Chapter Text
Unfortunately, Giorno’s room is right next to Mista’s. It feels like trying to avoid a trap walking past Mista’s door to his own. He pauses. Voices from Mista’s room. When he listens in closer, he can tell Trish is trying to talk to Mista, though he never hears Mista, only his Stand. Number 5 is sobbing, as usual, but the others debate over each other with Trish over something.
Shaking his head, Giorno steps into his room and closes the door.
From the other side of the wall, Mista can hear Giorno’s door open and close. So he went to bed without even thinking twice about him. Sex Pistols, ever so helpfully, voice this observation.
Giorno didn’t even stop to say goodnight!
sniffling, Number 5 whines pathetically to the others.
Of course he didn’t!
Number 3 snaps. Why would he?
It does seem odd that Giorno isn’t the least bit concerned,
Trish ponders. You said you wanted to talk to him about what happened at the market?
No no no no,
Number 7 corrects. Mista doesn’t want to, but he thought Giorno would say something about it.
We thought he’d at least stop by,
Number 1 adds on. All sitting on Mista’s hip, the Pistols glance about at each other, cooking up a scheme. Should we go get him?
No.
Mista’s muffled voice asserts from under his pillows. He presses one tightly over his head while his face is buried in another. Whatever you do, Trish, do not let the Pistols talk to Giorno.
It’s not like they can make it worse,
Trish tries to soothe. She rests her hand on Mista’s shoulder, but he shudders in despair. No, they can’t make it worse than Mista already has. He has shoved Giorno away, and for what?
Why do soulmates even matter anyway?
Lifting the edge of the pillow, Mista speaks marginally clearer. It doesn’t help that he’s fighting a wave of sobs and his nose is plugging up terribly for it. Why can’t I just, I don’t know, do what Bucciarati and Abbacchio do? Clearly they weren’t ever meant for each other. Although, I don’t know who else in the world could tolerate the goth.
People are with who they are meant to be with.
It feels fake and recited even as she says it, but it’s how Trish came to accept the idea of soulmates herself. She never really had the luxury of seeking hers out, and now she’s beyond the point of caring. She likes being on her own.
As Mista heaves a heavy sigh, Trish leaves him with a soft goodnight, not knowing how to offer her assistance any further. She’s done the best she could, but Mista needs answers she doesn’t have.
Will you at least talk to him?
she asks at Mista’s door before she leaves. The mountain of pillows and sheets doesn’t stir, and the Pistols hover around his head to listen for the answer. They each pull back, shaking their heads. No response. Disappointed, Trish pulls the door closed behind her.
Giorno listens as Trish’s heeled footsteps fade away. Not even Sex Pistols seems to stir in the settling of the night. Crickets chirp, and Giorno can only imagine the chill outside now that the sun has set. Layering his blankets, the blond sits up in his bed, ready to find some sleep.
Murmuring from Mista’s room catches his attention again. This time, Mista directly speaks to the Pistols, earning a variety of responses from each. They seem almost conspiring as Giorno swings his legs off of the bed. There’s shuffling, and things being moved, and subtle curses under his breath. Before Giorno knows it, he’s leaning against their shared wall, ear pressed to the wall.
Are you sure about this Mista?
one of the Pistols asks, worried.
I have to. There’s no other way.
Or you can stop,
another Pistol recommends.
Please stop!
Number 5 cries. Please! Mista! Don’t do this!
Shut up!
Mista shouts. Giorno jumps away from the wall. There’s a sudden silence between the two rooms. Straining his ears, Giorno listens to a drawer open and close. Then more silence. It seems as if the Pistols have been completely enraptured into silence, or have finally taken their place back into Mista’s gun.
Something pulls at Giorno, concerned over Mista’s room going so quiet. Compelled, Giorno slips out of his bedroom. In front of Mista’s door, he feels his heart beating, not necessarily any faster, but harder. How does he even approach him anymore? Good afternoon, Mista, people thought I was touching your crotch but I sort of liked the idea, how about you?
Kicking himself, he knocks before he can think twice. The door swings open as if he was waiting for someone to knock. It makes Giorno’s heart sink further. Was he really waiting for him this whole time?
Hey Giorno,
Mista chuckles. For a brief moment, Giorno registers that he’s halfway ready for bed, shirtless but still wearing his hat and casual pants. He sees straight through him, however, to see him wanting to hide something. Of course, that’s obvious enough by the way Mista doesn’t fully open the door to him.
