#mistagio

[catakeleo]

NGL I just wanted to have fun

[zeiteldraws]

Sat up all night doing this.

[insanemarshmallow]

March NSFWs Poll

I put a poll on patreon on which I should draw for this month’s illustration o wo 

The ships included are: 

Bakudeku

Kirideku

Kirimina

InaTodo

Dabideku

JotaKa

MistaGio

AkiRyo

All characters will be aged up! O wO/

https://www.patreon.com/posts/25354972

Vote here!

[peachijuiceart]

$20 chibi commission for @versiigh ! His two boys!

[dondake]

[mistagio] roman holiday

rating: t summary: Mista doesn’t target tourists, but he’ll make exceptions. AO3 Link

It wasn’t that Guido Mista was homeless, except - ever since he was evicted for not paying three months worth of rent (“I’ll have it next week...or the week after that, promise on my grandmother’s grave.”), he had been flitting from couch to couch to keep a roof over his head. And it wasn’t that he was penniless and couldn’t afford even a bare bones efficiency, as his stars shone over him and let him move from part time job to part time job as he pleased, but it was a hassle to negotiate lease terms and bicker with new landlords. After Bruno politely kicked him out after two weeks and Fugo forbade him from taking advantage of Narancia’s generosity for more than two whole months, Mista had taken to honing his charisma to charm his way into the beds of those who would take him. But now the girl he had been staying with, a trusting assistant baker, had hesitantly asked him when he thought the plumbing at his place would eventually be fixed and he knew his days on her borrowed patience was coming to an end.

Taking some money from her counter, he told her he would go check on his apartment and come back with pastries and espresso and trotted down the alleyway behind the building with no intention of returning. The sun was beginning to peek through the tops of the trees sparsely littering the street; the weather was going to be nice for the next few days, which was fortunate if he struck out and had to resort to sleeping in the park for the night. Of course, that was not preferable, so he did go to the closest shop and buy buttery cornetti and three cups of hot coffee.

Narancia was outside his store when Mista came up, keeping his gait casual. While Narancia was not one to notice the mood, he did not need the boy tipping Fugo off about his intentions before he had properly launched into his petition. “Oh, it’s you, Mista.” Setting up his sign, promising accurate models and other handcrafted figures if one would just step inside, Narancia straightened up and grinned. “I was wondering if you’d gone ahead and got married! That’s got to be the longest time you’ve overstayed your welcome like that!”

“Good morning to you too,” Mista said, choosing to ignore the backhanded commentary. “Have you eaten yet? I thought about you when I was getting breakfast; there’s some for the sour thistle too, before he chases me out for not being an accommodating guest.”

“Well, I’m not going to say no to food! Come on in.”

What he needed, Mista thought, was a reliable source of income. Narancia had been every bit of a blue collar, bullet-nosed kid raised on the streets like he was, but now he was the proprietor of a humble little toy shop on one of the main streets of Naples. While it was no fancy boutique, the wooden shelves were neatly painted, polished, and sturdy, holding the metal miniatures of airplanes and trains that were imported from Spain. The shades were drawn closest to the stuffed animals on the west wall, and the middle of the floor plan held the delicate tables where the carved wooden pieces Narancia whittled and tinkered with were displayed. Narancia was good with his hands, good with a blade, but he would have been any ordinary craftsman were it not for the scowling man who glowered at Mista as he approached the back counter.

“What do you want, Mista,” Fugo said. Heir to a wealthy import company, he had since wrested his share of the family fortune to co-own Arrowsmith with Narancia as the shop’s bookkeeper and sales liaison. “No, you cannot stay the night with Narancia. Have you cycled through your little black book of friends already?”

“Oh, what’s it to you,” Mista scoffed, putting the coffees down on the counter and pulling his hands away in time to avoid Narancia’s grabbing for his share. “You’re not Narancia’s roommate and you aren’t sleeping with him, so I’m not displacing you or anything.” Only Narancia was oblivious enough to think Fugo had no ulterior motives for providing the capital for his shop and staying behind after closing to teach him how to accurately calculate his profits for the day. The comment made Fugo’s mouth twist, a mortified shade of pink coloring his ears.

