Archive of Our Own

Mista doesn’t have very many fond childhood memories, but he has one. When he was a stunted shithead of a student, he hated his art class, the endless drone of technical terms called their ‘daily lessons’, as well as his other pretentious classmates. So, at the end of the semester, he marched up to the teacher’s desk with a smug smile and handed in his final project.

“Guido, this is a blank piece of paper,” the teacher had said, peering at him over tortoiseshell glasses. 

“No,” Mista had said with a cheeky smile. “It’s a polar bear on a mountain in a snowstorm. Pretty cool, huh?”

The teacher raised an eyebrow. With a small hum, he gave Mista a C, which was infinitesimally better than what Mista actually deserved to get for his complete lack of effort. And so, the image of that enduringly blank paper stuck with him, the endless white on white on white, like untouched snow, sheep’s wool, vanilla ice cream, dandelions, drywall, a polar bear on a mountain in a snowstorm. And that’s how Mista’s mind feels, at the moment. 

It’s not a bad feeling, at all. It’s just nothing. And what could be bad about something that doesn’t exist? So Mista floats in the nothingness, basks in it, until the blankness subsides, and Mista is falling, or maybe rising to the something of cold, hard reality, and his eyes fly open with a start. 

Mista gasps, filling his lungs with air with effort. The breath feels foreign to him, as if it has been a while since he’s taken one. He sits up with a groan and surveys his surroundings. He’s in a dimly lit motel room that looks like the setting for seedy porno, but not the setting for a kidnapping ransom video. A good sign, hopefully. For better or for worse, he is alone. But that means he has no idea where Giorno is, which his mind zeroes in on as a bad sign - as long as he lives and breathes, he’s supposed to be making sure Giorno is alive, and all that. 

With a grunt, he rolls off the bed - oh, that’s the vaguely uncomfortable surface he was lying on - and lands on the floor with a thud. Fuck, his limbs are sore, nearly creaking with atrophy. How long was he out?

Mista needs to get off this floor. With an absolutely Herculean effort, Mista sits up and stumbles towards the exit door. He leans up against the wall for support and reaches out for the doorknob. When his hand latches onto it, he tries to open the door, but his hand is too weak from disuse to actually turn the knob. 

Open, already, he thinks and then, to his surprise, the handle turns. Shit, he became telekinetic when he passed out? 

Unfortunately, his dreams of mind control are dashed when the door creaks open, and Mista sees a blond in a dark suit on the other side of the door, a bloody jacket hanging off his shoulder, his hand on the other side of the doorknob. Giorno looks exhausted, and worse for wear, but he is alive, which to Mista, makes Giorno look the best he’s ever been. 

“You’re safe,” Mista rasps with relief, all but falling against Giorno’s chest. The only reason he doesn’t slide onto the floor pathetically is that Giorno quickly wraps his arms around Mista’s waist to catch him. Mista slumps against the blond’s torso. 

“I’m here,” Giorno says quietly. “Let’s get you to bed. You need to rest.”

Giorno tugs his limp body back towards the motel bed and lays his head gently against the pillows. This, Mista has enough presence of mind to realize, means something is wrong, because Giorno is keeping them in this strange motel room instead of bringing him home. “Where are we?” he asks. “What happened?”

The look on Giorno’s face can only be described as resigned and defeated. “You don’t remember anything.” 

Mista remembers enough to know that expression is one Giorno should never have on his face, so he does his best to soothe Giorno’s worries. “I remember a lot of things,” Mista says defensively. “You’re Giorno, the Don of Passione. I’m your badass bodyguard. I’ve got the coolest stand in the world, Sex Pistols. We work with Polnareff, and we got Fugo back, too, I’m pretty sure.” He squints. “We just finished up the Polenta campaign, right?”

“That is a lot of things,” Giorno says with a small amused smile. “So you remember everything up until the week of our mission.” He sits down on the edge of bed besides Mista, and from this vantage point, Mista notices all the telltale signs of exhaustion on Giorno’s face - dark bags under his eyes that concealer couldn’t cover, slower blinks, the 5 o’clock shadow on Giorno’s chin. That’s a bad sign, since under normal circumstances, Giorno would have seized an opportunity to meticulously pluck away his unwanted hairs. He hasn’t been taking care of himself, Mista realizes.

“How long have we been in this crappy motel room?” Mista asks. 

“A couple of days, while I’ve been waiting for you to recover.” Giorno sighs and looks down at his hands. “I didn’t have many options after our mission. I’m well aware it’s not exactly the five star treatment you deserve.”

At that, Mista laughs. Or, at least, he musters the closest approximation of a laugh that his lungs are capable of producing right now, which ends up sounding more like a smoker’s huff. “Five star treatment. You’re just saying that, boss,” he says with a fond smile. 

Giorno’s face seizes up like it does when he’s about to deliver a classic Giovanna monologue. “Mista,” he says emphatically. “I’m not ‘just saying that’, I don’t make a point to deliver platitudes to appease you. You deserve more than five star treatment, you deserve-” 

Without thinking, he grabs Mista’s slack hands, clutching it like he’s scared to let go. “You deserve the world, Guido,” he says with force, and then the world starts to swim in Mista’s eyes. It’s like running a hand along the surface of a birdbath, really, just a ripple that smears the world into blobs of colors, with Giorno’s words still echoing in his brain. 

The scene Mista sees is just a quick flash of a feeling, an image of Giorno lying in a plush, maroon bed next to him, staring at him fondly through the curtain of his loose hair. It’s jarring to see how different Giorno looks from normal, all dazed and blissed out, like he just had a really good night, if you catch Mista’s drift. It’s an inappropriate thought to think between coworkers, though, so Mista shakes it out of his mind. 

“You mean the world to me,” this image of Giorno says, his voice hazy and thick. “You deserve the world, Guido.” 

Mista blinks, and then the image disappears, and he is sent tumbling back down to the present. Giorno stares at him with wide eyes, before hastily dropping Mista’s hands like hot potatoes.

“Woah, did you see that too?” Mista says dumbly. He squints, struggling to stay conscious.

“Mista, I-” the twin Giornos say in a strained voice as they swim in and out of each other, flickering like a lightbulb. 

Mista’s head swirls as he pats Giorno’s hands. “Hey, boss, I’m gonna pass out,” he says as nonchalantly as he can. “Save that explanation for me when I come to, alright?”

Giorno widens his eyes and reaches his hands to cup Mista’s face. “Wait, Mista, don’t-”

But it’s too late. The never-ending whiteness floods his vision, and then Mista is back into the nothingness. 

A fond smile, a hot breath against his ear. “Missed you,” a distinctly Giorno-like voice says as arms wrap around Mista’s waist, and then the flash of memory disappears as suddenly as it appeared. 

When Mista awakens, he doesn’t have to limp to the door to find Giorno. Giorno is sitting at the edge of the bed, his fingers typing at lightning speed over a keyboard. He’s clearly been prepared for a night in, because he’s traded his usual immaculate victory rolls for a tousled bun, and his contacts for his glasses - the glasses that only Mista is supposed to know about. At least Mista remembers that piece of information. 

“Boss?” Mista says, then coughs. His throat feels so dry from disuse. Giorno’s head shoots up, relief palatable, and snaps his laptop shut with a click. He leans over to grab a glass of water by the nightstand, then tips it into Mista’s cracked lips. 

“Drink up,” he says, to Mista’s choked spluttering. His face looks calm and professional, but their proximity makes Mista squirm with anxiety. That stupid dream, or whatever it was his mind conjured up, is messing with his brain.

Flustered, Mista grabs the glass himself and downs it in one gulp. “I got it, Mom,” he says with faux-annoyance. “You don’t have to baby me or anything.”

“It’s hard to break the habit,” Giorno says with a wry smile. “I have been babying you for the last several days, now.”

“Jesus,” Mista says, rubbing his eyes and sitting up. “What the hell happened? There was a mission or something, right?”

Giorno’s face turns solemn. “Yes, I suppose this must be very confusing for you,” he says, crossing his legs with a sigh. “I’ll start with the mission. Essentially, we underwent an undercover mission together, you were attacked by a memory Stand, and we have been hiding out in this motel room so I can heal your wounds and recover your memory.”

“I was attacked by a memory Stand?” Mista asks with a frown. “Did you defeat the Stand user?” 

Giorno nods. “Yes, Porchetta has been taken care of. Unfortunately, it seems that the effects of his Stand continue to last after the user’s death. It may take some time for your memories to come back fully.”

Mista takes this new morsel of information - Porchetta - and lets it sit in his mind, hoping that it will unlock the missing memories stowed away in the recesses of his brain. He can feel that there’s something there, brimming right under the surface, but it’s like waking up after a dream; he can feel the traces and the feelings of it, but before he can put words to any of it, it slips in between his fingers. 

“The name sounds familiar,” Mista says eventually. “How do I know that guy?”

“He’s very prominent in the Northern mafia,” Giorno explains. “He helps run a drug smuggling ring along the border of the Passione territory. That’s actually why it is of the utmost importance that you regain your memory, because we know he has something with crucial information about his trade routes, and you were the last person he spoke to before he attacked us. You have to have some clue about how to retrieve the intel.”

“Woah,” Mista blinks. “Way to add pressure, boss.”

Giorno tilts his head. “I apologize for that.” He looks down at his hands. “The good news is that it appears that there is a way for me to help you through the process. You recall the ‘vision’ you had before you became unconscious?”

Mista thinks back to the vision of fond, sleepy Giorno that his mind conjured. He nods. 

Giorno sighs and says, carefully, “That was a...memory. From what we know about Porchetta’s Stand, he can make your headspace vulnerable - not just to tampering, but to sharing memories, if my theory is correct. So when you had that vision, we were both sharing a reenactment of that memory.”

“It really happened?” Mista asks, furrowing his brow. “So why were we doing that, lying in bed together, pillow talking and stuff? That’s kind of weird.”

Giorno’s expression strains. “It will make sense when you have the full story of our mission,” he says, his face carefully and meticulously neutral. 

Mista waits for Giorno to explain further, but he doesn’t. With a shrug, Mista forces confidence and optimism he doesn’t have into his voice and says, “Cool, let’s go relive some memories, then.”

The expression that Giorno has on his face can only be described as pained. With a heavy sigh, he says cautiously, “I must warn you this process of remembering is not the same as being there in the moment, if that will provide an explanation to my...bizarre behavior. I hope your opinion of me does not change after you regain your memories.”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Mista reassures him. “We’ve survived through so much shit together. There’s not much that I don’t know about you, at this point.” 

Giorno smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He gently grabs Mista’s hands. “You’ll see,” he says, resigned. “Hold my hands. This will be easier for you if you close your eyes.”

Mista obeys, and then feels the distinct sensation of being sucked inward, towards that blank nothingness. Except this time, with Giorno’s presence next to him, there is a distinct something now that provides weight to the space, and Mista can see the memory start to appear, like a cross-fade transition in a movie. 

Let’s start from the beginning, a Giorno-like voice says, and then Mista is sucked into the memory. 

SEVEN DAYS AGO

“I feel like you’re holding out on the cool missions from me,” Mista says, crossing his arm as he leans against Giorno’s desk. They’re in his office, doing paperwork for the umpteenth day in the row, and Mista looks ready to fall asleep as Giorno reads through tax returns, or whatever else consists of the endless stack of paper in front of him. 

Giorno sighs like they’ve had this conversation a million times, probably because they have. “I’m not ‘holding out’ on anything,” he says patiently, placing a manila folder at the top of the stack. “With our expanded staff, I feel more comfortable delegating certain jobs. I need you to be safe so you can stay by my side, because that’s your most important role. It’s a simple matter of reprioritization.”

Mista grunts in agreement and steadies a pile of files on the desk to stop it from falling over. When did his job become a glorified filing cabinet?

Someone knocks on the door, and Mista nearly reaches for his gun before he recognizes the signature knock of the resident consigliere. “Come in, Fugo,” Giorno says.

Fugo enters the room clutching two thick folders of paperwork in his hands like a freshman girl clutching her books on the first day of school. 

“Don, you’re going to want to hear this,” he says with barely-contained enthusiasm. “We managed to track down Porchetta.”

Giorno widens his eyes, which is the most emotion Mista has seen on his face all day. Mista refrains from his gut instinct of automatically tuning out the conversation, in order to listen in. 

“One of our operatives spotted Porchetta in Northern Italy, along the border between Passione and Northern mafia territory,” Fugo explains, handing both Mista and Giorno each a file. “Word on the street is that he’s doing a drop off in Greece with intel about their latest drug routes, presumably a flash drive. This could be the next step to achieving your dream, Don.”

