Archive of Our Own ^beta

Guido Mista may not be the world’s greatest strategic mastermind, but he’s been in enough fights to know that once you’ve got a guy down on the ground, you don’t give him a hand and help him back to his feet.

You especially don’t help him up if he’s been trying to murder you for the past thirty minutes and very nearly succeeding. No, you leave him there and maybe give him a few kicks in the ribs for good measure to ensure that he stays well and truly down.

Mista learned this lesson long ago in the gutters of Naples. Giorno Giovanna, it seems, did not.

“Giorno,” Mista hisses. The Pistols hover nervously about as he struggles to sit up off the park bench where Giorno’s just finished patching him up. “What the hell are you doing?”

“It’ll just take a minute.” Giorno’s limping through the early dawn light towards the lamppost where that ice-wielding assassin still hangs impaled, blood spurting in pulses from his neck. Gold Experience manifests once again over his shoulder as Giorno’s hands reach out for the man’s limp body.

“Are you out of your mind? Don’t heal him!”

He gapes incredulously as that familiar glow begins to emanate from Giorno’s gore-stained hands.

“I won’t fix him all the way.” Giorno cranes his neck to address Mista as his Stand carries on reviving an enemy who, as he recalls, was recently engaged in filling Mista’s torso with bullet holes. “Just enough to stop the bleeding. Just so he can live.”

Mista shakes his head in disbelief as he watches Giorno ease the assassin’s body to the ground. He’s just opening his mouth to give some kind of retort when he catches sight of a vessel passing in the canal.

“G-guys!” comes the voice of Narancia. “Over here! If you’re, uh, done!”

He sounds weirdly flustered for a guy who’s been having himself a nice little boat tour of Venice while Mista and Giorno have been fighting for their lives. Mista’s head spins with confusion and significant blood loss as Giorno helps him stagger to the boat.

“I don’t get it,” Mista mutters to Giorno. “Why’d you save that guy?”

Giorno’s lips purse thoughtfully as he considers.

“I can’t really say,” he murmurs. “It just would have felt wrong to leave him bleeding out there, I suppose, when I had the option of letting him live.”

Mista blinks a few times.

“You’re too soft for your own good, kid.”

“Not true,” Giorno argues, and there’s just a touch of teenage petulance there. “I didn’t spare the others before him.”

“You also didn’t know how to heal when we ran into them.”

A hint of a smile tugs at the edge of Giorno’s mouth. “He was kind of funny, though.”

“What, the ice guy?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeesh.” He rolls his eyes, grimacing at the feeling of drying blood sticking his expensive cashmere sweater to his chest. “Forgive me for not seeing the humor in that situation.”

Giorno really can be so goddamn weird sometimes.

In all the chaos that follows, the incident slips Mista’s mind. They face off against enemy after enemy, and the names and faces of their previous opponents begin to blur together. He’s forgotten all about the faintly breathing body they’d left on the cobblestones of Venice by the time they reach Sardinia.

And then, quick and wrenching as a boot to the gut, they lose Abbacchio.

And then Narancia.

And then, after Bruno, he kind of shuts down for a while.

Giorno is the only constant in the whole mess of it, a steady anchor in the sea of his grief. It’s simple enough to follow in his wake through everything that comes to pass: the countless meetings and phone calls and, above all, the unceasing paranoia that lingers long after Diavolo’s death, the fear of some monstrous figure like him rising from the ranks to strike down Giorno and add a new tragedy to Mista’s lengthening list.

A mere week later, Mista stands by Giorno’s side throughout the fealty ceremony and watches each man kneel and kiss the ring. Giorno’s features glow with quiet satisfaction.

Is this really the end of it, he wonders. Or will I always be waiting for the next threat?

-

They keep Passione’s headquarters in Naples. It’s simplest that way, and besides, Giorno favors his home city. Even then, they spend little time there in the early weeks of his takeover. As Giorno contacts more and more of the gang’s operatives, his meetings take him to every major crime hub across the country, and even a few beyond Italy’s borders. Mista sits between him and the sliding glass door on each passenger train ride, pistol at the ready as Giorno carries on his hushed strategizing with Polnareff in the turtle.

It goes unsaid that a moving target is more difficult to kill.

From south to north, they spread the word: the leader of Passione has emerged from the shadows, ready to take on a public role. And city by city, the mob’s leadership begins to fall in line, especially once rumors take flight of what happens to those who don’t bend the knee.

Venice is a resounding success, a crowning jewel in Giorno’s new regime. The mobsters there are practically cowering in fear of Giorno before he even enters the room. He makes it look impressively easy.

As the chauffeur pulls up in front of their hotel, Mista wonders what Buccellati would think of it all.

“Will you accompany me to the hospital?” Giorno’s voice stirs him from his reverie. Mista turns to him as he snaps his cell phone shut.

“Sure. What for?”

“I’ve just found out there’s a member of the old guard recovering there. I need to pay him a visit and personally ensure his loyalty.”

Who might that be? The number of Diavolo’s loyal men who still breathe dwindles every day. “No problem.”

Giorno makes a few calls from the car on the way to the hospital, crossing his legs in the spacious backseat as he delivers orders. The bags under his eyes are well hidden under a layer of concealer.

Mista mostly stares out the window, wracking his brain as he tries to figure out who exactly this could be; he’d rather not have to ask Giorno, who’s frankly got enough on his mind already. The car pulls up in front of the hospital before he can jog his memory.

A nurse leads them to a room guarded by two men that Mista recognizes as mob soldiers. They give Giorno a deferential nod and step aside as the nurse shoots them a nervous look.

Mista only makes the connection once he walks into the cramped hospital room and catches sight of a familiar shock of blue curls.

Oh, hell. Not this guy again.

“You two!”

Ghiaccio- that scrawny hitman who’d brought Mista to the brink of death in Venice- is spitting venom the moment they’re through the door. His voice is hoarser than Mista remembers it, probably thanks to that plastic tube sticking out of his throat.

“Ghiaccio,” Giorno greets him serenely. “You look to be healing up well.”

“The fuck d’you want?” the assassin snarls. He’s tensed up as if preparing to spring from the bed, heedless of the IV lines and telemetry monitors hooked up to his body.

“How about a thanks for saving my life , asshole?” Mista’s quick to defend Giorno now that he recalls this particular piece of work. He barely registers the way he shifts to angle himself between Giorno and Ghiaccio; it’s pure muscle memory by now.

Ghiaccio makes a hacking noise that might be a laugh. “Thanks for saving my life, asshole,” he jeers.

“Damn, you really didn’t learn your lesson- “

“Guido.”

Giorno’s calm voice stops him short. He only rarely uses Mista’s first name, the one he’s frankly less comfortable with after years of being addressed by surname only. 

“It’s alright. He’s clearly angry and wants answers.” Giorno directs his next words to Ghiaccio in the hospital bed. “Isn’t that right?”

Ghiaccio’s pointy teeth are bared like a wild animal’s. “You got one thing right,” he hisses. “I’m angry.”

“Are you ever any other way?” Mista can’t help but prod him. It’s like his whole being just invites confrontation, dredging it up to the surface.

“Shut up, you glorified bodyguard,” Ghiaccio snaps. His keen eyes shift back to Giorno. “Listen, I could leave this place anytime I want. The only reason I’m still here is ‘cause those docs still need to take this shit out of my neck.” He jabs a finger at the plastic apparatus in his throat. The movement pulls at one of the wires in his arm, and a machine somewhere beeps in protest.

“I understand,” says Giorno, “and I’m grateful that you chose to stay. It would have been troublesome to have to hunt you down.” His thin smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

Internally, Mista cheers him on as Ghiaccio’s glare falters.

“I’ll answer your questions,” Giorno continues, “as I imagine you must have many.”

When Giorno doesn’t so much as blink in response to his vicious glowering, Ghiaccio seems to deflate, sinking back against a thin hospital pillow.

“So you’re the one running the show now? That’s about as much as I gleaned from those morons out there.” Ghiaccio jerks his head at the guards outside the door.

“That’s correct,” says Giorno.

“How’d you swing that?”