“You got kicked out? Do you need a place to stay?” Narancia said, between bites of pastry.

“Maybe. I’ll get back to you. You’ll lend me your couch for a night or two, won’t you? Can’t you help your pal, who’s down on his luck?”

Narancia opened his mouth to say yes, but Fugo spoke up first and louder. “Just find your own place already, Mista. Aren’t you tired of moving from place to place? I can’t imagine what this is doing to your sleep cycle. You do know that people’s brains don’t fully settle when they’re in new surroundings for the first time, right? You’re not feeling well rested because your body is in a state of alert since you keep changing bedrooms.”

“You could have cured cancer if you weren’t playing with toys,” Mista said, waving a hand to dismiss him. “How about it, Narancia? Only if I can’t find someone to room with. You know I stay out; you won’t even know I’m there.”

Narancia opened his mouth again, before closing it and glancing at Fugo. For a horrified moment, Mista thought he had lost his closest ally to the clumsy advances of someone younger than both of them, who insisted that his clothes weren’t raggedy, they were worn and lived in. But Narancia shifted the weight in his feet anxiously and said, “Well...maybe, okay. Only for a few days. Fugo got us a contract with the tourism board so I’ve got to make some miniatures of the Duomo di Napoli that they’ll sell in their offices. You know a ton of people go through them, so it could really put...put Arrowsmith on the map.” This was Fugo’s script, for sure. “But...and don’t take this the wrong way, but when you’re around, I won’t get them all done in time. I mean, I like hanging out with you, but you really go all out sometimes and that’s fun, but…”

“I get it, I get it.” Mista shrugged. Perhaps he had taken the wrong gamble and should have visited Bruno first with the breakfast money; now he would need to needle the bureaucrat empty-handed. “That’s great, though. Can you imagine the things you make sitting in the houses of someone from across the ocean?”

“Yeah! And I won’t need to make Fugo translate for me to sell them.” Fugo, with his knowledge of several major languages, was invaluable for a little local shop that attracted tourists with artisanal tastes; Narancia was a favorite with the kids in the neighborhood, but he let Fugo do the talking for the rest of their clientele.

Mista raised his brows. “Then you’d better look for another job, since Narancia won’t need you anymore soon.”

Fugo was finished with his espresso or else he would have probably thrown it in Mista’s face. “Just get out, you freeloader.”

Bruno would most likely be busy at this point in the morning and would not be particularly generous while he was at his office; Trish was probably sleeping and her wrath at being deprived of her beauty sleep would make Bruno even less inclined to do him any favors. The shipping company he was with would not be receiving any deliveries until later in the week, so he was waiting on his heels for his next paycheck. His best bet was to linger in the marketplace and do any odd jobs and run errands for pittance to get a bed in one of the back alley hostels. If he was lucky, he’d find his next victim - he was good at scoping out someone who was good natured and trusting of his sob stories, even if they weren’t always convincing.

The marketplace was becoming busy, with older women making the rounds to snatch the freshest produce before the latecomers arrived. Hanging back, Mista took stock of the girls running the stands; he had fooled around with Maria’s sister, so she would be wary around him; Felicia was friends with two girls whom he had parted with on bad terms, so she was also a no go. He doubted Anna would want to pick up her brother’s sloppy seconds, and he was not eager to reintroduce himself into Antonio’s household anyway. There were a few fresh faces that Mista did not recognize; they were most likely tourists by the way they were looking around with careless awe. Their pockets would be picked before the sun set. Mista did not usually try to pick up tourists; they became too cautious when he suggested they return to their hotel and he had to admit he did not really look the part of a good, upstanding Italian citizen.