Giorno maintains a calm composure, but there’s eagerness to the way he thumbs through the file and scans the report. Mista mimics his movements. “This is fantastic news, Fugo,” Giorno says eventually. “Great work.” Fugo beams.  

Mista reads through the brief, before his jaw drops. “Wait, this Horchata guy is going to be on a cruise?” he says, excitedly, like a kid on Christmas Day. “Whoever gets to track him gets to go on a cruise?”

“It’s ‘Porchetta’ and yes,” Fugo says with a tinge of annoyance. “But-”

“Fugo, boss, you gotta let me go on this mission,” Mista interrupts, turning to face Giorno and grab him by the shoulders. Giorno’s eyes widen, startled. “I haven’t gone on a mission in so long, my gun is practically dusty. Please?”

“There’s actually one tiny detail that’s not in the brief,” Fugo says nervously. “We have reason to believe that Porchetta is intending on vacationing with his mistress.”

“That’s fine,” Mista frowns. “As long as I don’t have to see them boink. Or, I dunno, is she hot?”

“They’re vacationing on a couples cruise,” Fugo says, before Mista can continue. “Any operatives on this mission should be undercover as a couple. That’s why I believe it would be best for the both of you to go.”

Mista blinks. Giorno stops thumbing through the file to glance at Fugo with a raised eyebrow. 

“Why do you say that?” Giorno asks, tilting his head. 

“Well, you know, you two are the most qualified to, given your caliber and experience to handle this sensitive information,” Fugo says quickly, twiddling his thumbs on one of the holes in his jacket. He adds apprehensively, “Also, you two are the resident couple.”

Mista coughs. Giorno thumps his back without even a glance in his direction. “What do you mean, ‘resident couple’?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. 

Fugo turns as red as his suit. “Oh, are you two not-” he stammers. “I mean, I just assumed, because- I didn’t mean to-”

“If you assumed that Mista and I are in a romantic relationship, you would be mistaken,” Giorno says, cutting him off. “We are coworkers and friends. We should be looking for operatives who have more experience with going undercover, or if necessary, existing couples within-”

“Wait, wait, hold on, boss,” Mista interrupts. “Ignoring the whole ‘couple’ thing, I could really use a mission. I’m like, all pent up from being inside all day. And you could really use a vacation too, boss. I mean, you’ve barely taken a day off since you became Don.”

“I take days off all the time,” Giorno says, with a hint of exasperation. “I took a day off yesterday.”

“Your version of a day off was doing your paperwork outside,” Mista retorts. He grabs Giorno by the shoulder to look him square in the eye. “Boss, just imagine it! Vacay on a cruise means sun vibes, poolside partying, good food for days. We could even look at architecture or read a history book or whatever else nerdy stuff you want to do. It would be the ultimate way to relax and rest, and also do boring mission work. Your favorite!”

Giorno had looked ready to immediately shut down the idea, but he falters at Mista’s pleading expression. “I have a lot of work to do,” he says hesitantly, averting his eyes. 

Mista slumps, dejected. 

“But I will think about it,” Giorno continues. “No promises,” he adds sternly, when Mista whoops loudly and pumps his fists in victory. 

“Thank you, boss!” he says, grabbing Giorno’s shoulders to give him a kiss on the cheek. He leaps out the office door to pack his bag, still cheering when he’s halfway down the hallway. Giorno sighs softly and glues his eyes on Mista’s backside as he bounces out.

Fugo fake coughs. “You know this is why everyone thinks you’re an item, right?” he says, picking up Mista’s discarded brief. 

Giorno sends him the most irritated expression he can muster and stares out a window. “You’re dismissed, consigliere,” he says, his face just the slightest bit pink. “Clearly, I have a cruise trip to plan for.”

Mista pulls the two of them out of the memory with a start. The world of the memory fades into the present, and then Mista can see clearly Giorno still tightly gripping Mista’s hands in front of him. Giorno opens his eyes. 

“Woah, that was trippy,” Mista says dumbly. 

“Yes, this process of reliving memories is very disorienting,” Giorno says, with the slightest edge in his voice. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Mista says distantly. “Not going to pass out, or anything, which is good.”

“Great. Let’s continue.”

“Wait, we’re not going to talk about...whatever that was?” Mista interrupts. “I mean, you very clearly checked out my ass at the end of that. I don’t think that was in my memory. Are you sure this stuff is accurate?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Giorno says clearly. The tips of his ears burn. “The reason you don’t remember that is that a side effect of this process is that the memories have a tendency to merge, so to speak.”

“Oh,” Mista says. He realizes his boss basically admitted that he looked at his ass, and flushes. “Wow. Sorry, I just needed a moment to process that.”

“Trust me, if you think that’s bad, you are not prepared for the rest of these memories,” Giorno mutters under his breath.

“What?” Mista tries to say, but he’s cut off by Giorno grabbing his hands once more, and then Mista’s voice is swallowed into the scene of the next memory. 

SIX DAYS AGO

Giorno and Mista are sitting at a little table on the deck of the cruise, staring out into the sea as the shore recedes into the horizon. The sunset looks like something straight out of a painting, with the orange and red hues blending into the creeping night sky. Mista takes in the beautiful sight wistfully, then reaches down and shovels an absolute monstrosity of a meal into his mouth. 

“What is that?” Giorno says, wrinkling his nose as Mista loudly chews. 

“It’s a sandwich,” Mista says, mouth full. 

“There’s mashed potatoes in it,” Giorno says, pointing his pinky finger at the piece of goop that falls onto Mista’s plate. 

Mista swallows and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Yeah, what other soft texture would you add to a sandwich with chicken wings, sausage rolls, and fries, squished between a row of dinner rolls?” he says matter-of-factly. “Come on, boss, it’s about variety, here.”

Giorno smiles, exasperated, and says, “Remember, you can’t call me ‘boss’ while we’re undercover. Remind me of our cover story?”

Giorno insists on quizzing Mista about their cover story frequently, especially when Mista slips up like right now. It’s annoying, but well-intentioned, so Mista indulges. “My name is Marco Rossi, and you are Romeo Romano,” he says in monotone. “We’re a couple celebrating our one year anniversary. This was your idea, because you surprised me with this trip as a gift during the anniversary party.”

“Very good,” Giorno says, taking a bite of fruit salad. “This is very important information. You, of all people, should know that undercover people know their cover stories like the back of their hand, otherwise they risk getting quizzed on it by nosy strangers and blowing their cover.” He chews on honeydew melon thoughtfully. “It’s what happens in those romantic comedies you watch all the time.”

“Sure thing,” Mista says, amused. He takes another bite of his sandwich and says, “Speaking of cover stories, you should really ask me to help you come up with Italian names next time. I mean, ‘Romeo Romano’ is almost as bad as Gi- oh, hello, waitress!”

A waitress appears out of nowhere with an empty tray and a bright smile on her face. “Let me just get these plates for you two lovebirds,” she says cheerily, clearing out their table except for the plate holding Mista’s ‘sandwich’. “Anything else for you two?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Giorno says with a pleasant smile. 

Mista swallows the last of his sandwich and sets the now empty plate down on the waitress’ tray. She stumbles with the added weight. 

“Yeah, can you get my boy- I mean, boyfriend Romeo, here, some chocolate pudding and a plateful of salami and prosciutto for me?” he asks. 

The waitress blinks at the odd order, but nods quickly. “Yes, of course, just a moment,” she says. “I just want to say, you two make such a cute couple.” She presses a hand over her heart and smiles dreamily.

“That’s us,” Mista says, clearly caught off guard. “Me and Romeo, a couple. Coupling it up on the high seas, like a couple. ‘Cause we’re a couple.”

“Overselling it,” Giorno says under his breath. 

The waitress does not seem to notice. “I just have to know,” she gushes. “How did you two meet?”

Mista shoots a look at Giorno. For all of Giorno’s quizzing, they didn’t think to come up with a story for how they met? Shit. 

“Skydiving,” Mista says in blind panic, as Giorno says, “At a restaurant.” They share a bewildered look with each other. 

“We first met at a restaurant, through a mutual friend,” Giorno says carefully, which is actually pretty close to the truth. 

“A skydiving restaurant,” Mista blurts out. “Eating while jumping out a plane. It’s very common in the South of Italy.”

Giorno places a hand over Mista’s, digging his fingernails into Mista’s skin as a silent way to tell him to shut up. “The details are a point of contention between us, for sure,” Giorno says with far too dazzlingly wide of a smile.

“Right,” the waitress says, a little weirded out, especially by the way that Mista grimaces in pain. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Enjoy your meal!”

Giorno waits until the waitress is out of earshot before he says, wryly, “You could have blown our cover, you know.”

“But I didn’t, which is the important part, boss,” Mista says, shaking his hand to get the blood pumping again. He leans against the back of his chair. When his skin is in the sunlight, it goes from tan to golden, gleaming with caramel tones. It’s a good look on him. 

“How many times need I remind you to not call me ‘boss’?” Giorno says, shaking his head. “And here I was, thinking you were the more experienced boyfriend. You are aware that couples normally use pet names to refer to each other, right?”

“Yeah, totally,” Mista says breezily. He closes his eyes and crosses his arms to prattles off his list on his fingers. “I got ‘babe’, ‘sweetheart’, ‘darling’, ‘princess’, ‘boo’, ‘shawty’, and ‘baby’, which is kind of similar to ‘babe’, now that I think about it. Your pick.” 

Mista opens his eyes when Giorno doesn’t respond for a full minute. “Uh, you good there? Earth to Romeo?” he asks warily, waving his hands in front of Giorno’s face. 

“Yes, sorry,” Giorno says, his face strangely warm. “‘Babe’ is fine. Just call me ‘babe’.”

Mista narrows his eyes to study Giorno’s expression, but before he can press further, the waitress returns. “Here you go, sirs,” she says sunnily, setting down a bowl of chocolate pudding in front of Mista and a large platter of cured meats in front of Giorno. 

“Thank you,” Giorno says, as the waitress leaves, reaching across the table to retrieve his pudding. His efforts are thwarted, however, Mista picks up the spoon and bowl himself, clicking his tongue. “Nuh-uh,” he says, waggling his finger. “I got this.”

Giorno raises an eyebrow, but stays still as Mista scoops some pudding and presses a spoonful against Giorno’s lips. “Open up, babe,” Mista says mischievously. “Here comes the airplane.”

With an exasperated smile, Giorno dutifully opens his lips just the slightest bit, which is enough for Mista to shove the spoon inside, purposely smearing some on the corner of Giorno’s lips. He’s feeling pretty smug with himself, until Giorno, with an absolute shit-eating grin, takes a stray glob of pudding in a finger and then sucks on it, never breaking eye contact with Mista as he does so. 

Mista widens his eyes. His Adam’s Apple bobs in his throat. His mind doesn’t know if he feels like pissing his pants or popping a boner. When Giorno closes his eyes to actually moan a little, his mind chooses ‘popping a boner’ for him. 

What feels like eons or maybe seconds later, Giorno slides his finger out of his mouth and makes a tiny noise of contentment. “This pudding is pretty good,” he says nonchalantly. “It tastes homemade, instead of the packet type.”

Mista nods, hearing exactly none of the words that Giorno just said to zero in on the smudge of chocolate that still remains on the edge of Giorno’s lips. “Uh, I think you missed a spot there, babe,” he says distantly, pointing a finger at the respective spot on his own face. Giorno raises an eyebrow and wipes at the area surrounding the spot, but the chocolate smear is still there. Mista shakes his head. 

“You’re just smudging it,” he says, leaning over the table. “Here, let me.” Gingerly, he swipes the corner of his lip with the pad of his thumb. Giorno looks pink as he stares at Mista’s concentrated face, just centimeters in front of him. 

“I think it’s gone,” Mista says after a moment, his face way too close to Giorno’s. “Just-”

Suddenly, the cruise lurches, and the only warning either of them get for what’s about to happen is Mista widening his eyes, before he practically falls against Giorno’s face, mashing their mouths together. For a beat, the two of them stare at each other, lips interlocked, until Mista pulls away abruptly, his face beet red. 

“I’m so sorry,” Mista sputters. “It was a total accident, I swear, the boat must have hit a rough wave, or-”

“It’s fine,” Giorno says calmly, resting a hand against Mista’s shoulder. “We’re a couple, no? It’s normal to have some public displays of affection.”

Mista glances at Giorno’s hand and smiles nervously. “For sure,” he says. 

The memory swirls in and out and then the background behind them shifts, so that Giorno and Mista are no longer on a cruise deck, but standing in a quiet corner of the hallway near the cabins. While Giorno is scoping out where Porchetta’s cabin is located, Mista is feeding the pile of cured meats to Sex Pistols, who are quietly squabbling about it like always. Thankfully, they’re not too loud, which would otherwise ruin the whole point of an undercover mission.

