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Sono solo come un cane

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“Giorno,” Mista said one night as he watched his Don decimate the mountains of paperwork littering his mahogany desk, “How much wine have you had?”

Giorno’s favorite quill, which had been quietly providing some ambient scratching noises as it worked back and forth across the page, stopped suddenly.

Mista knew better than anyone that Giorno wouldn’t hurt him if the man didn’t want to, but he still couldn’t help swallowing nervously when Giorno blinked at him like that.

Slow and dangerous. Like a large feline. A panther, maybe. Perhaps a tiger.

“How much wine…?” Giorno asked quietly.

The bottle on his Don’s desk was nearly empty. There were two more bottles in the trash bin next to the desk. Mista wasn’t sure how much alcohol someone could have without it killing them, but if Giorno had managed to drink all that in one sitting, he could probably drink Abbacchio under the table if the ex-cop would actually sit at a table with the Don for more than two seconds.

“How many glasses of wine have you had tonight?” Mista reiterates, slowly reaching for the not-quite-empty bottle on Giorno’s desk.

There’s a flicker of gold, and then Giorno’s prized mahogany desk turns into a tiger that snarls and bites at Mista’s outstretched hand,

Giorno relaxes into his throne chair and slowly smirks, bringing his feet up to rest on the desk-tiger’s striped back. “How many breads have you eaten in your life?” he asks, snatching the wine bottle and taking a generous sip.

The Sex Pistols are suddenly excited by this newer, sexier version of Giorno, and it’s usually better to let them out when they get like this, but Mista realizes it might be a mistake when all of them immediately start doing different things and he immediately loses the ability to keep track of them all at once.

Number One immediately starts screaming in Mista’s ear about the logistics of the only desk Giorno doesn’t refuse to work at being a tiger, Number Two soars over to Giorno and begins to attempt some sort of confession of love, Number Three grabs Number Five and tries to feed him to the tiger, Number Six starts shouting at Number Two about how drunk Giorno is, and Number Seven teams up with Number One to yell at Mista about the logistics of getting a drunk Giorno to bed.

Mista sometimes hates his life.

Giorno isn’t helping with his sensual petting of Number Two, though. Not that Mista would expect a drunk Giorno to be very helpful, it’s just that his behavior is very especially unconducive to getting the Don to bed.

“Alright, stop!” Mista finally yells. The Sex Pistols look up at him for half a second and Mista uses that instant of distraction to mentally force them back to wherever they go when they aren’t trying to get Giorno to suck on their weird little heads.

Mista sometimes really hates his life.

“Giorno,” Mista says, only a slight amount of despair tingeing his tone, “Please go to bed.”

Giorno drapes one tightly-clothed leg over the arm of his throne chair and smirks, eyes focused but cheeks pink. “No.”

“Giorno,” Mista says again, “It’s time for bed.”

The desk-tiger is pacing around the room, but Mista is almost-pretty sure that it won’t hurt him. Hopefully.

Mista takes a step towards Giorno’s throne chair.

“Oh~?” Giorno says, voice slurring slightly as he spins the wine in his glass, “You’re approaching me? Even though you know my Stand, Golden Experience Requiem, is capable of undoing any useless actions you plan to make?”

Mista clenches his fists, bites his lip, and begins striding across the room towards Giorno’s throne chair. “I can’t tuck you into bed without getting closer, Giorno.”

“Well, well!” Giorno cackles, rising to his feet and bringing out GER, “Then come as close as you’d like!”

Mista takes another step forward, and then Giorno’s Stand punches him in the chest so hard he’s thrown out the open doors, tumbling all the way down the staircase to the ground floor.

“That hurt,” Mista whispers, before beginning to pick himself up. At the top of the staircase, Giorno slowly claps.

“Well done, Mista,” his boss says languidly, GER allowing the blond to drape himself over the Stand’s body, “You almost got within two meters of me!”

“You think that’s so great,” Mista huffs, “How about you let me tuck you into bed!”

