentions half the time. “Now, everyone stop fooling around. Everyone head off to their rooms, get some rest, and we’ll see you all in the morning.”

 

Everyone grumbles and begins talking amongst themselves, the various roommates splitting off into groups. Abbacchio pauses before handing Giorno and Mista a key from the bottom of his pile. 

 

“Have fun,” he says, smiling sharply, before leaving Giorno and Mista behind, all to themselves.

 

“So, teammate, are you planning on giving me the cold shoulder all night, or just until you feel like getting into my pants?” Mista says casually. 

 

Giorno winces internally. “It’s nothing personal,” he snaps. “I was simply stressed preparing for the rounds today. As you should be, too, if you weren’t a debater who had no regard for actually preparing for his rounds.”

 

Mista snorts. “That’s not the reason.” He’s looking at Giorno with a piercing gaze, a kind that’s far too likely to see right through the walls and masks Giorno puts on, which is another indication of his rapidly slipping control. 

 

“Let’s go to our room,” Giorno says abruptly, and walks off towards the elevator before Mista can say anything in response. He jabs the ‘up’ elevator button insistently four times, praying the elevator will arrive already so he doesn’t have to stand in awkward silence. 

 

Mista presses the button once, almost reflexively. “Just to be safe.”

 

Giorno nods sharply, and then focuses his gaze on the gauzy curtains on the windows, the tacky gold paint all over the lobby, and the blinking light above the elevator - essentially, anything that wasn’t Mista’s face. When the elevator chimes and the doors slide open, they ascend the elevator, then the hallway to their room in silence, save for the tap tap tap of Mista’s fingers against his leg. 

 

Giorno fishes the room key out of his pocket and tries unsuccessfully to open the door. 

 

“You know, you rag on me a lot for not doing prep,” Mista says lightly. “But I was the one who managed to beat Risotto from La Squadra, because of the prep I did. Weird, huh?”

 

“Not in the mood, Mista,” Giorno says through gritted teeth. He tries the key again. It still refuses to work. 

 

“And you can’t even blame it on me seducing my judges, either, since they were all men who would need Viagra to get it up,” Mista continues. “Guess you’re out of excuses for why you hate me so much, huh?”

 

“Maybe I wouldn’t criticize you so much if you didn’t give me so much material,” Giorno snaps. “I wouldn’t call you a womanizer if you didn’t use your classic Mista charm to flirt with the first person with a pulse you see everytime we go anywhere.” The key finally unlocks, and he snaps the handle down to swing the door open, nearly tearing the door off its hinges. 

 

“Careful,” Mista teases, but there’s no mirth in his voice. “If you get too jealous, someone might think we’re not just teammates.”

 

Giorno opens his mouth to retort, but the words die in his mouth when he turns to see their living situation and notices, besides all the usual amenities, one glaring feature of the room: the singular bed. 

 

“Oh,” Mista says, stopping abruptly in his tracks. “Christ.”

 

Giorno connects the dots mentally. “Abbacchio must have given us the room he booked for Trish before he decided to switch the room arrangements last minute,” Giorno surmises. 

 

“Fuck Abbacchio,” Mista spits. “This is exactly why we think his room arrangements are shit.”

 

“I heard that!” A muffled voice says through the wall. Giorno remembers that they are rooming next to Abbacchio and Bucciarati, which means they share a wall. Fantastic. 

 

“Shitty room, shitty teammate, even shittier fucking day,” Mista summarizes in a cold voice. “Great. Well, I’m going to go party, teammate. Have fun jacking off and prepping alone.”

 

Giorno opens his mouth to retort, but Mista disappears with a slam of the door. He stares wide-eyed in silence at the closed door for a beat too long, before sitting down on the edge of the bed and holding his face in his hands. He feels something dig in his pockets, and he fishes a piece of fabric out, realizing with a start that it’s the crumpled up form of Mista’s hat. Gently, he tries to smooth it out. 