“You’re now one of the only people still alive who knows of the existence of the old boss, Diavolo.” Ghiaccio’s eyes bug out at the mention of the boss’s name. “We managed to defeat him, but… lost several of our own teammates in the process.”

“You killed the boss ?”

Giorno gives a solemn nod.

“ How? ”

As Giorno retells the tale, Mista fixes his gaze on the ugly parking lot outside the hospital window. Someone in blue hospital scrubs is out smoking by the stairwell.

“My team’s all dead, aren’t they?” Ghiaccio’s bitter voice breaks the silence that falls once Giorno’s done explaining. “Buccellati made sure of that, though I guess he didn’t make it.”

“Not all of them.” Mista’s head swivels at that, unable to suppress his surprise. “The one who came before you- Melone- survived his injuries,” Giorno explains. “He’s being held at another location.”

The hospital bed creaks as Ghiaccio jolts upright. “Mel’s alive?”

This is news to Mista, who raises an eyebrow at Giorno. “Which one was that?”

“You didn’t meet him,” Giorno tells him, as if that clarifies everything.

“What about Ri- my capo?” Ghiaccio demands. “Did you run into him?” Without the shield of his glasses, his eyes appear wide, nearly manic.

“His name was Risotto Nero, right?” says Mista. He knows at least this much of the story. Ghiaccio nods jerkily.

“We only found his body after the fact,” Mista recounts. “It seems like he went up against the boss himself on the coast of Sardinia. Put up a hell of a fight, by the look of it. But the bastard beat him and managed to kill one of our own while we were out searching the area.”

He stops talking before he can let himself get choked up. God, is this ever gonna get easier?

Ghiaccio looks- gutted, really. It’s like whiplash, watching his expression flip so rapidly from defensive fury to this haunted, empty look. His features don’t seem built to house that sort of emotion.

“I’m sorry, man.” Mista adds, not entirely sure why he’s apologizing to this thorny asshole.

“It’s- “ Ghiaccio scrunches his eyes closed for a second while Mista exchanges a concerned glance with Giorno. “It’s what I figured,” he mutters at last.

It would be ridiculous to feel sympathy for a rude, abrasive jerk who’s only ever tried to murder him. And so what Mista feels overwhelmingly in that moment is definitely not sympathy.

“You’re not here just to update me on current events,” says Ghiaccio, breaking the silence to peer suspiciously up at the two of them. “What does the new Don of Passione want with me?”

“What do I want?” Giorno raises a hand to his chest as if to indicate surprise. “I had thought that would be clear. You must realize your value as a potential ally in the new organization I’m building.”

Ghiaccio scowls in consternation, or perhaps that’s just the way his face always looks. “You wanna hire me?”

“I could use a man of your talents.”

This isn’t necessarily the angle that Mista would prefer Giorno to take, but he has to admit it’s clever. The two of them can attest to Ghiaccio’s overwhelming strength from experience, and his name must be known to the rest of the mob as well. Having such a figure on their side would serve well to strike fear into any possible traitors left in their ranks.

“Do I get a choice?” Ghiaccio’s voice is a low rasp.

“Of course,” Giorno replies. “You might even make it out of the country if you refuse me. But you’d have to be even luckier than me to ever manage to return.”

Ghiaccio bristles visibly at that, and for a second Mista’s thoughts are racing as to how he and Giorno will fare in a rematch against White Album. Sure enough, the temperature of the hospital room seems to drop several degrees.

And then the furious light behind Ghiaccio’s eyes dies out, and he slumps back, his gaze going glassy.

“I wanna talk to Melone first,” he says hollowly. “Assuming you’re cutting him the same deal.”

“That can be arranged,” says Giorno brightly. “A phone call would be best. I’m not yet willing to risk the two of you in a room together.”

Crisis averted.

“That could’ve gone worse,” Giorno muses as they take the elevator down to the hospital lobby, which is Giorno-speak for that was pretty damn successful, but I don’t feel like patting myself on the back yet . “I’ll set up a call from the isolation ward where they’ve been holding Melone.”

“Is that another psycho we’re gonna have to deal with?”

Giorno’s brow creases. “Let’s hope the two of them make better decisions together than apart.”

It occurs to Mista how long it’s been since he’s seen Giorno without that drawn, worried set to his face. He’s too young to be getting frown lines.

They both are.

“Hey, Giorno.” Mista catches him by the elbow as they exit the hospital, the automated doors swoosh ing closed behind them.

“Yes?”

“Look, you can- “ This sounded better in his head. “You can, uh, rely on me more, you know.”

Those big green eyes blink slowly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I- “ Mista swears he hasn’t always been this awkward. Maybe it’s something about losing three of your closest friends in quick succession that robs you of your social niceties. “I know I’ve been kinda out of it since you became Don and all. I should’ve helped you handle these guys. What Diavolo left behind is… too much of a mess for any one person to clean up.”

Now that Mista looks at him properly, Giorno really does seem worn down, like he’s aged half a decade in the few weeks that have passed since his takeover. His braid is mussed, his suit ever so slightly wrinkled. A few thin vessels at the corners of his eyes are shot and reddened.

“Just… consider letting me shoulder more of the burden, okay?”

Giorno’s face twitches before he lets out a small, delicate sigh.

“Thank you, Mista.” His voice is soft. “I suppose I wanted to leave you room to grieve.”

Something twinges in Mista’s chest. “Hey, don’t worry about me. You’ve got enough on your plate. And I’m- “

Well. Perhaps now isn’t the time for absolute honesty.

“I’m doing just fine, alright?” He claps Giorno on the shoulder and tries to plaster on a reassuring grin. “So don’t be afraid to put me to work. You can trust in me.”

The smile Giorno gives in return is wavering yet genuine.

“That means the world to me, Mista.”

-

He keeps his promise to Giorno.

The two of them are inseparable after that, attending every business dinner and logistics meeting as a pair. Mista learns to pinch himself to stay awake through appointments with Giorno’s underlings that stretch into the morning hours, not wanting to disappoint him by dozing off. Giorno’s seemingly boundless energy for such tasks would almost make Mista wonder about some kind of substance use if he didn’t know better, but Giorno takes nothing but coffee to buoy him through the days and nights of work. 

He swears he didn’t have an ulterior motive for sticking so closely to Giorno. Not initially, anyway. Really it had begun out of a sense of duty, a feeling of owing Giorno his best and most dedicated work. He would’ve done the same had it been Buccellati on the throne.

But his attachment to his boss and friend shifts into something less professional over time, as he sees more and more of the Giorno that stays hidden from the outside world. Away from the eyes of their capos and soldiers, Giorno transforms back from his flawless Don persona into the young man Mista had been so fascinated with ever since Buccellati had introduced him: the kind of guy who’ll order margherita pizza at 3AM and eat it while raptly watching the Nature channel, who’ll put on sunglasses by means of a disguise to sneak out and cheer on a soccer game with Mista. 

The real Giorno, his lucky boy.  

Mista’s always been an honest guy, so he doesn’t spend long floundering around in denial. And he doesn’t think he imagines the way Giorno’s eyes light up when he finally, stumblingly invites him out to that new pizza place that’s just opened- not for a meeting or a mission, just for fun. Just the two of them.

And it’s so easy with Giorno when they already know each other so well. It’s like one of those Hollywood romance movies that Mista’s secretly a sucker for, but without the rising conflict that gets resolved by the third act. There’s no room for misunderstanding with someone so insightful as his- his boyfriend , he really should get used to saying that, at least inside his head.

Mista really only struggles during the times when their schedules don’t perfectly align, mostly due to the way Giorno overworks himself, despite all Mista’s protestations. When he lies in bed alone, watching moonbeams stream in through the curtains, sleep evades him. His thoughts stray to his lost friends, to the unfairness of all their deaths. 

He composes clumsy letters to them in his mind until his eyes prick with tears and he has to grind his face against his pillow to extinguish them. They mostly take the form of apologies- to Abbacchio, for not being there to help when it really fucking mattered. To Narancia, for every second of carefree fun that’s been had in his absence.

Very often, to Buccellati, for being here instead of him.

If Giorno picks up on his occasional loneliness, he doesn’t mention it directly. Still, it’s not difficult to see how guilty he feels after each date night that goes rescheduled thanks to some conflict. Sometimes Mista stirs from sleep to the feeling of Giorno’s rueful lips against the side of his face, hours after he’d gone to bed alone. 

