Work Text:
With one final blow, the stand user crumpled to the ground in a heap of mangled body parts and thick tree branches. Giorno huffed, his hands dropping to his knees, as Gold Experience dissipated into the heavy air of the parking garage. The enemy was strong and his stand had razor-like claws that shredded even the concrete beneath their feet.
As he caught his breath, Giorno began to notice a sticky warmth growing at his side. With the adrenaline wearing off, a sharp pain settled in, making him wince. His reflexes were quick, but the stand still managed to slice through him with surgical precision. Giorno groaned quietly, fighting the urge to press his hand over the injury. It didn’t feel that deep. He miscalculated his dodge, but he must have managed to evade the brunt of the attack. He probably got nicked by the tips of the blades, that was all. Glancing down at his body, he was pleased to see that the black fabric of his jacket hid any evidence of his injury.
He could assess the damage later. Mista was in a worse shape and he was Giorno’s priority. He took a deep breath, then pushed himself up to full height, he needed to reunite with his teammate.
Mista was slouched against their car, his cashmere sweater soaked with crimson, and a small puddle growing beneath him. Giorno noted the tight furrow in his brow and his clenched jaw. He grimaced. No matter the increasingly large number of times Mista was injured on missions, he never got used to it. Even with the ability to heal the most grievous injuries, the fear of losing someone so important to him always found its way to the pit of his stomach.
Giorno knelt, then grimaced. The sudden movement shot a wave of agony through his side and he fought to stifle a groan. He bit his lip, repeatedly telling himself to internalize the pain. Gold Experience was nearly at his limit, and with how lightheaded he was feeling, he knew he didn’t have enough energy to heal them both. His hands were hovering over Mista’s chest before he even considered the alternative.
He called to his stand and its aura shimmered to life, coating his palms in gold.
“G-Giorno, wait, one sec—” Mista cried out as Gold Experience begin the healing process.
Giorno’s hands were shaking against Mista’s chest as he funnelled all his strength into transforming the fabric of his sweater into flesh. He was almost done, he just needed a little more power to fill the deep slices and close the wounds. He braced himself, tensing and pushing his ability to the limit. Finally, with one last surge of energy, Mista was whole again, and Gold Experience’s form was allowed to vanish beneath Giorno’s skin.
A small smile tugged at his lips as he traced over the new flesh with his fingers. He could rest now, his job was complete. A wave of fatigue washed over him and he swayed. He was barely holding himself up, then the next thing he knew he was falling forward.
Giorno didn’t fall far before his head landed softly against Mista’s shoulder. His vision spun and his eyes wouldn’t focus no matter how much he begged them to. He panicked, but then Mista’s arms were around him, and he remembered he was relatively safe.
It was a bit of a blur, but he felt Mista hoist him up in careful arms. He carried him around the side of the vehicle, then helped him into the passenger seat, even doing up his seatbelt.
Giorno pried open his eyes to meet Mista’s worried gaze.
“Gio, are you okay?” Mista brushed his cheek with his knuckles, then gently tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “Thanks for fixing me up, but, man you look exhausted.”
“I’ll be alright.”
Mista smiled sheepishly. “Get some rest. I’ll get us home and you can pass out for the night.”
Giorno just nodded.
Mista gave him one last look before closing the car door and making his way over to the driver’s side. He wasn’t the best driver, to say the least, and Giorno’s side ached with every bump or sharp turn. The movement jostled the slices in his flesh, and it felt like he was being ripped apart. All he could do to combat the unbearable agony was brace the injury with a shaky hand.
Luckily, they weren’t far from the villa, Giorno was sure he could make it back without any issues. He just needed to regain some strength before using his stand again, so at worst he’d have to rest for the night and then heal himself in the morning. He clenched his jaw tight; he could do this.
He glanced over at Mista, noticing his carefree smile. He was probably content their mission was a success and eager to get home. Giorno’s stomach pooled with dread at the thought of ruining that. No one needed to bear witness to his weakness and errors in battle, especially not Mista.
Twenty minutes later, they were pulling into the long driveway. Giorno watched Mista park through bleary eyes. He turned the keys, and the engine’s hum faded into the night.
“Home at last,” he said with a sigh.
Giorno nodded, weakly pushing open the car door and pulling himself out of the vehicle. His movements were sluggish and being on his feet again was dizzying.
“I can’t relax yet though, I still have some work to do,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady and unassuming.
Mista came around the car. “You’re such a workaholic, you deserve a break. Wanna watch a movie or something?”
“I can’t, I need to– to,” Giorno’s head spun, and his vision darkened. He blinked furiously, losing his balance.
Suddenly, Mista’s hands were on his shoulders, steadying him. He kept a protective hand on his back, and lead him through the garage entrance.
“You look like you’re going to pass out.”