“Have you found the room, yet?” Mista tries to say, but Giorno presses a finger to his own lips, effectively shutting him up. 

“I hear something,” Giorno says quietly, flattening himself against the wall, Mista still underneath him. The two strain their ears to listen. 

Footsteps, quiet shuffling of feet. Then, “You coming, love?” a gravelly voice says from around the corner. 

“Just a sec,” a high, ringing voice says. “You’re so impatient, Porch. I’ve barely got my hair done.”

“You’ve worked on it for hours, how is it not done yet?” the first voice says with clear annoyance. 

Mista, pressed against Giorno on the wall, smiles knowingly. When Giorno darts his eyes to see what is amusing Mista so much, Mista swirls his fingers around his forehead, miming Giorno’s classic victory rolls. It earns him an exasperated smile and a hand against his mouth to keep quiet. 

“Alright, I’m leaving now,” the first voice says. The duo hears footsteps towards their direction, and Mista’s eyes widen. His lips move against Giorno’s hand frantically, clearly trying to communicate his distress. In disgust, Giorno takes his hand off and wipes it on Mista’s sweater, very clearly feeling up the muscles underneath it.

“What are we going to do?” Mista whispers. 

“We have to hide,” Giorno says calmly, “We can’t run.”

“What do you mean, ‘hide’?” Mista says incredulously. “We’re in plain sight, the other doors in this hallway are locked.”

Giorno sighs. “I hope you’re a better kisser this time,” he says, before he shoves his mouth against Mista’s. Mista yelps in surprise. Giorno moans as he sucks insistently on every inch of Mista he can, running his hands from Mista’s neck to his chest like he’s marking his territory. Mista’s brain short-circuits, because the combination of everything is doing things to him that are going to be very awkward to explain to any random passerby.

Mista grips Giorno’s waist, using the soft curve of his stomach to hide his burgeoning hard on. For a moment, he forgets that he’s just making out with his boss for a mission, because it is way too easy to get lost in the sensation of Giorno’s hot, eager mouth on his. In fact, Mista does get lost in it, until he hears a startled yelp on his right. Mista breaks apart from the kiss just enough to see a girl gawking at him, her middle aged partner looking pointedly in the other direction. 

“That’s a couples cruise for ya,” the man says, tugging along the wrist of the girl. He’s got close, cropped hair and a saggy belly hanging over his swim trunks. The girl, on the other hand, has a head of black kinky curls, a bright green bikini, an absolutely cheeky grin. She winks at Mista as the two of them walk away towards a hallway maked “POOL”. 

Mista turns back to Giorno’s face to gauge his response. Judging from Giorno’s blown out eyes and hungry expression, Mista sees no reason to not continue their public display of affection, and kisses Giorno again, squeaking when Giorno grabs Mista’s shoulder and shoves him harder against the wall, leaning into his ear. 

“Keep an eye on them,” he says, his warm breath tickling against Mista’s earlobe. Mista attempts to agree audibly, but the sound morphs into groan when Giorno begins to press small kisses on Mista’s jaw. 

Mista both thanks and curses God for this experience, and then concentrates on tracking the couple. The girl leans onto the shoulder of her partner, giggling about something in particular, and then the two of them disappear into the direction of the pool. 

Mista savors a few more moments of this affectionate version of Giorno before he says, in a strangled voice, “The coast is clear.” Giorno presses one last kiss on Mista’s cheek, then pulls away. 

“I recognize him. That’s Porchetta and his mistress,” he says calmly, wiping the drool off his lips. “I’m going to go search for his room. You go follow them.”

“Uh, okay,” Mista says with widened eyes. He wills his erection away as Giorno brushes past him to head towards the room. “Wait, are we not going to talk about the PDA thing? Is that just normal now?”

A rush of warmth floods Giorno’s neck. “It’s just for the mission, right?” he says, barely looking over his shoulder. “I’ll see you at the pool.”

Mista, in his enduring tendency to not overthink things, takes in Giorno’s words and then shrugs. 

The scene ripples and then Mista is leaning against a pool chair, sipping some fruity drink, watching as Porchetta sunbathes on a lawn chair with a book, his girlfriend wading in the pool water below. 

“Porch, look!” she shrieks, dipping her head in the water. He hums absentmindedly, turning a page in his book. 

The next chain of events is a blur. The girl sinks down into the water, and then doesn’t surface for a worrying amount of time. When she does, she kicks frantically, gurgling water. Mista acts on instinct, diving into the pool to lift her out of the water, and sets her on the deck on her side. She splutters, weakly choking up water. A shadow looms over the two of them. 

“Did you just try to drown my girlfriend?” Porchetta’s booming voice says, nearly scaring Mista shitless. 

Mista stands up, rising to his full height, and notes with satisfaction that Porchetta has to look up to see him properly. “I saved your girlfriend,” he says, crossing his arms. “A ‘thank you’ would be great.”

“Oh, god,” the girl says with a wheeze, coughing up the last remnants of pool water out of her lungs. “Thought I was going to be a goner, for a second. I’m all good now.”

“Are you alright?” Porchetta says, helping his girlfriend up to her feet and patting her pockets. “Are all your items safe and dry?”

The girl rolls her eyes and produces a sealed plastic bag from her bikini top. There’s a small black object in it, which Mista hopes is the intel they’re searching for for one desperate second, but is disappointed when she uncaps it to reveal lip gloss. She applies it to her lips and says, “Don’t worry so much, Porch. This handsome savior was just helping me out.” 

She passes a lecherous grin to Mista and then openly presses a finger against his pecs.

One moment, Mista is gaping at the absolute audacity of this random girl. The next, he’s being splashed in the face with what he thinks is a gin and tonic. He opens his eyes, and turns around to see Giorno glaring daggers at him, one hand on his hip. 

“Really, Marco?” Giorno says in an exaggeratedly bitter voice. “Flirting with a girl while we’re celebrating our anniversary? Classic.”

“Babe, it’s not what it looks like,” Mista says, grabbing Giorno’s wrist to lead him away from the prying eyes of the couple right in front of them. Giorno looks at him like he wishes Mista would drop dead. 

“I think it’s exactly what it looks like,” Giorno says in a low voice. “I’m going back to the room.”

Giorno stalks off. Mista passes an apologetic glance at Porchetta and his girlfriend, then rushes to follow him. 

“Mics and trackers all set?” Mista asks hopefully, once they’re alone. Giorno grunts in affirmative, and then approaches an elevator, slamming his hand against the panel. 

“You’re not actually mad at me, are you?” Mista says, trying to read Giorno’s frustratingly blank expression as they step into the elevator. “She was the one trying to hit on me, not the other way around.”

Giorno takes a breath, then says, “What am I supposed to do in that situation? As your boyfriend, I can’t be going around letting random people chat you up. It’s just what was best for maintaining our cover.”

The logic is sound, but Mista still rubs the spot where the alcohol hit his skin. “Was the whole ‘drink-throwing’ really necessary, though?” he winces. 

“Yes,” Giorno mutters darkly. 

“What?”

“Oh, we’re here,” Giorno says a little too brightly, as the elevator doors open with a ding. “Come on, I’ve been meaning to check out the cruise library.”

The memory swirls around the edges, and then an external force drags Mista back into the present. 

As Mista opens his eyes, Giorno lets go of his hand and stands up to pour another glass of water, which Mista takes gratefully. 

Giorno stares at him intently, like he’s gauging Mista’s reaction, which is freaking him out a little. “That’s a lot of PDA,” Mista says nervously. “Sheesh, we’re better actors at being a couple than I thought. I mean, hopefully it wasn’t like…bad or anything.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Giorno says distantly, then looks down and rubs one arm. “Is your memory returning?”

Mista thinks hard. “Kind of,” he says slowly. “Like, it’s returning in bits and pieces. Your memories are helping a lot with it, but I still don’t remember anything after the stuff you showed me.” 

When Giorno’s face still looks grim, Mista jokes, “Looks like we’re still gonna have to hold hands.” He smiles, but Giorno seems too tired to muster a smile in return. 

“Are you okay, boss?” Mista asks with concern, watching the way Giorno’s eyelids droop, then flutter back awake. 

“I’m fine,” Giorno says hurriedly. “This process is simply a bit exhausting. But it’s no matter, the sooner we get this over with and the sooner you remember how to retrieve Porchetta’s intel, the sooner we can both rest.” He smiles weakly and says, “Take my hand, Mista?”

Mista worries, of course he does, but he believes in Giorno resolve, and he knows their first priority is Passione and the mission. He squeezes Giorno’s hands and says, “I’m ready.” 

The world swirls, and then they’re back to reliving a new memory.

FIVE DAYS AGO

“Great, we’ve hit a dead end,” Mista says with annoyance, flopping onto the singular bed in Giorno and his cabin. “We couldn’t find anything in his room and we’ve been following them all day to get nada, zip, zilch. I don’t know how much longer I can watch one couple make out.” He ends the thought by scrunching his nose in disgust. 

“Be patient,” Giorno says calmly, typing away at his computer. “I imagine they’ll make their move when the cruise makes their first stop in Greece. For now, understanding their habits and patterns is crucial to identifying when they begin to act out of the ordinary.”

“Have they left their room yet?” Mista asks, rolling over. From this point, he can get a better view of Giorno’s laptop, which contains a map of the cruise and two blinking lights, each representing a tracker that Giorno had slipped in the couple’s shoes. 

Giorno shakes his head, then stills. “Hold on, their dots just reappeared in the ballroom,” he says, gesturing to the new location on his screen. “What event does the cruise itinerary say is occurring there?”

“Uh,” Mista glances down at the laminated piece of paper before him. “Cocktail night for couples. It’s got the blue dolphin symbol next to it, to represent a dance. Ooh, do we get to go dancing?” He looks up with puppy-dog enthusiasm, like his tail would be wagging if he had one.

Giorno looks like he’d rather jump off the side of the ship than go dance, but he forces a nod. “A cocktail night,” he muses to himself. “We’ll have to dress up a bit to blend in. Do you have a presentable outfit, Mista?”

Mista makes an offended noise and looks down at his blue and orange Hawaiian shirt and zebra print board shorts. “Is this not a presentable outfit?” 

One look at Giorno’s deadpan expression answers his question. “What I do think is that this would be a perfect opportunity to let me dress you,” Giorno says, clasping his hands together excitedly. “I’ve been itching to get my hands on you. And by ‘you’, I mean to style you, obviously.”

“Yeah, obviously,” Mista says, scratching the warmth at the back of his neck. While he knows Giorno has a good sense of style, Mista’s style couldn’t be more different than his. Mista cannot imagine himself in the pink frills and bows that Giorno favors. He wants to reject the idea, but one glance at Giorno’s clear enthusiasm makes him falter. It’s been a while since he’s seen Giorno look so genuinely excited about something so mundane - hell, when is the last time he’s seen Giorno being excited, period? - so Mista would have to be some kind of monster to take that away from him.

“Just for this dance,” he says eventually. “I don’t want to be wearing it after the party.”

“I can arrange that,” Giorno mutters to himself. 

“What?”

“I said, let’s get you changed, yeah?” Giorno says a little too brightly. He reaches over  his suitcase to rifle through the belongings, occasionally tossing some items on the bed where Mista is sitting. Mista spies the sequined leotard and skintight pink legging and blanches. He starts to regret his soft spot for Giorno compromising his decision making. 

“Here you go,” Giorno says eventually, tossing a lump of clothes onto Mista’s lap. “Straight from this summer’s Gucci collection.” Mista looks down to see dark slacks, a cropped plaid sweater, and a loose white dress shirt with puffy sleeves straight out of some medieval play. 

Mista looks at the ensemble and gulps. “So, should I change in the bathroom or something?” he says.

“I wasn’t going to ask you to strip in front of me,” Giorno says wryly. When all Mista does is blink, Giorno adds, “The answer is yes. I need to change too, you know.”

Mista glances down at Giorno’s striped romper, and the way that it hugs and accentuates Giorno’s collarbones, like it’s framing them for Mista’s consumption. Mista shakes the weird horny thoughts of his head and blurts, “You look good, though.”

“I know,” Giorno says, his ears pink, pushing Mista towards the bathroom. “But it’s not suitable for a cocktail party. You understand.” He doesn’t wait for Mista to understand, and shuts the bathroom door with a click. 

Mista blinks, standing in the middle of the sea salt tiled floor, and shakes his head to focus on the task at hand. Reluctantly, he changes into the white dress shirt, and, after a very confused minute, puts on the cropped sweater over it, so that just the puffed sleeves and the collar of the white shirt show through. The slacks help cinch the outfit together, although Mista’s eyes bug out when he sees the price tag, still stuck onto the pair. 