It’s nothing to feel sorry about, as Mista tries to remind him. This is the life they both signed up for, and the last thing Giorno needs is more guilt on his young shoulders.

All the same, he wonders if Giorno’s new proposal might not be some misguided way of addressing Mista’s solitude.

“Giogio, you know how much I trust you, but I’m pretty sure the guy hates me.”

The car idles outside the shabby apartment block as they carry on their discussion. Somewhere up in that building, Mista envisions the subject of their conversation pacing like a caged lion, ready to explode with violent energy at the slightest provocation. He can’t imagine he’s changed much since the hospital.

“I’ve already spoken to him,” says Giorno calmly, “and he’s willing to work alongside you if I request it. He understands that I can’t exactly let him operate as a free agent until he’s proven his loyalty.”

“You were considering letting him work on his own? He’s a psycho!”

“He’s really been quite reasonable in our talks.” Giorno keeps defending the guy, perhaps because he didn’t personally experience the feeling of about twenty bullets tearing through his body at Ghiaccio’s hands. “All he wants is fair pay and transparency. I reassured him that I am far more forthcoming and predictable than Diavolo was.”

“Look, I’m sure he’s different around you, but do you really think he’s gonna be loyal in the long run?” Mista argues. “He’s just in this for the money.”

“Aren’t most of our soldiers?” Fair enough, Mista has to concede that point. 

“Plus,” Giorno adds, turning to gaze out the window, “I think I remind him of his old capo.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Just… something about the way he talks to me, I suppose. Like he’s already used to taking orders.”

Mista hopes he’s right. Even the slightest bit of insubordination from Ghiaccio could prove messy if they’re going to be working together for the foreseeable future. He suppresses a sigh and follows Giorno out of the car.

“Give him a chance,” Giorno mutters lowly as they stand outside the door to Ghiaccio’s apartment. He raises a hand and knocks briskly. “I think you could be a good influence on him.”

The idea of Mista being a good influence on anyone is so laughable that he has to forcibly school his face back into a neutral expression before Ghiaccio throws open the door.

“Oh. It’s both of you.” He’s dressed like he’s going on a run rather than an assassination job- shorts over black leggings with chunky red sneakers. Mista’s gaze flicks inevitably to the point in the center of his throat where last there had been a tracheostomy tube. Over the collar of Ghiaccio’s shirt he catches a bare flash of raised pink scar tissue.

“Evening, Ghiaccio,” Giorno greets him. “I thought I’d drop you two off at your destination. There’s a few details I want to review with you.”

“Sure.” Ghiaccio leans against the doorjamb, his arms crossed, as if to conceal the details of the apartment behind him. Even from the brief glimpse Mista manages, there’s a pile of shoes kicked carelessly aside in the entryway. A perilously tall stack of CDs is visible on a nearby countertop. “Just figured you had more important things to do, being the Don and all.”

Giorno gives an amused little smile.

“I thought it might be wise to more closely oversee your first mission together.” He steps back, making space for Ghiaccio to follow. “Shall we discuss in the car?”

Ghiaccio eyes Mista with what he hopes is marginally less animosity compared to their last encounter.

“Yeah, let’s get going.”

-

Back in the passenger seat, Mista briefly wonders if Giorno ever did end up getting his driver’s license. With how often they’re chauffeured around, it’s easy to forget what a terror he is on the roads.

“Giorno, we- we’ve got plenty of time,” he manages, white-knuckling the passenger door handle as Giorno swerves wildly between lanes. 

Ghiaccio scoffs from the backseat. “He’s the Don of Passione, Mista. It’s not like he’s gonna get a speeding ticket.”

Giorno’s hands rest too loosely on the steering wheel for Mista’s liking. “You know,” he says mildly, “back when I ran a taxi service from the airport, people would tip me extra to drive like this.”

Ghiaccio’s bark of laughter is sudden enough to make Mista start in his seat. “See? They get it.”

“I’m guessing you’re of a similar opinion that speed limits are just suggestions,” Mista mutters.

“Yup.” He can hear the smug grin in Ghiaccio’s voice without even turning around.

The atmosphere isn’t nearly as tense as he’d anticipated, considering what had happened the last time all three of them were in a car together. Whatever negotiations had occurred between Giorno and Ghiaccio prior to this meeting seem to have fulfilled their purpose of bringing Ghiaccio in line; he’s mellowed out in comparison to Mista’s memories of the seething threat they’d encountered in Venice.

He was kind of funny , Giorno had said of Ghiaccio that same evening. Having had some distance from the situation, it’s now easier for Mista to understand what he was talking about.

As he weaves in and out of traffic, Giorno reviews the key points of the night’s assignment: find an entry point, get past the guards, and take out the guy who’s been introducing heroin to some small communities a few hours away from the city. It’s not exactly new material to Mista, who’d been the closest thing there was to a hitman on Buccellati’s team. 

“Ghiaccio, you’ll head straight for the target while Mista covers you,” Giorno instructs. “Don’t give him any opportunities to run. He has a number of safe houses that he could escape to if he makes it to a car.”

“Got it,” says Ghiaccio shortly. 

“And I’ll take care of the guards,” Mista recites. 

“Excellent. You two know the plan.” The car slows as Giorno pulls up by a deserted side street to let them out. “I’ll be in the area meeting with a few contacts. Call me when you’re done.”

Mista gives a joking salute before stepping out of the passenger side, pockets bulging with extra ammo. The Pistols begin to manifest and chatter amongst themselves.

“And play nice,” Giorno adds in a hushed tone as Ghiaccio hops out of the backseat. 

“Tell him to play nice!” Mista hisses back, but Giorno only winks and pulls away. 

Ugh. He’s lucky he’s so damn loveable

“Quit dawdling!” Ghiaccio snaps, and Mista does his best not to roll his eyes.

“Coming,” he bites out.

He briefs the Pistols before they enter the building, which requires bribing them with a snack of sausage before introducing Ghiaccio, who’s already getting suited up. He still feels a slight thrill of fear upon watching the air crystallize around Ghiaccio’s body for the first time since Venice ( that’s the thing that almost ended you , says Mista’s animal instinct, get away from it ), but it’s nothing he can’t master.

“This guy’s our ally now,” he reminds the Pistols, jabbing a finger in Ghiaccio’s direction, “so keep our bullets away from him. Got it?”

Ghiaccio peers curiously over his shoulder.

“They talk?”

“Oh yeah,” says Mista, giving Number Two a prod to stop him from stealing Number One’s slice of sausage. “It’s getting them to shut up that’s the hard part.”

“And they eat?”

“Yup.”

White Album’s helmet cocks to the side in a gesture of confusion, but in combination with its triangular ear-shapes, it’s a kittenish sort of movement that comes dangerously close to making Mista crack up.

“I think the guys are good to go. Ready, Pistols?”

Their rising cheer is the only answer he needs. Ghiaccio cracks his armored knuckles loudly before following Mista up the fire escape into the building’s back door.

Watching White Album in action is strangely exciting. Getting through the guards requires a fair bit of side-by-side fighting, and for a second Mista’s chest aches with familiarity, but the ally at his back doesn’t wield a miniature airplane or a poison-breathing monster. 

No, those times are gone for good now.

“Where’s your head at, Mista?” Ghiaccio growls as he takes a swipe at a guard who, Mista has to admit, had been way too close to his flank. The man barely has time to grimace in horror before there’s ice creeping across his face, into his eyeballs, down his throat.

“Sorry,” Mista gulps.

After that, he maintains his focus. 

They’re both comically soaked with sweat and blood when Giorno pulls up the car to take them home. Even before Mista steps inside, he can detect the broad I-told-you-so smile on Giorno’s face.

“Looks like the mission was a success,” Giorno hums with satisfaction.

“D’you want the full rundown now or later?” Ghiaccio sounds almost bored as he slumps into the plastic-coated backseat, like- well, like a hitman who’s done this dozens of times before. 

“Later is fine,” says Giorno. “I’ll drop you off and let you clean up at home.”

“Thanks,” Ghiaccio mumbles, as if it maybe doesn’t count if he says it quietly enough.

