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For a fairly aloof man that Giorno is, he becomes very affectionate once he starts feeling comfortable around someone.
It’s small things at first - draping his legs over Fugo’s lap when they’re sitting on the couch, kissing Trish on both cheeks as a greeting, not hesitating before grabbing Mista by the shoulder when he’s leading him somewhere - Giovanna is not averse to the touch, actively seeking it as often as possible.
Despite knowing it’s just a part of Giorno’s nature, it irks Mista sometimes; envy is a sin, one he’s guilty of succumbing to. His heart belongs to this man - and no one should be able to get up close and personal to him the way Guido does.
Giorno’s relationship with Trish troubles him in particular. Men of Giorno’s kind surround themselves with beautiful women at all times, so it’s only natural that he has one by his side, too - to keep up appearances - yet no matter how many times Guido tries to rationalize it in his mind, it still hurts to see Trish lean on his lover’s shoulder, sit right beside him by the table at business dinners or dance in his tight embrace during the banquets. He knows the two of them don’t have feelings for each other - they’ve been close friends for years and they’re cordial, but that’s about it - nevertheless, seeing a pink smudge of lipstick on Giorno’s neck when he returns home awakens something feral in him.
They’re all playing a role in the spectacle of life. Giorno is the leader, Trish - his female companion, Fugo - the grey eminence, pulling the strings from behind the curtain; Mista - the right-hand man, one step behind, yet always present should Giorno need him.
More importantly than that, he’s the lover that Giorno keeps covert, saves exclusively for his own pleasure; the secret that adds spice to his already dangerous life, hidden in plain sight, perpetually by Don Giovanna’s side.
What’s between them stays between them and the God Almighty; the outside world might never find out, and that’s fine - as long as he gets those tender moments with Giorno in the confines of their bedroom, Guido doesn’t have the reason to complain.
Mista’s ears perk up upon hearing a noise downstairs; Trish’s contagious laughter rings through the house’s walls, followed by Giorno’s shushing. “Don’t wake Guido up.”
As if he could fall asleep on his own; he always waits for Giorno, no matter how late he’s back. He turns to the other side on the mattress, silently praying the two of them won’t decide to have a gossiping session in the kitchen, like they sometimes do, and that Trish will leave soon, so he can have Giorno for himself at last; he’s been dying to hold him in his arms the entire night while he was gone.
The sound of clinking glasses buries his hopes very soon, spelling a long chat at best, and a wine drinking contest at worst. Sighing, Guido pulls himself out of the bed and he makes his way downstairs.
Trish, in her long, red, gauzy gown, is sitting on the countertop, a wine glass in her hand; Giorno is settled between her legs. To an outsider, they’d look like a couple bantering flirtatiously, and though Guido is aware that Giorno’s not attracted to women, seeing them like this sends him into a spiral.
“Have you ever heard of the quiet hours?” He asks sarcastically. “A great concept, in my humble opinion.”
Trish snorts. “You’re boring. And could you at least put some clothes on, instead of flashing everyone like this?” She points at Mista’s bare chest; he didn’t bother dressing up and came downstairs in the same clothes he’d worn to bed - workout shorts and no top.
“I’m in my own house, for God’s sake,” he reminds her, taking the glass out of her hand to take a sip. Red wine’s not his favourite, he’s more fond of rosé, but it’ll have to do for now. “And bold of you to call me indecent, while you’re spreading your legs like this.”
He might be pushing it - not that he cares, as he’s really tired and just wants to go to sleep, but he can’t do it without Giorno, who seems to be enjoying whatever he’s doing right now.
“Somebody’s jealous.” Not a question; he states it as a fact.
“What if I am?”
The tension between them is almost palpable as their eyes meet; Guido doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the way Giorno looks at him, like he’s the most beautiful and precious thing in the entire world. It’s painful, being aware he’s loved this much, unconditionally - it’s not deserved. He should be grateful for Giorno’s devotion to him, instead of nitpicking unimportant details at every opportunity.
“Don’t worry, I’m not planning on snatching your man,” Trish assures, half-heartedly pushing Giorno away from her. She knows about them - it’d be hard to hide it, given Mista lives with Giorno - and she’s made it clear that she’s not trying to insert herself in the middle of their affair. He doesn’t feel threatened by her - he knows Giorno has his eyes set on him only.
“Go to bed, Guido.” Giorno tells him; his voice is soft, but it still comes across as an order. “I’ll join you in a minute.”
Satisfied, Mista downs the wine in one gulp; Trish nudges him on the arm. “Asshole,” she pokes her tongue at him, but Guido is halfway up the staircase already.
The water is scalding hot, but not as burning as Giorno’s lips when he presses an open-mouthed kiss to the back of Guido’s neck; the gunslinger leans against the shower wall to stop his legs from shaking, but to no avail - his lover has him overwhelmed and gasping for air.
“Fuckin’ hell, just- touch me already,” he huffs as Giorno’s hand slides down his hipbone and squeeze at his butt, kneading the firm muscle.