“Why, Mista, I’m surprised!” Giorno slurs innocently, waving a hand to dismiss GER as he leans against the bannister, eyes widening comically to better look at Mista, “You can’t make demands here.”

The man grins as Mista stumbles, not quite having managed to make it more than three steps up the staircase without alerting the tipsy Don to his approach. “How’s this? If you go down those stairs, I’ll consider tucking you into bed when I’m satisfied with my progress. But if you want to oppose me… well, I suppose you could continue to climb those stairs.”

The room is silent, the staircase that falls into the main foyer is still, and then Mista opens his big, dumb mouth.

“When I met you… I thought you were untouchable, Giorno. But after that week… fighting enemies, taking down Diavolo… I realized you were just as attainable as any of my friends.”

Mista takes a step up the stairs.

“And that’s why… I’m going to take you to bed now, Giorno!”

The gunslinger leaps forward, jumping three stairs in his haste to reach the Don, and then

The gunslinger leaps forward, jumping three stairs in his haste to reach the Don, and then

The gunslinger leaps forward, jumping three stairs in his haste to reach the Don, and then

The gunslinger leaps forward, jumping three stairs in his haste to reach the Don, and then

The gunslinger leaps forward, jumping three stairs in his haste to reach the Don, and then

The gunslinger leaps forward, jumping three stairs in his haste to reach the Don, and then Giorno disappears, and suddenly Mista is alone on the staircase. After a second of hesitation, he runs up the rest of the stairs and into Giorno’s office. The desk is not a tiger. Giorno’s chair is still not a throne. The wine is gone and so is the Don. There’s some early-morning sunshine peeking through the curtains, and the birds are singing outside Giorno’s window.

“This is fine,” Mista says to an empty room, voice breaking only a little, before he dashes out of the room, throwing himself over the bannister immediately outside of the door in order to save time reaching the first floor.

“This is fine,” Mista says weakly, trying to remain still so as to sustain the illusion that he hasn’t shattered every bone in his legs.

“Well, I would hardly agree,” Giorno says from somewhere above the foyer’s carpet Mista is sprawled over. “You just threw yourself over a railing specifically designed to keep people from falling five meters and breaking their legs.”

“That was a calculated decision,” Mista huffs into the forty-thousand-lire shot-silk taffeta rug.

“Fugo might’ve stood on your leg if you’d said that in front of him.”

“What?” Mista grins, albeit shakily, “You gonna step on me, boss?”

Giorno is silent for a few seconds, and then the Don of Passione grinds the heel of one of his bespoke cordovan Cromwells into Mista’s Achilles tendon.

Mista shouts in pain, and continues to shout in pain as Giorno begins to roughly heal his leg wounds.

“I’m not sure why I enable you like this,” Giorno mutters to himself as Mista struggles to fight off the Don. “I suppose it might be because you’re cute.”

“You think I’m cute?” Mista asks when the healing is over and he’s stopped literally sweating from the pain.

“You wish,” Giorno replies, standing up and moving towards the staircase.

“Wait!” Mista shouts.

The blond Don hesitates, turning back to look at his personal bodyguard.

“What happened last night?”

Giorno peers into his eyes, before raising an eyebrow. “What a strange question. I worked, you watched, then we went to bed after a bit of dessert.”

Mista frowns. That seems very different from what had happened last night.

“What about the wine?”

Giorno seems to hesitate, but ends up nodding in understanding. “Brandy. We flambéed some dessert, which you seemed to find rather fascinating.” Giorno’s look becomes one less of understanding and more… appraisal. “Maybe you shouldn’t be having sugar before bed anymore…”

Mista’s lip curls, and he leans against the nearest column in what he hopes looks casual. “I’m not Narancia, Giorno, geez.”

They stare at each other for a second or two more, sweat beading along the back of Mista’s neck and then Giorno shrugs.

“Alright. See you later.”

And that's that, apparently.