Mista glances at his reflection in the mirror and preens. He looks sharp. The outfit is not something he’d usually wear, but he has to admit, Giorno has an eye for this stuff. He notes with some satisfaction, as he spins around, that his ass is popping in his slacks because they’re a size too small. Or in Mista’s opinion, the perfect size. 

“How do I look?” Mista asks, pushing open the door to see Giorno with his back turned to him. He gulps when he realizes it’s Giorno’s bare back turned to him. 

From this viewpoint, he can see every detail on Giorno’s creamy skin, from the angular backbone, to the clear sinewy muscle along his backside, to the star shaped birthmark on Giorno’s right shoulder. Trish sometimes tells him about 1800s romance novels, where the characters go apeshit horny over ankles and stuff, which they both shared a mocking laugh over, but Mista definitely gets it now. Giorno flexes his shoulders as he looks behind him, and yeah, Mista definitely gets it now.  

For whatever reason, Giorno seems unphased at the fact that Mista is ogling him shirtless. “You’re wearing the sweater backwards,” he says calmly. “Go fix it, and I’ll be done soon.”

Dumbly, Mista nods, and closes the bathroom door in front of him. He shakes all 1800s lustful thoughts out of his mind and puts the sweater back on the right way this time. It’s really more like a sweater vest, actually, because it opens in the front, which Mista keeps buttoned. Once he’s finished, he takes a breath and presses his ear against the door, waiting until the rustling sounds outside seem to abate, before stepping out the bathroom once more. Mista sucks in a breath. 

Giorno looks really nice. Scratch that, he looks hot as hell, like something straight off a catwalk. He’s wearing a pink dress shirt that’s unbuttoned to reveal even more of his creamy, muscled chest than his average titty window would, and tucked it into a tight pair of slacks. To top it off, he’s fashioned a red kerchief around his neck and a pair of shades, which he now dips to look over Mista’s outfit. 

“Wow,” Mista says, when his slack jaw regains motor function. “You look good, babe.”

“You should unbutton your shirt,” Giorno says, striding over to unclasp the buttons on Mista’s vest and then dress shirt. When he’s halfway done, he tugs it outwards to form a v-line towards Mista’s abdomen, accentuating his defined chest. Giorno smiles to himself. “Much better.”

“Looks like we’re matching now,” Mista says with a goofy smile. “Very on brand for Marco and Romeo.”

“Very,” Giorno says with a smile. He extends a slim hand for Mista to take. “Shall we take our leave, then?”

Maybe it’s over the top, but Mista relishes the way Giorno’s cheeks glow when Mista dips down and brushes his lips over Giorno’s ring, just like he did when he swore allegiance to Don Giovanna all those years ago. 

“After you,” he says, as suavely as he can. Giorno smiles fondly when their fingers interlock and they walk out the room.

By the time they stride into the ballroom, the party seems to be in full swing, with dozens of couples littering the various tables and the dance floor. A live jazz band plays in the corner, filling the room with light, airy grooves. Waiters encircle the area with trays of champagne, strange-looking cocktail concoctions, and fancy appetizers. Mista grabs a hors d'oeuvre from a passing waiter as Giorno surveys the room. 

“This is classy as hell,” Mista remarks, popping the hors d'oeuvre into his mouth.

“Yes,” Giorno says distractedly, scanning the room for their targets. He lights up. “Look, on your two,” he says, encircling a hand around Mista’s waist to lean in close. Mista pretends the movement doesn’t affect him. “We need to mingle, and perhaps casually strike up small talk with them. I remember Porchetta's mistress being especially chatty. But how?”

As if to answer his question, a DJ’s voice blasts over the speaker. “Alright, everyone, get on the dance floor!” he says, as couples slowly drift towards the center of the room. 

“Come on,” Mista says, tugging Giorno’s wrist. “We’ll dance our way over there, and start a conversation from there.”

Giorno sets his mouth in a hard line, but follows Mista to the edge of the dance floor. The music starts with a mellow pop beat, the kind that gets couples shimmying and twirling. Giorno eyes one girl flailing into her girlfriend’s arms, and hesitantly crosses his arms to shield himself.

Mista moves his body to the beat, swaying his hips to keep up with the bass. Giorno shakes his head in quiet laughter, but remains on the edge of the wooden floor, still safely in the dignified, cocktail party zone. 

“Babe, you have to dance,” Mista says with a good-natured smile. “What are you gonna do, stand there the whole time?”

“That’s the plan,” Giorno says stiffly, ducking just in time to miss a drink that goes flying over the space Giorno’s head was in just moments earlier. “I’m not well versed in dancing.”

Mista’s expression softens. “It’s easy, I’ll teach you,” he says, grabbing Giorno’s hands and guiding them to wrap around his neck. “Just do as I do, alright?” Giorno stares up at him, and then nods. 

Mista envelopes Giorno’s waist and steps forward, smiling at the hesitant way Giorno steps his foot backwards. Mista steps backwards, and then Giorno steps forward. They repeat the movement, as Giorno slowly loosens up and leans into the beat of the music. The song transitions into a slower tempo and the lights dim into a rosy tone. 

Giorno gets the hang of dancing quickly, even if he steps on Mista’s toes sometimes and hastily apologizes when Mista winces. In the pinkish lighting, it’s hard to tell if Giorno is blushing or not, but Mista’s skin feels like he’s on fire. Not just because of how crowded the dance floor is becoming, with couples bumping against them constantly, but because of the way it pushes Giorno and Mista closer and closer together, until Mista is practically grinding into Giorno with each jolt in his hip. 

Mista can’t look away from the expression on Giorno’s face. He can’t read it, but Giorno’s pupils are blown out as they stare into Mista’s. Giorno bites his lower lip, and Mista’s eyes are drawn to the movement like a moth to a light, and he finds himself leaning in closer to chase the glow, until the music abruptly changes into a bouncy, high-tempo swing. 

“Alright, everybody,” the DJ announces. “It’s time for the Seaside Swing! Everyone partner up and get ready to trade dancing partners!”

Mista droops his head in defeat as Giorno pulls away, only resurfacing when Giorno tugs his elbow off to the side. “Ready to swing, big boy?” Giorno asks with what can only be described as a flirtatious smirk. 

“You’re on,” Mista says with more confidence than he feels, sticking out an elbow for Giorno to thread his arm through. The music picks up, and Mista and Giorno begin to swing, leaning in and leaning back out when the music calls for it, in time with the array of couples surrounding them. 

“You’re a pretty good dancer,” Mista praises, when Giorno twirls like a showoff. 

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Giorno admits lightly, his eyes sparkling. He opens his mouth to say something else, until the DJ hollers “Switch!” and then the tide of people surges forward, and Mista is sent sprawling across the dance floor to the other end of the room. He steadies himself by clutching to a table, and breathes hard. A lilting giggle interrupts him. 

“Dancing that tough, huh?” the high voice says, and Mista’s mind recognizes it, even before he lifts his head up to see Porchetta’s sidepiece. 

“Yeah,” he says, through panting breaths. “I’m a little out of practice.”

“Trust me, you don’t look it,” she says, gazing openly at Mista’s bare chest. Mista would normally enjoy the attention, but he’s still got deja vu from Giorno throwing a drink at him, so he tugs the buttons of his shirt together and coughs. 

“Sorry, I’m a taken man,” he says with an awkward smile. He jerks his head towards Giorno, who is currently dancing with a stranger, a neutral expression on his face as he’s dipped down towards the floor. The scene makes something angry pool in his gut, which feels unfamiliar and uncomfortable to Mista, so he looks away. 

“Trust me, I know a lot about taken men. I’ve got one of my own,” the girl says with a smile, and she flicks her finger vaguely towards a corner of the room. Mista can see Porchetta talk animatedly into a phone while getting a drink by the bar. She turns back to Mista, studying his face, before she asks, “What’s your name?” 

“Marco,” Mista says, leaning his elbows against the tablecloth. “What’s yours?”

“Kai,” she says, lifting a hand for Mista to kiss. Mista awkwardly shakes it. “You and your boyfriend are pretty cute. How long have you two been dating?”

“A year,” Mista says automatically. “This cruise trip is actually to celebrate our one year anniversary.”

Kai makes a surprised noise as she sips her champagne.  “Only a year?” she says. “You two act like you’ve been dating each other for far longer than that. I had guessed at least a couple years.”

Mista doesn’t know what to say to that, so he dips his head and asks, “What about you? How long have you been with your partner?”

“Porch and I are going on a year or two, probably?” she says flippantly. “To be honest, I was expecting to use him and lose him within a couple of months. But he and I just got such a connection. Every time he touches me, it’s like I’m inside his mind, you know?”

Mista nods, unsure of how else to respond. 

“Plus,” Kai says with a conspiratorial glint in her eyes as she leans in closer to stage whisper. “He’s got a super secret, lucrative job that he refuses to tell me anything about, so you know what that’s code for.”

Mista tilts his head. “What?”

“Government spy,” Kai says with a giggle. “Like something straight from a TV show. Dreamy, right?”

Mista can’t help but think mafia boss is a way cooler occupation in comparison. Looks like Kai didn’t know that much about what her boyfriend really got up to, though. He shrugs and says, with a smile, “That’s pretty dreamy.”

“This lip gloss Porch got me today is insanely expensive,” Kai beams, pulling out the tube from earlier and waving it in Mista’s face. Mista vaguely registers the black tube and holographic sheen of the makeup inside, before Kai smiles and applies the gloss over her lips, glancing into a compact mirror. Some sight she sees in the mirror seems to make her smile, because she flashes a mischievous grin at Mista and says, “I should let you go, Marco. Your boyfriend doesn’t seem to like me too much.”

Mista follows her line of sight to see Giorno standing off to the side with a hard glare directed in Kai’s direction. It could just be a resting bitchface, though. He doesn’t let up his stare until Mista waves, and then his expression shifts into a more neutral one as he dips his head towards Mista. 

“It was nice talking to you, Marco. It’s not often I get to meet guys as nice as you,” Kai says. He can feel Giorno’s eyes boring a hole into the side of his head. Kai leans in, about to press a glossy, wet kiss on Mista’s cheek. 

“Aw great, you tried to homewreck my marriage, and now you’re trying to homewreck this poor schmuck? No kissing, Kai, you gotta save that lip gloss.” a familiar, gravely voice says. Kai stops mere centimeters away from Mista, and pulls away, so that Porchetta can press a kiss to Kai’s temple and wrap a hand around her waist. Porchetta hands Kai a cocktail and passes an unamused glance at Mista, giving him the once over. For some reason, his stare makes Mista feel naked, even though he knows his clothes - or rather, Giorno’s clothes - are sticking to his body from sweat like a second skin. 

“Sorry, Porch,” Kai giggles, staring up at Porchetta adoringly. “I can’t help it. Marco here is just too fun to not tease. Trust me, though, he’s very faithful to his boyfriend.”

Porchetta wrinkles his nose. “He’s a homosexual?”

Mista doesn’t know why he expected a middle-aged Italian gangster to be progressive about different sexualities, but he still feels a little offended. Thankfully, Kai swats Porchetta’s arm for him. “Don’t say it like that ,” Kai says, twisting her boyfriend’s nose.

Porchetta grimaces. “Whatever. I’m heading back to the room, got a call from work. We’ll see this Marty boy or whatever around.” He dips his head in Mista’s direction and steers Kai away. 

He shrugs and scans the room for Giorno, who is no longer on the dance floor, but standing by the bar with a drink in hand. He nods when Mista saddles up beside him and presses a kiss on the top of his head. 

“There you are,” Mista says, with clear relief. 

Giorno smiles softly and hands him a glass of champagne. “Missed you,” he says. “These couples are awful, let me tell you.”

Mista almost believes that Giorno means it, until Giorno’s eyes slides from Mista’s face towards the retreating figures of Porchetta and Kai walking out the door. Right, Mista remembers with shame. They’re two coworkers on an undercover mission. They’re supposed to be acting like a couple for the mission. Giorno is acting when he is affectionate, and Mista is also supposed to be acting, although he gets the sinking feeling that much of his “act” is just second nature, listening to what his impulses want him to do. 

It is not in Mista’s nature to dwell on that, though, so he leans into Giorno’s ear and says, offhandedly, “Met Porchetta and Kai. Want me to catch you up on it on the deck?”

“Perfect, let’s get out of here,” Giorno says, tugging at his collar. Mista’s eyes watch the movement with hungry interest. “It’s so hot in here. I could use a breather.”

Mista follows Giorno out the door, chasing a feeling, and there's something heavy in the air, like something else is going to happen, but then the world jerks, and the memory abruptly cuts off. 

In the present, Mista’s eyes fly open. He blinks, disoriented, and then remembers that he isn’t still on the cruise, but in a crappy motel room, sitting next to Giorno. He rubs his head, his hands no longer in Giorno’s grip. 