While most of the tourists were traveling in tight packs, there was one person wandering by himself. Holding a piece of paper, the blonde stranger walked down each aisle with careful precision, examining each table’s wares. He was dressed too well to be an American and his features were decidedly European, though Mista would not be surprised if he was biracial with his less severe cheekbones and a lighter skin tone than the Italians in the region. In fact, Mista had been about to write the man off as a native until the man came closer and Mista saw through the paper what looked to be an address and a crudely drawn map. Naples was big, but not big enough to confuse someone who had lived in the area for years. “Hey,” he called, leaning back against the fountain to expose his neck and appear open and unthreatening. The man turned to him, startled but not jumpy; this was a tourist who had been to Italy before or had a good enough head on his shoulders not to be fooled by more basic swindlers. “Are you looking for something? Do you need any help?”

The man stared at him for a long, silent moment. “I’m looking for a particular dried goods store. I was told that they sometimes sell here, but I can’t seem to find them. I’ve just recently arrived, so I’m still figuring out my directions.”

“Oh? Let me see; I can probably point you in the right direction.” Speed Wagon was an old establishment, well known despite not being on a very public street. “It’s pretty close, maybe a ten minute walk. Just go up until you get to the seamstress, then bear left and go diagonally across the square and pass the newspaper stand and the butcher. But not the butcher with the hog’s head plaque; you need to go further to the one with the wreath of grain. It should be down the cobblestone side street.” He was being purposefully vague with his directions, practiced in casually using his hands to talk. He would not offer to take him there; it had to be a request, so he knew he was not wasting his time with someone as vigilant as Bruno.

The man took back the paper with the address and terrible map and stared at it for another long moment. “I suppose you won’t help me out any more without a price. I’m a sitting duck, with how I’ve told you that I’m new to the area. But I’m Italian, just like you are; I can navigate my motherland even with that convoluted explanation.” He began to walk away, only pausing when Mista began to laugh.

“Alright, alright. I’ll help you out. For free, and you can hold that on my good name.” The stubborn ones were fun; the prideful ones made his conquest even better. This tourist could appeal to his nationalistic side all he wanted, but he was still new to Italy and Mista had no loyalty to someone who had chosen to call somewhere else home.

“Then you should share your good name,” the man prompted. Mista laughed again; everyone here knew of him, and he had done most everyone a favor once or twice. His enemies would be the enemies of any tourist, prepared or not, so he had no fear of revealing himself.

“Guido Mista. Call me Mista; that’s what everyone else does.” The man did not volunteer his name, but Mista looked at the piece of the paper with the address that had an elaborate letterhead. “I’m going to assume that GG are your initials; care to return the favor?” A nice letterhead - and the man was wearing nice leather shoes and a nice pressed shirt. Tourists with money were hard to crack, but the payoff was always worth it.

“Giorno. Giorno Giovanna.”

“Alright. Matches your hair.” The sun was just as bright a gold as Giorno’s head, a neat plait as perfect as a meticulously shaped challah. It was appropriate, Mista thought; he appreciated a good looking man when he saw one. It was natural that those who were blessed with classically beautiful features attracted people to themselves. Bruno was polished and put together and Trish had good proportions; she might have had inherited roots in government with a politician father, but Mista always thought they would have had their names in the papers by look alone. To contrast, Abbacchio was a peace officer who operated alone because he was just too gloomy.

“So how long have you been in Naples?” Tourist marks got nervous if you were too quiet. And frankly, Giorno’s guardedness and understated privilege suggested that Mista might get the jump on if he wasn’t careful himself.

“Only a few days. My...father has a few affairs he wants me to take care of at his house.”

“Your family house is in the area? How can you say you’re new? Where are you coming from?”

If Giorno was put off by his questioning, he did not show it. “I’ve spent some time in Florence and Rome, but I’ve returned from Japan after visiting my mother. It is unfortunately time I cannot get back.”

“Tell me about it! My mother will never get off my case when I go home; she’s always asking what I’ve done with my life. Nothing, apparently, since I’m still alive, huh?”