 

He fucked up, somehow. He’s not sure how exactly, but he has hurt Mista in his attempt to regain control over the situation. He’s realized, in some part of his mind, that Mista may not have an excited reaction to his decision to end their fling, but he hadn’t expected Mista to be so angry - or perhaps not angry, but cold - about it. 

 

Mista is such a wild card, it makes him impossible for Giorno to read. He flagrantly violates the patterns and norms in Giorno’s head just to frustrate him to no end, and the worst part is, he realizes with a sinking heart, that Giorno misses it. Their hotel room feels like a space vacuum, with all the joy and life in it sucked out of it the moment Mista stepped out of it. 

 

He thinks back to their easy companionship, the way Mista smiles at him fondly, the way Mista’s hands feel against his body. Going one day without it was torture - how could he survive the rest of his life? He needs Mista’s presence, craves it, desires it, and the more he thinks about Trish’s words, the more he realizes what he’s feeling is far worse than any addiction. 

 

He’s feeling something like love. Maybe not quite there yet, but love’s neighbor three blocks over. 

 

He has to find Mista. Whatever confusing, garbled mess he is feeling, he’s sure that Mista would somehow find a way to pierce through the bullshit and give him clarity. Ironically, he turned Mista away to get a clear mind, and now he was seeking him out to get that clear mind back. His life was ridiculously poetic, sometimes. 

 

If Giorno is going to talk to Mista honestly, he needs to start with getting to the party, which means talking to someone who actually knows anything about parties. He knocks on the door to Trish’s hotel room. Fugo opens it. 

 

“Giorno?” he asks, confused. He’s in his PJs, which makes Giorno realize he’s probably getting ready for bed. “Did you need something?”

 

“Yes, do you know where Trish is?” Giorno asks, darting his eyes to the empty room behind Fugo. 

 

Fugo crinkles his nose. “Oh, she went to the tenth floor with Narancia to go party. Lame, right?”

 

“Yes,” Giorno says distractedly. “Thank you.” He gives Fugo a small nod who takes it with vague amusement, before striding towards the elevator. Self-consciously, he pats his hair down in his reflection on the steel elevator wall, making sure he looks presentable. 

 

When the elevator finishes it’s ascension, the doors swing open. Giorno blinks as a wave of alcohol, sweat, and teen hormones hits his face. He takes in the small clusters of people gathered in the hallway, the littering of red Solo cups on the floor, and the ambience of dozens of simultaneous conversations, with the occasional muffled shout of people playing party games in other rooms.



Giorno grimaces and begins to search through the halls for the familiar shock of black curls and cropped sweater that he could likely see even with his eyelids closed. Mista isn’t in the foyer around, although he does see Narancia doing a keg stand and Trish cheering him on. He makes a beeline towards them and taps on Trish’s shoulder, ignoring the purple haze of marijuana that hits him when he does.

 

“Jorrno!” Trish slurs, clearly inebriated. “You finally made it!”

 

It’s a hilarious sight to see Trish swaying in her five inch heels, her pink updo so smashed it looks like an Elvis cosplay. Giorno makes an executive decision to file this information for questioning later. 

 

“Trish, have you seen Mista?” he asks. “It’s urgent.”

 

Trish blinks slowly. “He’s not with you?” she says, squinting. “I saw him earlier with some blond, I thought for sure you two were sneaking off to do the devil’s tango.” She wiggles her eyebrows. 

 

His heart sinks. His stupid, uncooperative gut twists again. He clears his throat. “Where did they go, exactly?” he asks insistently. 

 

Trish points vaguely towards a hallway near the back of the floor. “Sorry, Jorno,” she says sympathetically, or as sympathetically as she can while she’s looking at Giorno as if he had grown two heads, in the sense that her eyes flit constantly from Giorno’s eyes to Giorno’s left. 

