Chapter Text
Passione was Mista’s place.
The atmosphere calmed him, being just the right mix of classy and laid-back, of vintage and modern, of reticence and intimacy all at once.
They had done away with a majority of the tacky neon signs and opted for walls backlit with teals and fuschias, and the signature subdued pink that matched the shade of the owner’s daughter’s hair. Decoration consisted largely of spreads from the previous century's editions of Grazia and Vogue Italia, chiffon curtains, and electric candelabras—and they didn’t kill it with the fog machines.
The people were good—they dressed well, ordered as many pretentious martinis as they wanted, and were still the type of crowd to lose their minds between a solid beat, a good drink, and the bodies of faded strangers turning and twisting around them.
They appreciated his music, too.
Sometimes it was it was in the form of a tip, a wad of bills that Abbacchio would collect as he sat on the stairs that led up to the raised sound booth. The bouncer seemed only mildly annoyed by the constant turning away of people, as he took to sipping diluted absinthe from his flask and staring either at his phone or at Buccellati, when the latter donned an apron to help Narancia out with bartending on the busier nights.
Other times, it was word of mouth—usually Trish, who, like Buccellati (only not employed), took to flitting around the swathes of club goers, socializing and subtly coaxing out opinions over a Paloma like she wasn’t the boss’s daughter. She did a good job of it, people flocking to her like the patron saint of Passione.
She’d often break away from a tittering crowd of pretty girls and faces, and slide next to Mista to relay all the wonderful things people said about his tunes and mixes. Trish would then give him a friendly smile, and go back to lounging against the bar beneath a picture of Benedetta Barzini like she was the woman herself.
Among Passione’s recurring motifs was one that was far more subtle—one Mista thought (and hoped) no one else had noticed.
“You don’t understand—“ Mista started, leaning over his Negroni with a dramatic furrowing of his dark brows, “—He’s got this hair. . . and just, he moves, like. . .” A swipe of a hand dragged Mista’s beanie off of his head, and another trailed through his short black hair as he nervously glanced behind him, as if he might invoke the object of his fascinations by word alone.
“He’s got hair and moves.” Narancia said, toweling out a crystal glass. “You’re really upping your standards, huh?” The boy teased, letting the cup clink down against the edge of the bar. Buccellati wordlessly came up and nudged it further onto the counter, looking exasperated as he swiped a bottle of red Vermouth and went to take a customer’s order.
“That was a pretty good one, Narancia." Mista admitted with a shrug, before leaning in to smirk at the bartender. "But hey, least my guy’s not coming in here with clothes full of holes. You know, aside from one right—God, it’s distracting.” The hand that was motioning vaguely over the center of Mista’s chest went to cup his darkening face, and his smirk turned into a smile that was more distant, and then into a look of hopelessness.
Narancia was about to curse in Mista’s direction, when another customer caught his attention.
Buccellati appeared before the distraught Mista, leaning against the counter with a bemused expression. “Mista, you could always ask Trish if he’s said anything about your music. Almost everyone has.” He offered, eyes flicking above Mista’s shoulder as the black clad bouncer came up to the bar to ash his cigarette.
“I have.” Mista started dejectedly, watching as Abbacchio’s black-polished nails stubbed out a cigarette into the tray. “Trish hasn’t gotten squat.”
“Maybe the little prince doesn’t like your over-glorified elevator music.” Abbacchio’s voice came flatly, earning him a scowl from Mista. “What’s the genre again—trash disco?” The bouncer added, shooting back the daggers that were his default expression.
“Vaporwave is an art movement, not just a genre. Plus, I do much more than that.” Mista muttered, cheek falling against his fist as he decided to push away from the counter with a spin of the stool, and land on his boots. He wasn’t going to try and legitimatize his genre (art movement) to someone like Abbacchio.
The guy probably only enjoyed the silence—and Mista wasn’t talking Depeche Mode.
Abbacchio simply leaned against the spot, casting a subtle flick of his blue eyes to Buccellati before they focused back on the glowing tip of his cigarette. “Just talk to him.” The man came, with a specific frankness like it was the simplest concept in the world—of course it was , but there was a problematic dissonance between conceptual and real that Mista knew Abbacchio understood.
“Why don’t you just talk to him?” Mista said with a smirk, shoving a finger against the bouncer’s hard chest. ‘ Him’ , of course, referred to someone other than the elusive blond that came and went like a vapor before Mista could ever seem to get ahold of him.
Buccellati covered his smirk and slipped away like he hadn’t heard a thing, before Abbacchio could sink too far into the pits of embarrassment. Of course, the man did anyway, though it only showed in the spreading grimace on his lips and the faint coloring on his cheeks that wasn’t the fault of the iconic Passione-pink LEDs.
With that, Mista tossed back his drink and made his way back to the sound booth. The continuous mix he’d let run while he took a break was coming down to the last song, something tinny, jazzy, but still resonatingly slow .