That made Giorno chuckle, though level and restrained. Still, the sound had a funny way of sticking in Mista’s ear. A passing thought wondered what Giorno’s genuine laugh would sound like. He felt Giorno’s eyes case over his head at the hog’s head sign over the first butcher and then at the grain wreath over the second butcher’s door. What a little fool - only a novice thief would lie about everything from the start. They arrived at Speed Wagon, tucked away in a back street with only a flickering light illuminating the spoked wheel crest. “Thank you,” Giorno said. “For helping me find this place.”

“No problem. Actually, now that I’m here, I guess I’ll grab some jerky for a snack. May as well, since I’m never over here.” Again, Giorno’s apprehension of Mista sticking around didn’t show on his face, and he held the door open for Mista. Wandering into a back corner, he kept his ears alert as Giorno approached the counter.

“Pick-up? Under what name?”

Giorno paused. “Dio,” he murmured. Mista heard the crumple of the paper in his hands and looked between the shelves at Giorno pushing it into his pocket.

“Ah...our least favorite regular. Will he be visiting the house soon?”

“I guess so. His business is none of mine.”

There seemed to be some unspoken understanding between Giorno and the shopkeep. Mista had never heard of the Giovanna name, nor of a Dio, but he was not one to rub shoulders with the elite. He’d keep the names in mind to ask Bruno, who had his hand to the pulse of the city. “I only ask because...his order was three cases of red wine. Now, I’m not doubting your strength but this is a tall order for a single person and I know your father is...particular of who fetches his things and enters his house.”

“Wine? I thought this was a dried goods shop.”

“We are. But you must understand we also have connections and will carry what we’re asked of.” The man brought out each case of bottles and set them on the counter with a significant weight behind the sound of them settling on the wood. “You could carry them individually but I suspect it will take time for each…”

“I’ll help,” Mista volunteered, stepping out from where he had been watching. Giorno did not seem surprised at his suggestion. Mista thought that Giorno had been aware of his whereabouts the entire time they had been in Speed Wagon. “I’m currently working out at the docks; two cases should be no problem.”

The shopkeeper turned to Giorno. “A family friend?”

“That would be generous.” Giorno studied the wine. “I suppose I have no choice but to rely on you again, Mista.”

Upon leaving Speed Wagon, Giorno did not return to the main road, where most of the cars were parked. Hitching the crates of wine under his arm, Mista hoped whatever penthouse suite Giorno was returning to was far enough away that he could really flex and show off his muscle definition to sweeten the deal. But Giorno merely continued walking, a crate of wine in his hands, and walked right out of the center of the city. Mista was no slouch, he worked out in his spare time, but he did not usually carry heavy items for significant distances. Just as he contemplated asking Giorno for a break, they emerged from the road to a grand villa on the outskirts of Naples, right where the buildings began to move further and further from each other. “Welcome to my father’s house,” Giorno said, gazing up at the gate in front of them. He turned back to Mista, quietly and expectedly.

“You aren’t going to invite me in, give me a drink or nothing?”

Giorno sighed, but he allowed Mista to follow him into the main house. Mista had gone to a nice house like this once, when he was temping for a catering firm, but the constant flow of guests had kept him from really taking in the extravagance. The pillars bordering the little courtyard inside, where a red clay fountain bubbled in the center surrounded by lush shrubbery, had to be made from stone straight from the source, smoothed by hand. The floor was marble tile, with barely a scratch. Giorno’s shoes were real leather, but Mista’s sandals were almost dirt cheap and boldly striding across enough stone worth a month’s paycheck. They bypassed the kitchen and Giorno led him to a small, cool wine cellar at the foot of a flight of wooden stairs. The three crates of wine seemed insignificant against the already impressive collection displayed around them. Giorno set his crate on the ground and Mista stacked his on top, casually rubbing his biceps with as little expression as he could muster. He would be sore tomorrow, for sure.

“Thank you again,” Giorno said.