“Let’s end the memory there,” Giorno says. “All you missed is that we tracked Porchetta with the security cameras. I wanted to give you a breather before our final confrontation. It’s quite a lot to relive.”

Mista clears his throat and says hoarsely, “Why’d you stop the memory? Whatever we saw on the cameras feels important to relive, out of all things.”

Giorno heaves a breath and shrinks within himself. It’s a little jarring to see this side of him, given his open and flirty demeanor in their memories. Mista finds himself missing it, even though it isn’t real. “We should move on,” Giorno says, without leaving room for doubt. 

“Are you hiding something from me?” Mista asks, looking down at their hands, just centimeters from interlocking. “How am I supposed to get my memory back if you’re holding back parts of it? What could possibly be so bad that you don’t want me to relive it?”

“Fine,” Giorno says sharply, whipping his head to meet Mista’s eyes with a glare. “If you want to see the whole memory so bad, then we’ll do it. But we aren’t stopping the process this time. We’re playing this one until the end. You can make your judgement then.”

“Judgement about what?” Mista says, but Giorno ignores him to roughly grab his hands and squeeze his eyes shut tightly. And then, Mista doesn’t have a chance to protest, because then the memory plays once again.

FOUR DAYS AGO

In the early hours of the morning, Giorno and Mista stumble out onto the deck of the cruise. Mista tugs the sweater off himself and unbuttons the shirt to peel the fabric off his chest, closing his eyes to savor the way the cool ocean breeze hits his skin. 

When he opens his eyes, Giorno is staring down at his chest. Or at least, he thinks Giorno was staring, but his eyes flicker back up to Mista’s so quickly that Mista thinks it might just be a trick of the light. They are illuminated by soft, hazy fairy lights on the cruise, after all. 

Mista turns to look towards the endless, dark sea instead of thinking more distracting thoughts about his boss checking him out. “So, yeah, Porchetta got a call from work,” he says, his throat suddenly dry. “Apparently, he’s heading back to his cabin now. He’s probably going to drop off the intel when we stop in Greece later today.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Mista can see that Giorno nods and leans against the bannister of the cruise ship. “We’ll keep an eye on him, then, from here on out,” he says. “I wonder if we can listen in on that call, somehow.” 

“You know if there’s cameras in the ballroom we were just in?”

“Two,” Giorno says automatically. “One by the entrance, one by the bar.”

Mista internally marvels at Giorno’s acute observation skills and externally nods. “Great,” he says. “So how are we getting into the camera room?”

Giorno flips open his phone and tilts the screen towards Mista. “Camera’s room is in the interior of the ship, bottom floor, ‘staff only’ section,” he explains, circling his finger over each respective area. “It wouldn’t be difficult to get in, except the area is locked for clearance. We’d need a staff key card to get down there.”

“How are we going to get that?” Mista asks, scratching the back of his neck. 

“Leave it to me,” Giorno says. He presses a finger against Mista’s chest. “You, on the other hand, need to think of a diversion so we can sneak in. Can you handle that?”

“Of course, babe,” Mista says with a wide grin. “Won’t let you down.”

Giorno’s small smile makes Mista’s whole night worth it. “I’m counting on it,” he says lightly, and then spins on his heel. “Come on, let’s go. Act natural.”

The two of them walk in tandem down the side of the ship, as if simply on an evening stroll, passing by drunk couples, a line of cruise goers eating soft serve, and small clusters of people playing shuffleboard. They walk for so long that Mista almost thinks they completely missed the staff entrance, until Giorno suddenly hard pivots to the right and ducks into a small side door, bringing Mista along with him. He pushes open the flaps, and then Mista’s nose is overpowered with the smell of food - lobster and sushi and seafood, if scent is anything to go by. It smells amazing. They must be in the kitchens, then.

Giorno wrinkles his nose. “This is why I am a vegan,” he mutters, as they creep by a hallway along the wall. 

“What are you looking for?” Mista whispers as they turn right. 

“Staff elevator,” Giorno says, focusing his attention on the signs on the wall ahead of them. They pass by a sign that reads STAFF ONLY. He turns left, and then Mista sees ahead of them a clearly marked elevator and two arrows above it, the “up” arrow glowing. The two of them pause against the wall.

“Someone’s coming up,” Mista says. “That’s your chance to get a key.”

Giorno nods sharply. “Just on you to set up a diversion, then. Ready?” he asks, as the elevator doors creak open. 

“Yup,” Mista says as he pins Giorno against the wall and kisses him, ensuring that he limits his attention to one side of Giorno’s face so that the view behind Mista is unobscured. Giorno makes a muffled noise of surprise, but almost melts underneath him, keeping his eyes half-lidded and open as a person lumbers out of the elevator. The sound of dishes and silverware clanking behind him makes Mista guess the person is a janitor, bringing out the now clean items from the dishwasher. The footsteps pause before them. 

“What are you kids doing here?” a voice says gruffly. “This is a staff-only area.”

Mista momentarily stops assuaging Giorno’s ear to pull away and looks over his shoulder with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, we were looking for a place to...um, you know. Boink.”

Giorno smiles with a twitch in his left eyebrow. “We’ll be out of your hair soon,” he says in his best faux-innocent voice. 

The janitor sighs. “Young love. I get it. Just get out of here in the next five minutes, and I won’t say a word, alright?”

Giorno slips out of Mista’s grasp - and Mista does not whine at the loss of contact - to walk forward and slips a bill into the janitor’s hands. The janitor stares down at the dollar amount and his eyes bug out in shock. Giorno says amicably, “We appreciate it.”

The janitor looks at them with a mixture of awe and fear and then hurries away. Mista waits until his footsteps recede into the sound of diner chatter and the rolling of the sea, before he says, “You got the key, or what?”

With a wink, Giorno lifts his hand to showcase a tiny ladybug on his wrist, which quickly transforms into a shiny, plastic keycard. “Don’t even have to ask,” he says smugly, pressing it against the elevator panel. “You know I used to pickpocket tourists before I joined Passione, right?”

Mista blinks. “I did not.” He steps into the staff elevator to join Giorno, the doors shutting behind them with a ding. Giorno presses the lowest button, and the elevator shudders and groans, sinking into the floor. It both appears to be and sounds like an ancient bucket of bolts, likely because no passengers are supposed to be inside it at any point.

“Piece of shit,” Mista says with annoyance, kicking the wall. “It’s going to fall apart any minute.”

Giorno leans against the bannister, bemused. “We’ll be out of here soon, Mista,” he says. “Just focus on the mission.”

Mista sighs, only untensing his shoulders when the elevator halts, hitting the bottom floor. The doors slide open to reveal a hallway leading into a doorway with a SECURITY sign blinking above it. Mista steps forward, but Giorno presses a hand on his chest to stop him. 

“Wait,” he whispers. “I sense a life force inside the security room. There’s a guard in there. We’ll have to draw them out.”

Mista reaches for the gun in his pants, but Giorno shakes his head. “No murders tonight, Mista,” he says dryly. “We don’t want to set off any alarms on the cruise. I’ll sneak in, you distract. Just, no making out this time. Got it?”

Mista nods. He waits until Giorno gets in position, pressed flat against the corner of the wall, before he breathes, ready to put on a show. He bangs a fist against the elevator wall. “Hello? Hello?” he hollers, getting into character. “Is there a manager here? Hello?”

He waits, and sure enough, moments later, a disgruntled security guard opens the doorway and glares at Mista. “You lookin’ for a manager?” the middle-aged man says, crossing his arms. “You’re in the wrong place. How the hell did you get in here?”

The security guard is still in the doorway. He needs to get farther away so that Giorno can sneak in. Mista sighs impatiently and crosses his arms. “Yes, I need a manager. My partner slipped while playing shuffleboard on the deck because someone didn’t mop the deck enough, and we’re going to file a lawsuit if I don’t speak to a manager right now.”

The security guard rolls his eyes, but still doesn’t budge. “You signed a liability waiver to ride the cruise. Not the cruise’s problem.”

Shit, Mista had to step his game up. With an exaggerated yelp, Mista leans backwards and falls on his ass with a loud cry. He grips his ankle with an over the top wince. “Oh no, I think it’s broken,” Mista says pathetically, reaching a hand out to hide his perfectly sound ankle. 

“What the hell?” the security guard mutters, finally walking away from his post to inspect the damage. As he passes the corner of the hallway, Giorno darts behind him to slip into the closing security door, making it just in time.

“My shoes are still wet from the cruise deck,” Mista says with faux-annoyance as the security guard bends down to examine the ankle. “Plus, I sprained it just a year ago while playing soccer, so it’s still sensitive.”

The security guard presses on Mista’s ankle gently, and Mista howls in pain as convincingly as he can manage. “Jeez, I just sprained it,” Mista says, crossing his arms. “Ease up on the poking and jabbing there, alright?”

The other man looks ready to murder Mista right on the spot, but he grits his teeth and says, “Let’s get you to the medic, alright? See what he’s got to say about your ankle.”

Mista widens his eyes. Shit, he couldn’t leave yet. Giorno still hasn’t finished with getting the security cam footage. What was taking him so long? “I don’t have health insurance,” Mista says weakly. “What’s your copay plan?”

The security ground wrinkles his brow. “What are you, American?”

Mista is about ready to just summon Sex Pistols and end this the easy way when Giorno finally reappears at the door, flashing him a thumbs up. Mista abruptly scrambles to stand up and says, “You know what? I feel fine. Don’t worry about it. I’ll just take my leave and go.”

“Not so fast, young man,” the security guard says with a frown. “I still don’t know how you managed to get down here, and that is a huge security risk-”

Suddenly, a yellow tube is shoved up his nose, and then the man’s eyes roll into the back of his head as he collapses into a heap on the ground. Giorno watches on impassively, then transforms the massive flower in his hands back into a hair pin, the tubes being the last to mold back into thin wire.

“I thought you said ‘no murders tonight’,” Mista says petulantly, as Giorno steps back into the elevator. 

“He’s just unconscious, he’ll come to in a few hours,” Giorno says, jabbing the button on the panel to their room floor. "Security footage was a little helpful. From what I could hear from their conversation, Porchetta kept mentioning a key to unlocking the intel of some sport. But besides that, the party was too loud to discern the rest of the conversation."

Mista nods, doing his best to ignore the continuous sound of clanking and wheezing of the elevator.

“By the way," Giorno continues. "Has anyone ever told you that you should quit the mafia to become an actor?”

“No,” Mista says curiously. 

“Good,” Giorno says with a self-satisfied smile. “Because they’d be lying.”

Mista swats Giorno’s bicep and groans. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, purse-snatcher. You better not-”

Mista never gets to finish articulating what Giorno better not do, because then the elevator suddenly lurches with a terrifying creak, and Mista is thrust towards the other side of the elevator. In a flash, he is chest to chest against Giorno and his delicately surprised face. 

“The elevator isn’t moving,” is all Mista can think of saying, instead of focusing on Giorno’s bright green eyes and very kissable lips. “I fucking knew this piece of shit was broken.”

“I’m sure it’s just a technical mishap,” Giorno says patiently. He presses the Help button on the panel. “It will be over in a moment.”

A moment passes, and the elevator does not come back to life. 

“Looks like we’re stuck here,” Mista says with a grimace. “Got any fun ideas to pass the time?”

Giorno’s gaze flickers down to Mista’s lips in a way that definitely isn’t a trick of the light this time. His Adam’s Apple bobs in his throat, and then he says, “You know, someone is likely going to find us soon, right?”

“Right,” Mista says slowly, waiting for Giorno to finish his train of thought. 

“And they’re going to want to know why we’re in the staff elevator,” Giorno continues. 

“Right,” Mista repeats. 

“So,” Giorno says, his cheeks just the slightest bit pink. “Given our...track record for diversions, it makes sense then what we ought to be doing when a cruise employee eventually finds us, no?”

Mista blinks. “Acting out an injury and threatening a lawsuit?”

Giorno rolls his eyes so hard that it’s a wonder his eyes are able to reorient themselves in the correct position. “There truly is no point in being subtle with you,” he mutters, and then smashes his mouth into Mista’s. 

Mista widens his eyes. If he was thinking straight, he would point out how this did not feel like a kiss that was necessary for the mission. However, he is thinking in a very not straight way when Giorno is writhing undeneath him like this, and definitely not when his dick twitches in his pants, so he decides, fuck it. Mista eagerly reciprocates, parting his lips to let Giorno’s tongue slip in. Any concerns of what exactly this is - acting as Romeo and Marco? Giorno and Mista? Something else entirely? - flies out the window when Giorno gasps, “Mista,” right into his lips, and then Mista’s mind has zero capacity to focus on anything else other than the gorgeous specimen underneath him.

