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"Mista, time to get up."
Mista cracked an eye open; his vision was bleary, but it was hard to miss Giorno sitting on the side of his bed.
Giorno was wearing a brilliant peacock blue suit, gold thread curling in elaborate embroidered patterns over his wrists and up his forearms. His hair glowed like the sun against the pale sky outside Mista's window, hanging loose in a long golden mane down Giorno's back. Even with his back to the light, his eyes were a vivid leaf green, almost as if lit from within. He looked too bright to be real.
The scent of soap and freshly-washed Giorno wafted through the air; the boy was holding a comb in one hand and had apparently stopped by right out of the bathroom. Mista couldn't help briefly imagining Giorno in the shower, that lithe body bare and wet... He himself was naked under his sheets, and for a sleepy moment he wondered what would happen if he just threw the sheet off and grabbed Giorno. Giorno was sitting right there on the bed, after all. Maybe...
Mista’s common sense hastily asserted itself at this point, life preservation instincts springing into his conscious mind screaming bloody murder. He woke up a bit more and realized he didn't feel like dying, so he just rolled over on his stomach and sternly told his brain to forget seeing Giorno looking all gropable in the morning light.
Giorno poked him in the back with the comb. "Come on, get up."
"What time is it?" He pried his eyelids open one more time and turned his head to look at the clock on the bedside table. "...6:36? You must be joking."
"We're going to church," Giorno said cheerfully.
"We're what?!"
"Go take a shower, and then put on something suitable for church. Something less horrible than usual."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Mista levered himself up on one elbow and ran a hand through his hair, short dark spikes going every which way. "What do you mean, less horrible?"
"Mista... Don't you own a suit?"
"No?"
Giorno sighed. "I thought that might be the case... I had a look through your wardrobe. Why haven't you bought any new clothes? I was under the impression that I pay you..."
"Huh?" Mista blinked. "What's wrong with my clothes?"
"You're representing me now, you know," Giorno said, patiently. "As my bodyguard, you should be properly attired to accompany me wherever I go." He shook his head and stood up. "Well, never mind for now... just put on something clean, okay?"
Mista guiltily recalled that he'd been meaning to do his laundry for almost three weeks, but had not actually done it. Surely something was still clean. After Giorno had left the room, he got up and went through the wardrobe himself; this was nearly empty, so he checked the stack of dirty clothes over a chairback that he considered "still wearable"; happily, his favorite zebra-striped jeans were there and not noticeably filthy.
He hunted some more and found a long-sleeved orange t-shirt; it had got lost under a pile of towels near the door, and actually smelled pleasantly of detergent. He’d taken these out of the dryer a few days ago, meaning to fold them, and never gotten around to it. He made a mental note to put them away in the linen closet by the bathroom later; Giorno kept coming into his room to get them one at a time, whenever he wanted to shower, which he seemed to want to do at extremely random times. This could be a bit... disconcerting. Depending on what one was doing. Which of course was always nothing.
Socks were another matter; even his desensitized nose could detect the used ones from the hamper, and he didn’t have any clean ones. Well, he could wear his black combat boots without socks; what were a few blisters against Giorno noticing his stinky feet? He detoured to his desk, scribbled out a note to himself that said "FOLD TOWELS, WASH SOCKS," and taped it to the door of the wardrobe before heading across the hall to the bathroom.
He took a quick shower and dressed, then made his way down to the kitchen after grabbing his hood from the bedpost and stuffing his pistol down the front of his pants. Giorno was sitting at the table, drinking a mocha latte and reading a newspaper. Mista was just a little sorry to see that Giorno's hair was already knotted back into its customary queue; it looked good either way, of course, but it was so unusual to see it down.
"It's worse than I thought," Giorno said, putting the paper down and eyeing him. "Do you really have to wear that hat?"
"Of course I do," Mista said, indignantly. "It's got my emergency ammo in it! Plus it looks cool!"
Giorno raised an eyebrow. "Take it off for a moment, would you?" Mista did so and Giorno raised the other eyebrow. "Hmm... I thought your hair might look different if it was wet, but you still look like you were just electrocuted."
"That's how it always looks!" Mista snapped, jamming the hood back on. "Why do you think I always wear a hat? When I was a kid I got tired of people asking if a bomb blew up in my face, or if I was just really surprised, or other crap like that."
