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“Beat you!” Mista yells as he bumps his fist in the air. Beside him, Giorno rolls his eyes as his car crosses the finishing line merely a second after Mista's.
Mista is far too proud at beating him at (yet another) Mario Kart race, considering that they respectively scored eleventh and twelfth —behind the ten computer-played competitors. And by behind, Giorno means far behind. He wished he could blame their mediocrity on the half-empty bottles of alcohol lying around the coffee table but truth is, both Mista and him are awfully bad at video games —something Narancia gives them shit for every time their little group gathers for a video-games-and-getting-wasted night. Which is exactly the kind of night they are having at the moment, except it's just him and Mista in their shared apartment, sitting with their shoulders pressed together, the lights dimmed and the smell of microwaved pizza leftovers and cheap alcohol filling the room. It's nice, the way few things are. It feels like home.
Giorno elbows Mista in the side because he is still laughing at him for losing the race, even though he is barely better than Giorno. Or, more accurately, Giorno is barely worse than Mista. It doesn’t stop him from continuing to laugh at Giorno, but he does whine a little in mock pain before he straightens up and presses the buttons on his controller.
“Another one?”
“Sure,” Giorno replies as he picks up his controller to select his character and car. “This time, I'm the one beating you up.”
“Ah, bet,” Mista says with a shit-eating grin, as if he beats Giorno every time. Which, well, he does, but he is still bad at the game; surely it can't be that hard to be a little better than that?
“What are we betting on?”
“Uh,” Mista eloquently says, “you wanna bet something even though you're definitely gonna lose?”
He says that to piss Giorno off; rile him up so that he does a terrible performance and can be thoroughly humiliated. Had Giorno been anyone else, Mista’s provocations might have worked. Sadly for him, they don’t, and Giorno keeps a cool head and handles Mista’s snarky comment with all the maturity Mista lacks.
“I am not going to lose, you stupid ass,” Giorno spits out, brows furrow and not without elbowing Mista’s side once more, this time with a little too much strength. Well, peace and maturity be damned; Giorno will not let anyone speak so poorly of him. Not even if it’s about a game he objectively sucks at. Not even if it’s Mista.
“Whatever,” Mista huffs while rubbing the spot between his ribs where Giorno dug his elbow in, and he doesn’t laugh this time, but he does roll his eyes with the shadow of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
“So what do we bet?” Giorno asks again because if he let the subject drop now, it would be like admitting he isn’t sure of his victory. Which he is absolutely one-hundred-percent certain of, let it be known. He is going to beat Mista to a pulp.
Mista hums thoughtfully. “Loser has to drink three shots in a row?”
Giorno makes a face at that. “That’s such a shitty bet,” he says.
“You say that because you’re scared,” Mista smirks.
“Ah! Scared of you puking on me maybe,” he smirks back at Mista, who narrows his eyes at him.
“You’re drunker than me.”
“You’re still the one who’s gonna have to take these shots.”
They stare each other down for a few more seconds before Mista sits back on his heels. “Fine, let’s settle this then.”
Giorno nods and shakes the hand Mista is extending on the bet before he retrieves it and presses ‘start’.
Nine long, excruciating minutes later, Mista lets out a victory cry so loud one would think he just won the lottery and not some Mario Kart race. Or that he at the very least set a new record, and not one of mediocrity. Giorno winces, not so much at the sound of their neighbours banging on the wall than the sheer humiliation of being once more defeated. His car, momentarily turned into Bullet Bill because even the game is fed up with his absolute lack of skills, crosses the finishing line, but Giorno has already dropped his controller in favor of hiding his face behind his hands. He didn’t even do that bad, and managed to stay at the eleventh place for almost two whole laps! Granted, that was only because his opponent was Mista —but still! That has to be some achievement, right? But then those stupid cows just had to get in his way. Fuck them honestly.
“Fuck you,” he groans as a laughing Mista tries to pry his hands away from his face.
“You’re so mean, Giorno,” Mista laughs even more, and Giorno couldn’t be mad at him even if he wanted to. He sighs.