Giorno pulls away from the kiss, and for a moment, Mista is worried that Giorno is going to stop them, or say it was all a mistake. Instead, Giorno quickly reconnects his lips along Mista’s neck, sucking insistent lovebites lower and lower until he approaches the collar of Mista’s shirt. He takes a fistful of the material and yanks it over Mista’s shoulders so that his chest is laid bare for all the world to see. And by ‘all the world’, he means Giorno. If Mista was feeling cheesy, he’d say Giorno is his world. 

“Lie down,” Giorno orders, scattering any distracting thoughts out of Mista’s mind. Mista scrambles to sit on the elevator floor, propping himself by his elbows as Giorno stares with what can only be described as a lecherous grin, taking in Mista in all of his shirtless glory. Mista shifts uncomfortably - he was not looking forward to the rug burn on his arms in the morning - but he forgets all of that when Giorno all but pounces onto him to aggressively attack his abdomen with his tongue, using his free hands to run along Mista’s muscled chest.

Without his accord, Mista’s hand shoots out to fist Giorno’s hair and groan. “God, you’re killing me here,” he pants, feeling his dick strain against the fabric of his skin tight slacks. 

“Oh, you really are enjoying this, huh?” Giorno says, far too smug for someone who looks so enamored with Mista’s body. Mista wants to point this out, but doesn’t get the chance to when Giorno’s mouth drifts south, towards Mista’s happy trail, and then Mista’s dick jerks in his pants, which does not go unnoticed.

“These tight pants are driving me crazy,” Giorno says. “Let’s get them off.” With an anticipatory grin, Giorno unclasps the button on Mista’s pants and tugs it downwards, freeing his cock with it, which stands to attention embarrassingly quickly in the air, already half-hard. Giorno reaches out a hand to jerk it in his hands and Mista nearly keels over from how good it feels. He grinds a little pathetically into Giorno’s palm, searching for more of the delicious friction. 

“Gio,” Mista chokes out. “Please.” It’s vague, but Giorno seems to get the message when he sends Mista one last sultry look before licking his lips and swallowing the head of Mista’s dick. He bobs his head over the tip while his hands make up the difference. Mista groans in pleasure, his head growing hazier and hazier as his senses are flooded with Giorno - Giorno’s hot, velvety mouth around his cock, his gorgeous eyes trained on Mista’s undoubtedly blissed out face, his flowery scent, the small gagging sounds he makes as he deepthroats. 

Mista feels a familiar lurch in his gut, and then he tightens his grip around Giorno’s hair to pull him off of his dick reluctantly. The action is accompanied with a wet, slick pop sound and a pout on Giorno’s face as he wipes the drool off his lips. 

“Why’d you stop me?” Giorno says with a frown. “Was it...not good?”

“It was good,” Mista promises. “Way too good. I just don’t wanna blow my load too early, you know, without helping you out. I mean, you’re still fully clothed.”

With that, Mista sits up, intent on going through the motions of unbuttoning Giorno’s shirt and pants, but instead, Giorno impatiently transforms his clothing into various vines, which fall to the wayside on the corner of the elevator. 

“Woah,” Mista says with widened eyes as he takes in Giorno’s now naked body, all lithe and delicate-looking but still undoubtedly strong and very capable of instantaneously killing Mista on the spot. In a hot way, of course. Mista spits on his hand and leans close to touch the tip of Giorno’s pink dick, enjoying the way that it makes Giorno’s hips jerk involuntarily. Emboldened, Mista sets a pace to stroke Giorno, watching with interest the way that Giorno’s cheeks flush and he covers his mouth to muffle the mewls of pleasure that come out. Mista firmly bats the hand away. 

“Be as loud as you want,” he whispers quietly into Giorno’s skin. “Let everyone know how good I’m making you feel.”

“Mista,” Giorno moans into his ear, fast tracking the sound right into Mista’s permanent memory. “This is good, but it’s- it’s not enough. Please.”

“Please what?” Mista asks innocently, purposely slowing down his pace so that Giorno has a moment to breathe. 

Giorno throws his head back and shivers. “Please,” he pleads again, rolling his hips against Mista’s dick, like it will prompt Mista to abandon this line of questioning. Mista is tempted, of course, but he enjoys seeing this flustered side of Giorno too much to let it go. 

“Come on, babe,” Mista teases. He drifts his hand to circle the rim of Giorno’s hole. “Just tell me, and I’ll give it to you. That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?”

Giorno lurches forward and presses a hot, desperate kiss against Mista’s mouth to shut him up. With a strangled groan, he says, “Please fuck me, Mista.”

“There you go,” Mista says with a mischievous grin. He’s ready to just ram his cock into Giorno, but then he remembers that they need lubrication. Shit. 

“Uh, you don’t happen to have lube, do you?” Mista says awkwardly. Way to ruin the sexiness, Mista, jeez. 

Giorno impatiently grabs at the first item in his vicinity, which happens to be his shirt, and transforms it into an aloe vera plant using Gold Experience. He practically claws at the gushing liquid, before depositing it into Mista’s hands. “It’ll make do,” he says, between shallow breaths. “Hurry up.”

Mista wants to ask how exactly Giorno knows how to get makeshift lube, but he’s not sure he wants to know the answer, so instead, he shuts up and coats his dick with the liquid, and then his fingers. He presses a slow kiss on Giorno’s lips before he uses a finger to lightly trace Giorno’s hole, savoring the way Giorno shudders in response. 

“Put it in,” Giorno rasps. With a nod, Mista does, pushing into the wet heat. Giorno lets out a gasp, and shuts his eyes tightly. Mista waits until Giorno’s face relaxes, acclimating to his finger, before he picks up the pace, pushing in and out, in and out. 

Giorno looks gorgeous like this, thoroughly debauched by Mista’s hands. It’s a far cry from the untouchable Don that Mista normally sees him as. Like this, Giorno is just the beautiful blond who is about to get dicked by Mista into next week. Either way, unmistakably Giorno. Mista presses another slicked finger in. 

He can tell that Giorno is starting to feel the pleasure, because he begins to lightly rock his hips against Mista’s fingers. Dutifully, Mista fingers him at a harsher pace, occasionally scissoring his fingers to stretch out Giorno’s walls further. Giorno is clearly approaching some brink of desperation, though, even as Mista adds a third finger, because his movements become more stuttered and jerky. 

“Mista,” he breathes. “This is very thoughtful, but please just fuck me already. I can handle it.”

Mista files the single hottest statement that’s ever been uttered out of anyone’s mouth, in the back of his head, and then slides his hand out of Giorno, rubbing the remaining aloe vera on his dick. He needs to go slow, he reminds himself. Slowly and steadily, he presses the head of his cock in, groaning with each tiny centimeter he fits in.

Suddenly, the elevator lurches again, and Mista involuntarily jerks forward, roughly shoving of his dick inside. Giorno screams, and latches onto the back of Mista’s head, sending Mista tumbling down to the floor, sprawling over Giorno’s chest. 

“Shit, shit, are you okay?” Mista asks frantically, as the elevator around them springs back to life and rushes upwards. Giorno lets out a shaky breath and nods. 

“I’m fine,” he says. “Give me a second.” Mista starts to pull out, but Giorno tightens his grip on the back of Mista’s head to stop him. 

“No, don’t move,” he says shakily. “Stay right there. Stay inside me while we get to our room.”

Mista chokes. “Uh, how exactly am I going to do that?” he says, as Giorno collects their discarded pieces of clothing. He bunches them up and presses them between their chests, then hugs Mista tightly. 

“Lift me up and carry me,” Giorno says patiently. “You will fit inside me. Trust me.”

There are several objections Mista could make to this idea. They could see some random person and get charged with public indecency, someone could take a picture and post it all over the internet, they could get yelled out by the conservative old couple in the room next to theirs. However, Mista is way too into this to even think of any of those objections, so he simply nods dumbly and hoists Giorno as best as he can, all but tossing him over his shoulder. Giorno pants like a dog as Mista’s cock jerks inside him at a new angle. 

“Perfect,” he breathes, as the elevator doors slide open with a ding . “Get us to our room, now.”

Mista doesn’t know how he does it, but he somehow manages to fumble his way down the hallway, each step bouncing Giorno on his dick and sending another breathless moan into his ear, and then get them inside the room. 

The second the door to their cabin closes behind them, Giorno grinds with furious intensity against Mista’s dick, sending tingles of electricity up Mista’s spine. “God, yes,” he groans as Mista unceremoniously sets Giorno down on the bed, propping himself up with his hands over the blond. He craves the feeling of Giorno squeezing around him, so he pulls out slowly, until just the tip remains, and then slams inside. Giorno shoots his hands out to wrap around Mista’s neck for stability as Mista repeats this pace, all or nothing, fucking him as hard as he can. 

“Faster, faster, faster,” Giorno babbles as Mista pounds into him, breaking a sweat from exertion. The room fills with a cacophony of pants and moans as Giorno strains his vocal cords, succumbing to the pleasure of being filled. 

“God, you’re so tight,” Mista grunts, jerking his hips slightly to adjust his angle of entry. He does something right, because when he hits a certain spot, Giorno freezes, and then nearly sobs.

“Fuck me, Mista, holy-” he cries out as Mista dutifully aims for that spot over and over and over again, pulsating inside him. Desperately, like a desert man seeking water, Giorno presses his lips against Mista’s mouth and shudders against him. Mista thinks he could die right this second and he would be content.

“You’re amazing,” MIsta breathes. “I’m going to come, shit-”

Giorno nods frantically and kisses harder. “Come inside me,” he says breathlessly, and then Mista has no choice but to. With one final groan, Mista buries himself inside Giorno and rides the roller coaster of endorphins, until he collapses against Giorno’s chest, thoroughly exhausted. Giorno rolls his hips against Mista, jerking his own dick, and then in a few short bursts, he comes too. 

They sit in silence for a moment, blissed out. Mista can barely wrap his mind around the fact that he is a human being right now, and not merely just a dick, arm, and mouth for Giorno’s pleasure, so he is really not thinking about the ramifications of what they just did. He closes his eyes, and lets his mind cloud over with the haze of an amazing orgasm and the white noise of the ocean. 

After a beat, he rolls over to study Giorno’s expression, and notes with a good amount of satisfaction how thoroughly fucked out Giorno looks, his eyes glassy, his hair a mess, white come pooling around his thighs. All of Mista’s worldly problems would probably disappear if he could just keep Giorno like this forever, Mista thinks to himself. With a rush of affection, he presses a kiss against Giorno’s cheek, which seems to jolt Giorno back to reality. 

“Round two already?” Giorno croaks. “I have a refractory period. I’ll need a moment, and then we can continue.”

Mista blinks. “Wait, actually?”

Giorno shoots him a deadpan look. “Don’t make me repeat myself,” he says, throwing his head back to thump against the pillows. His skin is a perfect contrast against the deep red and maroon shades of the pillowcase and the blankets, so there’s nothing else for Mista to see but Giorno. As if Mista would have been able to look at anything else, anyways. 

Mista kisses Giorno’s hairline, and then his cheekbone, taking in the drowsy sounds of contentment that Giorno gives in return. 

The scene ripples, and then refocuses, coalescing around the image of Giorno and Mista sleeping soundly in the bed, the only discernible difference being the daylight streaming in through a small window.

An alarm goes off, shaking the nightstand by the bed, and Mista is the first to wake to swat his hand at the clock and shut it off. He groans, then tilts his head to stretch out the cricks in his neck. He’s half-awake, drowsy, and so it takes him a moment to see the sleeping, naked form of Giorno beside him, and then for his brain to connect the dots. 

“Oh my god,” Mista says, startled, into the empty silence of their cabin. He is frozen in place as Giorno slowly awakens as well, rubbing his eyes blearily before opening them. He squints at Mista, and then a slow smile spreads over his face. 

“Morning,” he mumbles. “Ready to go to Greece?”

Mista blinks, and then nods. “Yeah, totally,” he says, his voice two octaves too high. “So, about last night…”

Giorno frowns tiredly. “Are you having second thoughts?” he says.

Mista shakes his head frantically. “No. I mean, are you?”

The relief in Giorno’s expression is palpable. He laughs quietly and says, “Me neither. Shall we go get ready to eat? Today is going to be a long day.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Mista says hurriedly, before Giorno can successfully pivot the conversation. “We should talk about last night, right? I mean, what are we? Do we-” he swallows. “Do we get to do that again?”

Giorno watches him carefully. “What do you want?”

Mista sighs, struggling to pick the right words to describe how he feels. “I like what we did last night, but I don’t want to ruin what we have right now,” he says slowly. “I’m trying to think like Giorno, not like Mista, about this, you know?”