Mista slid behind his set-up, grabbing his headset and pulling it on. He glanced to his laptop screen, head bobbing idly with the beat of the music as he went through the songs he had queued. Many of them were pre-mixed at his studio back home, but he always left a good chunk of bare-bones tunes that he could perform live—it got boring, doing the same thing over and over. Mista liked to add in some variety, experimenting as much as he could in real-time to make something interesting.
Of course, that was risky, most DJs he’d worked with having expressed how Mista’s style made them a bit envious. Being able to blindly fire off effects and sound clips without testing how they sounded in advanced wasn’t something just anyone could do. You know it’s because I’m awesome, Mista had told them with a grin.
Of course, Mista wasn’t just anyone. He had a special power. He had Sex Pistols.
The song came to an end, a slow rolling transition into the next beat. Immediately, Mista pulled the smaller of his two launchpads in front of him, watching it slowly pulse with an array of bright colors, right along with the song.
“Alright, Sex Pistols,” Mista started, fingers splaying across the tiny six-buttoned launchpad before him. One glance over the side of the sound booth, and Mista could see the flash of blond near the center of the dancefloor. “Let’s see how he moves to this.”
With that, his attention moved to the dials off to his side, and the tune picked up immediately. Like clockwork, Mista’s hands moved between dials and glowing buttons as he started the live session. The dwindling atmosphere of the club seemed change immediately, stiletto and platform heels being shed and tossed aside as girls hurriedly made their way to the floor in stockinged feet. Cigarettes and the like were left half-smoldering in the ash trays, and drinks were either abandoned or dragged along and sloshing against suits and silk dresses as the dance floor came to life.
Everyone knew what it meant when Mista started DJing, and Mista wouldn’t lie—it did wonders for his ego.
The sounds engulfing the club were melodious and deafening, with heavy drums and bass that had every pulse doing double-time as they shook and turned along with the beat of the music. Losing himself in the midst of everything was simple, even with thoughts of the blond nagging in the back of his mind. He’d chosen his best material tonight, in hopes that he’d be able to grab the guy’s attention.
Fifteen minutes in, and the back of Mista’s neck was sweating as he moved beneath the harsh teal light that spilled into the sound booth. The escalating beat of the music was coming to a peak after being drawn out for what felt like forever, and the moment it did, Mista drowned it in reverb.
Mesmerized.
That was really the only way to describe the club when the gripping resonance of the music took over. It was a lull in the action, letting the beat roll out without any interference, and so Mista took advantage.
Sliding his headset off of one ear, Mista moved to the edge of the booth and leaned against it. His eyes scanned the crowd and of course, in the center was the person he was looking for. His lithe body rolled gently with the music, bending and arching his spine, pressing his shoulders back as he matched the rise and fall with his footwork. He was almost voguing in the way he danced, and captivating in the way his loose golden hair and pale skin was haloed in the bright magenta lights that illuminated him.
With a spin and a flourish, a pair of eyes—color indistinguishable between the distance and the hue of the lights, though undoubtedly beautiful —were focused directly on Mista.
Mista, in all his confidence, felt himself deflating like someone had punched the wind right out of him. They’d made eye contact before, all the time chasing and meeting each other’s gazes from what felt like opposite sides of the world, an ocean—of cheap fog and people and reasons not to—keeping them apart. This time was something different, however. Those pair of eyes on him were like an invitation, one that Mista was dying to accept.
It was a story with all the melodrama of a modern clubber’s Romeo & Juliette , and Mista was afraid of ruining the magic in his subtle exchanges with the blond. The conflict doubled when Mista realized how desperately he wanted to approach him, and he lamented. It was too easy for his romantic heart to be torn in different directions. Mista was simple in what he wanted, and what he wanted made him weak .
The sound of the song coming to an end broke the spell Mista had settled under, and he pushed away from the edge of the booth and slid back in front of his table. He was sweating harder now, cursing under his breath as he reset everything and prepared for the next song. He’d forgotten all about what he was supposed to be doing up here, too lost in what he wanted to be doing. Luckily there was no real harm done—people loved reverb, didn’t they?
After mopping the dampness from his brow with his beanie, he situated it back over his head, edges flipped up above his ears so he could hear properly once he had his headset back on. He tossed back his Negroni, and shoved one of the cold mozzarella sticks that Narancia had brought him earlier into his mouth.
In the darkness of the club, Mista forced himself not to think of anything else. If he didn’t overthink things, they would be fine, right? He knew what he was doing, and with the feeling of Sex Pistols beneath his fingers, things couldn’t go wrong. That was his secret power—his beats didn’t miss. If he waited, whatever happened would happen, and he’d be fine with it.
Of course, that didn’t stop him from glancing down to the dance floor every once in awhile. He didn’t miss the way the pair of unmistakable eyes did the same, blinking up at him through the lingering haze and testing Mista’s resolve like a siren’s call. A dozen times Mista stayed strong, his dedication to the music never faltering again as he shifted between mashing, sliding, and turning, bobbing his head and letting the beat carry his body as he danced along to his own creation.