“Do I really have to drink that?” He asks with the hope that Mista will take pity on him; but he doesn’t and pushes the glass filled with way too much alcohol in Giorno’s hands.
“Hell yeah!”
Giorno sighs again, defeated, and brings the rim of the glass to his lips, muttering ‘what’s even the point’ under his breath. The smell in itself could be enough to make him feel nauseous, and he does his best to shut his thoughts and simply drink the whole thing.
The alcohol burns his throat and every swallow feels like the worst moment of his life up till the next one, and if he can survive this, he can probably survive anything the universe will throw at him. Once it’s done, he sets the empty glass down on the coffee table with enough force to break it, but he can’t bring himself to care about that right now. Not with the fire in his throat, the terrible taste of cheap vodka on his tongue, or the very vivid sensation that he might throw up anytime soon. He can’t help the ‘blergh’ of disgust he lets out, and when Mista’s hand appears in his field of view, he has to blink a few times to get his eyes to focus.
“Here, salt. That will help to get rid of the taste.”
Giorno looks up at Mista’s face. “What on Earth do you want me to do with that?” He asks, haggard.
“Uh, eat it?”
Giorno looks down at Mista’s hand where he poured a pinch of salt, then up at his face again. “Are you messing with me?”
Mista looks at him confused for a few moments before he says, “Look, if you want to keep that taste in your mouth, that’s—”
Before he can retrieve his hand, Giorno grips it and licks the salt off his skin. If Mista is too drunk to grasp the stupidity of what he is suggesting, then Giorno is going to be too drunk to save him the embarrassment of realising it. And he is just drunk enough himself to not feel embarrassed about what he is doing.
The salt does help with the awful taste the vodka left in his mouth; it's not good per se, but still better than the burn of the alcohol. Maybe the warmth of Mista’s skin under his tongue is also distracting him from it, his brain distantly suggests.
He makes a show of looking up at Mista through his lashes, half-opened mouth not even an inch away from being pressed on the back of his hand, and he prides himself for the shade of darker pink Mista’s cheeks took and the eloquent ‘uhh’ that slips out.
“Here,” he mutters as Giorno lets go of his hand and sits up. “Lemon juice.”
Giorno opens his mouth and waits, and when Mista catches up with what Giorno wants from him, he rolls his eyes.
“You’re such a child,” he says, sounding exasperated, but he still pours some lemon juice in Giorno’s mouth.
Giorno swallows and scrunches his nose at the sour taste. “Ehw.”
“Yeah,” Mista snorts, “but that’s the most efficient way to get rid of the taste. Do you feel alright?” He asks, and Giorno takes it as his cue to let his head fall on his friend’s shoulder.
“Dizzy,” he murmurs. Mista hums softly, patting his back like one would with an upset child.
“Maybe that was a bad idea. Sorry, Giorno.”
Giorno shakes his head, almost nuzzling against Mista’s shoulder. “I’m fine. Just need a minute.”
He inhales deeply, taking in the scent of sweat cooling at the nape of Mista’s neck and what’s left of his deodorant on his shirt before pushing himself up. “See?” He smiles. “All good.”
It’s not a lie. His head still feels a bit foggy, but it could have been worse —it’s already been worse on other occasions. Maybe he is getting used to drinking till he is wasted, whether it’s just with Mista or the entirety of their friend group.
“Great,” Mista smiles back and pats his shoulder twice. “Water?”
Giorno nods. “I could use some, yes.”
“I’ll get it for you.”
Mista leaves for the kitchen, not without wavering a little as he stands up. He may handle his alcohol better than Giorno does, but he still drank a lot throughout the night. Giorno lifts himself off the hard floorboards and lets his body fall back onto the old couch they bought in a second-hand shop down the street when they moved in. The springs creak under the sudden weight, and Giorno wonders if they should buy a new couch or wait until this one breaks down for good. But that’s a decision to make for future sobered up Giorno and Mista.
“Fresh water,” Mista’s voice announces from above. Giorno cracks an eye open, hadn’t even noticed they had fallen shut, and smiles gratefully as he takes one of the plastic bottles Mista is holding.
“Thank you.”