Giorno needed to get away as quickly as possible. His facade was slipping, and he didn’t want Mista to realize there was something wrong. The amazement that shone in his eyes when Giorno healed his wounds or defended him in battle would disappear. Instead, he’d be something weak, something fragile. As the team’s main support, he refused to be seen as anything but consistent and reliable. His job— no his purpose was to take care of the team, if he faltered, they would see him as a liability.
“I’m pretty tired,” Giorno admitted. “I think I’ll head to bed for the night.”
“Is that all?” Since when was Mista so perceptive? “It’s just, you seem more than tired, I don’t know how to explain it.”
Giorno narrowed his eyes at the accusation. “I’m fine, as I said, I’m just tired,” he snapped. The pain was starting to get to him. He didn’t mean to be rude, but he needed to get away.
Mista recoiled. “Didn’t mean to make you repeat yourself.”
He sounded hurt. Giorno paled. He had to reassure him that he didn’t meant to snap. He could tell Mista he had a long day, and that the fatigue was getting to him. He could offer to watch a movie with him tomorrow or something like that. All he knew was that he needed to fix the situation.
“Wait no Mista I–,” Giorno lurched forward on instinct. He felt his side tear, and pain spread through him like wildfire. “I—” he cried out, cutting himself off.
Mista caught him before he even realized he was falling, but when his hand tightened over Giorno’s side he couldn’t stay composed. The pressure against his injury was agonizing. He whimpered pathetically, biting the inside of his cheek to suppress any more pained sounds. It was too late though. He knew Mista heard because his eyes widened, and all Giorno could do was weakly push him away. He forced himself to stay upright on shaky legs. Even standing on his own was starting to feel like a victory.
“What’s wrong Giorno?” Any agitation was completely forgotten, instead, Mista’s voice was filled with the most genuine worry he’s ever heard.
He didn’t respond, he just lowered his head and took a few careful steps backward.
“You’re bleeding,” Mista said slowly. He was looking down at his hand, stained with Giorno’s blood. “Are you hurt?”
Giorno shook his head furiously. “It doesn’t matter.”
Suddenly, Mista closed the distance between them, his hands landing on Giorno’s forearms with a gentleness he wasn’t familiar with.
“What the hell man?” He said with an exasperated sigh.
“It’s not bad…” Giorno tried to be persuasive, “I-I’ll fix it in the morning. I just need to recharge.”
Mista didn't look convinced and his worried expression never left. “You used up all your energy healing me even though you got hurt in the fight too.” It was more of a statement than a question. “I’m sorry Giorno, I didn’t realize. I can be kind of oblivious sometimes.”
“Don’t apologize, I didn’t want you to know,” he said quietly.
Giorno couldn’t believe this was happening. If only he concealed his pain just a little longer, Mista would be blissfully unaware, and he’d be able to fix himself without getting anyone involved. He didn’t even want to imagine what Mista must think of him now.
“You were going to hide this from me?” Mista asked in disbelief.
“Can we just drop it? It’s not that bad,” Giorno tried to reason with him again.
Mista wasn’t having it. He brushed his hand over Giorno’s side, fingers prodding just enough to elicit a sharp gasp. Giorno slapped his hand away and hugged his middle defensively.
“Don’t lie to me,” Mista nearly shouted. “Can’t you see I’m right here? I want to help you, but you have to let me.”
Giorno didn’t like where this was going. He didn’t want Mista to see him like this.
“I will always be here for you, no matter the circumstances,” he continued. “Do you trust me, GioGio?”
Giorno wrinkled his nose at the nickname, but the sentiment still got through. He trusted Mista with his life.
“Yes, I do I just–”
“Then let me take care of you for once,” Mista cut him off, not allowing any room for ‘buts’. “Here, put your arm around my shoulders. I’ll help you upstairs.”
Giorno’s cheeks burned with embarrassment, but there was no way around it. Not when Mista’s gentle tone and soft touches were exactly what he needed right now. He melted into Mista’s side, reluctant but willing to at accept his offer. Giorno carefully draped his arm across Mista’s shoulders, letting him support some of his weight. The pain was starting to freeze up his hip, stealing his mobility, so he was silently grateful for the help.
As they ascended the stairs, Giorno found it increasingly difficult to move the left side of his body. It hurt terribly and he stifled a cry of pain when Mista’s hip accidentally bumped into his side. He leaned heavily into him, ashamed, but unable to deny the sorry state he was in any longer.
When they reached the landing, Mista lead him to the washroom and helped him settle on the toilet seat. Giorno watched him pull the first aid kit out from under the sink, and a few old cloths from the linen cupboard.
Mista looked Giorno up and down, then gestured at his jacket. “Let’s get that off you.”