Mista always let himself get carried away, eyes nearly slipping shut as the feeling of cool metal under his hands morphed into what he imagined the blond’s body might feel like as it moved beneath his clothes. In his mind’s eye Mista saw himself right up against him, Mista’s chest to the other’s back not crudely but intimately and hotly. He chased the train of thought just the way his fingers chased curve of his spine when the blond dipped down, arms stretching down towards the floor before rising languidly and dragging Mista’s hands up his front.
As he relished the feeling of soft skin, warm from exertion and maybe damp with sweat, too, Mista would bury his face in blond hair as he whispered all sorts of sweet things into the other’s ear with a voice like honey and gravel. Mista would kiss his neck, and the blond would arch his back and moan, a sound more ecstatically wonderful than any tune he’d ever crafted. The blond would smell like roses, or maybe like Armani cologne.
Then he’d dissipate like a mist, leaving Mista all alone.
Mista would stand in the darkening club, cheeks hot and shoulders rising and falling, he’d smell the same scents on his clothes, the only proof that it hadn’t all been some fever dream conjured up by a capsule of spice he didn’t remember taking, and one drink too many that he did remember.
The fantasy faded out along with the music, the hand on Mista’s launchpad going still as his other slowly pulled the slider down until the gentle ebb and flow of the music died down into an electrifying kind of silence.
Mista wiped his sleeve across his face. He needed to get out of the sound booth, felt like he’d been holed up there forever. Once glance at the time on his laptop had him at two hours since he’d started. He’d skipped a break, too lost in his own mind to really have thought about stopping. Two solid hours spent fantasizing about someone he’d never even talked to—Mista didn’t know if it was a sickness or an obsession at this point, but he couldn’t get enough.
A minute later had Mista setting a playlist on a continuous loop, and locking the gate to the soundbooth behind him as he moved down the stairs and slipped past Abbacchio. A small group of girls stood by the bar, looking like they wanted to talk to him. They had probably been kept at bay by Abbacchio’s stern expression, but now that Mista was free, they seemed ready to tear him to pieces with their manicured nails, as they engaged in the not-so-subtle competition to determine who would be leaving the club in Mista’s arms.
Mista didn’t mean any offense by it, but it would be none of them—just as it hadn’t been any man or woman for weeks since he’d fallen under the spell of golden hair and piercing eyes. He’d met a lot of pretty things in that time, but none that had the luster or the fire of the diamond he’d found. It wasn’t that his standards were high; they weren’t . But a heart like his didn’t settle for less once he’d tasted heaven.
On his way to the bathroom, Mista ignored the strange sounds coming from the ladies’ room, and pushed into the men’s room. He stopped in front of the sink, splashing water on his face and dragging a hand through his hair. A second thought had him spraying a bit of cologne, and a third left him caught between fearing it was either too much or not enough.
Gripping the sides of the sink, Mista looked at himself. He looked a bit worn from his performance, but it was the kind of worn that seemed to work in his favor when he leaned in close over a drink and took a drag from a cigarette, trying to charm his way into someone’s bed. By the time he slid off his beanie, casually in the midst of conversation like he hadn’t even been thinking about it, they were almost always already done for—it was his own personal Trojan horse, of sorts. He’d certainly spent most of his adolescence getting rejected enough times to find something that worked.
He left the bathroom, only to bump into Trish in the long hallway back to the club. The girl was swaying a bit on her feet, and Mista wasn’t going to ask. He was glad she was having fun, if not a bit concerned about the two drinks clutched in her hand. She stretched one arm out, the green-varnished nail of her index finger clicking against the glass, along with her array of jeweled rings.
“Be cool. Blondie’s sitting at the bar. I think he’s waiting for you.” Trish said, her voice tapering off into a little laugh that ended in a sigh. Mista took the glass, peering down at it and taking a sip. It was entirely too sweet. A good distraction from the way his heart was now pounding in his chest. “Don’t be alarmed, but there’s a man sitting beside him. It’s definitely not his boyfriend.”
With her now free hand, she smoothed the front of Mista’s shirt, and tucked the inside of his pocket back into his pants. “The guy’s cologne is too bad for him to be dating someone like Blondie—yours isn’t.” The girl smiled, pulling her own drink to her lips as she gave Mista a once-over.
Mista was frozen in his spot, but a nudge from Trish was all it took to get his feet moving one in front of the other towards the main room.
“By the way, you rub your neck when you’re nervous—don’t. You’ll ruin the notes of your fragrance.” The girl called. Mista filed her advice away under things to remember, as he pushed through the door.
Needless to say, there he was, seated at the bar as his fingers played around the edge of an untouched drink. He looked vaguely annoyed by the man beside him, and he flipped his hair over one shoulder, busying himself with tucking it back into a braid as a way to put his back between them in blunt rejection.
Mista taking a tentative step towards the bar seemed to catch the other’s attention, and when those eyes fell over him, Mista knew he couldn’t back out. Not unless he wanted to spend the rest of his life regretting it.
Glancing behind the bar, Buccellati was smiling, but he didn’t look up from the drink he was pouring. Mista swallowed hard, and slid into the empty seat next to the gorgeous creature who eyed him once from head to toe, and decided to lean a bit closer, elbow nudging the drink—undoubtedly an unwanted purchase on the other man’s dollar—out of the way.