The water is a blessing, anchoring him a bit more into the present and out of his foggy mind, and Giorno can’t help but breathe out in relief after gulping down a good half of the bottle.
“Movie?” Mista asks. A glance at the old-fashioned clock hanging on the wall tells Giorno it’s already past two in the morning, but he nods anyway, not feeling like going to bed just yet. Mista fidgets with the TV remote for a while before settling down on the couch. Giorno scouts closer and presses himself against Mista’s side as the first seconds of Pretty Woman start playing on the screen. He himself has already seen the movie thrice; Mista? At the very least a dozen times more. But Giorno doesn’t really mind seeing the same movie again; not when Mista sighs contentedly, muscles relaxing and his head falling on top of Giorno’s.
Giorno can’t quite focus on the movie playing with his alcohol-imbued brain, so he settles for playing with Mista’s hand, running his fingertips up and down the lengths of Mista’s fingers, tracing the veins on the back of his hand and the lines of his palm. And when he has done all that, he lifts his hand held between both of his and presses a kiss on his knuckles.
These little shows of affection come easy to them now; and so does the way Mista lifts Giorno’s head and bows his own to press their mouths together. It’s sweet, and it makes Giorno’s heart ache, to think of everything they already have and everything their relationship still lacks —the officiality, the commitment, the right words to describe it. Giorno wants to be so much more than a lover for drunken nights or fleeting moments of desires. He wants to love Mista wholly, all the time, and not hide behind alcohol-induced impulses or a need to take some pressure off when the end of the semester draws closer and with it the stress of exams and deadlines.
But it’s scary, putting big, meaningful words on something that comes to them and feels so simple, so easy; and Giorno doesn’t think Mista doesn’t love him back, but he thinks of how changing the nature of their relationship might alter it, for better and for worse, and he finds himself unwilling to take that risk yet.
So he makes do with their friendship where occasional kisses and tender touches are another benefit from it, just like cooking for each other or splitting rent are. They keep on dancing around each other and pretend to be drunker than they are to excuse indulging into this masquerade every once in a while without having to ever talk about it. And Giorno can work with that when Mista cradles him ever so gently and licks at his lips, kissing the last of the gross taste of vodka away.
He lets go of Mista’s hand in favor of circling his arms around his shoulders, pulling him close and down as he lays back against the couch cushions; never breaking the kiss, because the thought of Mista’s mouth away from his sends dread flowing down his veins —a shared feeling, if the way Mista’s palm cups his head, gentle but firm enough to keep him close, is of any clue. In the background, the movie is still playing, but Giorno can’t make out any of the words they are saying, drunker on each and every little sound that Mista makes whenever Giorno runs his hands through his hair or licks the inside of his mouth than he’ll ever be on any alcohol.
“You’re so pretty,” Mista whines against his mouth, his words slurred by the alcohol, and Giorno chuckles because his eyes are shut tight and there is no way he can see Giorno at that moment. He is so stupid, but Giorno feels even more stupid for being so in love with him. Cherishes that stupidity.
“Thank you,” he replies, and kisses him again, all soft and so much more tender than what drunk-kissing your friend is allowed to be. It doesn’t matter. Mista sighs and melts into the kiss, and if he could, he would probably be purring by now.
Giorno indulges into the bliss of kissing for a couple more minutes before he pushes Mista away —just enough to speak, but that’s more than necessary for Mista to make the same face he does when Giorno tells him he ordered Chinese take-out instead of pizzas. One you would expect more of a kicked puppy than an adult in his early twenties. It doesn’t last long however, because as soon as Giorno asks, voice soft and honeyed, ‘bedroom?’, Mista’s eyes visibly light up, pulse thundering under the tips of Giorno’s fingers. He presses one more kiss on Giorno’s mouth as an agreement before standing up, holding out his hand for Giorno to take and helps him to his feet.
Mista takes care of turning the TV off while Giorno starts strolling towards his bedroom. Mista’s is closer to the living room, but there is way too much clutter there for them not to risk stumbling down on their way to the bed.
(And it gets Giorno an opportunity to fall asleep with his nose buried in a pillow that still faintly smells like Mista for the next two days or so. Perfect win, if you asked him.)