“Patience,” Giorno scolds him, and Mista wants to scream - he’s been waiting for him for hours, he’s not in a mood for teasing at this point.
“I’ve been patient,” he argues, fighting the urge to just cave in and beg for it - he doesn’t want to let Giorno win so easily. “I could’ve gotten off while you were busy flaunting yourself around Trish. But I waited for you.”
A hard spank to his right asscheek comes unexpectedly, and Mista bites his lip to stop himself from groaning. “Next time I should bring her to watch you turn into a moaning mess as soon as the bedroom door is closed.” The prospect of this happening shouldn’t make Guido as hard as it does; he’s convinced that if Giorno doesn’t get down to the business soon, he might bust completely untouched.
Thankfully, the Don shows him mercy at last. Next thing Mista knows, Giorno’s hand is wrapped around his aching penis, and he almost cries out with relief. “Gio- yeah, keep going.”
Heaving chest pressed against the wall, he pushes his hips to the back, to chase the movements of Giorno’s hand; he hopes Trish has left the house, because he’s past the point of caring if he makes noise now. Pathetic whimpers leave his lips with every stroke, as Giorno bites his neck, hard, marking him, declaring who he belongs to - and the gunman doesn’t know whether it’s the wine, the hot water, or pure desire that makes the muscles in his thighs quiver.
“All through the evening,” Giorno says somewhere above his ear, “I’ve been daydreaming about this stupidly hot body of yours.” It’s always flattering to hear him rave about his attractiveness; Mista never felt adored and appreciated, until he met Giorno, who loves to remind him how handsome he finds him. “And still, whatever I imagined, it pales in comparison to the real thing. I should start charging everyone who wants to talk business with me for wasting my time I could spend fucking you instead.”
Hearing Giorno tease him like this, Guido is getting close at a rate he’d otherwise find embarrassing, but it’s a testament to how weak he is for the man - all it takes for him to take Mista apart is to touch him the way he likes best and whisper a couple of words into his ear, and it’s over. Two or three more strokes and he’ll be spilling all over himself-
Just as he thinks that, Giorno takes his hands off him, and Mista collapses against the wall.
“Bastard,” he grits, struggling to keep upright, “I was this close. Get back to it.”
“I don’t think you’re in a position to order me around, boy.” Giorno doesn’t look like he could talk like this, especially not to someone of Mista’s posture, but it never fails to do the work - the bodyguard momentarily shuts up, not willing to risk pushing Giovanna’s buttons even further. “I’m not done with you yet. Get on the bed. Now.”
He slaps his ass again for good measure, and Mista doesn’t know if he trusts his legs to do as he’s told.
Not even five minutes later, Giorno is riding him, reverse-cowgirl style; watching the muscles on his back flex with effort is Guido's favourite private show. Digging his fingers into the tender flesh, Mista drags his lover closer, closer, his heart pounding frantically against his ribcage.
“Guido,” Giorno utters, chest heaving, head thrown to the back; he’s not usually very vocal while they're having sex, and it’s a shame, because nothing turns Mista on more than the way his name sounds on his partner’s lips. “I should’ve come home earlier.”
“That’s right,” the gunslinger reaches to grab hold of Giorno’s hair and yank it, non-too-gently; he’s rewarded with a moan of pain, or pleasure, or perhaps both. “Good thing you have me booked for the rest of the night.”
“I have you booked for the rest of my life, silly.”
My fucking God. Mista flips them over so he’s on top of Giorno now. “Can you… say it again?”
Giorno just chuckles, and then kisses him, hungrily, like he can’t get enough; and Guido offers his heart on a silver platter for him to enjoy.
Sleeping with Giorno never fails to put Mista at ease. Ever since they started sharing a bed, Guido grew dependent on the presence of the other man next to him while he’s falling asleep, and now it’s impossibly difficult to do it on his own.
Giorno nuzzles up to Mista as he’s searching for a comfortable position in his embrace like a needy cat begging for its owner’s attention. “Does it really bother you this much? That I’m so intimate with Trish sometimes?"
They’ve talked about it before; there’s not a single doubt in Guido’s mind that he secured himself a number one spot in Giorno’s heart. It's just hard to get over the jealously that stings every time he sees Giovanna in somebody else's arms. “I hate feeling like I share you with somebody else.”
Having tucked a pillow underneath their heads, Giorno finally settles on the mattress. “You know it doesn’t mean much to me. Being close with other people. And Trish doesn’t see it that way, either.”
“Still, I’d rather have you all for myself.”
“Oh, you do have me for yourself.” Giorno props himself on an elbow. “And let me tell you something - these,” he plants a soft kiss on Guido’s forehead, like he does every night before they go to sleep, “these are reserved for you. Trish could only dream of getting one.”
God, he loves this man - with his cold hands and warm heart - and he won’t enthrall him; he doesn’t need to.
Giorno belongs with him, not to him - and Guido wants to keep it this way.