Mista’s ego soared.
“Hey.” Mista came, voice smooth and low, only just audible over the music.
“Want to dance with me?” The blond responded, not missing a beat. No fake laughter, no shy smiles or teasing questions about whether or not the DJ was allowed to dance with everyone else—Mista was getting paid by the hour, after all. Where others were coy, he was bold and practiced, like luring people in with a pair of clear eyes—bluer than the sky, Mista guessed as he watched the shifting glow of the lights play against the other’s features—and then wrapping them around one of his nimble fingers was what he was made to do.
The blond was already pushing to his feet, as if he knew Mista’s response before he’d even said it. When a hand came to Mista chest, Mista half expected the blond to reach through him and take ahold of his racing heart, dragging it out of his chest and holding it tight until the beating stopped. Instead, he grabbed for the lapel of Mista’s jacket, tugging him gently up as he took a step backwards towards the dance floor.
Wordless and rapt as if under a spell, Mista came to his feet and followed along, transfixed in watching the blond turn with a distant smile on his lips, and feeling a hand slide into his own and pull him along. Mista looked behind him, watching as the man who had tried and failed to get the blond’s attention glared at Mista, standing up from his seat and looking like he was ready to start something. Buccellati was there in a moment, hand on the man’s shoulder, eyebrows knitted warningly above his eyes. The man twisted out of Buccellati’s grip then spat something venomous, and like a dark shadow, Abbacchio appeared. The last thing Mista saw was a hand curling in the front of the man’s shirt, hauling him outside.
Mista wouldn’t be surprised if the man was nothing more than a bloody smear on the sidewalk the next morning.
Eyes forward, and Mista was plunged into a sea of waving bodies, of heat and haze and music he could feel vibrating down his bones. Like a good trip, he could’ve been lost to it, drowning in the neon lights and the faces of strangers who looked faded and far-off. Limbs twisted and moved, and neon light caught on every curl of hair and bit of skin and clothing until every figure seemed to become the same monstrous, consuming body. The only prospect more addicting than the thought of letting himself be sucked in by it was the person in front of him, and the inviting curve of his lips.
“What’s your name?” Mista whispered breathlessly through strands of blond, when the other took Mista’s hands in his and held them out, as he pressed back against Mista’s front and rolled .
“Giorno.”
Hearing it, Mista could feel something shatter—it was the image of the nameless, placeless flash of blond hair and stunning eyes, a vapor as intoxicating as it was ungraspable.
Keeping one hand laced in the lither, paler one, Mista freed the other and slid it down to the curve of Giorno’s waist. He could feel the body moving beneath thin layers of clothing, feel the fabric sliding over his skin when Mista gave a soft squeeze, and pulled the other back against him a bit harder as they rocked and swayed together.
“I’m—”
“Mista. I know.” Giorno finished, cutting him off. There was nothing standoffish or rude about the way he said it, only direct.
Mista found himself aching more than before, the infatuation unfolding along with the enigma in such a way that both seemed to rest on the cusp of infinite. The vague notion that had lived in Mista’s mind for the past few weeks was nothing compared to what he was faced with now. This close, Mista realized Giorno’s smell was more Dior than Armani, more addicting and fresh than roses. This close, Mista could feel the magnetic pull of Giorno’s lodestone personality and commanding presence, despite that he’d only just barely begun to know him.
This close, Mista could touch without it slipping through his fingers, back into a darkened club or to the place of his desire.
“Are you going to do with your hands what you’ve spent all night doing to me with your eyes, or do I have to make you?" Giorno’s voice was soft, and it made Mista shudder as the words plunged into his gut like a dagger, blade white-hot with arousal.
“I would, but. . .” Mista replied coolly, like he wasn’t feeling static beneath his skin from his nape and down past his spine, out to the tips of his fingers. “. . .they’d probably have to drag us outta here.” One of Mista’s thumbs brushed a stray lock of blond behind Giorno’s ear as he spoke against it, before his arm curled around and he splayed his fingers out over Giorno’s taut stomach.
Mista pulled their bodies closer together with a rough slide of his hand, his fingertips skating up the other’s body until they slid just far enough beneath the gold-trimmed lapels of his suit and against bare flesh to be wildly suggestive.
In the sliver of Giorno’s face that he could see, Mista could see his eyes go a bit wider, and cut back at him in surprise as he looked over his shoulder. Mista leaned in so that the other didn’t have to crane his neck as much, and puffed his chest out a bit in pride. He might be the sort to get cold feet before approaching someone gorgeous, or sweaty palms when holding their hand, but he could manage smooth, as long as whoever he was flirting with liked it over the top.
The music faded in and out of the awareness of Mista’s senses, as did everything else that wasn’t Giorno— the sound of laughter and hushed voices drowned in the heavy bass of the music, the smell of alcohol, perfume, exertion, and the occasional brush of a passerby just as wrapped up in the temporary fantasy of Passione’s neon catharsis as everyone else. Their existences had become secondary to way Giorno hung onto his body, to the warmth of skin under Mista’s palms, and to the way Giorno’s lips hovered, parted over his shoulder like they didn’t want to admit to needing to be kissed.