Mista, for his part, gives Giorno a short synopsis of his side of events as they navigate the midnight city streets. The lamplights overhead pass in a bright-dark-bright-dark pattern, predictable and comforting.

“It sounds like your Stands complemented each other fairly well.” He must already be plotting ahead, always strategizing.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

Giorno makes a pensive sort of noise. “That’s good to know.”

They pull up in front of the same ratty apartment complex as earlier in the day, and Mista finds himself wondering exactly how underpaid the hitman team was for Ghiaccio to be living here. Then again, his own apartment had been fairly neglected until Giorno began regularly staying over. Before that, he’d mostly crashed at Buccellati’s place, or at Abbacchio’s flat, or on the couch in that crowded office space they’d used to store important documents (occasionally) and stolen goods (more frequently) 

“By the way,” says Ghiaccio, and upon detecting a certain alarm tone in his voice Mista begins preparing for one of his classic tirades, “it’s obvious to anyone with a half a functioning brain cell that you two are dating, so quit trying to hide it from me.”

“Huh?” says Mista intelligently.

Giorno’s face goes very pink.

“You heard me.” In the rearview mirror, Ghiaccio’s eyes narrow behind the rims of his glasses. “I’m not an idiot. It’s fuckin’ insulting that you think I’d be fooled.”

“Okay, jeez,” Mista holds up his hands in appeasement. “Don’t take it so personally.” His gaze flicks frantically between Ghiaccio and Giorno, who is doing nothing helpful to dig them out of this situation.

“If it makes you feel any better, we’ve been hiding it from everyone,” Mista adds feebly.

Ghiaccio shrugs, but with his usual vigor behind it, it’s an oddly spastic movement. “It’s not like it’s anything new to me. We had two guys on my old team who were together. Just stop being so goddamn weird about it around me.”

“…right,” says Mista.

“We’ll keep that in mind,” says Giorno quietly. 

“Whatever,” Ghiaccio mutters after a long moment, and he grabs the door handle with more ferocity than seems necessary. The air in the car still feels too tense for Mista’s liking.

“Look, I’ll be sure to give Giorno a nice big kiss every time you see us from now on, okay?” He only means it as a joke, even adding a mildly forced laugh, but Ghiaccio freezes, his knuckles going white on the handle.

Behind the steering wheel, Giorno cringes violently.

Before he can say anything else, Ghiaccio’s already ducking out the door.

“Mista...” Giorno scrubs a tired hand across his face.

“I was kidding!” he protests.

Polnareff had wised up to the situation pretty quickly, but apart from him, the world of people who know about their relationship could be counted on one hand. There’s plenty of people out there who’d gladly use that knowledge as a weapon against Giorno, but somehow Mista doesn’t get the sense that Ghiaccio is one of them. It might just be a hunch, but it’s enough to set him at ease.

-

The next week finds Mista in a conference room, eyes glued to a laptop screen alongside one of his less favored coworkers. However crucial they may be, he doesn’t savor these meetings with Melone.

It’s one thing for Giorno to keep the guy around- he’s undeniably useful as a tracker and techie, even if Mista wishes he had never learned the particulars about how Baby Face works.

It’s just that he’s a grade-A creep and Mista would prefer to never have to deal with him.

Melone’s speaking to him now as he pulls up some mobster’s bank account info on his laptop, rattling off his findings. Mista trains his gaze on the screen and avoids Melone’s one-eyed gaze. 

He’s like some kind of reptile, Mista concludes. Like a lizard, with that flat, indifferent tone and the way he blinks too infrequently for anyone’s liking. Somehow Ghiaccio manages to put up with him- and that’s another thing that irks him for some reason, that close yet highly ambiguous relationship that the two ex-assassins seem to have. 

Are they dating? 

It’s none of his business. But he’d like to know all the same.

“Are you listening?” Even when seemingly annoyed, Melone manages to sound a little bored.

“Yeah, yeah. Of course.” Mista straightens up and ceases fiddling with his hat in his lap.

“I’ll continue.”

Melone drones on about transactions and receipts- sounds like the target of his investigation has been trying to launder drug money right under Passione’s nose, which is an astoundingly stupid decision given Giorno’s recent crackdown. He’ll be another one to make an example of.

“Right, then.“ Mista cuts in hurriedly when Melone pauses to take a breath. “Thanks for the info. I’ll deal with this guy.”

“Will you be taking on the mission by yourself?” Melone pushes himself back from the desk, rotating lazily in his rolling chair.

“Maybe.” Mista stands and tugs his cap back onto his head. “Might bring someone else along, y’know, make a show of strength or whatever.”

“Haven’t you been working with Ghiaccio recently?” Melone’s question catches him off guard. Just the mention of Ghiaccio’s name has Mista on the defensive. “He talks about you and the Don quite a bit,” Melone adds innocently.

“Oh yeah? Tell him he can talk shit to my face if he likes.”

Melone cocks his head to the side almost robotically, his single visible eye unnervingly blank. “Who says he’s talking shit?”

Mista squints at him.

“I think the two of you have more in common than you’d like to admit,” says Melone, and the light curiosity in his voice is maybe the most emotion Mista’s heard from him all afternoon. “And I think the Don agrees.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Why don’t you ask him about our old team sometime?” One of Melone’s hands traces aimless patterns on his laptop’s trackpad even as his too-bright eye stays trained on Mista. “You could tell him about yours. All those dear lost friends.”

Mista grips the back of his chair very hard and resists the urge to take a swing at that asymmetric face. “Watch yourself,” he bites out.

Melone raises his hands in a half-hearted gesture of apology. “I only mean to say that you and Ghiaccio seem to be experiencing the same kind of survivor’s guilt.” He shrugs one narrow shoulder. “I hate to see my teammate so burdened.”

This isn’t a totally new line of thought to Mista, who’s already spent maybe a bit more time than entirely appropriate thinking about his new coworker and what they might share. He hadn’t even thought to be embarrassed about it until Melone, being the freak that he is, had to go and point it out.

“What about you?” he challenges. “You survived as well.”

“Me?” Melone’s smile is a reptilian mask. Crocodile tears , Mista’s mind supplies helpfully. “Oh, I’m not so prone to things like guilt.”

“Tell the Don I said hello,” Melone calls after his hastily receding back.

Mista tugs on his coat as the door slams behind him, but it doesn’t do much to suppress the way he shudders.

-

This business is destined to never stay peaceful for long.

Mista knows that, and he’s glad he insisted on coming along with Ghiaccio for this mission, because no matter how much the guy claims he’s totally bulletproof in White Album, it turns out that the types of men who run underground meth labs are also the type to be extremely heavily armed.

Mista and Ghiaccio have the element of surprise on their side; the Pistols manage to take out a couple guards around a corner before the alarm is raised. But then fucking Ghiaccio flings himself right into the midst of the oncoming shootout, clad in his icy armor with teeth bared.

Things veer off course after that.

Mista should’ve expected this; despite being around the same age as him, Ghiaccio’s got the impulsivity of a high-schooler, and he’s pent-up, hasn’t had much action lately. He whips his body around in those sharp skates like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do, and for all the carnage he wreaks alongside the Pistols, Mista can’t help but flinch with every point-blank bullet that ricochets off his armor.

And he doesn’t listen , doesn’t heed Mista’s repeatedly hollered warnings over the deafening gunfire. 

By the end of it, when Mista sprints into the wreckage of the main lab where smoke billows from bullet-riddled chemical canisters, he finds Ghiaccio panting on his hands and knees, surrounded by unmoving bodies.

“Miiiista, help!” cries Number Five, flitting around Ghiaccio’s heaving shoulders. There’s blood on his actual clothes, staining the pristine white fabric. That means it got there after he dismissed his Stand.

Ghiaccio hisses like an alley cat and jerks away when Mista’s hands go to pat his injured side.

“What the fuck, I explicitly told you not to run in like that,” Mista scolds him. The effect he’s going for is spoiled by his voice cracking like a goddamn prepubescent kid’s. 

“Job’s done,” Ghiaccio mutters. “Would’ve taken ages if we did it your way.”