"I didn't mean it in a bad way," Giorno said, hands up placatingly. "It just looks very... interesting! You may as well wear the hat though... you might need your ammunition. Are you ready to go?"
"I haven’t eaten anything!"
"I made you some toast." Giorno moved his paper and pushed a plate over to Mista. "I think it's cold now, though."
"Boss..." Mista was torn. Giorno shouldn't be making him toast. He was supposed to do things for Giorno, not the other way around, but it sometimes seemed like old habits remained. The switch in their positions, barely six months ago... it wasn't that it had been difficult, exactly. In fact, it had been all too easy for Mista to follow Giorno.
All the same, Giorno had once been his subordinate, someone to be protected and taught. Not to mention that when Giorno was, for example, half-asleep next to him on the sofa, or silent in the car, Mista couldn't help but look at him and see someone who was physically younger and smaller than him. Someone who had just got his motorcycle license and still couldn’t legally drive. Whose birthday cake had been a sort of miniature chocolate explosion, with sixteen candles on it. It was occasionally difficult to reconcile these things, mainly because Giorno didn't act as if he noticed that things had changed between them.
Giorno rarely issued orders to Mista; they were usually phrased merely as requests, although Mista would never think of not obeying. Giorno was still polite and reticent; Mista suspected this was just his nature. The few times they'd met with other members of the organization, Giorno had been polite and demure, explaining how the boss had promoted him to fill Belcaro's shoes. His expression had been unreadable, as always, but his posture had expressed his superiority; the men he'd met with had come in ready to argue, but none of them had been able to say a word, faced with those sharp green eyes.
However, something was different when Giorno and Mista were alone; Giorno's posture more relaxed, his expression less stony. Everything more as it always had been. It made it difficult for Mista to remember to treat him appropriately; luckily, Giorno didn't seem to mind that Mista never remembered to be particularly polite or respectful.
He'd started calling Giorno "boss" after a while, in an effort to correct himself and remind them both of their positions. As far as it caused Giorno to change his behavior, it might as well have been any nickname, but it helped Mista to remember how much he owed Giorno, and what he had sworn to do.
"Mista?" Giorno's voice broke into his thoughts. "Are you all right?"
Mista realized he'd been standing there staring at the toast for quite a long time.
"Er... sorry. I'm fine."
"Do you not like sourdough?"
"I love it, boss."
The toast was indeed cold, so he put it back in the toaster briefly. While he was standing there, it occurred to him that Giorno had never changed his behavior because he'd never really thought of himself as subordinate in the first place. Aside from his polite speech, he'd certainly never acted subordinate. Telling people what to do in a tricky situation seemed as natural for him as breathing.
The toast popped up. Mista pulled it out and hastily dropped it on the plate, his fingertips burning, and thought that Giorno was rather similar: if you threw him into a hot situation, he'd only pop up again later, dangerous to touch but more delicious than ever. Possibly with a tan. This analogy was not working.
While he was getting out the marmalade he wondered if it was normal to compare one's employer to toast. Hot toast. Hot, delicious toast.
"What's so funny, Mista?" Giorno looked up from his paper.
"Nothing."
* * *
Giorno said something, but Mista only heard the hint of a voice, from far away... the wind roaring past his ears and flapping the sides of his hat violently against his jaw made it impossible to hear anything else. He was hanging out the passenger window like a dog, the sun on his face, the heat of the day not yet in full force, enjoying the sharp whip of air past his face... Giorno tapped him on the leg and he reluctantly pulled his head in.
"What's up, boss?"
"I said, would you close your window? I want to speed up."
Mista hit the button for the window a bit sadly, the free scream of the wind pitching higher and higher until the window shut and the sound was abruptly gone.
Giorno glanced over at him. "How do you keep your hat on when you stick your head out like that?"
"Oh, I just ask the Pistols to hang onto it... they're little, but they’re pretty strong when they're right up against me."
"I see."
"Boss, it’s not right that you drive yourself... we should have brought a driver, or at least you should let me drive."
Giorno glanced at him. “Last time I let you drive, you got distracted by a billboard and almost ran over someone.”
“Well, yeah, but...”
“Besides, I like to drive.” Giorno hit the gas to illustrate his point, and the sleek Aston Martin growled softly as they smoothly accelerated. Mista could see his point.
“So where are we going?”
“Rome.”
“What, are we going to church with the Pope? We’ve got lots of famous churches right here in town, you know!”