Mista,
Giorno starts. Immediately, the gunslinger’s smile falls. All of his own concerns are shoved to the side once Giorno’s voice falls low. Can we talk?
Sure. Here?
Mista glances back into his room nervously.
You know I don’t mind if it’s a mess,
chuckling, Giorno lets himself in before witnessing the horror that Mista’s room has become.
It’s more than just a mess. It’s carefully organized out of place. Books on the bookshelves, but not in the order they once were. The curtains carefully rehung, but not at proper intervals. Even Mista’s pillows, one seems missing from the group of five he insists on having. No, something is wrong. Everything is grouped in fours.
Behind him, Mista stands perfectly straight, as if afraid by even breathing, everything will come down all at once. Giorno shakes his head in disbelief. Why would Mista do this? Turning to face him, he even notices his bare arm, the number four drawn up his arm in tiny handwriting. Was that what the Pistols were protesting?
Giorno takes Mista’s arm, sending a jolt through his body, tracing his fingers over all the digits. Why? Why would he do this to himself? Wavering blue eyes rise to meet Mista’s, seeing nothing but fragments of his soul struggling to stay together. Out of instinct, Giorno brushes his knuckles over Mista’s cheek.
Why?
Giorno begs the question.
I have to prove…
Mista trails off.
Prove what?
That I can get over it.
He gestures widely to his room. Get over… all of this.
Mista, again, why?
The pure look in Giorno’s eyes starts to break through Mista’s last semblance of sanity. Don’t do this to yourself. You don’t need to prove yourself to anyone.
Tears twinkle in Mista’s dark eyes. Giorno can sense the collapse moments before it happens. He braces to catch Mista, his palms against his eyes, only for Mista to turn and shout to the ceiling. Not knowing what else to do, Giorno again tries to tame Mista, if only for the sake of not waking up the entire house. He grabs Mista’s arms, pulling on them to bring him back down from freaking out.
Sex Pistols burst out of the gun on the desk, all begging Mista to stop running in circles. At every turn, he runs into a self-induced four. What has he done? He thought by confronting his worst fear he could make it all go away. Shivers tingle up his arms as he remembers the fours written there.
Number 3,
Giorno commands the Pistols, his own Stand shimmering beside him. Go get a towel and some water with Golden Experience. Take Number 5, 6, and 7 with you.
They nod, shooting off to follow their command. Number 1 and Number 2 await their duties, assigned to rearranging Mista’s room to how it was before. If Giorno had known, he would’ve been here sooner.
In the meantime, Giorno leads Mista to his bed by his shoulders. Mista still keeps his eyes covered. His whole face is red, though Giorno doesn’t know if its from the panic, the tears, or the shame. Perhaps it’s all three. It makes Giorno’s breath catch, but he has to be strong for his friend.
Mista becomes unresponsive for a long moment. The Pistols have the room tidied and the others will be back soon. Number 1 and Number 2 take their leave to help the other Pistols fetch some soap. Comfortingly, Giorno rubs Mista’s back, selfish for thinking he could ever enjoy running his hands over his bare skin but taking advantage of the moment for what it is. Mista needs him to be there right now. He doesn’t need anything more complicated.
I thought,
Mista begins with a shaky, partially broken voice. I thought that if I could fix my fear, that I could- That I wouldn’t be weak anymore. That maybe I can be taken seriously. I don’t know.
Throwing his hands up in the air, Giorno finds it hard to meet Mista’s gaze.
His eyes linger on Mista’s bare arms. Bucciarati said that he had his marks, but he doubts the fours were drawn by a soulmate completely unaware of Mista’s phobia. They’d have to know Mista to know the association with fours in the first place, and it sets Giorno’s blood to a boil.
The only other marks on his left arm are long faded and unrecognizable, just like how Giorno scrubbed away his drawings. He didn’t think his soulmate thought anything of it if they never responded to his art. Regardless, there’s still writing on his right arm. It’s in Mista’s handwriting however. Three items of the list of things he needed from the market.
Pausing, Giorno glances back to his own arm. He had thought he had noticed something on his right arm, almost like an itch that never bothered him, but he knew was there. Lifting his own sleeve, he feels Mista’s gaze shift to his arm as well. They watch as Giorno slowly pulls back his sleeve.