“Sure thing.” Mista stared up at the dirt ceiling, his voice sinking into the soil and brick around them. “Do you wanna fuck?”

“Here?”

“Uh, no, unless you want to. I’m sure there’s got to be a bed or something in this huge house.”

Giorno blinked his beautiful blue eyes at him. The adrenaline was really coursing through his blood if he was being this reckless, calling Giorno beautiful despite knowing the man for less than half a day. Mista knew his way around many a beautiful Italian, but there was something different in the way Giorno carried himself - ethereal, yet the gold around the edges could be pure and soft or gold plated pewter. Mista wouldn’t know, but he did want to take the risk and sink his teeth in. “I thought you said you wanted to come in for a drink,” Giorno said, finally. He cradled his arms in front of his chest, defensively, but it wasn’t a no.

“We can get a drink and then we can fuck. What, do you have an order you like to do these things in?”

Giorno poured two tall glasses of water, as they had been lifting wine in the sun, but they were left mostly full on the table next to the window. Mista doubted the bedroom Giorno brought them to was his own, personal one, but with the different rooms they had passed, Giorno could sleep in a different bed for each night of the week and it wouldn’t matter. Tourists scrambled to explore Naples on a budget, but lucky boys like Giorno only had to to book a flight and fall right into his father’s house for a quick holiday. It made Mista feel less guilty fucking Giorno right into what felt like expensive sheets, paid for by a faceless older man. Giorno’s skin was hot in his hands, a flash of fire, like the setting sun. He hadn’t timed it right, Mista though, wiping his brow with his wrist, buried halfway into the boy beneath him. If had bided his time and waited until the sun was completely below the horizon, he could spin a tale that it was just worth it to stay the night.

“You’re distracted,” Giorno said, reaching back and pulling Mista close by the hip. “Finish what you started.”  

Afterwards, they returned to the city for dinner. Giorno was leaning against the wall, the buttons on his shirt done low so Mista could see dark red hickeys where neck met shoulder, staring out the window of the pizzeria when Bruno walked up to the table.

“I heard from Fugo that you would be looking for me, but it looks like you won’t be needing my help.” Bruno was not one to judge openly, but Mista knew he had seen them from a distance and had studied Mista, hunched forward in his chair over his plate, and Giorno, practically sprawled along the booth. “Who is your acquaintance?”

“Bucciarati, this is Giorno. Giorno, here’s the man who practically runs all of Naples. Effectively.”

“A pleasure,” Giorno said, taking the hand Bruno extended to him. “Bruno Bucciarati. I’ve heard of you. If you’re here, then you must also be with--”

“We should order pick-up next time,” Trish said, sliding up to Bruno’s side and wrapping an arm around his arm. “Ugh. They’ve got a new girl taking orders and she’s seen me perform before. I could not get in a word edgewise. She’ll get her mother, or her father, so be careful and don’t engage. We’ll be here until midnight if we let her chatty family catch us.” Trish let her complaint trial off, recognizing Mista, who had returned to eating. “Oh, hello Mista. Haven’t seen you in a while. Who’s your catch now?”

“Trish,” Mista said, giving her a look. Bruno clasped a hand over hers on his arm and squeezed - subtly, but Mista saw Giorno follow the movement with his eyes. “Giorno. Giorno, Trish.” He hated introducing the people he was sleeping with to the gang. Without labels, it became awkward and troublesome to describe. Not that there was a label for someone he had only slept with once, but he was regretting not going somewhere with a lower likelihood of running into someone he would know.

“A little...no, a lot out of your strike zone, Mista. Oh, I’m kidding!” Trish threw her hands up. “Can’t a girl make a joke! It’s nice to meet you, Giorno. Don’t mind me, but I hope you’re keeping Mista in check. He’s really not for everyone.”

“He’s not,” Giorno agreed.

“I haven’t seen you around,” Bruno said. “Are you new to Naples?”

“My flight landed two days ago. I’m just getting over the jetlag.”