“We’re not going because we’re such virtuous adherents to religion,” said Giorno. He pulled a small black envelope from inside his jacket somewhere (Mista had no idea where, as Giorno’s outfits tended to fit very snugly) and tossed it into Mista’s lap.
The envelope was folded from thick black paper, soft to the touch, crisscrossed with thick cream-colored lines in a modern pattern. There was a single piece of textured cream-colored pasteboard inside, the letters printed in raised black ink, the border embossed with a pattern in metallic gold. To Mista, the cost of the thing represented what was probably a fair percentage of a pizza. What a waste.
“Let’s see... '...to attend the funeral of Leonardo Bruschetta'... I didn’t know he'd died.” Mista looked up. “It wasn't... er... we didn't have a problem with him, did we?”
"He died of natural causes, as far as I’m aware," said Giorno. "It's unfortunate... he was very high up, one of the operatives directly below me, and one of the ones I thought I could bring around to my point of view... In any case, we're going to his funeral to show our respect, and also because only the top members of the organization were invited. It's a good chance to meet with them as a group in a semi-social situation."
“Oh... well... if there are a lot of people, then shouldn’t we have brought more guys?”
"We'll be fine."
* * *
Mista slumped uncomfortably in his pew, wishing profoundly that Giorno had just sent a card.
They'd arrived eventually at the church, which was actually off a single-lane dirt road outside the city limits of Rome. Giorno had greeted a few people, and Mista recognized a lot of faces from photographs and computer files, but they hadn't really had the chance to chat much; that was being put off until afterwards. Giorno had greeted the widow, with a deep bow and a bouquet of lilies and roses for the casket; the surprise and confusion on her face when she saw him was on other faces as well. Mista sighed; it seemed Giorno might have a bit of an upward battle being taken seriously. He was tall for his age... but his age was still obviously sixteen.
The church was an old one, built of thick stone to block out the heat as well as invaders. It had been humid in Rome lately, so the overall feeling was rather clammy. Mista did have to admit the place was beautiful; the walls were bright with restored frescos of some patron saint, and colored light streamed in from the small, high windows.
He and Giorno were sitting front and center (of course), right behind the grieving family of the deceased. They shared the pew with six other people, but none sat close enough to talk to during a service. Behind them, the pews continued in a single row up the sloped floor of the tiny church to the double doors that led to the antechamber. It made Mista nervous to have all those people sitting behind them, but whenever he glanced back, no one seemed to have moved. Still, it bothered him, so he sent some of the Pistols off to keep an eye out. They weren't strong enough to do much, but they could certainly come warn him; it was far better than nothing.
Giorno was paying attention to the proceedings, although Mista's mind had drifted away from the religious droning ages ago. Somehow, when he'd found out it was a funeral, he had expected that they were merely going to the church; he hadn't realized they were going to sit through a two-hour Catholic funerary mass. He made a mental note to tell Giorno that he wanted to be buried with as little pomp as possible.
They'd got to a new part of the ceremony and priests walked by in the aisles on either side of the pews, swinging incense in brass burners on long metal rods and intoning solemn songs, slightly off-key. Cool smoke rolled over the assembled sinners; Mista wondered if it could sanctify the living, or if only the dead could really be pure-hearted. At least the incense smelled good. Actually, it smelled great. Would it be blasphemous to ask the priests later where he could get some?
He imagined what Giorno might say if his room smelled like a Catholic funeral and bit his lip so he wouldn’t laugh.
His eyes wandered back to the frescoes along the walls. He wondered at some of them; Mista didn’t know much about saints, but this one seemed quite active, a wolf bowing to him in one image, preaching barefoot to a congregation of birds in another... a framed painting nearby caught his eye, and he frowned at how different it was. The man was alone for once, one strangely scarred hand extended before him as if asking a question; in front of him, only a crucifix and a skull to give a reply.
The image was odd enough, but truly it was his expression that caught Mista’s attention. That gaunt, kindly face, cast in shadow, yearning for an answer... Mista thought abruptly of Bruno, who had often worn a very similar expression when he thought no one was watching. The desperate look of someone forging ahead without knowing for sure that it was the right way; someone who craved an answer, some reassurance that one's actions weren't a mistake...
Giorno never looked like that. Mista wondered if it was simply because Giorno had no doubt in the virtue of his self-imposed mission, or if he just hid it well. Whatever it was, that attitude was probably what had served as a catalyst for Bruno's decision later... not to mention Mista's own choices.