He knelt beside him and started reaching for the zipper at the bottom of the heart-shaped cutout. The situation made Giorno feel backed into a corner like a frightened child. He pushed Mista’s hand away on instinct and looked up at him pleadingly. “Mista, I can do this myself. You don’t have to– I don’t want you to–”
Mista looked perplexed. “I want to, Giorno, if you’ll let me. Please let me take care of you for once.”
“You don’t understand– I can’t.” He squeezed his eyes shut.
He knew Mista was just trying to help, but his presence made him feel so much worse. Accepting help to get upstairs was one thing, but he couldn’t let him tend to his wounds. His injury wrapped around his side, Mista would definitely see the cruel evidence of his weakness, written across his back. The thought was nauseating. No one was ever supposed to see the shame he was forced to carry.
Giorno had been studying the way Mista looked at him since the day they met. All this time, it was with mesmerization and awe, sometimes even a hint of desire. Mista always smiled at him with admiration that Giorno needed to live up to. He couldn’t bear to see those dark eyes contort with pity. He pulled his jacket tighter around his body, fully aware of how pitiful he must have looked. His composure was cracked, and he feared he had already ruined Mista’s image of him.
“You don’t have to take it off fully, can you just open the front?”
Giorno stiffened. He really didn’t want to, but Mista was asking to meet him halfway. Maybe that would be okay. He nodded slowly, bringing a shaky hand to the zipper and undoing the front of his jacket. Dried blood glued the fabric to the wound, and peeling it back was agonizing. He inhaled sharply and let out a small pained sound.
Giorno glanced over at Mista who was washing his hands. He soaked a cloth in warm soapy water, then came back to kneel beside him. He looked up at him as if to ask for permission. Giorno gave a small nod, then looked away, squeezing the counter. The cloth was like sandpaper against the tender flesh around the lacerations. He convulsed, his whole body shaking with pain as Mista wiped up the blood.
“You shouldn’t have tried to hide this from me,” Mista mumbled. “This looks so fucking painful.”
Giorno groaned quietly. He could tell Mista was being as gentle as he could, but it was hard when there was so much damage.
“It’s not too bad,” he lied through his teeth.
Giorno admitted he was too optimistic earlier when he thought he was only grazed. He looked down at his side, noting that the slices were fairly deep, and the surrounding skin was badly inflamed. Blood continued to leak out, dripping down his side and vanishing into the black waistband of his pants.
“You’ll be able to heal this in the morning right?” Mista asked. “If not, I can call Bucciarati–”
“No,” Giorno cut him off. “No thank you. No one else needs to know about this. I’ll be fine. I just need to rest, then I’ll heal it.”
Mista nodded, but he didn’t look convinced. “Alright, for now we need to stop the bleeding. You think you can take off your jacket now so I can see the full extent of your injuries?”
The request ignited his defences and any progress Mista made was gone. “No, I’ve already shown you too much.”
“What are you talking about?” Mista asked, “why are you being so difficult?”
He was sitting on the bathroom floor, looking up with that same, genuine worry. It was confusing, because by this point, Giorno expected frustration and pity. He knew he was being extremely difficult, but in his defence, he expected Mista to leave him alone. His persistence was unnerving, but a small part of him found it endearing.
Mista was still looking up at him, expecting an answer so Giorno sighed in defeat. “I just don’t want you to see me like this.”
“Like what?”
Was he going to make him say it out loud? He cringed. “Injured, weak, useless,” he muttered under his breath.
Mista narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?” He shook his head. “You’re not weak or useless. I don’t know why you’d ever think that. You're just injured, but that’s why I’m here,” he offered him a playful smile, “y’know, on the bathroom floor, surrounded by first aid stuff, trying to take care of you.”
Mista was always glowing, and as usual, his smile was contagious. A small part of Giorno insisted that he wouldn’t see him any differently and that they’d already come so far. Maybe if he could just let him in, even when he was at his most vulnerable, it would do some good for them both. Mista wanted him to trust him with this. It was just painfully difficult.
Slowly, and without words, Giorno pulled his jacket off his shoulders, and let it slide down behind his back. His hands shook as he pulled his arms out of the sleeves. He turned himself so he was sideways, facing the counter, with his left side facing Mista. He leaned his forehead against the cool marble, breathing deeply. From this angle, he was sure Mista could see his scars almost as well as the deep gashes that ran along his ribcage.
A minute passed and neither one of them spoke. Instead, Giorno felt a warm hand brace his hip as Mista pressed a fresh cloth to his side. Even though it was relatively soft, the fabric grated against his open wounds, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from making any sound. His body trembled when Mista started applying pressure, and he let out a choked cry.
“Shit, I’m sorry, I just gotta stop the bleeding.”
Then Mista moved his free hand from Giorno’s hip to the middle of his bare back, rubbing gently. The skin-on-skin contact was immediately too much. Mista’s hand was warm, stroking up and down the raised and battered flesh. Giorno couldn’t believe this was happening. He turned abruptly and pushed himself against the toilet tank, staring at Mista with haunting green eyes.