At first, Giorno blinks, not seeing anything on his arm where he would expect to see the usual soulmate marks: the wrist, back of the hand, low on his arm. Far from it. Far up the inside of his arm is a list for bread, vegetables, and eggs. On the back of his arm, a trail of the number four.
Both of them pause for a beat. Not even their breathing interrupts the silence. Partially, it’s because Mista hasn’t thought to breathe. Those marks. They’re on Giorno’s skin. But he wrote them on his arm. The vines from the middle of the night, now that he thinks of it, match the scribbled handwriting he glanced on Giorno’s arm, that matched his own. Several instances of Narancia making fun of Giorno’s left-handedness align all at the same time; eating, drinking, writing, driving, shooting.
When Mista turns to tell Giorno his revelation, he’s cut preemptively short by soft lips pressed to his. The world fades away for a moment, entirely erased except for the extreme focus on the fact that Giorno is here, in his bedroom, on his bed, next to him, kissing him. Kissing him. Oh fuck, oh hell. Oh fucking hell.
He doesn’t notice that they’ve been kissing so long until they pull away, and then it feels too short. He needs another kiss, right now, so he leans in and takes it. This time, he lets his arm go around behind Giorno - fuck it’s really Giorno - but unsure of where to put it. He leans against his arm instead, leaning into the kiss that Giorno heartily returns. They drink each other in as if parched, they crave each other as if they’d been starved.
When they part again, Mista’s heart skips at the sight. Giorno’s lips are parted, his gaze heavy under his eyelashes, his chest rising with a more labored breath. Suddenly, he’s very aware of his lack of a shirt. Though, just as surprisingly, he doesn’t seem to care. Where before he was embarrassed showing even his midriff around Giorno, now he’s glad he already took off his sweater. He would’ve been overheating at this rate anyway.
Mista,
Giorno finally finds his breath. Can I ask you, really, why you tried… Why write the fours on your arm?
Mista swallows the lump in his throat.
I thought my soulmate would think I’m weird for being afraid of it. I thought they wouldn’t want to be with me if they found out, so I thought maybe I’d try getting over it for them.
The look he gives Giorno turns softer the more he stares, and Giorno tries not to let himself blush, if it’s even possible. He suddenly turns shy, however, and averts his gaze. I’m sorry for how I acted in the market by the way. That was-
Perfectly understandable,
Giorno interrupts. His golden smile returns and it mends Mista’s heart in all the right places. I understand, at least. You don’t need to torture yourself to prove to me that you’re perfect.
Blushing, Mista buries his face in his hands again. How does he even compare to that? Perfect? He’s far from. Still, here’s Giorno, calming him down and getting him through his phobia, rubbing his back again in soothing circles that feel so good.
You’re so great, and beautiful, and amazing. You save my ass more than half of the time. I don’t even feel like I deserve you. You’re an angel and I feel so blessed to even know you.
Mista rambles. He catches his breath, peeking his eyes out between his fingers.
There’s something sultry in the way Giorno cocks his head, taking in all the compliments as his fingers drag along his side around to his front. His skin tingles wherever Giorno touches, and his muscles tense in anticipation. Distracting himself, Mista tries not to think about Giorno touching him, or anticipating anything further.
I owe you an apology as well.
Confused, Mista glances over to the blond, who doesn’t meet his gaze. At the market. I shouldn’t have gotten so upset. Especially not afterwards.
It’s a good thing you were there. If you didn’t stop me, I would have shot the poor vendor.
Mista reminds. With a warm chuckle, Giorno nods.
Golden hair starts to fall loose, the hair tie keeping his braid together already missing. Giorno, it seems, was also in the process for getting to bed. The bed shifts as Mista stands. Blue eyes follow him as he stands, but he keeps Giorno in place with a hand on his shoulder.
Standing in front of him, Mista lets his coolest look take over his expression, trying to pull his best coy grin as he gazes into the endless skies in Giorno’s eyes. He almost breaks, losing himself in the gaze, but he steels himself back.
So, we’re soulmates,
he doesn’t ask, he states. With a calculated nod, Giorno returns the cool flirt with a raised chin and half of a smirk.
We’re soulmates.
Do you know that as soon as I saw you at the market, I had hoped you were my soulmate?
Mista sighs. At this, Giorno genuinely seems surprised.
I thought your marks had only just shown up. If it was those flowers I drew, then it was only last night.
He tilts his head as Mista lowers himself down to one knee, taking Giorno’s hand in both of his and raising it to his lips.