Mista wanted to oblige, but before he could Giorno was pulling away. When Mista felt himself being tugged forward, the sway of Giorno’s hips was enough to persuade him into patience. The music shifting once again registered faintly in the back of his mind as Mista chased the movements of the other’s body with his roaming eyes. The beat was something retro and drenched in synth, the sort of song that everyone felt they’d heard before, but never had and probably never would again.
The sudden ability to breathe and not feel the heat of a hundred bodies against his tongue hit like a truck, and Mista’s boots shuffled to a stop against the backlit floor tiles. He looked up, and his nerves kicked into gear when he realized Giorno had dragged them into the dead center of the club, where a space was made for people who actually knew how to dance.
The look in Giorno’s eyes pierced right through him, and he stepped in front of Mista and leaned in, fingers on his neck and toying with the short black hairs of his nape. “Relax. I’ll make you look good.” Giorno spoke softly into his ear, before turning away. Mista bit back a groan at the smoothness in his tone and touch, and the fluidity with which he spun back.
The beat of the song picked up and Giorno seemed to move right along, like every rock of his hips and twist of his shoulders was the tick of a metronome. When Giorno stepped in close, it wasn’t the feeling of their shared breaths ghosting back against Mista’s face that compelled him to keep up with the blond.
Dancing wasn’t his forte, but rhythm he could manage. He focused on matching Giorno’s footwork, on knowing when to catch him by the waist or spin him away and then drag him right back, so they were face to face once again. Mista grew confident quickly, adding his own flair until their back and forth became something more than Giorno merely using him as a springboard.
Their movements took on a life of their own, bodies moving back and forth. Feet slid through the fog that drifted lazily across the dance floor, and faces fell into the shifting beams of light and back out, as they spun around the dance floor like they owned it. It felt like they could have—when Mista had Giorno pressed into his chest with an arm encircling the small of his back, he couldn’t resist the urge to glance over Giorno’s shoulder and out at the crowd.
Giorno’s finger’s splayed over Mista’s chest, fingertips applying enough pressure for Mista to get the hint. Mista’s back arched as he pressed his shoulders back, leaning back towards the floor in a long, fluid movement. Giorno’s stare burned through him, as his palms burned a trail down his stomach and over his hips. The move was suggestive, Giorno’s cheek brushing against the fabric of Mista’s jeans as he dipped down low.
There was a whistle from somewhere in the crowd, and Mista’s face grew hotter when he rolled his body back forward and Giorno came up, spinning beneath Mista’s arm until he was behind him with a hand riding high on Mista’s thigh. Fingers brushed the front of his jeans, insinuating enough to make Mista bite his lip and cut his eyes to the side as Giorno slipped coyly away.
With a check Mista’s hand was on Giorno’s shoulder, grip sliding down the length of his arm as the other stepped back. Mista caught his hand, pulling him back. He hadn’t noticed the braid coming loose, but when Giorno spun into his arms Mista immediately ran a hand back and through the length of his blond hair, dipping him back just enough as his other arm curled around Giorno’s waist.
It was something shallowly exciting, like Giorno had dragged him into his realm of being untouchable. Maybe Mista shouldn’t have felt so good basking in it—in the glow and the intense gazes of those who had broken away from what they’d been doing just to watch—but he did, especially with Giorno’s arms thrown across his shoulders.
Everyone in the place had a reason to be envious. People always wanted to get with the DJ—maybe it was an ego thing, something to boast about. Mista certainly didn’t mind it, but he’d never quite gotten it either. ‘Something to boast about’ seemed a definition more fit for the mysterious blond he’d somehow managed to get his hands on.
Isn’t that the DJ? I wonder who he’s dancing with .
I don’t know, but they’re hot. I’m not sure who I’m jealous of.
Mista heard the exchange as he and Giorno turned to the sensual roll of the slowing tempo. He couldn’t resist smirking just a bit, wondering if Giorno had heard it too. The other laced his fingers back through Mista’s, giving it a squeeze as he looked down and off to the side. The smile that tugged at Giorno lips was the first hint of soft he’d seen since they’d met. Mista swallowed.
“Hey, Giorno,” Mista started, hand travelling slowly up the curve in the other’s waist, and stroking softly. “Can I kiss you?” He finished with something of an amused smirk on his lips, fully recognizing the strange irony of asking something so innocent when moving against someone like he was.
Giorno’s head turned, baring his neck. It wasn’t exactly what he wanted, but he didn’t think he could ever say no Giorno, even if he tried. It probably wasn’t smart, thinking something like that about someone you’d only just met and said roughly a dozen words to, but Mista didn’t linger on that. He lingered instead with his mouth in the curve of Giorno’s neck, as the other let a soft moan rumble its way from his throat.