Mista missed Bruno, though, deeply, because he was someone you could tell all your problems to. It wasn't that you could not tell your problems to Giorno; he was certainly charismatic and trustworthy and had good advice to dispense... but he didn't have Bruno's empathy, his talent at really caring about things. Or at least, appearing to care. Mista suspected that even if Giorno did care, he'd have trouble showing it.
He sank down a bit more into the pew, his feet on the padded knee riser, and closed his eyes. It was getting warmer, and the humidity made him feel sticky. Why did they have to shut all the tourists out and have the funeral in this ancient place? Was a modern cathedral with air conditioning too common? He just did not get rich people.
He was feeling quite drowsy when a little voice in his ear suddenly cried out, "Mista! Get down!"
He jerked to the side, grabbing Giorno as he went, and they tumbled painfully into the narrow space between the pews just as something whizzed over their heads and cracked into the pew in front of them. Two of the Pistols had come to warn him and had stopped the bullet from going further than the wooden pew, but the family members who'd been sitting in front of them jumped up anyhow with startled cries. The rest of the crowd simply froze.
"Mista... what..." Giorno was lying beneath him, a bit breathless from the fall. Gold Experience hovered anxiously above them.
"Stay down!" Mista sprang to his feet, gun in hand. It was a tiny building, and he'd had his stands case the place when they'd come in. While he wasn't able to actually see what they saw, he instinctively knew what they knew when they returned to him, and what he knew now was that there was a little balcony above the front doors where the organist could sit, and this was the origin of the shot.
Something moved up there, and he fired without a second thought, sending the Pistols back along with the bullet to make sure it hit. There was a scream from the balcony and he jumped up on the pew and vaulted himself over their neighbors to the aisle. The noise seemed to be a catalyst for everyone else; the church become a scene of chaos in seconds, bodyguards leaping out from everywhere, people yelling, priests denouncing the lot of them.
He rushed through the crowd of confused mafioso and ran for the front; the tiny antechamber was where the narrow stone staircase for the balcony came out. He got to the bottom just as a man in dark clothing carrying a long silenced rifle came hurrying down, one of the Pistols clinging to his collar as a sign of his guilt, as if the shoulder wound he was trying to hold wasn't enough. He saw Mista and tried to raise his weapon, but Mista was faster and much more accurate; he pulled the trigger once and the man screamed as his hand exploded in a mist of blood and bone. His gun clattered on the floor and Mista kicked it away as he advanced, pistol pointed at the man's head.
"Who do you work for?"
"I'll... never tell you..." The man's breathing was heavy as he clutched his broken hand to his chest and gave Mista defiant eyes.
"Are you willing to die for it?" Mista waggled the gun. The Pistols were telling him that a small audience was gathering at the doorway to the chapel; he had no time. He didn't want his back to those people. His stands could only deflect so many bullets; fewer than usual as he had sent two of them to watch over Giorno. "Look at it this way: if you tell he might kill you, but if you don't I definitely will."
The man simply glared at him, so Mista shot him again in the kneecap, ignoring the resulting scream. He didn't have time to convince this asshole that he was serious.
"If you tell me, I'll call an ambulance. The longer it takes you to tell me, the more you'll need one. You might even get away if the guy's on the run from my boss."
"... It... S... Signore Aragosta..." The assassin grated out the name from between teeth clenched in agony, and Mista nodded.
"Thanks." Mista turned around and backed carefully to the wall, so he could keep the assassin in view and see the people behind him. "Any of you seen Giuseppe Aragosta? My boss would like to meet with him."
There was a lot of fervent headshaking. Mista sighed. Then he pulled his cell phone out and called an ambulance. One had to keep one's word, after all.
"Don't worry," he said, crouching near the assassin, who had managed to prop himself up against the wall. "I won't tell anyone which hospital I called, although it probably won't help you much." The assassin looked a bit startled.
"You... boy..." A man had stepped forward, middle-aged, in a fine suit. He eyed Mista's jeans and t-shirt. "I am Ermanno Gamberi, Don Aragosta's representative; he was ill today and unable to attend, but I hope you will not take this scum's words too seriously. Surely his true employer simply told him to say the name of a man who is not here to defend himself."
Mista glanced at the assassin, who was still shuddering against the wall, blood slowly pooling around him; the man met his gaze for a moment and then closed his eyes and gave a minute shake of his head. Mista smiled at Gamberi. "I'm sure he'll definitely consider that. Please reassure Don Aragosta that Don Giovanna is great at discovering the truth behind things."