 

“I’ll see you around, Trish,” Giorno says, carefully holding Trish’s arms to ensure that she can stand upright. Then, he heads straight to the back of the floor, scanning for Mista along the row of couples making out in the hallway. He sees black straight hair, a redhead, two blondes, and a girl with dyed green hair - Trish would love that - before he finally sees Mista in the corner, a potted plant obscuring whoever he has in his arms. 

 

“Shhhh, be quiet,” he hears Mista say. “Someone’s gonna hear us if you don’t keep it down.” He leans into the shadow of the plant, and then Giorno hears the familiar, wet sounds of two people kissing. 

 

Giorno sees red. He storms over to where Mista is and roughly yanks him on the shoulder, which causes Mista to yelp in surprise and jumps back. The girl stumbles to the floor, and when she plants down face first on the carpet, Giorno realizes that Trish was absolutely right - her blond princess curls are almost dead on like Giorno’s, or what Giorno’s hair would look like if he didn’t religiously wear it in a braid at all time. 

 

“Giorno?” Mista says in shock. “Giorno, what are you doing here?”

 

“What are you doing?” Giorno says angrily. “Are you seriously making out with some random girl right now?”

 

Mista crosses his arms. “Well, not anymore, since you rudely interrupted us.”

 

Giorno narrows his eyes. 

 

“What does it matter to you?” Mista says defensively. “Clearly, we’re teammates , so what I get up to in the sack shouldn’t matter to you.”


Giorno balls his hands into fists. This isn’t how he imagined this all going at all. He’s so angry and he needs to make Mista understand why, but he can’t put the thought into words. 

 

The girl stands up and rubs her bruised face with a woozy wince. “Okay, this seems like a lot,” she says, slowly. “So I’m just gonna go. Have a good life, Mister.” She stumbles off. 

 

She looks even more like Giorno from behind. Giorno tells Mista this much, punctuated with a “What the hell is wrong with you?”

 

“So what, I have a type?” Mista says incredulously. “I wasn’t aware that was a fucking crime, Officer Cockblock.”

 

“You know that’s not what I mean, Mista,” Giorno says harshly. “Because what happened is the second you found out I didn’t want to have sex with you anymore, you immediately abandoned me and replaced me. It’s been what, a couple hours? How the hell am I supposed to just be okay with that?”

 

“I don’t know!” Mista says, throwing his hands up in the air. “I don’t get you, Giorno. One minute, you’re acting like you hate me, and the next, you’re acting like you love me!”

 

He inches closer to Giorno, ending his spiel with a finger jabbed against Giorno’s chest, pressing Giorno up against the wall. “Pick a side, Giorno,” he snarls. “Don’t do this bullshit to me.”

 

Giorno lets out a breath, staring up into Mista’s angry eyes, and then his curled lips. This is how it feels to hate Mista - a thin layer of frustration and annoyance on top of an underlying fierce devotion and fucks given about him. It’s not hate at all. It’s something else entirely. 

 

In one movement, Giorno smashes his mouth against Mista’s, their teeth clacking together at the force behind the kiss. When Mista’s mouth opens to react, Giorno shoves his tongue in. He takes Mista’s shirt in his fists, and presses closer, then even closer, trying to communicate all in one kiss just how intensely Giorno feels for Mista, wanting him to know how badly he wants the boy all to himself. 

 

Mista tears himself away to gasp for a breath. “Okay, that was hot,” he says. “But what was that?”

 

Giorno frowns. Why is Mista talking right now? He needs to be touching Giorno, stuffing himself inside Giorno right now, not talking. Giorno presses his lips back against Mista’s again. 

 

“Giorno,” Mista gasps. “This is great, and all, but we should really-”

 

“No talking,” Giorno insists, unbuttoning his shirt. “Just fuck me already.”

 

“I was gonna say, we should really get back to the room, because I have lube in there,” Mista says slowly. “You’re really ready to go right now, huh?”

 

“Whatever,” Giorno spits. “Just carry me there.” Mista makes a surprised noise as Giorno leans back into his mouth, furiously kissing him with a newfound frenzy. Mista moans when Giorno makes an especially lewd pinch on his nipples.  