“I see. I welcome you to the city. As Mista so generally put it, I do work in administration so it’s my duty to make sure your time here is enjoyable.”

“There’s so much more to see than Mista’s random assortment of haunts,” Trish said, laughing when Mista began waving her off. “I’m not performing until Thursday, so hopefully you’ll be free then and can come watch. Bruno always reserves a table, and I’m sure he’d love the company.”

“You’ll love his company until Trish is done performing, then you’re a third wheel,” Mista groused. “Hey, Bucciarati. I actually think I will come over. When will you be home?”

Giorno turned to him. “How long are you planning to be out? I’m a little tired as it is, so I don’t know if I can stay out too late.”

Closing his mouth before it was obvious he had let his jaw drop, Mista put down his piece of pizza. “You...want me to come back to your place with you?”

Trish leaned into Bruno’s shoulder. “I think we should leave them now,” she whispered, loud enough for Mista to overhear. Bruno offered a polite farewell before excusing the both of them. They sat a fair distance away, and for Trish’s credit, did not look back or watch them.

“I just,” said Mista, “didn’t think you’d...I mean - I had a good time, but you’ve only got so much time before you’ve got to go-” He was shooting himself in the foot; he wanted a place to sleep, and now he was talking too much. There had been others who had been enamored early, whom Mista had taken full advantage of, but it was the unlikely combination of Giorno’s means and options he was bound to have - and Trish was right, boys like Mista could be found on any block in any neighborhood.

“Go? Where am I going?”

“You’re on holiday, aren’t you? Staying at your father’s house?”

Giorno studied him. “I’m not on holiday. I’ve just moved here. My father’s gifted me his house, so yes, I’ve got some of his affairs to take care of, but I own that property. It’s big to be alone in, and while I must admit you wouldn’t have been my first choice…” He folded his hands, and Mista felt rooted in place, caught in Giorno’s snare. “Unless, you mean to say that you only slept with me because you were expecting never to see me again.” He wore a frown, but there was no real heat in it. Giorno could find someone else and forget him with a blink of an eye.

Mista felt able to breathe again, exhaling with a shaky laugh. “It would have been easier,” he admitted. He followed Giorno back to the villa, back to the same room, and they fucked again, lazily because Giorno was tired. What a brilliant stroke of luck, Mista thought. He had a roof over his head for the night. But more than that - he was known to be a bit laser focused when catching someone in his sniper scope, unrelenting until he’d gotten what he wanted. It had been a while since he’d been caught in the crosshairs of someone else’s aim, and the gaze Giorno had on him wasn’t besotted but one of conquest. Giorno had full intention of making him kneel, pledging his loyalties to a golden haired golden boy - and while Mista had no intention of bending to another’s will, the thought of submitting to Giorno made him shiver.

“I hope you won’t mind,” Giorno yawned, swadling himself with pillows as Mista laid next to him, staring at a curious star-shaped birthmark on his nape, “but I’ve offered board to one of my closest advisors while I’m here. Polnareff knows to be discreet, but I’d rather keep my private life private.”

“Is that all you think of me as?” Mista asked, grinning cheekily. “An on-call booty call, kept man that you can summon at any time, left to wander on my own when you don’t want me?”

Giorno ran his fingers through his hair, curly from the braid. “Is that such a bad life?” He rolled over, coming up so close that he pushed Mista onto his back and splayed his fingers out on his chest. “Tell you what - I know this estate’s been the place of many attempted break-ins while my father wasn’t around. You can be the hired muscle to keep my enemies away from me. In exchange, I won’t expect you to be at peak performance whenever I want you.” Giorno leaned in, and Mista remembered they hadn’t kissed - and in spite of himself, his breath caught in his throat. It was the kiss of death, and he was signing away his life to be in Giorno’s services. It wasn’t exactly what he had in mind for a carefree life, but as he kissed back, he thought it was excusable for now.