They’d managed to make their way back from the eye of the dance floor, back to the chaos that unfurled in the margins of the club. Under the cover of the dark, Mista leaned in to Giorno, kissing his way up to Giorno’s jaw. He took it slowly, fingers digging gently into flesh and then sliding along the other’s curves as Mista worked with teeth and tongue until Giorno was stifling noises against the palm of his hand.
That made Mista feel good, making Giorno feel good.
Bit by bit, they fell out of the rhythm of the music and into one all their own, Mista letting his hands roam as Giorno melted into his touch. Giorno’s own fingers were moving back, thumb hooked in the pocket of Mista’s jeans to keep him grinding steadily.
Mista was getting bold with his touch, palms stroking warm and rough as they snuck just beneath Giorno’s clothes. They lingered just far enough past hems and waistbands to brush against a hipbone, or over a chest to feel Giorno’s heart race while his pulse fluttered under Mista’s tongue. Mista would be lying if he said he wasn’t thinking about what it’d be like to be peeling the fabric away, pressing the other down against his mattress, the carpet, the kitchen table—even up against the door. Mista wouldn’t have minded hearing the wood shudder and shake against metal hinges, not if that meant he got to feel Giorno doing the same against his arms while—
Be cool, Mista .
With a soft nip beneath Giorno’s jaw, Mista tugged the other’s collar back into place. Giorno glanced back at him, irises glinting in the fuschia light as he peered quietly.
Under the intense gaze Mista grew a bit uncomfortable and a bit warm.
“What’s up, baby?” Mista whispered, their bodies slowing to a stop. Giorno turned, settling his hands on Mista’s chest as he came in close.
“Have I taken up enough of your time, Mista ?” Giorno swept his hair over one shoulder as he spoke, but the way he held eye contact was only just shy of intimidating.
Dark brows furrowed over equally dark eyes, before Mista let them loosen into a cooler expression.
“I was hoping you’d wanna help me waste a little more of it.” Mista hooked an arm behind Giorno’s waist and walked him back, through the fringe of the crowd and against one of the wide pillars that separated the dance floor from the bar area. They were only several steps away from a table, where a pair of stilettos and a half-drunk Mojito seemed to have been abandoned. Mista stashed that information away in the back of his mind.
Giorno’s back hit the wall, and in a moment Mista had his fingers combing through blond waves. They were just as soft as they’d looked, better than fragrant silks and framing Giorno’s face.
“Nothing better you could be doing?” Giorno asked, head leaning into Mista’s touch. His eyes seemed to roam, watching in his peripheral as Mista brought his fingers down, a strand of hair curled around his fingers. He pressed it briefly to his lips, before letting it slide away.
“Nothing better in the whole damn place than what I got right in front of me.” Mista didn’t miss a beat. He brushed his thumb over a darkening hickey on Giorno’s neck, before bringing it up to hold his chin. A little smile pulled at the other’s lips that Mista couldn’t resist mirroring. Still, Giorno looked at him in a bit of disbelief. Mista couldn’t blame him. He did work here, after all. “It’s a ten hour playlist.” He offered.
Giorno’s brows hiked faintly at that, before he glanced off to the side. He followed with his eyes the movement of his own fingers tracing up the arm of Mista’s jacket. The vibrant hues of the lights played against the leather in odd ways when he pressed with his fingertips, and for a second it sufficed as a distraction until he finally brought his hands to rest against the other’s neck.
With Giorno stroking along Mista’s jaw with the pad of his thumb, or the way the conversation had tapered off into silence, it seemed like as much an invitation as any. Mista stepped in the hair’s breadth of distance it took for their fronts to be pressed together, knees knocking and breath mingling. When Giorno looked down to Mista’s lips, that was it.
Mista had only barely leaned in to kiss Giorno when he felt a finger pressed to his lips, stopping him.
“I’m saving myself for marriage.”
Mista’s eyes went wide as the only hint of religion left in him recoiled in a sense of vague panic.
Giorno’s cool expression never wavered. “I’m joking. Kiss me.” Giorno said, hands curling in the lapels of Mista’s jacket.
All the tension in Mista’s body left him in once, and immediately his hand moved back to rub at his neck. He stopped in his tracks when he remembered Trish’s warning—not that it mattered. His cologne had probably been worn down to the base note long ago, when they’d been dancing together. He’d smelled a bit of it on Giorno’s hair, something that satisfied him a bit more than it should have.
“God, Gio.” Mista said, avoiding his neck and going to run his fingers just beneath his beanie anyway. “You got me thinkin’ about going to confess—”
Giorno pulled Mista forward, their mouths knocking together until Mista fell silent against the other’s lips.
The feeling of nails against his scalp made Mista aware of Giorno tugging off his beanie, stroking through the black curls as they moved together. Mista pressed Giorno back against the wall, his thoughts melting into a blur of nothing coherent, only a flurry of things chemical, sensory, and raw.
Giorno dragged him closer, deepening the kiss without any restraint. Everything about his touch was unbridled and all-consuming, and Mista would’ve felt the same irrational fear from earlier, that Giorno was something that would bleed him dry and drop him like a husk. There was a nuance of that, but more than anything Mista was focused on indulging just as much, not selfishly but because there was nothing about Giorno that he could resist.