“Of course. I don’t want to lose you,” Giorno says. He stares up at him fondly, his eyes crinkling through his blond curtain of curls. In the softest voice Mista has ever heard from him, he says, “You mean the world to me. You deserve the world, Guido.”

Mista sits in stunned silence for a moment, taking in Giorno’s words. He opens his mouth to reply, and then, the stupid alarm rings once more, and Mista all but crushes it with his fist. 

“Ah, Father Time is knocking on our door to remind us of our worldly obligations,” Giorno says with a tiny note of amusement. He finally sits up, and threads his fingers through his unruly hair. “Let’s get ready. We have a mission to complete, and a drug trade to bring down, after all.” 

When he stands up, he limps slightly. A small, bittersweet smile crosses Mista’s face at the sight. 

The memory swims once more, and then refocuses on Giorno and Mista stepping onto land for the first time in a week, taking in the endless blue sky and stunning views of the seaside Greek town they’ve landed on. The closer they get to confronting Porchetta, the more glitchy and hazy the memories become. Mista in the present struggles to focus on the events playing out before him.

“Where’s Porchetta?” Mista says, scanning the sea of tourists and cruise passengers bustling around town. He spies Kai taking pictures of the scenery by a street corner, and grabs Giorno’s hand to make a beeline over there. 

“Kai!” Mista hollers, waving his hand as he approaches. The girl sends him a glance before snapping one last photo and turning to greet the couple with a wide grin. 

“Marco and Co.!” she says, wrapping Mista in a hug. “What a surprise!”

“Indeed,” Giorno says, his voice laced with an edge of something as he watches the two of them break apart. 

“Romeo and I were about to go sightseeing,” Mista says. “Would you and your boyfriend wanna come with?”

“I would love to,” Kai says, “But Porch is unfortunately tied up with ‘work stuff’. I’m under strict orders to stay here. Just waiting up for a friend, now.” She winks, and then reapplies her lip gloss absentmindedly.

“That’s a shame,” Giorno says in monotone. “Well, Mista and I will be heading off, then. It was lovely to see you.” He insistently brushes past Kai to move forward, Mista stumbling to follow behind him. Mista mouths a ‘Seeya!’ over his shoulder to Kai. 

Giorno is pointedly looking down at the tracker on his phone, and not at Mista’s inquisitive face as he marches forward. “Looks like Porchetta is somewhere in the upper downtown district,” he says, more to himself than to Mista. “We need to hurry if we are to track him, he seems to be moving quickly.”

“Uh, babe?” Mista interrupts. “Are we going to talk about why you were trying to kill Kai with your eyes? I mean, she is our only connection to Porchetta, so, it doesn’t make sense to act too pissy around her for the mission, yanno?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Giorno says sharply, still not meeting Mista’s prying eyes. 

“Yes, there is,” Mista insists. “What, are you jealous?”

Giorno spins around so suddenly it starts Mista. “She was flirting with you,” he says, crossing his arms. “Of course I was jealous. What kind of boyfriend - fake or otherwise - would I be to condone that?” He sets his mouth into a hard line and adds, “It’s for the mission, anyways. Now come on, we’re going to lose him.”

Even if Mista had anything he could reply to that with, he doesn’t get the chance to when Giorno paces down the colorful cobblestone streets in silence. Mista struggles to process the rush of emotions in his chest - the euphoria of last night fading into guilt, disappointment, anger, confusion, hopelessness trying to piece together Giorno’s feelings or hell, his own feelings on the subject. 

The reality swirls once more, until Giorno and Mista are standing before the location of the blinking light, in front of a hole in the wall bar. Mista peers in the windows to see Porchetta taking a swig of beer by the counter, face grim, hands interlocked in front of him. He’s watching a game on the small TV. Inside, clusters of people aimlessly drink beer and chat lazily.

“We need to draw him out,” Mista says. “Too many people inside.”

“It’s too risky to use our Stands. We don’t know if Porchetta has Stand users with him,” Giorno muses to himself. “We need to convince him to step outside.”

Mista takes a breath and squares his shoulders. “Here goes nothing,” he prefaces, before he hollers, “I can’t believe you pulled this shit again! Kai is just a friend!’

Giorno, to his credit, takes this newfound situation extremely well. He blinks, and then delivers back with even more gusto, “Have you seen the way she looks at you?”

“What does it matter?” Mista says, throwing his arms up in the air.  “You know I’ve only got eyes for you. So what, you think I’m going to cheat or something?” He shifts his glance quickly to see Porchetta take one last swig of beer and step outside to listen in their argument. Bingo.

“It’s not about that,” Giorno says roughly. “It’s not just Kai, it’s all the women you date and entertain ever since we’ve met. It’s just a sign that I’m replaceable to you, that if we ever broke up, you’d have no problem finding someone new.”

This felt a little more vulnerable and a little more raw than a staged couple fight should be, but Mista is admittedly distracted by the way Porchetta is now approaching them. “Well, you shouldn’t be!” Mista says defiantly. “Why can’t you just trust me when I say I’m faithful?”

“Because I know you,” Giorno says, a lot more quietly. “And I trust myself much more than I trust you.”

Mista opens his mouth to protest, but then, Porchetta places two firm hands down, one on Mista’s shoulder, the other on Giorno’s, and sighs. 

“Ah, young, angry couples,” he says, heaving a breath. “Always clashing, always arguing, never happy with each other or themselves.”

Mista slowly turns his gaze from Giorno’s turbulent eyes to the wistful expression on Porchetta’s face. “Uh, what?” he says eloquently. 

Porchetta examines Mista’s face. “You look familiar,” he says. “You got a M name or somethin’, right?”

“Yeah,” Mista says, and then doesn’t elaborate further. 

“You look like a Mickey,” Porchetta says, gripping Mista’s shoulder and steering him away. “I’m going to call you Mickey.” Porchetta guides him up the street towards the hills of villas. Mista looks over his shoulder to see that Giorno has disappeared. Hopefully, Giorno is tracking or following him, and didn’t just run off in genuine anger. Shit.

Porchetta sighs. “Mickey, when I was younger, I was a lot like you. Hot-headed, stupid, womanizer. It’s fun and flashy, but it’s not forever, you know?”

Mista feels weirded out that his enemy is trying to life coach him right now, but he nods anyway. “Sure,” he says. 

“Eventually, all that bullshit catches up to you, and suddenly, you got a crumbling marriage, a terrible job, and a hot golddigger of a girlfriend,” Porchetta says, crossing his arms. “And you don’t leave because then, what else are you if you don’t have those things? A balding man in his late fifties? A sucker from the last generation that’s got three good farts in him before he kicks the bucket?”

Mista widens his eyes. “Uh…”

“Look,” Porchetta says, turning left. “I heard you talkin’ about Kai. You’re at least the third guy she’s flirted with in front of me. And let me tell you this - of all the women I know, she’s a real keeper. She’s got the key to my heart, after all.”

What was this, a Valentine’s Day card? Sheesh. Mista forces his head into a nod. 

“At some point, I gotta set an example, you know?” Porchetta says nonchalantly. “Kai’s a bitch, but she’s mine, you know?”

Mista does not like the sound of anything Porchetta is saying or doing, especially as the grip on his shoulder tightens, the air around them shimmers, and they approach a large, open coliseum. Real out of place for a Greek seaside town. 

“That’s because we’re not in Greece anymore,” Porchetta says. “We’re in my head.”

Shit, Mista did not realize he said that out loud. “How the hell are we in your head?” he says. 

“I got powers, kid,” Porchetta says, with exasperation. “I mess with heads. I can tear down the defenses to make your memories vulnerable, and then I tamper with them. It’s a very clean and civilized way of settling disputes. All I’m gonna do is mess with your memories of the last week, and then you’re free to go.”

“You’re going to screw with my memories?” Mista says incredulously. He tries to inch away from Porchetta, but the man refuses to let up his grip. Mista reaches for his gun. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Porchetta says. “Your weapon isn’t gonna do squat if I turn you into a bonafide Benjamin Button.”

Porchetta reaches for Mista’s cheek, but Mista dodges, jerking his shoulder hard enough to finally relinquish his grip from Porchetta. He fades in and out of the coliseum, one moment lying on a cobblestone street, the next back on the dirty ground of the arena.

“Clever boy,” Porchetta says, gripping Mista’s hair. “But not clever enough. Now hold still so I can kiss ya.”

Mista wrinkles his nose. “What the fuck?”

Porchetta rolls his eyes. “The process of transmitting memories is easier with saliva, it’s very scientific. I’m not a homosexual.”

Yeah, Mista isn’t letting this creep’s lips anywhere near him. He grits his teeth and maneuvers his body to try to put more distance between the two of them. If he could somehow break free, he could wield Sex Pistols, but the short-distance fighting made a gun practically useless. Still, despite Porchetta’s flabby appearance, his arms are strong and grip Mista firmly, although Mista manages to land a good kick in Porchetta’s balls. 

Suddenly, Mista feels a warm hand inside his, and he panics, wondering how Porchetta managed to appear next to him, before he sees Giorno materialize out of thin air beside him, holding his hand. As he phases in fully, he looks angry, but like in a Greek warrior way, especially when his golden hair flows behind him and holy fuck, Mista needs to get a grip.

Porchetta briefly looks taken aback, before his expression shifts back into his normal leer. “So nice of you to join us, blondie,” he drawls. “This is great. Two lovebirds in one stone.”

Giorno tenses his jaw. He jerks a fist forward, and then the world swims with mist. What happens next is hazy. Mista sees cavernous eyes with red smoke fill his vision, and then lips against his forehead. He yelps, and then everything goes blinding white. Snow bear on a mountain in an avalanche, and all.

Mista cannot wallow in the nothingness. He has purpose and a mission, goddamnit, and Giorno is counting on him. He fights through the zero-gravity space, fights to regain consciousness, and when he feels like his limbs are about to give out, Mista comes to. 

When he does, he is lying with the side of his head squished against the dirt ground of the Coliseum. His head feels bruised, and he finds out the reason why when a leather shoe digs harder into his skull. Fuck, he needs to get back in the fight. 

Mista rolls his eyes as far up as he can to get a view of what’s going on above him. Giorno is clutching his upper bicep, and Mista realizes Giorno is missing his lower forearm, which Mista looks down with shock to realize he’s holding. He needs to help. He needs to find an opportunity to rejoin the fight, so he listens in. 

“You’re very clever,” Porchetta says with no small amount of amusement. “Severing your arm to keep yourself attached to my world, but not being vulnerable to my Stand? You must be very proud of yourself for solving that puzzle, kid.”

Giorno narrows his eyes. “Yes,” he says coldly. “That’s how your Stand works, isn’t it? You control people’s minds via touch.”

Porchetta lunges forward, but Giorno pulls away at the last second, jerking his body away. Porchetta heaves a breath, and Mista realizes the man is struggling to both control Mista as a bargaining chip while taking down Giorno as well. 

“You’re never getting the intel,” Porchetta says with a small smirk. “It takes a lot of love to know how, and I don’t think you got a lot to spare.”

“Try me,” Giorno says brazenly.

Porchetta laughs uproariously. “Let me refocus your decision making. I’m the only person in the world who knows how to access the secrets, but your precious boyfriend is lying on death’s door on the floor down there.” He grinds his shoe harder against Mista’s skull, and Mista winces when he feels his cheek dig against the pebbles on the ground. He can’t tell how Giorno reacts from his vantage point, but he hopes Giorno is at least a little concerned. 

“You can kill me now and save your boyfriend,” Porchetta says easily. “But you won’t. Because then you can’t use me to access the drug trade secrets, and then your precious dream will never be realized. Right, Don Giovanna?”

Giorno narrows his eyes. “You knew.”

“I only had to take a quick little peek in your boyfriend’s memories just now,” Porchetta says with a shrug. “Or should I say, ‘fake’ boyfriend?”

When Giorno’s shoulders tense, Porchetta’s smile only grows more ominous. “Ooh, sore spot,” he coos. “Someone’s angry their little heart got broken, huh? What are you, a teenage boy?”

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Giorno says. “If you tell me how to access the intel, you can walk free.” Mista can see vines grow around Porchetta ominously, seconds away from killing him, and he guesses this is Giorno’s version of a gun cocked right in Porchetta’s forehead, finger on the trigger. 

“Choose, Don,” Porchetta says brazenly. “Your bodyguard who doesn’t love you back, or the mission?”

Porchetta needed to stop spewing bullshit, or Mista was going to die with that being the last thing he’ll ever experience. He needs to help Giorno end this. 

“Giorno,” Mista wheezes. “It’s okay.” He needs to communicate to Giorno that it’s okay to let Mista die, that Mista is expendable, that there is nothing more important Mista in the world than Giorno and his dream. But then, his windpipe is crushed and he can barely stay conscious when Porchetta shifts his weight.