He can be so petty sometimes. The blood on his side isn’t gushing, but it’s spreading through the fabric in a way that Mista, as somewhat of an expert in getting shot, doesn’t like the look of.

“What the hell happened to you?” 

Ghiaccio’s face twitches in embarrassment. “Last guy wasn’t as dead as I’d thought. Got me while I had my guard down.”

“I’m not going to a damn hospital,” Ghiaccio adds as Mista gets an arm under his to hoist him to his feet.

“Luckily for you, we’ve got something better. I’m bringing you back to Giorno.”

Ghiaccio’s head jerks up at that as they hobble out of the building together. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wail.

“He’ll fix you up better than any doctor,” Mista promises. “He’s done it for me tons of times.”

The Pistols circle attentively around Ghiaccio, only returning to Mista’s revolver when they’re satisfied that no other injuries have been missed. With Mista’s help, Ghiaccio’s able to slide into the passenger side of their getaway car, grimacing as he slumps into the seat.

“Keep holding pressure on it,” Mista instructs him.

“Yeah, yeah, I know how gunshot wounds work.”

The ride back is silent but for the occasional harsh breaths that hiss out through Ghiaccio’s clenched teeth. 

“Doing okay?” Mista offers after a particularly sharp turn elicits a small groan of pain.

“I’m fine.” Ghiaccio’s eyes are shut tight, his neck arched back.

Mista shoots him a concerned look when a breathy chuckle escapes his lips.

“Once Riz had a bullet stuck in his abdomen.” The voice from the passenger seat is distant. “Entrance wound but no exit. We all freaked out, but he said it was no problem. And he just, heh,” Ghiaccio coughs, “he just absorbed that shit back into his bloodstream.”

“Wow,” says Mista, not sure if he should be worried about the dreamy tone Ghiaccio’s voice has taken on.

“Yup. And then Mel stitched up the wound.”

“Huh.” 

Melone’s laconic voice rings in Mista’s ears. I think the two of you have more in common than you’d like to admit. 

“Once I had a friend close up a bullet hole in my stomach with a stapler,” Mista blurts out.

Ghiaccio hacks out a strained chuckle.

“A stapler? Where were you, an office?”

A smile tugs at Mista’s lips, heedless of their situation.

“Actually, I have no idea where he pulled it out from.” Passione’s headquarters finally come into view around the next turn. Mista speeds into the turnaround and parks in what definitely isn’t a designated spot. “Good times.”

“Yeah,” Ghiaccio pants. “Good times.”

They struggle up the front stairs together under the alarmed gaze of a few nearby mob soldiers. One of them makes as if to take Ghiaccio’s arm, then apparently thinks better of it. Mista tosses him his keys instead. 

He doesn’t bother knocking before entering Giorno’s office. His partner’s blond head snaps up as Mista barges ungracefully through the door with Ghiaccio in tow.

“Oh, Mista, Ghiaccio, you- oh my god.” Giorno stands so abruptly that he nearly knocks his chair over. The desk before him is strewn with papers arranged in some arcane organizational system comprehensible only to Giorno himself.

“Hey Giogio.” Mista flashes him the most winning smile he can manage while struggling under Ghiaccio’s sagging form. “We could use your help.”

Ghiaccio starts up some complaint under his breath, but it’s muffled by the sound of Giorno hurrying across the room to the two of them.

“Let’s get him settled down,” Giorno murmurs. “Oh goodness. Ghiaccio, can you hear me?”

“I’m fine, boss,” Ghiaccio rasps, but he allows Giorno and Mista to press him into the cushioned chair opposite Giorno’s desk. He holds his side tightly, like he’s taking great pains to avoid letting his blood stain the furniture.

“You don't look fine. And you can call me Giorno.”

As Ghiaccio hangs his head, taking shallow, unsteady breaths, Giorno turns to Mista.

“What happened?” he asks quietly.

“Some guy got a last shot in on him before I could get there. Still, we eliminated them all.”

Giorno frowns in Ghiaccio’s direction, his brows drawing together.

“I hate to say I told you so - “

“But you’re going to, anyway,” Ghiaccio grumbles.

“You really need to be more careful, Ghiaccio.” Even as he speaks, Giorno pulls up a chair and sets himself by Ghiaccio’s side, gently prying away his hands from his injury. Mista winces as the motion causes half-congealed blood to ooze sickeningly down Ghiaccio’s fingertips. “It’s a lucky thing Mista got you here so quickly.”

Ghiaccio’s downcast eyes flutter as Giorno secures his hands over the wound, and that familiar golden glow begins to emanate from them. 

He gets like this around Giorno- shyer, almost deferential. Mista had figured Ghiaccio would hold at least some form of grudge against him on behalf of his fallen teammates, but maybe he’s come to terms with the reality Giorno was either uninvolved in their deaths or physically incapable of healing them at the time. Regardless, he’s been shockingly loyal. It makes sense that the guy wouldn’t want to piss off the Don of Passione , but it’s still an abrupt shift from Ghiaccio’s typical fuck-you attitude. 

“Just take a few deep breaths,” says Giorno in that soft, hypnotic tone. “This will hurt a bit.”

Despite the warning, Ghiaccio gasps when the healing begins.

“Shhhhhi- “ His neck twists and his teeth snap together, but he holds still in the chair.

Mista’s stomach churns just watching him. Admittedly, Ghiaccio’s a tough guy, but the truth of it is that Mista has been exactly where he is right now (god, has he ever been there), and he knows the utter agony that comes with having your flesh knot and twist itself into new shapes. Giorno is a miracle worker, but his gift of life comes with a price.

And so Mista doesn’t really think through the implications of reaching out to grasp Ghiaccio’s hand as he twitches and whimpers.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he hears himself say, “just squeeze my hand.”

His brain finally catches up with his body long enough to experience a moment of genuine fear for his life before Ghiaccio’s fingers curl decisively around his and clutch hard enough to turn them numb in a matter of seconds. 

Mista breathes out slowly.

When he looks up, Giorno is watching him with something like fascination written across his face. His lips hang parted.

The moment is broken when Ghiaccio hisses fucking hell through his teeth, his curls bouncing as he tosses his head from side to side.

“Easy there,” Giorno whispers, and his voice has only ever sounded this achingly soft a select few times before. “Almost done.”

Ghiaccio’s sweaty hand seizes up around Mista’s again. The only sound in the room is his labored breathing.

After who knows how many minutes, Gold Experience’s glow begins to fade, shrinking back into Giorno’s body.

“All done,” says Giorno sweetly. “You did well.”

He doesn’t shift his hands from Ghiaccio’s side. Ghiaccio doesn’t move, either. His eyes are still shut tight.

“Uh, Ghiaccio,” Mista prompts. “I think you’re all healed now.”

“Oh.” Ghiaccio’s eyes snap open behind his glasses. His hand slips out of Mista’s so fast that it’s almost a little hurtful. 

Giorno takes his hands off Ghiaccio’s body and settles back into his chair, a mysterious sort of smile on his lips. “I guess that’s my second time doing that for you. Though I don't suppose you remember the first.”

Ghiaccio springs to his feet the second Giorno stops touching him, his face oddly flushed. “Yeah, I- I feel much better. Thanks,” he adds stiffly.

“Anytime,” Giorno hums.

Mista’s head swivels between the two of them as he tries to piece together exactly what’s going on.

“I better, uh, go home and change,” says Ghiaccio. His left hand drifts seemingly involuntarily to his healed injury. “Mista and I will get the mission report to you soon, boss.”

“Again, ‘Giorno’ is fine.” He’s still got that small, strange smile on his face.

“Hey, take better care of yourself, okay?” Mista calls to him as he hurries for the door. “You’ve only got one body, no matter how much Giogio might be able to patch it up. We want you alive, okay?”

He’s expecting some kind of smarmy response, so it’s sort of a shock when none is forthcoming. 

Instead, Ghiaccio just bobs his head in a nod. “Got it.” 

Mista’s still sitting there stunned at the fact that Ghiaccio just openly agreed with him when Ghiaccio raises a bloodstained hand to give him a wave. “Later.”

The door swings peacefully closed behind him.

“Well,” says Mista. He can feel blood beginning to crust on the hand Ghiaccio had been clutching. “That was weird.”