“W-what happened?” he sputtered, “was I pressing too hard on your side?”
Giorno shook his head furiously. “Mista, you really are oblivious.”
Mista rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “I know, I know, I don’t always pick up on things. What’s going on?”
“Y-you were touching my back,” Giorno muttered quietly.
There was a small pause, but Mista’s perplexed look never changed. “So?”
“You shouldn’t… why would you even…” Giorno trailed off because he was at a loss for words.
“I’m sorry man, I was just tryna comfort you.” Mista inched forward on the floor, fiddling with a pack of sutures. “Can we continue getting you all patched up so you can rest?”
Giorno was silently grateful for the change in topic. He didn’t know what came over him, just that Mista’s hand brushing up and down his back was too much for him. He tensed, disgusted by his reaction. He didn’t meant to get so jumpy; it was pathetic and he wished he could take it back.
He just couldn’t understand why Mista would touch him like that. His back was a horrific mess. Did he not see the scars? Did he not feel them? They were the ugliest part of him and try as he might, he could never be rid of them. He replayed Mista’s reaction in his head, or lack of reaction. He didn’t ask what happened, and he even went as far as to touch him. It was supposed to be an act of comfort, but it filled him with unease.
Meanwhile, Mista continued to tend to Giorno’s wounds. He pinched the lacerations together, then taped them shut with butterfly sutures. “You probably need stitches, but if you’ll be able to heal yourself tomorrow morning, this should be enough for now."
Being taken care of was foreign. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how truly lucky he was to have someone in his life who would go to such lengths for him. He hated being vulnerable and opening up, but at the same time, it was cathartic.
Mista taped gauze pads over his wounds, then began wrapping his stomach with fresh bandages. He weaved them around his body, his face only inches away from Giorno’s chest. He flushed when he noticed the closeness, but he realized he wasn’t opposed to it. When he was finished, Giorno pulled his jacket back on. Even in its tattered bloody state, it offered him security.
“Let's get you to bed,” Mista said gently.
Giorno let him guide his arm across his shoulders and support him as they made their way to his bedroom. He was exhausted, desperately in need of rest. In the morning, this would all be over. He’d turn the gauze into new flesh, and piece himself back together as he always did.
Even so, he knew things would be different between himself and Mista. Giorno showed him a part of himself that he denied and hid from everyone in his new life. In turn, Mista took care of him, and instead of feeling worthless for relying on someone else, he felt cared for. Mista even propped up his pillows and helped him to bed. He pulled the blankets over Giorno, then crawled up beside him.
Nothing seemed to change in Mista’s behaviour, mannerisms, or gaze. It was comforting. Even after seeing Giorno at his weakest, pity never crossed his eyes. There was something new though, something soft and protective. It made Giorno feel treasured, as if he was something worth protecting. It was bittersweet, but it made his heart pound quickly in his chest.
“Mista…” Giorno started. He lost confidence and trailed off, but Mista’s curious brown eyes met his own and he forced himself to continue. “Thank you for today… I’m sorry I was trying to hide my injuries from you.”
“It’s okay, you don’t have to apologize.” Mista inched closer, resting his chin on Giorno’s shoulder. “I was… worried about you. I’m glad you’re gonna be okay.”
“Thank you.”
A brief silence settled over the two of them.
Mista touched Giorno’s forearm, gently rubbing comforting circles.
“Mista…” Giorno felt like a child calling his name like that.
“Yes?”
His curiosity was getting the best of him. “Why didn’t you say anything when you saw the scars on my back?” He asked carefully.
Mista’s hand closed around Giorno’s. It seemed as though he finally understood. “I was focused on taking care of you, I didn’t really think twice about anything else. Besides, it’s not my place to ask, if you want me to know I figured you’d tell me.”
Giorno let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. “I appreciate that. There isn’t much to tell though. I had a rough childhood.”
“I’m sorry,” Mista spoke against Giorno’s shoulder.
“Do you… see me any differently?”
“No, but I do feel like I know you a little better.” Mista threw an arm over Giorno’s chest, hugging him gently.
“I feel the same way.” Giorno turned to face him, their noses brushing due to the proximity.
“I love you,” Mista blurted, flustering them both. “I just wanted you to know.”
His heart was beating so fast that his chest felt like it was going to explode. Mista could really be out of pocket sometimes, but in the best of ways.
“Yeah I-I,” Giorno stammered, offering him a small smile, “… I love you too.”
He turned back to lay against the pillows, letting those words sink in. He truly meant them. Mista was important to him in ways he couldn’t even begin to describe. He could try to articulate his feelings later though, for now, he was happy to just drift off to sleep next to him.