“Give up on your dream and kill me, I dare you,” Porchetta says. “You better hope your boyfriend can somehow retrieve the information while half-dead.” He rolls Mista over to showcase to Giorno just how close to dying he is, and how his eyes slowly turn white as the Stand’s effects sink in more and more. 

Giorno tenses. Giorno was going to leave him here to die, Mista thinks hazily. It was good - Giorno always knew how to clearly prioritize, knew when to make sacrifices, and Mista loved him for it. Mista only regrets not telling him that when his throat still worked. He closes his eyes, accepting his fate. 

And then, in one swift motion, the plants dive in towards Porchetta’s neck and squeeze tight, choking him slowly. The shoe on Mista’s head finally lets up, although even as Mista phases back into the cobblestone streets of Greece, he can’t do much except groan in pain. Against his will, his grip on Giorno’s severed arm goes slack. 

Back in the Stand world, Giorno narrows his eyes to lean in closer to Porchetta’s face. For the first time, there is real fear and terror in his face. “Tell me, or die,” Giorno commands.

“Kai-” Porchetta gasps out, and then he clamps his mouth shut, blocking off his air flow even further. It’s only moments later that he succumbs to the grip of the vines that encircle him, but Giorno knows for sure that Porchetta is well and truly dead when the Coliseum around them crashes into white nothingness, and then Giorno is lying against the cobblestone road on a Greek island. He struggles past the pain to rush to Mista’s side, who is lying against the ground, about to pass out. 

“You saved me,” Mista struggles to say weakly, as Giorno hurriedly summons Gold Experience. 

“Don’t talk, I need to concentrate,” Giorno says hoarsely. He examines the blunt trauma on Mista’s forehead and winces. 

“Shit,” Giorno curses, “I’m going to have to do surgery, you’ll need to be numbed. Shit, why couldn’t you just get shot? It’s so much easier to heal-”

“Giorno,” Mista rasps desperately. “It’s okay.”

“Stop talking like you’re going to die,” Giorno says with force, his eyes sparkling and glittering from tears. Mista can’t remember if he has never seen Giorno cry before, but he’s at a point where he’s struggling to remember anything. The white nothingness eats away at him, and then Mista slumps against Giorno’s chest. He can’t stay awake. 

“Giorno,” he says, fully knowing it could be his last words. 

“No, not again, I can’t lose someone again,” Giorno murmurs wetly, but it’s too late. Mista’s mind has succumbed to the white nothingness, and then, Mista in real time, rises - or maybe sink? - into reality.

Think, Mista, the key. He tries to remember Porchetta’s words and his mind sorts through their interactions. His mind tugs towards Porchetta’s last words - Kai - and then it all fits together like puzzle pieces. 

“That’s how your Stand works, isn’t it? You control people’s minds via touch.”

“The process of transmitting the Stand is easier with saliva, it’s very scientific.”

“This lip gloss Porch got me today is insanely expensive.”

“No kissing, Kai, you gotta save that lip gloss.” 

"Porch is unfortunately tied up with ‘work stuff’. I’m under strict orders to stay here. Just waiting up for a friend, now."

“Of all the women I know, she’s a real keeper. She’s got the key to my heart, after all.”

“It takes a lot of love to know how, and I don’t think you got a lot to spare.”

And then Mista’s eyes flood open, and he knows. He ignores how Giorno is staring at him with wide, shimmering eyes, ignores how he drops Mista’s hands like they physically burn him, ignores how he regards him with cautious eyes, like an animal trying to evaluate a predator. Mista isn’t going to be able to stay conscious for long, but he needs to tell Giorno before his voice gives out. But Giorno is already retracting his hands, already closing himself off, and Mista doesn’t know how else to make him listen except to surge forward and press his lips against Giorno’s mouth. He’s not sure how Giorno shares the memory, but he leans as hard as he can and thinks as hard as he can about Kai and keys and lip gloss, so that Giorno knows exactly how to complete the mission. 

And then, Mista slumps over, well and truly exhausted from reliving memories and his aching body. When the world fades into whiteness, Mista can only hope he did enough to save the mission. 

A small smirk, a hand over his mouth. “I hope you’re a better kisser this time.”

For what is hopefully the very last time, Mista wakes up from the enduring white nothingness with a start. He sits up and surveys his surroundings, noting with relief that he is in his bedroom in the Passione manor, and not the crappy motel room. Man, did he hate motel rooms. 

He coughs, feeling his lungs shudder from trying to sustain his voice, and then rasps, “Hello?”

The door creaks open, and Mista’s frayed nerves barely get to register how ominous it is before he sees Fugo in the doorway, struggling to balance a tray of soup and other foods in his hands. Mista sighs in relief at the familiarity.

“Man, it’s good to see you,” Mista says as he gratefully takes the tray on his lap and downs the glass of water. 

Fugo nods stiffly. “Glad you’re finally back. You’ve been out for what, one and a half weeks? Playing Don is harder than I thought.”

“I bet,” Mista grimaces. “Speaking of, where is…?”

“Oh, where is Giorno?” Fugo says with a smug smile, crossing his arms. 

“Uh,” Mista scratches the back of his neck. “No. Nevermind. I don’t think he wants to see me.”

“And why is that?” Fugo asks, pulling up a chair to sit backwards in it like an uncool substitute teacher.

Mista rubs his forehead. “I mean, I got myself attacked by Porchetta’s Stand and fucked up the mission. Giorno’s bound to be mad, right?” 

Fugo swats Mista on the head. “Wrong answer,” he says, “After your mission, Mr. Giorno ‘workaholic’ Giovanna skipped on work to heal you and recover your memory. Why would he do that if he was mad at you?”

“I think he’s mad at me because I made him do that,” Mista says a little pitifully, taking a sip of his soup. Hot. He summons Sex Pistols and lets them go to town with the sandwich on the tray before him. 

There’s a knock at the door. Fugo closes his mouth and says, “Come in!”

“This is my room, who are you telling to come in-” Mista protests, before he recognizes the intimidating blond that is standing in his door. Mista freezes, and against all logic, frets over his appearance. He must be really gross and sweaty and smell like he hasn’t showered in a week, because, well, he hadn’t. He is not worthy to even be in Giorno’s presence, in this state. 

“Fugo, can you excuse us for a moment?” Giorno asks calmly. Fugo nods hurriedly and scrambles out the room. Giorno looks down at the backwards chair and pivots it the right way, before he sits down in it and levels a terrifying gaze at Mista. 

“Did you get the intel?” Mista blurts out, before Giorno can smite him, or whatever else he planned on doing with that scary look on his face.

Giorno nods, clipped. “You were right,” he says. “Kai ended up being the key all along. In our original search, she had only been let in for a short period of questioning, but when you, uhm-”

“Kissed you,” Mista supplies helpfully. 

“-I was going to say ‘transmitted your memory to me’,” Giorno says with a small smile. “We found through her transmission of the memory via lip gloss, we were able to recover the information about the drug routes.”

He's trying to talk around it, so Mista cuts to the chase. "Who did she end up kissing?" Mista asks. 

"Fugo."

Mista can't hold back the way he snorts loudly. Giorno's face is carefully crafted into a neutral expression, but the small smile on his lips betrays his amusement.

"It's quite an ingenious arrangement," Giorno says. "Not many expect Kai to be involved with her boyfriend's work, however involuntarily."

“Still weird, though,” Mista says, scrunching up his face. “I dunno how Porchetta made his saliva into lip gloss, or however else he infected his Stand with it.”

“It was very strange,” Giorno concedes, smiling warmly. “ But it’s thanks to you that we were able to figure that out.” He takes Mista’s hand hesitantly, and Mista jumps, expecting to get sucked into another memory again, but he lets out a breath when he feels nothing but the dull weight of Giorno’s hand against his. His hand is warm, which manifests itself as a red warmth on Mista’s face. 

“It is unfortunate that our cruise trip was cut short,” Giorno says quietly. “I was enjoying it.”

“The pudding was pretty killer, huh?” Mista says. 

“No,” Giorno says bluntly. “The part I enjoyed was getting to spend time with you.”

Mista’s face somehow turns redder. “Me too,” he says dumbly. “I liked to spend time with you , I mean. I spend time with myself all the time.”

Giorno hides a snort behind his hand and says, “So, now that you got your memories back, how are you feeling?”

Mista scratches the back of his neck. “Tired, mostly. I’m still struggling to process all the new stuff I remembered. There was a lot. We did a lot. Like, a lot ,” he emphasizes, thinking back to the night they got trapped in an elevator. His face turns maroon. 

He shakes his thoughts away and voices the concern that has really been bothering him. “From what I remember from the Porchetta fight, when we confronted him, he gave you a choice,” Mista swallows. “Between killing him to save me, or keeping him alive for the mission. And you killed him.”

“Yes,” Giorno says, matter-of-factly. 

“Why?” Mista says in a tiny voice. “Boss, your dream matters way more than me. I’m just a cog in the machine. I dedicated my existence to helping you, and there’s no point in saving me, if it means you can’t fulfill your mission.”

“Mista,” Giorno breathes. “You don’t understand. I need you to help me and be there for me. My dream is important, but you being by my side is important as well. Sometimes, sacrifice is important, but I trusted that you could help me figure it out. I- I value you, Mista, as my right hand, as my friend, as my-”

He stops himself to gauge Mista’s expression. Mista blinks. “What are you saying, boss?”

Giorno shakes his head. “There really is no point in being subtle with you,” he says, and then leans in to press a kiss against Mista’s lips. It’s chaste, quick, and on a purely objective level, not that great, but it’s mind-blowing to Mista because holy shit , they’re not on a mission anymore. Giorno is choosing to kiss Mista while Mista is sitting in a disgusting heap in his bedroom, back at base, not to maintain any cover and wait, why the fuck is Mista not reciprocating?

Giorno pulls away. “Was that...not okay?” he says weakly. “Because I can-”

“Kiss me again,” Mista interrupts, dazed. “Please don’t smite me when I say to please stop talking and kiss me again.”

With a beautifully shocked expression, Giorno collects himself and nods firmly, leaning in to press his lips against Mista once more, only it’s a fuck ton better because Mista actually has the presence of mind to kiss back, wrapping his arms around Giorno’s neck and tilting his head to get a better angle. When Giorno basically mewls, Mista deepens the kiss, drowning himself in the vision before him. 

Someone pounds on the door. “You two better not be fucking in there!” Fugo’s irritated voice says from outside. “Giorno has a meeting in half an hour!”

Reluctantly, Giorno pulls away, leaving a thin trail of saliva as the only evidence that their lips ever met. Well, that, and his bruised lips, dazed expression, and one loose victory roll, and okay, it was kinda obvious they were just making out.

“I’ll be out in a second!” Giorno says distractedly, absentmindedly running his hands over Mista’s torso. 

“So what is this?” Mista says, placing a hand over Giorno’s rogue right hand, which is currently trying to paw at the waistband of his sweatpants. “I mean, we should probably put a label on this before we continue, yeah?”

“Let’s keep it simple,” Giorno says, freeing his right hand to tug Mista’s waistband lower. “I liked what we were doing on the ship. All of it, I mean, all the meals and the public displays of affection and the part where you put your dick inside of me.” His face is far too nonchalant for the absolutely dirty words he’s saying, yet somehow he only goes pink when he says, “So, you know. I would like it if we kept doing that.”

“Like boyfriends?” Mista says.

Giorno nods, the tips of his ears red. 

“Cool, me too,” Mista says. He realizes those three words are deeply unromantic and adds, “I mean, me too, babe.”

“I know,” Giorno says. “I witnessed your inner monologue while we were reliving the memories together.”

Mista hides his face in a pillow and groans. “Fuck, that’s so embarrassing. Please don’t ever bring it up again.”

Giorno actually snorts, and the tension in his shoulders seem to dissipate. “Will do,” he says. “You know, Kai was kind enough to send a gift basket to us, after we compensated her pretty handsomely for her compliance in our lip gloss investigation.”

Mista nods, waiting to see the end of Giorno’s train of thought. Giorno looks off to his right, and a floating basket - no wait, Gold Experience holding a basket - appears. It looks just like a normal bouquet of flowers, until Giorno plucks one off the stem, and then Mista realizes it is a careful arrangement of condoms and lube. 

“Kai, you’re kidding me,” Mista huffs in laughter. 

“I say we can get through this whole basket in a month,” Giorno says brazenly, like he’s issuing a challenge. “Are you up for it?”

“Two weeks,” Mista says, relishing the way the words make Giorno’s eyes light up and his cheeks glow pink. 

“Well, there’s no time like the present, right?” Giorno says with a pout, and Mista doesn’t have to think twice before he leans in to kiss it away.