When he turns back to Giorno, Mista finds him perched on the edge of his desk with an expression on his face that Mista usually sees in strategic meetings and negotiations. The tip of his leather shoe taps an erratic pattern into the air.

“ Weird is one way of putting it.” Giorno’s thoughtful gaze is fixed on the door. 

Mista smirks. “You look like you’re deep in thought, Giogio.”

Giorno’s head tips to the side. His loose braid spills appealingly over the fine silk of his suit jacket. “I have a theory.”

“Mm. Let’s hear it.” Mista goes to join him on the desk, putting his hip to Giorno’s so their thighs touch. It’s a luxury he’ll never stop indulging in, this casual closeness. Few have had the privilege of seeing the Don so relaxed.

Giorno’s smile is playful when he tips his head toward Mista. “I think Ghiaccio may have a bit of a crush on you.” 

His spluttering protests are forceful enough to nearly topple Mista off the desk entirely.

“Wh- me ?”

“Yes, you.” Giorno’s grin is slowly broadening, inching wider to display his teeth.

“Giorno, the guy can’t stand me! You’ve seen how he talks to me, right?“

Giorno waves a dismissive hand. “Playful banter.”

“Playful banter?!”

“It’s how he bonds with you.” 

Mista shakes his head slowly in disbelief. “Sorry Giogio, but I gotta disagree with you here. If anything- “

He cuts himself short as Giorno’s smile slips into a look of puzzlement.

“What?”

“I was gonna say- “ Mista stammers, “I mean, if anything, it’s you he admires. He mouths off to everyone else, but he’s downright docile when it comes to you.”

Giorno’s thick eyebrows shoot up into his curls. “He was clutching your hand like a lifeline there, Mista.”

“Only ‘cause he was so psyched that you were touching him!”

He feels the warmth and pressure of Giorno leaning further into him even as they both chuckle. “If that were the case,” says Giorno, his tone thoughtful, “would you be jealous?”

“Nah,” says Mista. Maybe it’s a mistake to answer so quickly, but he knows it’s the truth as soon as the words pass his lips. “Who wouldn’t be crazy about a guy like you?”

The silence that follows is enough to shake up his nerves, interrupting the easy comfort built between the two of them.

“Was that the wrong answer?” he follows up hastily. “Am I supposed to be jealous?”

He’s met with a snort of laughter from Giorno. It’s the kind of graceless sound he only allows himself to make when they’re alone together, free from his role as Don. 

“There’s no wrong answer here, Mista, it’s not a test.” Giorno’s head settles onto Mista’s shoulder as he speaks, and Mista’s chest swells with a floaty sort of feeling. “But if it were,” he murmurs, “you’d pass with flying colors.” He punctuates it with a small kiss to Mista’s neck. “A-plus. 100%.”

Mista can’t hold back the way he giggles at the ticklish feeling of Giorno’s lips, like they’re back on their first date, still spilling over with repressed emotion.

“Damn, I better call my mama to tell her I finally got my grades up!”

Giorno’s resounding cackle is probably enough to startle the guards outside the door.

-

Ghiaccio seems to become more of a regular fixture around Passione’s headquarters after that. Mista finds him from time to time in random corners and alcoves, usually on that blocky laptop of his, squinting through his thick glasses. Once he hears voices from a nearby meeting room and has to pull a double-take to confirm that, yes, Ghiaccio is in there talking with Polnareff.

(“Your new friend’s a feisty one,” Polnareff had said to Mista over breakfast the next day, where he had been hand-feeding the turtle bits of arugula.

“Who do you mean?” 

“Red glasses. Kind of petit.” Polnareff had indicated a height around his chin.

“Oh, god. Do I even want to know how that conversation went?”

“He’s smarter than I’d given him credit for,” Polnareff had told him. “Though he’s got some very strong opinions about French grammar and idioms.”

Mista can’t exactly blame him, considering his own particular number-related quirks.)

Through the building’s front windows in the early morning hours, Mista watches Ghiaccio pass as a blue-and-white blur on some unknown jogging route and return an hour later, panting with his hands on his knees, having sweated transparent patches through his shirt.

“Does he do this often?” Giorno asks one morning as they watch his receding form speed down the street.

“Yeah,” says Mista. “I guess we’re between his place and the park.”

Giorno frowns. “He must be getting cold. It’s winter weather out there.”

He’s waiting by the door with a warm cup of tea right on time for Ghiaccio to return in their direction. Mista stays inside, somehow flustered for reasons he can’t describe, and watches them converse through the glass. Ghiaccio’s figure bounces as he hops from foot to foot, fighting the chill that must be thoroughly settled into his bones by now.

“I asked him if he had a gym membership,” Giorno informs him when he retakes his seat across from Mista a few minutes later.

“And?”

“He says he’s been banned from all the local gyms.”

Mista tips his head back and guffaws heartily.

“So I told him I’d pull some strings to get him back into the one you go to,” says Giorno nonchalantly. 

He nearly chokes on his tea. “Wait, what ?”

“It’ll be good for you both.” Giorno’s grin is pure mischief.

“Giorno!”

But even that becomes a welcome routine- meeting Ghiaccio by the free weights, jogging next to him on the treadmills, distracting him from starting yet another fight with an employee over the state of the equipment.

“Come on, forget about it,” Mista urges him on those occasions, all but physically dragging him away from a brewing confrontation.

“We’re paying good money for this garbage,” Ghiaccio fumes. 

“Hey, just pop your headphones back on,” Mista advises. “What was that album you were telling me to listen to again?”

“I tell you to listen to a different album every week. Or have you not been keeping up with my suggestions?”

And just like that, he’s redirected. 

Sometimes the natural course of the day’s events takes them back to Mista’s place for the evening. Mista is mildly horrified to note that they have nearly identical taste in movies and sports teams. On one such occasion, Giorno arrives home midway through Highlander and ends up joining them to finish it, settling down between them on the couch with a curious look of satisfaction on his face. 

It keeps his days full, Mista begins to notice. It leaves less time for the old grief to creep in. Maybe that’s the idea.

Maybe it helps Ghiaccio, too.

Giorno, on the other hand, rarely runs into the issue of excessive free time, mired as he is in his infinite responsibilities. He’ll run himself ragged if Mista lets him. From time to time Mista spends evenings in his office with him, providing a second opinion as he processes reports from the far reaches of Passione’s networks and keeping him company if nothing else.

He’d really meant to stay awake tonight, like a good boyfriend, and offer an entertaining commentary on whatever news they’d received. But Giorno’s gone and installed a dangerously comfy couch in his office, and he keeps it so warm in here, and Mista had forgotten his espresso today in his rush to get out the door…

“Goodnight, Mista,” he hears Giorno murmur fondly as his eyelids begin to flutter shut.

Well. If Giorno needs him, he’ll surely wake him up.

It’s while he’s still hovering in the tenuous space between waking and sleeping that he hears a low conversation, as if through some distant filter.

“Is he asleep?”

“I think so,” comes Giorno’s familiar voice. “He usually stays here with me if I’m working late.”

“Must be nice,” muses the second voice. If Mista were more alert, he might note the barest hint of bitterness there. “Having your boyfriend around all the time.”

“It is,” says Giorno warmly. 

There’s a faint squeaking sound of weight settling onto leather furniture.

“I brought Melone’s report.”

“Thank you. I’ll pass that off to Polnareff when I see him tomorrow morning.”

A pause, then, nearly long enough for Mista to drift all the way off to sleep.

“Would you like a drink?” Giorno offers. “Mista looks like he’s out pretty soundly, so I figure we won’t bother him.”

“Sure,” says the voice. 

The clinking of glasses sounds out, followed by a liquid noise.

“I hear you two have become gym buddies,” says Giorno.

“Is that what he calls it? Jesus.”

He catches a muffled chuckle.

“Yeah, he tolerates me,” says the hoarser voice, and this one is familiar too, even to Mista’s half-conscious mind. This voice belongs to a friend. It’s safe to doze off around this voice.

“He likes you.”

Someone scoffs quietly. 

“Really,” Giorno insists.

The soft glow from the desk lamp radiates through Mista’s eyelids, but he’s far too comfortable to stir. 