Maybe it was his imagination, or Gamberi looked a bit sick for a moment; in any case he politely excused himself.
Most of the onlookers had dispersed; a bleeding man was nothing they hadn't all seen before, and most seemed to have discovered a sudden need to make phone calls or speak to one another.
Giorno appeared next to him.
"Boss! Are you okay?"
"I'm fine." Giorno looked over the man on the floor. "He's the one?"
"I'm... sorry..." The assassin panted, fear on his face. "My... orders..."
"I understand," Giorno said, pleasantly. "I'll let the ambulance come this time. Please... tell your colleagues not to try that again."
By the time the ambulance came nearly twenty minutes later, the funeral had resumed; when they took their seats again, the frazzled priests had already got through the communion ceremony. Mista was sorry to miss the free swig of wine; he felt he deserved it, to soothe his nerves. The clergymen were clearly unable to concentrate, though, and the rest of the funeral was as short as they could make it, which suited Mista fine.
* * *
"I thought that went well," Giorno said, when they got in the car again a few hours later.
"You got shot at, what are you talking about?" Mista felt exhausted. He'd done little all afternoon but fetch glasses of ginger ale for Giorno, but he'd been prepared to do something at any moment, and that was tiring. The car, with its bulletproof glass, was the most relaxing place he'd been all day. "And I'm pretty sure a bunch of them were sorry it missed."
"They were all in a hurry to tell me it wasn't them, though. And Signore Garmugia, I owe him. He was the first to give me a ring with his family's crest as a symbol of his loyalty, and then the rest couldn't help but do the same." He put his hand in his pocket and the rings clicked together as he pulled them out in a glittering handful. He looked around and finally tossed them into the glove compartment with a rattle.
"What're you gonna do with all the rings? We can't sell them... though I guess we don't need the money anyway."
"I was planning to keep them." Giorno started the car. "I know it's hard to believe, but some of those men might not be as loyal as they claim. And someday, I might find that one of them has betrayed me. He may try to hide himself somewhere... but now I have part of him that will seek him out, no matter where he is."
Mista blinked, then grinned. That was Giorno, always thinking of things like that. He sat back with a relieved sigh as the air conditioning kicked in.
They had almost reached the end of the little road, their car part of a dusty procession, when Mista suddenly remembered a resolution he'd come to earlier that afternoon. Because of the way Gamberi had looked at him. Because of the way everyone had looked at him all day, as if they couldn't quite believe what they were seeing.
"Hey, boss?"
"Hmm?"
"Could we stop at a... a suit store or something? I felt really out of place today... I thought, maybe you were right this morning, and I should get one."
Giorno gave him a thoughtful look. "Yes, of course we can stop by a reputable place on the way back."
A few hours later, Giorno edged the car through a narrow alley and into a small parking lot behind a nondescript building in Naples. Mista had been napping in his seat since they left Rome; he woke up when Giorno stopped the engine.
"This is the shop of very discreet tailor; I've had him do work for me before," Giorno said as he got out of the car. "He has a lot of nice suits in his store, which he could adjust to fit you, or you could even have something custom-made like I do..."
Mista imagined himself in one of Giorno's stylish but bizarre peacock suits and had to pretend he was coughing to hide his laugh. "...No thanks, boss."
"Hide your gun under your shirt or something, would you?"
Inside, Mista found that suits came in a bewildering variety of colors and styles; he gave up trying to go through them and let Giorno and the tailor's assistant bring him various things to look at while the tailor took his measurements and somehow completely ignored the gun sticking out of his pants. Mista could tell they were very pleased to see Giorno: if this wealthy young gentleman wanted to outfit some street thug in Dolce and Gabbana, they were more than happy to oblige.
Eventually he stumbled to the back of the store, burdened with a heavy load of suits and accessories. Giorno followed him and ushered him into the last dressing room; Mista was surprised to see that the dressing rooms here were actually rooms. If they were rather small and closet-like, they still boasted carpet and real doors and benches upholstered in some sueded material. He was more used to dressing rooms with wobbly temporary walls that didn't go to the ceiling, plywood doors, and suspicious substances spattered on the mirrors. It was another of those strange reminders that they'd entered another world; Mista wondered if Giorno ever felt the same disorientation that he did.