 

“Holy shit,” Mista breathes. “Maybe I should kiss other people all the time. Jealous Giorno is a whole new breed of horny.”

 

“Shut up,” Giorno says roughly. He kisses Mista on the mouth again, tilting his head to get a better angle. 

 

Mista precariously attempts to balance both hoisting Giorno around his waist while making his way towards the elevator in the back of the floor, then poking his fingers against the keypad. 

 

When the door swings open, Mista steadies himself against the elevator wall so that Giorno can press hot, desperate kisses along Mista’s jawline, neck, exposed collarbone, anywhere that Giorno can to mark him as mine, mine, mine, mine. One more mine, for good measure. Mista hooks his arms under Giorno’s legs to carry him, groaning a little and trying to deepen the kiss all the way from the elevator, through the hallway, and then to the door.

 

“Giorno,” Mista mumbles into his lips. “You have to open the door.”

 

“Ugh, this stupid lube,” Giorno says. “You could just fuck me in the hallway instead if we didn’t need it. You should have it on you at all times.”

 

The speed at which Mista readily agrees to Giorno’s idea should terrify him, but it just turns him on a little. There’s not much about Mista that’s not a turn on at this point. Giorno reluctantly leans away from Mista for long enough to quickly fish the key out of his pocket and bang the door open.  Mista hurries inside with Giorno still hanging off of him like a koala. 

 

Mista gently tosses him onto the bed, so that Giorno’s head smacks against the pillows. Mista looks ready to pounce on him right now. “Get the lube,” Giorno commands. “And do it quickly.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Mista agrees. He unzips his duffel bag so quickly, the zipper nearly breaks, but he manages to locate the lube at lightning speed. He uncaps the bottle and pours a generous amount on his hands, rubbing them together to warm them up. It’s a nice touch. 

 

Giorno tries his best not to rip his pants off as Mista approaches, instead tugging very restlessly at the waistband. When his slacks are finally off of him, he opens his legs wider, granting Mista access as he bends down on the bed to lightly rim the edge of Giorno’s entrance with a lubed finger. 

 

“Are you ready?” Mista asks. 

 

Giorno nods insistently. “Just hurry up, already.”

 

“You’re still so impatient,” Mista clicks his tongue as he slowly slides a finger in. Giorno hisses from the cold sensation. It hurts, but it’s a welcome hurt that edges the line between pleasure and pain. A lot of pleasure, actually. Giorno does everything in his power to maintain whatever composure he has left. Mista dutifully, languidly slides his finger in and out of Giorno, only picking up his pace when he sees Giorno visibly relax, and watches Giorno roll his hips to match Mista’s tempo. 

 

“Okay, add two more,” Giorno pants. “I’m good to go.”

 

Mista raises an eyebrow, but obeys, adding two more slicked fingers in. Giorno nearly isn’t ready for the way it feels inside him, and in an instant, his hand stretches out to latch onto Mista’s curls and holds on for dear life. He squeezes his eyes shut as he focuses on the way Mista’s fingers scissor inside him, searching along the ridges inside him like he’s mapping it.

 

“It’s okay, I got you,” Mista says, placing kisses around Giorno’s neck and shoulder when Giorno hisses. “I’m right here.” 

 

Giorno tries to focus on something else besides the insane sensations of pleasure inside him, the obscene suction sounds of Mista’s fingers sliding in and out of him. When his braid slaps against his face for the umpteenth time, he hurriedly takes off the band and lets his golden curls free. He opens his eyes to see Mista stare up at him with some unfamiliar emotion, something like wonder or amazement. 

 

“What?” Giorno says defensively. 

 

“Nothing,” Mista says distantly. “You just look...beautiful, like this.”



Giorno flushes red. “You don’t have to use that charm on me to get in my pants if you’re already inside me,” he says sharply. 

 

“I’m not,” Mista says simply, honestly, openly, and there’s some kind of meaning behind it, probably, but Giorno is not in the right mind to try and divine what that is. He slides off Mista’s fingers with a wet squelching sound. 