“He lost his closest friends on the path that brought us here,” Giorno murmurs. “That’s something I can’t replace.”

“Well,” followed by an awkward throat-clearing noise. “He’s still got you.”

There’s a shifting noise, the creaking of leather.

“I wish I could have met your capo,” says Giorno at last.

“Yeah.” A long pause. “I wish he was here too.”

“I bet I could have learned a lot from him.” A quiet sigh barely reaches Mista’s ears. “Maybe you could teach me.”

“Not sure how much there is to teach.”

“What was he like?” Giorno’s voice is soft, encouraging.

“Kinda like you. Smart. Serious. Crazy strong.”

“And a good leader?”

“Well, yeah. Of course.”

Ice cubes clink in a crystal glass somewhere.

“We don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want to.”

“No, I- I want to.” 

The voices drift in and out, ephemeral as dust in the breeze.

“He had this thing for rescuing people like strays. Which isn’t really something you’d expect from a hitman, but… that was him.” 

“And he always watched out for us,” the voice continues. Giorno hums in assent. “We all got the same cut. Most capos put aside more for themselves, but never Risotto.”

“Sounds like a very fair leader.”

“Yup.”

“Honest. Like you.”

Another beat of silence.

“Like me?”

“Mm-hmm. You speak your mind.”

“I can’t not do that.”

“Really? Lying comes very naturally to me,” Giorno states smoothly. “It always has. But you and Mista will keep me honest, won’t you?”

If any further conversation occurs, Mista doesn’t process it as sleep finally slips over him like a silk sheet. The voices get twisted up into his unconscious visions, blending together seamlessly and inseparably.

Sleep brings flesh-toned dreams, warm and vivid. His lips are on someone’s throat, over a pulse point, skimming across a whorl of scar tissue.

When Giorno gently shakes him awake some time later, the remnants of his guilt are quick to pass along with his memory of the dream.

-

Tonight’s a lucky night.

Lucky in that Giorno works some kind of magic with his schedule that allows him to have the whole evening off, a rare gift these days. Lucky in that Mista gets to unleash his inner romantic and take him out to a fancy new place (even if it’s with money that technically comes from the payroll Giorno allots him) and buy him gelato as they walk the streets afterward, browsing the wares of the local night market. 

Giorno’s eyes sparkle with reflected light as he eyes a handmade paper lantern, then a set of colorful blown-glass insect figurines, and Mista feels almost like a regular boyfriend rather than a weird and complex mix of bodyguard/employee/right-hand man.

Afterwards they watch an episode of Mista’s favorite new soap opera in his recently-cleaned apartment as Giorno plucks pins from his curls, letting his hair down for the night. 

“Can I ask you something?” says Giorno just as the ending theme begins to play. Mista cuts short his rambling predictions for the upcoming episodes.

“Shoot.” He readjusts his arm around Giorno’s shoulders.

“Am I greedy?” Giorno says after a thoughtful moment’s silence.

“What?” The question catches him entirely off guard. “Of course not!”

“Really, Mista.” Giorno fixes him with a concerned look. “Be honest.”

“Giogio, where is this coming from?” His boyfriend’s flaws are so minor as to be largely forgettable: sure, he’s a bit of a hazard on the road, and he’s messy in the kitchen, and sometimes he takes so long to fidget around and get comfortable in their bed that it keeps Mista awake. 

And maybe he’s somewhat ruthless in his pursuit of the greater good.

But greed has never been among his vices. Mista tells him as much.

Giorno’s brow remains furrowed. He twirls a strand of his loose hair around his finger. 

“I guess I’ve been thinking about Diavolo’s mistakes,” he muses, “and how I can avoid them.” 

Ah. This much is understandable. 

“Diavolo was paranoid,” Giorno continues. “Paranoid and greedy. Those were his fatal flaws. He held power so covetously that nearly everyone under him had planned to usurp him at some point. The assassins, Polpo, even Cioccolata and Secco.”

Mista’s arm tightens around him. “You’re not greedy, Giogio.”

“But I have so much already, and even then I catch myself wanting more.” His eyes are wide and honest.

On the screen before them, a commercial for the next program flashes appealingly.

“What else is it that you want, then?”

It’s rare that he sees guilt arrayed across Giorno’s fine features. Mista feels him wriggle closer under the blanket.

“I changed my theory about Ghiaccio,” Giorno mumbles.

“Oh, really?” Maybe the conversation is shifting back into lighter territory. “What’s your new conclusion?”

“I think he may be attracted to both of us.”

Some confused gurgling sound makes its way out of Mista’s throat, but when he peers into Giorno’s face for any sign of humor, he finds none.

“...you sure?” he manages at last. 

Giorno nods. “I’m pretty sure.”

“Huh.” That’s- that’s something. Giorno’s almost never wrong about the motivations of others. It’s part of what makes him such a fearsome Don.

“How do you feel about that?” Giorno presses.

Mista attempts to hold back the onslaught of mental images involving the three of them that his subconscious helpfully provides.

“I guess we should be flattered?” he stammers. Suddenly he’s too warm under the blanket and the press of Giorno’s body.

Giorno’s giggle comes out slightly hysterical.

“I mean to ask if you think he’s attractive, Mista.”

“No wrong answers,” he adds when Mista tenses up.

“I- “ 

Even though he’s done his best to shut down this particular line of thought every time it crops up, there’s no denying that Ghiaccio is, well, cute-

(cute when he bounces around the gym to the beat of whatever’s in his headphones, cute even when he’s screeching in passionate support of his favorite soccer team on the TV, and maybe even more than cute when he does his stretches in those little red shorts of his, or when his mop of curls sticks to his forehead with sweat or blood or both -)

“Yeah,” Mista finishes meekly. “Yeah, he’s… good-looking.”

“And you enjoy his company?”

“Sure.” He chuckles nervously. “I guess you were right about the two of us getting along after all.” 

“But Giorno,” he’s quick to add, “you’re the one that I’m with. And I wouldn’t give you up for anything or anyone.”

“What if you didn’t have to give me up?” Giorno straightens up suddenly, and when Mista gathers the strength to look him in the eyes, there’s a fierce light behind them. “What if you could have both of us?”

There’s no way he can be offering what Mista thinks he’s offering. 

“What do you mean?” His voice comes out as a tentative squeak.

“Do you want to date both me and Ghiaccio?” He speaks slowly and clearly, as if explaining to an elementary schooler. Mista can’t even be offended, having only just begun to wrap his head around what Giorno’s proposing.

But he can’t accept this. He already has such a good thing, an unbelievably wonderful thing going on with Giorno. To dare to want any more than that would be-

Greedy.

“Oh,” Mista breathes, with sudden understanding. “This is what you meant.”

Giorno’s intent gaze scarcely wavers.

“So you want it too,” says Mista. 

“You get it now.”

The sound of the TV is white noise in the background. Mista feels slightly dizzy with the headrush of his realization.

“Please don't think for a second that you’re not enough for me,” Giorno blurts out, and now Mista can see the worry beginning to etch itself into his expression. “Because you are, you’re- amazing, I just thought that- “

“Giorno- “

“-if we both wanted the same thing- “

“Giorno, I do- “

“-you can say no, it’s perfectly alright- “

Mista finally swoops in to plant a kiss on Giorno’s lips and cut him off before he can really work himself up.

“Giorno, chill out,” he mutters against his mouth.

“Oh.” He feels more than sees Giorno’s shoulders sag as his frame slowly untenses. 

“Sorry,” says Giorno. 

Mista pulls back and pecks him again on the tip of his narrow nose.

“Don't apologize.”

“Right.”

They sit there together under the blanket as the silence grows comfortable. Finally, Giorno lets out a small giggle like a bubble popping under pressure.

“See? Was that so hard?” Mista prompts him.

“It could’ve gone really badly...” 

“Yeah, but it didn’t,” says Mista. “So we’ve both got the hots for Ghiaccio.”

Giorno laughs again. “Guess we do.”

“Don't know how we ended up here, but we did.”

“Do you…” Giorno pauses, “want to do something about it?”

“What, like ask him on a date?” The thought strikes terror into Mista- he hadn’t expected to undergo the mortifying trial of asking someone out anytime soon after he and Giorno became a thing.