He left the door cracked open so he could talk to Giorno while he tried on the clothes.
"Where am I supposed to put this thing, boss?"
"What?" Giorno stuck his head in. "That's a handkerchief. Never mind that for now. See if any of those patterns look good on you... Or actually, just show me and I'll tell you."
"Don't you think I can tell if they're good?" Mista asked. Giorno just raised an eyebrow and retreated. "Oh, come on, boss."
"Just try something on," Giorno replied, from outside.
"By the way, boss," Mista said, shucking his t-shirt, "Next time you go to a gathering like that, you might want to bring more back-up. I mean, I guess you didn't know that they'd try shit like that at a funeral, but..."
"Actually, I knew they were planning to try to kill me," Giorno said. He pushed the door a bit further open and tossed a suit coat in onto the little bench. "Try this one on."
"You knew?!" Mista yanked the door open.
Giorno nodded.
"But why did you only bring me along, then?! And why did you let me get all relaxed?! Why didn't you tell me?!"
"Well... I was curious to see what you'd do."
"Curious–you–what if you'd been shot?! What if that guy hadn't been alone?!"
"I knew you wouldn't let me down," Giorno said. "I have faith in you, Mista. I didn't ask you to be my bodyguard just because we're friends. You–ack!" Giorno yelped as Mista grabbed him by the jacket, yanked him into the fitting room, and shut the door behind them.
"Are you stupid?!" Mista slammed Giorno up against the wall, one hand gripping Giorno's shoulder where it met his throat, the other flat against Giorno's chest, keeping the younger teen pinned to the wall. Giorno was wide-eyed in shock; he looked his age, for once. "Don't depend on me like that," Mista growled into his face. "I want to protect you, but if I fuck up or get killed, I sure as hell don't want you to die too! If you knew, you should have brought an army of guards! Or not gone at all!"
Giorno collected himself and returned Mista's glare coolly. "Well, naturally there were other reasons... why do you think they were trying to assassinate me in the first place? They don't respect me, because of my age... You think they'd respect me more if I hid from them like the last boss, or brought a small army with me to a funeral like a paranoid freak? It's the first time I've ever met with more than one or two of them at a time... most of them I hadn't met at all... I wanted to show them that they can't intimidate me, and one of the things I was there to show them was you." He lifted a hand and poked his index finger into Mista's bare chest.
"What?" Mista blinked. "Me?"
"Of course. It was a great way to demonstrate to them that I can take care of myself and I'm not afraid to meet them with only one bodyguard... and that my bodyguard is so talented and loyal that I don't need to bring any others. Don't you think they were watching you, the only person I brought with me to a gathering in a public place? That's why I was hoping you'd have something less..." Giorno eyed Mista's zebra-striped jeans. "Less... gaudy... to wear."
"But boss..."
"I'm certainly not going public with my identity, but those people gathered there were Passione's highest operatives, and I'm not going to hide from them. Why do you think Diavolo failed? It's because he cut himself off. It kept him safe for a while, but in the end, I think real loyalty is only possible if you let people know you... fear and suspense only go so far. Of course there's some risk doing it this way... but I didn't go this direction thinking it'd be safe and easy."
"But... well, we haven't gotten the chance to figure some of them out, but I doubt most of those bastards are will be very loyal."
"We're not keeping them around for all that long." Giorno smiled up at Mista, briefly and rather unpleasantly; Mista felt a sudden chill and wished he hadn't taken off his shirt. "After all, when I meet with them, they're also meeting with me. It’s good to meet with people face to face; you can learn so much more about them than a photograph could show, and as a bonus, I got all those rings. I'm certainly not ruling out the use of fear and suspense, after all."
"Well, that’s all great, but you made your point to them, right? So next time let's bring a few more guys, okay?" Mista sighed. He'd intended to lecture Giorno, but somehow it had gone the wrong way. "I mean... of course I’d die to protect you if I had to, but I really do not want to. Don't make me worry that you're gonna get us both killed. I don't care if it makes you look really badass... we'll still be dead."
Giorno looked up at him and then laughed a bit helplessly. "Mista... that's what I like about you." He stopped trying to stand straight against the wall and drooped against Mista's hands, his head flopping forward to rest on Mista's chest. "You're so loyal and practical and all that. And you actually care about what happens to me." He sounded a bit amazed at the last, as if it were a rare thing.