 

“Lie down,” Giorno orders. “And take your pants off. Those should have been off the moment we came in.”

 

Mista hurriedly unbuckles his pants. “Absolutely right, sir,” he says with a cheeky grin. 

 

Giorno can’t wait too long, and Mista is taking too long to strip. With a frustrated whine, Giorno yanks Mista’s pants down, briefs with it, and straddles his abdomen to nibble along Mista’s ear. 

 

“I’m going to ruin you,” Giorno states, and there’s no question or doubt in his tone. It’s a fact. “How dare you try and replace me with the first blond you see? You’re mine, Mista. Got it?”

 

Mista whimpers. “Yes, Giorno,” he breathes. “All yours.”

 

Giorno flashes him a predatory smile before grabbing the lube bottle and slicking it up Mista’s cock. “Aww,” he coos. “It’s all hard and ready for me. You’re so good at giving me exactly what I want, right?”

 

“Yes, yes, yes,” Mista chants like it’s a prayer. “So good for you-” He freezes and cuts himself off when Giorno inches onto Mista’s dick and slowly inserts the tip in. 

 

Giorno,” Mista pleads, and it’s all he needs to say before Giorno slams down onto him, crying out in both pain and pleasure as he grinds against Mista. Mista is always loud in bed, but he’s even louder now, filling the air with grunts and moans as Giorno pounds on his dick. 

 

“You like that?” Giorno says, struggling to keep his tone level as his thighs burn with exertion. “You like the way my tight hole is all yours to fuck? The way I can give you what you want, and give it only to you?”

 

Mista nods crazily, too subsumed with pleasure to form words. He shoots out his hands to latch onto Giorno’s hair, tugging at the now loose blond curls as Giorno does his best to fuck the brains out of him. It’s working, he thinks with a self-satisfied grin, as Mista covers a hand over his mouth to muffle the scream. Giorno tugs at the hand to move it away. 

 

“Isn’t it so good?” Giorno says, burying Mista’s dick inside him and rolling his hips onto Mista’s full length. “How could you ever fuck anyone else after you’ve been with me?”

 

Mista shakes his head. “No, no one, never, fuck-

 

Giorno smirks and squeezes tighter around Mista. “No one, really? What about that girl you were with?”

 

Mista nearly sobs into Giorno’s shoulder. “No, here’s no one else, not her. No one could ever beat you, now please, keep fucking me,” Mista pleads into Giorno’s ear, pawing desperately at his exposed torso and back. 

 

Giorno clicks his tongue. “I think you need to beg for it,” he says, enjoying the way Mista gives him an annoyed groan. “Imagine you’re repenting. Catholic guilt might make your brain work more.”

 

Mista takes a fistful of Giorno’s hair and pants a staccato breath. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” he starts, groaning when Giorno gives him an encouraging squeeze, slowly riding his cock. “I dared to attempt to sleep with someone else, when there was only one person who could blow my mind, only one person who could give me what I want.”

 

Giorno yanks Mista’s curls. “Who do you belong to?” he says harshly. 

 

“YOU!” Mista yelps, as Giorno slams down onto him, each stroke all or nothing, completely sheathed to completely out. “I’m all yours, all yours to take, always has been, I’ve always been yours, Giorno-” He cuts himself off by shouting into Giorno’s chest as Giorno starts to yank Mista’s nipple, then taking it in his mouth. 

 

“God, it feels so good,” is all Mista can say before he jerks his legs up and manages to hit Giorno right in the spot that makes him see stars. Giorno screams, then collapses over Mista’s shoulder. 

 

“Okay, princess,” Mista says, sliding his dick out from underneath. Giorno ruts helplessly against Mista’s thigh. “Time to switch positions. Don’t want to finish too early, right?”