Mista catches up to him at the door frame leading inside and spins him around to press a fervent kiss to his lips. His mouth tastes like the cheap beer they drank earlier, his lips still wet with it; Giorno guesses he took the last few sips that were left in the almost empty bottle they abandoned on the coffee table before joining him.
Giorno giggles into the kiss as he pulls Mista inside, leading them backwards to his bed. He pushes Mista down and climbs in his lap, holding onto his shoulders to steady himself. His body feels warm, hot even, thousands of ants crawling all over his skin, buzzing with the desire to be held and touched and cradled. His skin feels like it has been set on fire where Mista holds him through his clothes, and Giorno can’t help but press his hips down, grinding against Mista. He feels himself drown in a desperate need for more —more touch, more friction, more contact. More Mista. There is a breathless moan that comes tumbling from his lips when they roll their hips together in sync again. Mista’s grip tightens on his waist, wrinkling his clothes; Giorno wants them out of the way more than anything.
“Giorno…” Mista mutters in some half-groaned, half-moaned sound. Giorno hums, licking his lips before he pulls back, face split by a smug smile.
“You’re so, so pretty,” Mista says again, but this time at least his eyes are open and he is looking back at Giorno. It makes Giorno laugh. When drunk, Mista’s cheesiness has no filter. Not that it has much of one in general, but the daze of alcohol makes it even worse. Giorno doesn’t complain though; it’s sweet, and so he kisses Mista on both cheeks, the most reasonable way to express some of the affection that overcomes him. Shutting the I love you that threatens to spill out before he makes that mistake.
“I want you,” he says instead, not as much of a confession, not with the way he is hard in his pants and pressed against Mista’s equally aroused crotch, humping like inexperienced teenagers.
Mista makes a sound in his throat, lifting both of them to lay Giorno down, back to the mattress. He hovers above him, supporting his weight on his forearm while his other hand holds Giorno by the hip. Their legs are tangled together, and when Mista presses his thigh against Giorno’s crotch with the right pressure, Giorno’s eyes flutter shut and he bites down at his lip. Some attempt at keeping any obscene sound that might come out to himself, rendered worthless when he feels a bead of sweat run down his neck and Mista catches it with his tongue before pressing a kiss there. Giorno groans, his throat vibrating against Mista’s so, so soft lips. His mind feels fuzzy with alcohol and the highs of pleasure. He wraps his arms around Mista’s shoulders and neck, burying his fingers in his hair and the ruffled fabric of his tee; trying to anchor himself as he rolls his hips into Mista’s thigh.
Mista’s breath is short, damp in Giorno’s neck. Giorno listens to all the little sounds he makes, the pants and muffled moans.
“Kiss me,” he says, somewhere between a question, a demand and an order. Mista obliges, pulling himself away from Giorno’s neck to crash their mouths together. Giorno bites down at Mista’s bottom lip, sinking his teeth in hard enough to feel the metallic taste of blood on his tongue. It makes Mista groan and pull away when Giorno lets go of his lip. He looks at him with what would look like mild annoyance if his cheeks weren’t so flushed. Giorno licks his lips and the smeared blood that’s still there and Mista makes a pathetic whining sound. He sits up on his heels, and Giorno misses the heat of having the lower half of his body tangled and feeling like it’s merging with Mista for half a second before he is pulled upward.
They sit in the nest of ruffled sheets and blankets half falling from the bed, pressed against one another with their legs spread and wrapped around each other, trading wet, open-mouthed kisses. Giorno lays both hands on each side of Mista’s face, adjusting the tilt of his head to give himself a better access to the inside of his mouth, chasing after the familiar taste of alcohol with his tongue. His jaw is starting to hurt from hanging open so wide, and it’s worth it and so much more when he licks from the pointed edge of Mista’s chin up to his parted lips and then dives back in. It makes Mista moan, fingers twisting in Giorno’s shirt.