"B-boss..." His anger defused, Mista couldn't help but notice he was shirtless and had somehow backed Giorno up against a wall. "Um..." His grip faltered, and Giorno leaned against him more heavily. "You... of course I care. I swore an oath, right?"
Giorno, his forehead still pressed against Mista's collarbone, reached out with one hand and ran it over Mista's chest, trailing one finger lightly down over Mista's abdominal muscles to the top of his jeans. Mista swallowed and tried to ignore the wild nest of butterflies that had erupted in his stomach, as well as his sudden raging hard-on.
"I know you care, because I really don't think you’ve ever really considered leaving me and saving yourself... and I don’t think that you’ve ever thought once that if I get killed, Gold Experience's power will probably be cancelled, and you might suddenly be full of bullets again." Giorno patted Mista's stomach comfortingly. "Just think of it as one more reason for me to stay alive."
Mista, to whom this had in fact never occurred, opened his mouth to reply, but he couldn't think of anything to say. Finally he just let go of Giorno and stepped back. "I... I need to finish trying this stuff on, so I guess you'd better get out."
"Why?"
"Huh?"
"I said why?" Giorno gave him another rare smile, although this time it was far more pleasant (if no less evil). "Since we're already in here, I thought..." He reached out and grabbed Mista by the front of the pants with one hand, pulling him close again.
"Boss..." Mista's mouth had gone dry. "S-stop, or..."
"I know you want me." Giorno leaned forward and tilted his head up, his mouth close to Mista's ear, his jaw against Mista's throat. "It's been really hard not to notice, lately."
"Boss... Giorno..." Mista's hands tightened on Giorno's shoulders. "Don't... I mean... I'm sorry..."
"It's okay... so relax." Giorno ran his fingers down Mista's sides, and Mista, who was ticklish, couldn't help trembling in response. He did not feel relaxed. At all. Especially when Giorno's hands moved to the top button of his jeans.
"Boss... is this... I mean... are you sure..."
"Yes," Giorno replied simply, and stopped Mista's stuttering with his lips. Mista groaned and gave in, opening his mouth and pressing Giorno back against the wall, Giorno's hands on his hips, his pants unbuttoned and starting to slide down...
He wanted to touch Giorno so badly that he was tempted to just rip Giorno's jacket off, but knowing how much the damn thing cost, he fiddled with the clasps instead while they kissed. They were frustrating to deal with when he couldn't see them and finally he pulled away, leaving Giorno breathless, and ducked down to look at them properly.
"Why can't your jacket just have normal buttons?" he griped, undoing them, and Giorno just laughed.
Eventually he got it undone, and Giorno shrugged it off while he pulled helpfully on the sleeves. Mista pressed his lips briefly against Giorno's flat stomach; he felt the muscles twitch and couldn't help smiling.
"What's this from?" he asked, tracing a finger over a faint scar that ran over Giorno's ribcage and around to his back. It was very old, but it had once been deep; even now he could feel the groove. He left his hand on Giorno's back and stood up again, his other hand pulling Giorno's face close to his own.
"... It's from when I was a kid," Giorno said, his lips against Mista's, and Mista paused, because he hadn't really expected an answer. Scars certainly weren't unusual in their profession. "From my stepdad," Giorno continued, without any prompting. "But he stopped." Mista ran his hand slowly up Giorno's back and felt a few other raised lines on that smooth skin. It occurred to him that while he'd often imagined Giorno shirtless, he'd never actually seen him shirtless.
"... Does it bother you for me to touch them?" he asked, although he couldn't help running his finger along one of those smooth ridges as he spoke.
"It was a long time ago," Giorno said, and smiled at him, wrapping his arms around Mista's neck, and Mista forgot about all that stuff and leaned in to kiss him again, pulling Giorno up against him so hard that the button on Giorno's trousers left an indentation. Giorno's hand moved up his neck and under his hat, into his hair; he grabbed a handful of it, his fisted hand knocking off Mista's hood, and Mista barely had the presence of mind to send his stands out to catch it before it hit the floor and spilled spare bullets everywhere.
He undid Giorno's pants and shoved them off; his own had basically fallen off since they hadn't fit all that tightly to begin with. Giorno reached down and touched him, and Mista couldn't help violently bucking up against him, his fingers digging into Giorno's hips, his lips bruising on Giorno's teeth. Giorno's head thumped hard on the wall and Mista immediately let him go.
"Oh shit! Are you all right?"