[dondake]

[giomis] guests, like fish

rating: t summary: ...smell after three days. Dio comes home for a visit. [Roman Holiday AU]

AO3 Link - recommended that you read Roman Holiday first

[dondake]

[mistagio] naples or bust

rating: k summary: It’s a bust, not a statue. AO3 Link

[=]

After Giorno makes short work of some persistent, low ranking rival associates making trouble on the seaside edges of their territory, the captain of the harbor area he had cleaned up for sends his thanks in the form of an exquisite marble bust. Bruno finds nothing nefarious hiding in the stone, so after Sticky Fingers finishes its inspection, the bust is displayed proudly on Giorno’s desk. Narancia chatters away, marveling at how identical it is in capturing Giorno’s high cheek bones and perfect coifs and the curve of his nose. Fugo drags him away from the work of art after Narancia starts running his hands all over marble Giorno’s face, complaining that the underboss of Passione does not deserve to have his likeliness defaced by the unsightly fingerprints of a moron who licks his digits clean after eating snacks. Abbacchio, though he resents doing Giorno any favors, removes the two before they begin a full-fledged fight in his office. 

Mista runs his thumb across a white stone eye. “This is a really high quality statue, huh?”

“It’s a bust.” When Mista looks at him, Giorno smiles crookedly. “A bust is of someone’s face, usually down to their shoulders. Sometimes it includes their chest, but I guess that would have been more money than was worth my time. But if I didn’t step in, they’d just let that sore fester until we had to send someone out to really take care of it.” He bends over the papers on his desk to apply his curved, sloping signature. It gives Mista a perfect angle down his open collar that exposes a white expanse of collarbone. The sight makes him swallow. 

Mista spends most of his time on patrol or on missions where he’s directing Sex Pistols in painting the ground with blood, so he doesn’t know much about art. He might not be able to tell artists apart like Abbacchio or Fugo, but he can appreciate something beautiful; he’s a man with a discerning eye. When he goes to Giorno’s office again to deliver his report, Giorno is not there. The bust looks back at him instead, still as polished and smooth as the day it was delivered. Picking it up by the base, Mista turns it in over in his hands. It’s heavy, but not overbearing; the bottom has been meticulously leveled to perch on any surface. The bumps and grooves show every strand of golden hair on Giorno’s head. The braid is artfully done and effortlessly casual, the sculptor capturing Giorno at four in the afternoon when the edges are starting to loosen and fatigue makes the edges of Giorno’s eyes crinkle when he wears a rare, full-bodied smile. His thumb traces the stone chin and stone lips, half parted with the declaration of a promise right behind them. Mista brings the bust up to his face and imagines a soft, warm mouth in its place. 

“Mista,” Giorno says, softly. He’s learned well, entering his office with the gait of a seasoned assassin. Mista has his back to the door, but the bust is clearly not on the desk anymore. He places it back on the space where Giorno’s belongings have begun to settle in around it and turns around.

“Boss,” he says, trying not to wince at the way his voice catches in his throat. 

Giorno looks at the bust, angled a little differently than before. “Do you want to do that to me?”

Any question from higher up is one that must be answered truthfully. “Yes.” He also wants to thread his fingers through and undo Giorno’s hair, he wants to see that silhouette in the morning back-lit by the rising sun. Giorno is a man, with no curves or softness to his frame, but Mista’s hands are accustomed to cold metal and angles. The callouses and burns on his palms have hardened over and he feels no fear holding a bomb for the good of the Family. Giorno is a blade sharper than anything Narancia can buff, he can cut through diamond. 

Giorno doesn’t summon Gold Experience to knock him into tomorrow. Instead, he looks like he does when he hears a particularly useful piece of information. Giorno is second in command to Bruno, ready to become a leader in his own right, but at the end of the day, he is still a teenager on the cusp of young adulthood. Crossing around to his chair, a ghost of a grin crosses his mouth. “I will remember that for future reference. Thank you, Mista. Your report, please.” Mista knows he has closed his hand and feels the first strike of the mallet.