 

Giorno shakes his head as he lies down on his back, letting Mista land strong arms on either side of his torso, and inch his dick closer and closer to Giorno’s entrance. Giorno nearly froths at the mouth seeing the angry, red head of Mista’s cock stand at attention, ready for him, all for him. 

 

“You ready?” is all the warning he gets before Mista shoves his cock into Giorno, sheathing himself at the hilt. Giorno screams once more. He digs his nails harder into Mista’s muscles, nearly drawing blood, and his mind goes blank as Mista begins pounding into him, his balls hitting Giorno each time. Giorno can’t hold back his moans of a strange, satisfying mix of pain and pleasure. 

 

“Mista, Mista, Mista,” Giorno babbles. “Oh my god, your cock feels so good inside of me, oh my god, please -”

 

Mista grunts in response. He continues to fuck Giorno within nearly an inch of his life, while also reaching a hand to jerk Giorno’s dick and roll it in his hands. 

 

Giorno nearly keels over in pleasure. His hands desperately snake their way around Mista’s shoulders to pull them closer, get rid of that last, awful bit of space between them. He doesn’t even try to stop the unfiltered garble that comes out of his mouth. “Don’t stop, please never stop, it feels so good, Mista, you’re amazing-”

 

“Giorno, you’re amazing,” Mista says. “God, what I would give to do this forever, I think I’m going to come-”

 

Giorno nods eagerly. “Yes, yes, forever, forever, god, Mista, come inside me, I love you so much, I-”

 

He shrieks in pleasure as he orgasms. He collapses against the bed frame, panting in exertion and the overwhelming sensation of lustful pleasure that floods his mind. He feels drunk, with how woozy and hazy his head feels. He is about to say something to Mista when he casts a glance at the boy, who is frozen in place. 

 

“Mista, what’s wrong?” he says, concerned. 

 

“What did you just say?” Mista breathes. 

 

“I said, ‘What’s wrong?’” Giorno repeats, a little peeved. “I really hope I don’t have to repeat myself again.”

 

“No, no, before that.” Mista insists. “Because I’m pretty sure I heard you say that you loved me. So much.”

 

Giorno’s ears turn pink. “Uh,” he stammers. “That’s ridiculous, I don’t know if my ass was so good that it made you dumb, because there is no way I said that…”

 

“But is it true?” Mista says, insistently. “Do you love me?”

 

When Giorno averts his eyes, Mista’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t relent his gaze or his grip on Giorno. He holds onto him like a drowning man holds on to a lifesaver, like he can’t let go. 

 

“I- maybe?” Giorno says, awkwardly. “It’s a little soon to say that, but I mean-”

 

Mista relaxes visibly. He bends down to give Giorno a slow kiss on the lips. 

 

“I kinda had an idea that you did, since Trish showed me the list you made about me.” Mista says. “I’ve been meaning to thank you for calling my abs chiseled, by the way.”

 

Trish,” Giorno curses. 

 

“I liked the confirmation, though,” Mista continues. “It feels good to know you feel the same way.”

 

Giorno blinks. “What?”

 

“I mean, I love you too,” Mista says, scratching the back of his neck. “Whatever the hell that means for us. I love it.”

 

They kiss again. Mista absent-mindedly plays with Giorno’s curls, which are splayed out over the pillow. 

 

Giorno rubs the small of Mista’s back and takes a shaky breath. “So, just to be clear, I don’t know if I’m ready for a committed relationship yet,” Giorno says honestly. “But I’d like for us to keep doing this? And be exclusive?”

 

Mista smiles easily. “We don’t have to put labels on it. We can go as slow as you like. It’s just me, right?”

 

“Aw, playboy Guido Mista, going slow for me?” Giorno coos. “Please, fetch me my smelling salts, I think I’m about to faint.”

 

“Hey, I don’t go slow when it counts,” Mista smirks. He pulls Giorno closer and rolls his hips up in an absolutely sinful way, that it makes Giorno keel over and cry out. 

 

“Oh my god, I need time to recover,” Giorno breathes. “Give me a second.”