The sound lights Giorno up, feeling like he is catching fire. He feels hot, burning everywhere he is touching Mista and everywhere he isn’t and could be. It’s want and love and everything that hangs between them, the push and pull of everything that ties them together and all the things that keep them apart still. Giorno’s hands slide and slip from where he held Mista’s face against his, landing on his lower abdomen, and he is fumbling with the belt buckle before he even realises it, mind struggling to keep up with his hands.
Mista groans in the kiss. He lets go of Giorno’s waist in favor of helping him to get himself rid off his pants, no doubt eager to free himself from the tight, strained fabric that clings to his hardened cock. Their hands move hectically and Mista pulls away from the kiss to look down at the mess of their fingers tangled together in their worthless attempt at undressing him. He groans in frustration.
“Four hands are too many for something so simple,” Giorno says.
“It’s because there are four of them,” Mista replies like his superstitious belief explains the reason for their failure and not the eagerness, or the alcohol running in their blood making their movements frantic and imprecise. It makes Giorno laugh, airy and dripping with fondness and all the love he feels for Mista and all of these little things that make him him.
“There is a very simple way to solve this issue,” he says.
It makes Mista look up with a questioning stare. Giorno presses a kiss on his lips.
“Hands off.”
Mista lets go of the belt buckle, hands falling at either side of his lap and curling over the white of the sheets. So obedient, it makes Giorno’s heart flutter as he resumes his task of unfastening the belt. It’s easier now, without Mista’s hands getting in the way, or when he can focus on what his fingers are doing rather than how his tongue is running against Mista’s.
When the belt finally comes off, Giorno doesn’t drop it on the floor like he first planned to do, keeping it in his hands instead.
“On your back,” he demands from a quivering Mista; and when he lays down against the pillows, Giorno climbs in his lap and hovers above him as he gently takes his hands and holds them together above his head. He loops the leather belt around Mista’s joined wrists, careful not to tighten it too much so that it doesn’t cut his blood circulation. When he is done, he pulls back and takes a moment to admire his handiwork.
The sight of Mista with his hands tied is a new one; it’s not something they have ever done before. It’s definitely something Giorno has thought and fantasised about though, the vivid memories of daydreaming about doing the very same thing he just did as he humped in his hand under the warmth of his duvet playing back in that moment. But the images he conjured in that horny, very much enamoured mind of his are nothing compared to the actual reality of Mista’s warmth under him, his pupils blown wide and his lips slightly parted.
“How does it feel?” He asks, even though he already has a fairly good idea of what Mista’s sentiments about the situation might be, feeling his cock pulses to the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat even through two layers of clothes on each of their side.
“Hot,” Mista says, voice hoarse and yes, he is definitely into it.
“It’s not too tight?”
“Could be tighter.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Giorno says, trying his hardest to keep his voice cool and measured and pretend this isn’t doing some insane things to his own libido. At least it makes Mista flushes some darker shade of red as he turns his head, burying half of his face in the pillow. He looks beautiful like this, and Giorno feels once more overwhelmed by his love for him. He wants to tell Mista all about the way he makes his heart flutter and his chest tighten, tell him how he is all he thinks about and how he wants Mista to never think of anything or anyone else other than him either. Wants to shower him with proofs of his love and tell Mista he is his, the same way Giorno is Mista’s, for as long as he will have him. He wants to make love with him and call it what it is, and then lay in a bed together, skin against skin, and wants I love you to be the last words he says before falling asleep like that.
He settles on the next best thing, which is pushing Mista’s tee up until his stomach and chest lay bare, and leans down to press a kiss on his sternum and then more on the bumps and hollows of his ribs, biting and sucking the sensitive skin there. It makes Mista’s arch his back into the touch and moan, his mouth pressed into Giorno’s pillow to muffle the sounds. He rolls his hips up, a reminder for Giorno of what he started earlier. The eagerness makes him chuckle, and the puff of air against the wet patch of skin where he just left a hickey sends a trail of goosebumps crawling up Mista’s stomach.
“Giorno…” Mista whines, so akin to a plea. Giorno laughs again, but takes pity on Mista and sits up.