Giorno laughed again. Mista had never heard him laugh so much in one day and absently wondered if there was some quota that would be met and no smiles for the rest of the month or something.
"I'm fine," Giorno said; his green eyes narrowed and he smiled, then pushed away from the wall, shoving Mista across the tiny room and up against a mirror, which was quite cold. This time when he trailed a finger along Mista's manhood, Mista just shivered against the chilly glass and held still, even though what he really wanted was to grab Giorno and fuck him into the floor.
Giorno trailed kisses down his neck and chest, then knelt and rather suddenly wrapped his mouth around Mista's penis; his tongue was rough and agile against Mista's flesh and Mista felt his knees turn to water, not in small part because all his fantasies had not prepared him for reality. He gently pushed Giorno away and sank to the floor before he fell, his back sliding down the mirror. Giorno crawled up over him and kissed him again; Mista was acutely aware of every point their bodies touched. Too many places. Not enough.
Giorno pulled away and dropped himself into Mista's lap, slithering backwards, his body rubbing against Mista's penis all the way down, and Mista moaned softly and buried one hand in Giorno's thick golden hair as Giorno returned to his former ministrations. Mista bit his lip; he didn't want to make noise here, no matter how discreet the proprietor was.
"Giorno," he gasped, the only warning he could give before his hips thrust upwards convulsively and his brain went blank. Giorno fell backwards with a surprised cough and his hand to his face, and Mista realized he'd accidentally hit him in the nose with his pelvic bone.
"Sorry, boss, are you okay?"
Giorno, who was lying on his back with one hand over his face, made a noise that sounded suspiciously like he was laughing again.
Mista had slipped further down against the mirror, only his shoulderblades against it now, the cool glass pleasant against his fevered skin. He took a deep breath and levered himself upright.
"Boss?" He crawled over to Giorno. "Did I hurt you? I'm sorry–"
Giorno reached up and grabbed him, pulling Mista down on top of him, and Mista decided Giorno was probably fine, especially because he could feel Giorno's erection grinding against him. He kissed the boy and then attempted to pull away so he could return the favor, but Giorno held onto him, his arms wrapped tightly around Mista's neck, so Mista used his hand instead.
Giorno bit him in the end, his teeth pressed into Mista's shoulder and his breath hot and panting and irregular as he thrust himself into the hard circle of Mista's fingers. He shuddered at the final moment, a tremor that ran through his whole body, and then there was a long moment of silence.
Giorno pulled away from him and looked at the circle of red marks on Mista's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said, and looked rather contrite for once. "Does that hurt?"
"Not really," Mista said. "How do you feel?" Will you regret this? was what he really wanted to ask, but he was afraid.
"Great, actually," said Giorno, slowly getting to his feet. "But really tired. Maybe I should have waited till we got home."
Relief washed over Mista, but he couldn't reply to that, so he just held up his hand.
"What should I do about this?" He looked around. "Should I just wipe it on the carpet?"
"No! We'll just... buy one of these handkerchiefs."
Mista finally tried on the suits, with Giorno standing by thoughtfully; if the tailor or his assistants had noticed that Giorno had been nowhere to be seen for quite a while, they didn't say a word about it. Giorno decided on five of the suits, and the tailor promised to have them altered properly for Mista's measurements and delivered within a week. Giorno offered to buy the clothing, "because you'll be using it for work," and when Mista saw the final price he decided not to argue. He could have lived for a year on that kind of money.
Giorno was quiet on the drive home, which was not unusual for him; Mista usually assumed he was thinking of plans for ruling the mafia or something and left him alone, but tonight he wanted to know what was going through Giorno's mind. He was about to ask, but Giorno spoke first.
"Mista... when you were sort of staring off into space at the church, what were you thinking about?"
"Huh? Well... a bunch of things..." Mista tried to remember. "Oh... I thought about Buccellati."
"So did I," Giorno said.
"Really?"
"I remembered what a great person he was, and how I admired him... do you think you'd have been better off if he were the one leading now?"
"Not really," Mista said. "You're both the kind of person who could be a great leader, just in different ways... I'm with you because I know you have the same ideals he did, and you're capable of making them reality."
"...Thanks, Mista. I'm... really glad you think that."
Giorno was silent for another long stretch.
"If I ever become the kind of person you wouldn't want to follow... you'll shoot me, won't you?"
"...Even if it kills me."
* * *
THE END