The meshing mouths was composed and wild all at once. It wasn’t sloppy , but Giorno’s tongue had long since slid past Mista’s lips to dominate it all. Breathing was a second thought, and everything else a third when Mista slid his hand up the back of Giorno’s shirt. He felt the gorgeous arc of the other’s spine, bare and hot against his palm as Mista traced it.
Giorno broke away with a soft moan, head lolling to the side as he caught his breath through swollen red lips. Mista wasted no time in moving to his neck, teeth scraping beneath Giorno’s jaw and over his Adam’s apple. Giorno clung to Mista, fingers tightening around handfuls of his hair and his jacket as Mista sucked another dark bruise beneath his jaw.
“So you’re religious?” The words fell over Giorno’s lips the moment before he found them pressed back against Mista’s. Mista kissed back deeply, cupping Giorno’s cheek before pulling back.
“Couldn’t say that,” Mista started breathlessly, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses from Giorno’s mouth down his front. Giorno’s hands settled atop Mista’s head, taking handfuls of his hair or combing back through it as the other laved attention over his blushing chest. “But you know, I can think of one thing I wouldn’t mind getting on my knees and worshipping.” The statement was coupled with the top button of Giorno’s suit jacket being undone, just enough to reveal the top of his stomach. Giorno was silent, but Mista didn’t need responses to know when he was hitting the mark.
Mista’s flirting and the flick of his tongue over Giorno’s skin had Giorno sucking back his lip and looking around them. Mista briefly copied the action, glancing out into the shifting shadow of people moving through the club. In the cover of the dark and a crowd of tangling, meandering people, pleasantly high on their vice of choice—substance, hormones, music—was as good a hiding spot as any. No one was paying them any attention, now that the lights had gone low and they’d slipped quietly away.
Fastening the button back, Mista raised up and captured Giorno’s lips in a hard kiss that had the latter pressed back against the wall as Mista’s arms came around him. When they parted, Mista cast a look over his shoulder and pulled Giorno back, several steps until he could slide into the wide leather seat of the bench. Mista nudged away the forgotten pair of stilettos, before doing the same with the abandoned Mojito and hoping whoever they belonged too didn’t come looking anytime soon.
Giorno crawled over Mista’s lap, straddling one of his spread thighs and holding him back against the seat. He hovered over Mista, blond hair hanging down like a curtain. When he lowered down, Mista’s lips parted involuntarily, dark eyes intense and wanting. Giorno stopped an inch or so away, eyelids fluttering shut with the slide of a palm against his cheek.
When Giorno sighed and leaned into the touch, Mista held his breath. He let it out all at once, smoothing a hand up Giorno’s back.
“You’re beautiful.” Mista whispered, leaning up to say it into Giorno’s ear. “It’d be a crime not to tell ya’ once.”
Giorno’s response was to place a kiss against Mista’s lips, before tilting his head just enough to speak against them.
“Only once?” He muttered.
Mista felt the heat of the words more than he heard them, softly spoken against his skin. He felt warm, mentally counting how many drinks he’d had that evening before chalking it up mostly to his arousal and the body draped over his own.
Raising onto his elbows, Mista took ahold of Giorno and slid his tongue past parted lips. They were pillowy, mashing beautifully against his own and tasting like a mix of Giorno’s gloss and the chapstick Mista had been wearing. He turned Giorno slowly, easing him onto his side and then beneath him without ever breaking away from where they connected at the mouth.
When he did, it was only to slide further down, pulling Giorno’s suit aside by the lapel and nipping roughly at the skin there. He cut his gaze up to Giorno’s face, taking in the way clear eyes stared at him half-lidded, or the way his fingers barely brushed against his lips, ready to stifle the noises Mista’s mouth was dragging out of him.
The sudden presence of someone else had Mista’s hand sliding out from where it’d been shoved up beneath the fabric of Giorno’s jacket.
“Uh, you guys should chill a bit, the bouncer’s a real ass—O-oh! Mista?!” Narancia was leaning over the railing, holding his serving tray like a shield in front of him as his expression morphed from vague exasperation into wide-eyed surprise.
Mista’s head whipped up, and immediately Giorno was pulling his suit back into place, looking a bit flustered as he smoothed his clothes down.
“Hey, Narancia.” Mista said, his face caught somewhere between embarrassment and a clear desire to get back to what he was doing. He glanced down to Giorno, giving him a light smile as if in apology.
The bartender backed away, smiling sheepishly. “You guys want like, some drinks or something?” He asked a bit awkwardly.
“We’re good, I think.” Mista looked down to Giorno as if to ask, only to find the other digging into his back pocket. He pulled out a vibrating cell phone, screen lighting up in the dark. Pressing it to his ear, a thin frown appeared on Giorno’s face.
Narancia seemed to take that as an excuse to leave, though not without giving them a passing warning about Abbacchio loving any reason he’d have to kick Mista out. Mista snorted but waved him off, and turned his attention back to Giorno.