The effects of the alcohol are wearing off; Giorno’s hands are steady and he is quick to unbutton Mista’s pants and unzip the fly. Mista lifts his hips and Giorno grabs at the hem of his pants and underwear, pulling both down together in one movement, focusing on sliding the fabric down the length of Mista’s legs before he throws the bundle of clothes on the floor without a second thought and kneels back where he has been sitting.
Giorno’s eyes flutter, his heart races. Mista’s skin is flushed down to his chest, his wrists still held together above his head leaving him nowhere and nothing to hide from Giorno’s prying eyes. He lets his gaze trails down his muscular chest and stomach to the curve of his cock, pre-cum dripping from the slit and onto the patch of dark hair that sits on his lower abdomen, and can’t help the flick of his tongue over his lips.
He wants to get his hands and mouth everywhere he can reach, wants Mista to come undone for him and moan his name, pretty and soft and fragile the way he does every time. Giorno is so hard in his own pants it hurts, and he can’t even remember to take them off, too eager at the idea of touching Mista. He leans down, bracing the flat of his hands on Mista’s thighs as he presses his lips against the tip of Mista’s cock before he takes it inside his mouth. It makes Mista moan, loud and shameless, his hips bucking up and his legs twitching and Giorno presses his fingers hard into the soft flesh of his inner thighs to keep them from crushing him.
His throat feels raw with the alcohol he drank earlier in the night, the weight of Mista’s cock heavy on his tongue already. Giorno doesn’t think he can’t take much more of it in his mouth without feeling sick, so he makes up for it by wrapping his fingers around the pulsing, heated flesh and strokes where his mouth doesn’t reach, accompanying every caress with another twirl of his tongue around the tip or over the slit. And it gets Mista going, crying out whimper after whimper, the leg that isn’t held in place by Giorno anymore wrapping around his shoulder to keep him close, closer, and Giorno promises himself to not drink so much next time and train his gag reflex so he can take more of Mista in his mouth when he’ll get the chance to again.
And the thought of the whole of Mista’s cock filling his mouth could send him over the edge if Giorno wasn’t holding on so hard to the last of his restraint. Because he doesn’t want to come already, doesn’t want this to be over just yet. He wants more of Mista, always does, can never truly feel sated, forever pining and longing and this cannot be enough.
He looks up through his eyelashes, eyes trailing up the tense lines of Mista’s stomach and chest muscles, the sharp edges of his collarbone covered by the wrinkled fabric of his tee and Giorno regrets not having him take it off before he tied his hands together. Mista is panting against the pillow, eyes pressed shut; he cracks one open when Giorno opens his mouth, letting the tip of his cock slip out. It shines under the dim light of the bedroom, wet with a mix of pre-cum and saliva. He lets go of Mista’s thigh and rubs the pad of his thumb against the slit, using his other arm to lift himself back to Mista’s level. He is met with glistering eyes and already parted lips and eagerly kisses them, swallowing each and every moan Mista lets out under the attention his cock is still receiving.
“Why are you still dressed,” he asks when they pull away from each other to breathe.
“I don’t know,” Giorno replies, “why haven’t you undressed me yet?”
“Ahah, very funny,” Mista says, the sarcasm in his voice swallowed by the shaky inhale he takes when Giorno presses his finger harder against the swollen tip of his cock.
He is right, though; Giorno is growing sick of the way his clothes stick at his sweaty skin and painfully constrict his arousal. Tired of the fabric that keeps him from skin to skin contact with Mista. And so he draws back, letting go of Mista’s lips and cock to tug at the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head and letting it fall carelessly on the floor —he doesn’t like his clothes to get wrinkled, but fabric can be ironed and he can hardly wait anymore to touch and have more of Mista. His pants come off next, movements lacking their usual elegance but neither him nor Mista care about that at the moment. And when he is finally free from his materialistic prison of clothes, he lays back down, slow and deliberate, relishing the way Mista’s body arch to meet him; and it’s so easy to believe they are in love with each other and not afraid of that big, big word and those equally big feelings when they’re wrapped around each other like this, skin touching everywhere it can and still wanting more, looking into each other’s eyes before diving into another kiss. And Giorno can’t bring himself to say it, not yet, but someday he will, a silent promise he makes to both himself and Mista.