I knew I didn’t want anyone else.
The soft tone whispered against his knuckles sets Giorno’s heart racing. He hasn’t felt anything like this ever since nearly losing Mista when he shot himself with Sex Pistols. Particularly when he had to heal Mista, and seeing the only way to do so was to use his own hands to reach the wounds. Of course, he had tried to soothe Mista at the time, his hand moving of its own accord. He had stifled that memory as soon as it was over, not knowing what to think of his subconscious desires.
And yet here they are, all pooling into one thought as Mista kneels before him, head low to kiss his knuckles, and then his knees. Why kiss his knees? The answer becomes clear soon enough. Mista’s warm breath draws his blood lower in his body. It rushes fast than he expects, feeling nearly dizzy. Giorno doesn’t mind, however. Mista settles back on his legs on the floor, and Giorno vaguely recognizes the implication of all this. He weakly shakes his head, knowing that this is all moving too fast for him.
First you nearly blow me trying to heal me,
Mista brings up the same instance, with a slightly more accurate retelling, then you nearly grab me in the market. And don’t forget your hand on my thigh.
Lifting a brow, Mista seems to tease him right back for all his forwardness. Giorno mentally curses himself for being so naturally charming and forward. He hadn’t really meant all of it when it happened. Or did he?
Consider this payback, Giorno Giovanna,
Mista sighs, letting his head fall forward.
Just as Mista claimed, it’s far too much, and getting under his clothes makes it all the worse. Or better, depending on how he looked at it. Sweat already pours at his temples. His hair falls loose from the perfect curls he kept all day. Not like he particularly cares, but he might need to be mindful when this happens again. That thought combined with Mista’s well-timed moan sends Giorno over the moon. His head falls back, his hand curling into Mista’s hat.
Mista… wait…
Giorno pants. Mista lifts his head to provide enough relief for Giorno to sit up. He hardly has any strength to, much less to pull at Mista’s infuriating hat, but he tries to get his message across. Mista glances away, biting his lip in thought.
I’ve never really taken my hat off in front of anyone,
Mista admits, glancing up shyly into Giorno’s blown eyes.
A day full of first for both of us then,
Giorno teases right back. A chuckle rumbles through Mista. He runs his hand over his head before running his fingers through his hair under his hat. With one last final hesitation, Mista finally tosses it off. Giorno hadn’t really known what he expected. He’s more surprised for how unsurprising his hair is. Short, brown, and spiky with a bad case of hat hair.
When Mista meets Giorno’s eyes again, seeking approval, Giorno’s heart does a flip. How is Mista so unbelievably… cute? It feels so vulnerable, leaving Mista exposed like this, and yet the older teen leans into Giorno’s hand. Threading his fingers through feels like heaven. This is what they’re doing, but seeing Mista without his hat feels like a step much further than where they are now. It feels more intimate. Mista, too, recognizes the significance, glancing back to his hat but resolutely pressing his hair into Giorno’s fingers.
Mista’s eyes flick back down, distracted by a slight twitching movement in front of his face, and his once cute soft eyes turn deep with lust.
Giorno.
Mista purrs against his thigh.
Oh Mista,
Giorno sighs, letting his head fall back again. This time, he’s rewarded with running his fingers through Mista’s incredibly soft hair. He’s thankful for it too, for now he can use Mista’s hair to grip onto. Mistaaa…
There’s not a thought in his mind other than how good he feels. He feels nothing except incredible that Mista is even his soulmate, let alone this. He couldn’t care about anything else at this moment. Nothing can distract him and how cute Mista is. Not even how Abbacchio storms in recklessly throwing open the door. For a second, his hair even looks like snakes thrashing around his shoulders.
Giorno Giovanna, you better fix my hair this instant-
Leveling Abbacchio with a lackadaisical glare, Giorno smiles, his grip in Mista’s hair keeping him in place right where he’s at. Golden Experience must’ve gotten to him, albino snakes indeed curling around his neck.
In a moment? I’m in the middle of something…
Later,
Abbacchio agrees, shielding his eyes with one hand as he slams the door shut with the other.
When he finally releases Mista, he leans back to glance back at the door in a panic.
Don’t worry,
Giorno tries to soothe, trying to snatch Mista back to the job at hand. I’m sure he won’t tell.
Serves him right for not locking his door,
Mista spits. He turns back to Giorno with a wicked glare. I told you - payback.