Giorno nods. “I have a plan,” he says very seriously.

Mista feels himself starting to smile. “Of course you do. You’re Giorno Giovanna.”

He mutes the TV as Giorno climbs fully into his lap, and then they nearly get too distracted to continue the discussion, but Giorno whispers his idea into Mista’s ear in between kisses and slowly, gradually, Mista begins to feel like maybe this is something he can want, something he can be allowed to have.

And if that makes the both of them a little greedy, then he’s at peace with that.

-

The day doesn’t start off too differently than any other, apart from the swirling anticipation in Mista’s gut that only rises the closer he gets to Passione’s headquarters. He busies himself with the usual morning errands, hoping the routine might set his mind at ease.

(“It’s not fair,” he’d complained to Giorno the night they’d made their plan. “It’s like all the anxiety of asking you out all over again!”

Giorno had given him an indulgent smile. “Please. I wasn’t that scary to ask on a date.”

“Uh, yeah, Giogio, you absolutely were,” Mista had reminded him.)

Picking up tips from the usual mob sources takes up a few hours, as does the lunch run he makes on both his and Giorno’s behalf.

“He’s here,” Giorno whispers in Mista’s ear as he drops off his sandwich at his desk. Just outside the doorway, an elderly man that Mista recognizes as an advisor to one of the old capos wrings his hands, awaiting an audience with the young Don.

“Who, the old guy?”

“No, Ghiaccio,” Giorno says patiently.

“Oh. Did you ask him?”

“I’ve been in meetings all morning. Haven’t had a chance.”

Mista suppresses a dramatic groan. “So I’ve gotta do it.”

Below the desk, Giorno’s hand finds his and gives it a squeeze.

“I believe in you.” He smiles so brilliantly that, for a moment, all Mista’s fears are effaced.

He finds their mark leaning against one of the stone pillars in the entry hall, headphones on with his Walkman at his hip.  

“Hey,” Mista greets him. Ghiaccio’s head jerks up and, oh god, has it always been this stressful to look him in the eye?

“Hey yourself.” Ghiaccio tucks his headphones around his neck. “Melone’s talking to Polnareff in the basement. I think the Frenchie wants us to do some kind of project with the data we had on Passione’s sources of income under Diavolo. You know, the non-drug ones.”

Mista nods stiffly.

“Sounds cool. I bet that’ll be, uh, helpful.”

Ghiaccio studies him with no small amount of skepticism.

“You should grab dinner with me and Giorno after the workday,” Mista blurts out. “There’s a new pasta place we’ve been meaning to check out.”

Ghiaccio raises an eyebrow. A seeming eternity passes before he shrugs.

“Sounds good.”

Later, at the restaurant, his discomfort abates with Giorno at his side. If he lets himself relax, it doesn’t feel so different from all the times they’ve hung out before- Ghiaccio delights in retelling animated tales of his previous missions at this casino or that underground fighting ring, and Mista fills in details of the characters that populate his stories for Giorno, who wasn’t around long enough to recognize all the names of the old guard.

Best of all, he gets to hear Giorno laugh himself breathless for the first time in what feels like ages.

Maybe three could be a luckier number than two.

“I’ll take care of that,” says Giorno when the tab comes around. Ghiaccio splutters some kind of protest but, after some convincing, eventually puts his wallet away.

“You can pay next time if you want,” Mista tells him, and it feels like a really smooth way to say we want to do this again with you . Ghiaccio, however, just squints suspiciously at him.

“I guess I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” he says when they all stand from the table, and Mista shoots Giorno a look of mild alarm.

“Why don’t you come back to Mista’s place with us?” Giorno fills in helpfully. “We were just going to watch a movie.”

If Ghiaccio was guarded before, he’s on high alert now on the car ride home, his gaze darting questioningly between the two of them. It makes sense for him to be paranoid- Mista supposes that’s how a guy like him survives so long in his business- but for once he wishes Ghiaccio would just, heh , chill out.

Back at his place (he’d cleaned up the night before, clearing away takeout containers and magazines, just like he had the first time Giorno had come over) they pile onto Mista’s lumpy couch. With some subtle maneuvering, Ghiaccio ends up in the middle, though still with that look of cautious apprehension on his face.

They end up watching Terminator 2 which is, god, so far from an ideal first date movie that Mista can hardly bear it, but it’s Ghiaccio’s pick. Like Mista, he’s a talker during movies, and once they get started he seems to relax a bit, settling back onto the couch with the light from the television reflecting off the lenses of his glasses.

Mista tries not to be too obvious about the way he’s exchanging strategic glances with Giorno over Ghiaccio’s curly head. This is uncharted territory, after all.

He’s hyper-aware of the way Giorno angles his body, ever so gradually, towards the center of the couch. Of the way he lets his shoulder nudge up against Ghiaccio’s. 

Mista takes it as his cue to bring out the old, reliable move of stretching his arm across the back of the couch to slowly settle over Ghiaccio’s shoulders.

Unfortunately, because the guy can’t seem to make anything easy, Ghiaccio’s head whips around the second Mista touches him. Onscreen, Arnold Schwarzenegger grumbles some low threat.

“Your boyfriend is right there ,” Ghiaccio hisses, and he looks abruptly furious. Mista freezes in a panic.

“Yes, he is,” Giorno replies smoothly. With that, he scoots closer to lean fully against Ghiaccio, who swivels so fast to face him that his neck gives an audible crack .

“Huh?” He sounds so baffled that Mista honestly feels a little bad for him.

Giorno maintains his steady gaze. “Is this okay?”

“Is- what?” Ghiaccio’s hoarse voice cracks just barely. It’s stupidly endearing.

“Ghiaccio,” says Mista with some degree of exhaustion, “we’ve been trying to hit on you the whole night.”

“What, both of you?” Ghiaccio keeps trying to make eye contact with each of them at once, which results in a sort of frantic flickering of his gaze back and forth. His eyes are huge and dilated in the half-dark of the apartment.

“Uh-huh.”

“Why?” His voice is smaller than Mista has ever heard it. 

Mista lets out an exasperated chuckle. “We just fuckin’ like you, man. Does there need to be more to it than that?”

“Oh.” In the space between them, Mista hears him let out a long, shuddering breath. “I guess there doesn’t.”

They watch John Connor and the Terminator engage in a motorcycle chase, complete with intense, pounding music. 

Mista clears his throat awkwardly. 

“Are you, uh, alright with that?”

Ghiaccio rolls those big blue eyes as he turns to him, and for a second Mista prepares himself for a devastatingly sarcastic shutdown, but then he’s suddenly very close, and his breath is warm on Mista’s face-

And his lips are full and just as soft as they look.

“Jeez,” Ghiaccio drawls as he pulls away, but there’s a sharp smirk crossing his face. “Learn to take a hint, Mista.”

Mista gapes at the sheer audacity of him.

“ You learn to take a hint!” It’s not nearly as effective a comeback as he’d like, especially with the way he can feel himself flushing.

He belatedly notes the way Giorno’s avidly watching them, open-mouthed and awestruck. Then Ghiaccio turns into Giorno’s arms, letting himself be held and kissed so hard under the force of his want that he slides helplessly back against Mista on the couch.

On the TV screen, a motorcycle explodes. 

“Mmf,” says Ghiaccio weakly against Giorno’s lips, and Mista lets a soft chuckle leak out from somewhere deep in his chest.

Ghiaccio’s head tips back against Mista’s shoulder when Giorno releases him.

“Does that answer your question?” He sounds deliciously breathless.

“Yeah, I’ll take it,” says Mista. He meets Giorno’s triumphant smile with a matching grin of his own.

The movie goes abandoned. Mista’s lips brush over the knot of scar tissue on the back of Ghiaccio’s neck at the same time that Giorno’s find the matching point on the front of his throat. Between them, Ghiaccio makes a delicate, yearning sound as his spine arches. Mista can feel his grip tighten on his thigh.

Maybe after all this time together, a bit of Giorno’s luck has rubbed off on him. It sure feels that way, with Ghiaccio’s lean body in his lap and Giorno’s golden hair tumbling over him. 

And among the three of them, Mista’s pretty sure they’ve got more than enough love to share around.