For now, he says it with everything that isn’t those three, stupidly easy and so damn hard words; he tells all about his feelings to Mista through the way he kisses him hard and desperate and hungry, pulling away only long enough to unfasten the belt that holds Mista’s wrists together, pushing the tee over his head and out of the way, only to be immediately pulled back down into the continuation of their kiss. Mista’s fingers tangle in his hair to keep him there, his legs wrap around Giorno’s backside to press him impossibly closer. And he liked Mista’s hands tied, his movements restricted; loves just as much the way he now cradles his head with one of his hands, the other roaming over his body, up and down his spine and chest and ribs and hipbone and everywhere he can reach.
Giorno can’t be bothered to leave the comfort and warmth of Mista’s embrace, and so he blindly reaches between their bodies, using the pre-cum leaking from both of their cocks to coat his fingers with the wet, sticky fluid rather than untangling himself from Mista to grab the tube of lube he keeps in the drawer of his bedside table. Giorno lets his hand fall between Mista’s spread legs, fingers probing at the flesh until he finds the hole there. Mista gasps when Giorno slips one of them inside, legs tightening around him, body arching. Giorno presses a soothing kiss at the corner of his mouth and another one as he pushes his finger deeper inside and slowly moves it around to open Mista’s entrance. He slips a second one inside as soon as he feels Mista’s tight muscles relax, too impatient to take more time. It’s fine; Giorno knows Mista can take it. And he does, body momentarily straining before it untenses, the pleasure taking over the pain as Giorno drags the pads of his fingers against his fluttering walls, feeling his pulse there.
Mista moans softly, rolling his hips down to get Giorno’s fingers deeper inside of him. They kiss as Giorno stretches Mista open, messy and wet and closer to lapping at each other’s mouth than anything else, truly. They’ve come to a point where both of them have sobered up too much to pretend they are still doing this under the impulse of the alcohol; know it and still choose to ignore it. Driven by lust and probably, definitely love too, and all of it makes Giorno’s heart ache so damn much. He presses his fingers in, so deep it makes his knuckles crack and hurt. Mista pushes down, lips falling wider apart.
“More,” he breathes out against Giorno’s mouth, and Giorno obliges, could never not, hungry for Mista, for the feeling of him, all the small noises he makes.
He slips his fingers out, cold in the absence of Mista’s pulsing heat. Shifts around to settle himself at a better angle between Mista’s legs, finding once more the opening in his flesh and pressing his cock inside. And he tries to be slow and gentle, holding back his feverish want for more; but Mista’s fingers dig into his scalp and the flesh of his back, his legs tighten around Giorno’s hips and he pulls him closer.
“I’m not going to break,” he says, his voice tight with want.
“I know,” Giorno replies, and truly, he does. Maybe he is too afraid to be the one breaking, the heat of Mista’s body everywhere around him so much, so good, risking all the words he keeps close to the secret of his heart to spill out in an unstoppable flow.
He kisses the hard edge of Mista’s collarbone, muffling any word that might come out before he even gets the thought to, pulled inside by Mista’s legs around him. He stays there like this, pressed in down to the base of his cock, taking in the heat around him, feeling Mista’s heartbeat against his lips.
Mista scratches his fingers at the nape of Giorno’s neck —something Giorno often does for him, when he feels upset or has a headache, something meant to comfort or ease a tension. Giorno lifts his head, meeting Mista’s dark eyes, and he smiles because Mista shouldn’t feel worried about Giorno’s well-being, not when he is buried inside of him and feels so good.
“You look beautiful,” Mista says as he pushes a strand of blond hair back. It makes Giorno laugh.
“My skin is sticky with sweat and my hair is a mess. I’m far from looking my best.”
“Even at your worst, you’d still look beautiful to me.”
Giorno sucks in a breath, feels his heart race in his chest, and for a moment, he thinks Mista is going to say them, those words he wants to hear most and is too afraid to, that last step between what they have and what they could be. There is a realisation that dawns over Mista’s face: his eyes widen ever so slightly, his cheeks flushing, his lips parting. His fingers curl tighter around Giorno’s face and in his hair, keeping him close and preventing him from getting closer at the same time —a perfect rundown of what their relationship has been like for the last months, perhaps years. A magnetic field pulling them towards each other and as soon as they get too close, a strange force that keeps them from doing the last of the way.