Giorno’s brows were furrowed briefly in annoyance, before loosening back into his usual tranquil, bored expression. He said a few words Mista didn’t understand—English, he guessed. Then the call ended.
Although Mista’s curiosity was piqued, he said nothing.
“I’ve got to go.” Giorno’s tone was business-like, hands straightening his collar and smoothing back his hair. “I’m sorry.” With a kiss, Giorno was moving as Mista slid out of the booth. Their lips met again once they were both on their feet once more.
Mista felt like he was having whiplash, something in his chest hurting as he walked through the hall and to the exit with Giorno’s elbow linked in his. The chill of nighttime air hit his face once they’d pushed through the doors, and it felt even colder when Giorno was no longer pressed against him.
“Am I gonna see you again?” Mista said a bit warily, playing it off like he wasn’t as devastated watching the blond go as he was.
Giorno said nothing, only slipping away with a smile that Mista couldn’t decipher.
The next few minutes found him lingering in the doorway, until a couple knocking against his shoulder as they exited muttered a quiet, slurred excuse me and continued on their way. The way they were draped all over one another had Mista feeling envious, but as his feet carried him back to the bar, his stomach was turning in a way both ecstatic and nauseating.
He made his way through the thinning crowd, falling into one of the bar stools with a dramatic spin, both hands running through his hair. He blew out a puff of air, stopping before the bar and letting his chin fall down against it. Mista’s expression was lost in the mile between lovelorn and completely struck.
“You’re alone.” A voice came, a body behind the bar and an empty glass atop the counter sliding in front of Mista. Turning his eyes up, he saw Trish tilting her head down at him, a pout on her features. She had two bottles clutched in her hand, one of vodka and another of something bubbly in a crystal container. “What happened to Giorno? You didn’t step on his toes, did you? Mess up your cologne? Your answer determines which one of these I’m giving you.”
Mista took the empty glass in his hand, tilting it forward and back idly as he eyed the bottles the rosy-cheeked girl was brandishing.
“. . .Don’t tell me you got a boner while—” Trish said, voice lowered until Mista interrupted her with a vigorous wave of his hand.
“No, no, Trish. He just had to go.” Mista said, reeling back as he gesticulated his embarrassment. His hands went still as his cheek rested against his palm. “It wasn’t bad, he kissed me. I asked if I’d see him again, and he smiled and just—”
“Walked away?” Trish finished, a knowing smile creeping onto her features.
Mista’s hands paused, and dropped in front of him limply. “Yeah.” He said in a single breath, with an upward quirk at one corner of his lips. His eyes looked a little far off, and Trish leaned forward, and began pouring the vodka into Mista’s glass.
“You’re whipped. He knows it.” The girl sighed, eying the glass and nearly doubling the amount of vodka before re-capping the bottle. “Didn’t take him home, didn’t get his number—but he likes you.” She followed by topping the glass off with the contents of the other bottle. “So, good and bad. You get both.”
When she finished pouring, Mista pulled the glass to his lips, almost taking a sip before Trish stopped him, fiddling with a slice of lime to get it perched properly on the rim of the glass. Mista eyed her as she brought her hands back, and went to place the bottles away on the shelf.
Mista knocked back a good bit of the drink—vodka and ginger ale. He liked it more than he’d admit, the drink being ‘unsophisticated’ and all. Mista tried to be a classy guy.
“What’s with the—” Mista motioned vaguely up and down at the apron Trish was wearing over her party clothes.
“Narancia’s in the bathroom. . .you know.” She answered, her oddly pursed lips saying all they needed to.
“. . .Strawberry guy?” Mista caught her drift, swirling his drink around in his glass. “What’s his name, Ricotta?”
“Pannacotta.” Trish called over her shoulder, as she moved away to help the customer approaching the bar. Mista didn’t know how well Trish could bartend, but most people who frequented Passione knew that the girl essentially did as she pleased here.
Mista was left alone for most of the rest of the night, getting Trish to top off his drink before he holed himself back up in the soundbooth. For a while he fiddled with the playlists, setting the music to something slow and smooth to finish off as night turned into morning. For the most part, he sat up against the gate, his launchpad thrown across his lap for no reason in particular. On one side of it, a heart-shaped decal with ‘Sex Pistols’ written across it in crude cut-and-paste letters overlaying the backdrop of a Union Jack was wearing down from age. Mista’s eyes narrowed at it, as he made a gun with his fingers and pointed them directly towards the heart.
“Bang.” He said under his breath, tipping his fingers up like he’d taken the shot.
He dropped his hands, searching for his glass and draining its contents after spending a long while staring off into space. He thought about blond hair that smelled a little bit like his cologne, and crystal-clear eyes that would probably be the most beautiful shade he’d ever see. Delicate fingers but a firm grip, and a soft mouth that kissed with staggering fierceness. Cool expression, but a smile that left Mista conflicted.
Gold vapor, slipping through his fingers.
Mista’s shoulders fell, and he turned his head up to his ceiling, holding his glass to his head until the chill of it faded.
Yeah, he was whipped.