“I didn’t finish the first time,” Mista whines. “Come on, Giorno, lend me a hand, will you?”

 

Giorno smirks and inches his hips down to sink onto Mista once more. His ass is sore, for sure, but it’s worth it to see the way that Mista absolutely deteriorates in front of him, reduced to a mumbling, bumbling mess by the way Giorno rolls his hips just right to make him feel good. He lets the orgasm build up in Mista again, but it doesn’t take long before Mista moans like a high-pitched soprano. 

 

“Come for me,” Giorno says, with a glint in his eyes. “Come for me, Mista.”

 

With one last heavy groan, Mista does. 


The next morning, Giorno and Mista find the rest of the squad looking tired and hungover by the complimentary breakfast buffet in the hotel lobby. They’re eating shitty hotel waffles and rubbery eggs, but to Giorno, who’s parched from...his late night activities, it looks heavenly. He scoops a bit of everything onto a plate, and then saves a pastry for himself, before handing it to Mista. 

 

“Abbacchio, Bucciarati, you look like shit,” Mista says bluntly. “I thought you guys weren’t gonna party.”

 

“We didn’t,” Abbacchio says forcefully. The dark shadows under his eyes nearly rival how dark his goth aesthetic aspires to be. “I fucking wish.”

 

Bucciarati coughs on a bite of hotel egg. “We were forced to stay up by the activity of our neighbors,” he says. “The walls in this hotel are...thin.”

 

Giorno’s ears feel unnaturally warm. “That’s strange,” he says coolly. “Perhaps it was the TV in the room over. We should file a noise complaint.”

 

“Huh,” Narancia says. “Now that I think about it, you two do look kinda disheveled. Fugo, did I use the word right?”

 

Fugo nods. 

 

“Plus, I did hear some moaning last night from your bedroom,” Bucciarati says lightly, a little bit too casually. 

 

“Mista injured himself last night,” Giorno says smoothly. “Perhaps you heard his cries of pain.”

 

“Sounded like sexual moaning,” Abbacchio says suspiciously.



“How would you know what that sounds like, virgin boy?” Mista snarks. 

 

“I’ve never been aroused once in my entire life,” Giorno says, completely straight faced. 

 

“Oh my god, they’re definitely fucking,” Trish groans.

 

“Giorno, why would you ever hook up with Mista?” Fugo says, as Narancia says, “Mista, why would you ever hook up with Giorno?”

 

“It’s none of your business,” Mista snaps. “But since you all are so nosy , Giorno and I have finally decided to put our rivalry aside and get together.”

 

The group is silent, save for the noise of Fugo digging into his wallet and handing Narancia five bucks. 

 

“Hello?” Mista says, waving his hands in front of everyone’s face. “Earth to the Passione debate squad?”

 

“Oh, are we supposed to be surprised?” Bucciarati says. “I thought you two have been dating since State.”

 

“At least since the beginning of this year. I don’t have to repeat again how I heard them fucking in a public bathroom, once,” Fugo sniffs. 

 

Mista flushes. 

 

“I mean, I didn’t know,” Abbacchio grimaces. “Otherwise I would have never put you two horny spawns of Satan together.”

 

“Thank you, Abbacchio,” Giorno says with an impassive face. “We will be thinking of you everytime we fornicate forever.”

 

Abbacchio’s face turns green, and he stands up abruptly to vomit into a trash can. 

 

Giorno is almost surprised with how normal breakfast is, despite the revelation of his and Mista’s new relationship. Mista is still just as annoying and prone to hyperbolic hypotheticals as ever. He hasn’t changed, per se, it’s just that Giorno gets to publicly kiss him on the lips to shut him up now when Mista tries to convince him that his raspberry Danish is a sandwich. He relishes in the way Mista’s face goes red when he pulls away. 

 

He thinks, very irrationally to himself, that it’s a sight he wouldn’t mind seeing every day for the rest of life. He leans into the irrationality, leans into Mista’s lips, and kisses him again.