Giorno crashes their mouths together because he is too afraid of what the real closing of this distance that remains between them would be like, not so much of being tied to Mista by a love that calls itself for what it is, but rather what it’d be like to be ripped apart from each other, someday, for whatever reason. What it would be like to have only to lose.
He feels Mista’s eyes flutter shut, eyelashes brushing against his skin as he melts into the kiss, the grip of his fingers relaxing and morphing into a gentle touch, almost cradling Giorno’s face against his. Kind and tender, and Giorno feels grateful for Mista and his unconditional acceptance, his devotion, and sometimes he wonders if he really is deserving of it all.
He drowns the feeling as soon as it emerges by moving his hips, pulling out of Mista and then back in, slow and tentative, testing the stretch of his rim and kissing every moan off his lips.
Giorno moves slowly, in and out, yet another crack at their poorly crafted façade of being just friends enjoying a quick fuck from time to time, because it’s always so much more tender than it has to be. Giorno feels so close to the edge already and only wishes to draw the moment for longer. And he supposes it’s the same for Mista, with the way he clings to him, callous fingers pressed against his cheeks as he kisses him languidly.
It barely takes a couple of minutes for Giorno to have his legs shaking, heat pooling in his gut, a thread of Mista Mista Mista hanging from his lips, moaned with his eyes shut and his forehead pressed against Mista’s. Mista kisses his bottom lip, sucks the bruised skin to muffle his own moans as Giorno reaches between their sweaty bodies to wrap his fingers around Mista’s cock and stroke it. The arm circling his shoulder tenses, nails digging in his skin, Mista just as close as Giorno is.
With the hand that isn’t holding Giorno close to him, Mista reaches for Giorno’s free one; finds it and threads their fingers together, and they hold onto each other with the desperation of starved men through the waves of pleasure, the burst of the orgasm. ‘I love you,’ Giorno screams in his mind when Mista whispers his name against his lips, barely audible, caught in a breathless moan as he spills cum on their stomachs while Giorno does buried deep inside Mista.
They stay like this for a while, catching their breath by stealing the other’s. Mista runs his thumb on Giorno’s knuckles and Giorno allows that little show of post-coital affection, pretends it’s said affection that makes him press a kiss against Mista’s collarbone before he slips out of bed —and simultaneously out of Mista’s heat, earning himself a small, displeased groan— and pads to the bathroom. He cleans himself and comes back with the same damp towel he used to sit at the edge of the bed and wipes the cum stains off Mista’s skin. Mista flinches at the wet touch before his muscles relax again, body melting into the mattress.
He blinks his eyes open and smiles at Giorno, sweet and pretty and so lovely.
“Thank you.”
Giorno shakes his head and pushes the strands of hair that fall over his eyes out of the way. He probably looks terrible. “It’s no worries.”
Mista sighs and stretches in the sheets. “Christ, I’m dead tired.” A whine. “Why do we never do this in my room so I don’t have to get up?”
“You can sleep there,” Giorno says, trying to sound cool and casual and not like he is half-freaking out over his own suggestion.
Mista is oblivious to it all.
“Really?” He asks, incredulous and as if Giorno told him some incredible news.
Giorno nods, dropping the wet dirty towel on the back of his desk chair before turning the lights off and sliding back into his bed, snuggling under the sheets and hiding his face in his pillow.
“Good night,” he mumbles, trying not to think about the heat radiating beside him as Mista joins him under the multiple layers of blankets. As much as he’d love to have his way with Mista all night long, getting turned on right after sex is a little bit too desperate for someone supposedly fucking casually with their friend.
“Good night, Giorno,” Mista replies, and from the way his voice is all soft and fading at the edges, Giorno can only assume he is already half-asleep. Giorno wishes he could act as if it wasn't a big deal to him either and not feel flustered at the proximity, heart racing and face red in his pillow.
It’s fine. One day, he’ll say to Mista how much he adores him.