Chapter Text
Ask anyone what’s the first thing that comes to mind when you mention a live music show. They’ll tell you - sounds: deafening thudding of the percussion, gripping guitar solos, the chanting of the crowd during the chorus; or the visuals: flashy lights, flamethrowers, the hot frontman as the ornament of the performance.
For Mista, though, the concerts consist of scents, first and foremost.
Brillantine in his hair, beer and cigarettes, sweat of hundreds of bodies grinding against each other; and at the end of the night - Paco Rabanne Pour Homme - the expensive fragrance he’ll be washing off his clothes and skin for days, weeks to come.
No time for distractions - he can’t think about it, not now, not yet - business first, pleasure thereafter. The show won’t play itself, and the band needs him.
“Hey, get that crap out of the front,” he yells at Bucciarati, who’s pushing his Hammond organ onto the stage with the help of his infuriatingly defensive boyfriend. “I don’t want to trip over it again, like I did in Birmingham.”
“Piss off, fuckface.” Abbacchio snaps at him. He looks like he should be a member of a heavy metal band, not a prog rock one, with his back-combed silver hair and full-face makeup. Coal-black trenchcoat he’s wearing despite it being the middle of the summer is just a cherry on top, and he plays a Rickenbacker bass, like he aspires to be the new Lemmy Killmister; Mista hates working with him, but you have to give him that he’s your best pal for a post-show hangout (especially if it involves hard liquor). “You’re lucky we haven’t kicked you out yet. Do you realize how many more fans we would attract if we just hired a pretty white boy as our frontman instead?”
“Leone.” Bucciarati interrupts him before he can continue his mildly racist tirade. “Sorry,” he offers, but Mista just shrugs it off; it’s not like he hasn’t heard this before. Being of mixed race wasn’t easy here, in England, much less in a small Italian town outside of Naples he grew up in. “I’ll try to fit somewhere on the side, so it doesn’t hinder your performance, but the acoustics in this venue aren’t great. People won’t be able to hear me if I stick to the back of the stage.”
“Oh, he’s just grumpy because he wants to show off,” Narancia chimes in from behind his percussion set. He’s probably Mista’s favourite band member to play with - it’s mainly about fun for him, and he doesn’t give a damn about the public perception or the overblown artistry of it all. “He’s always like this when we’re playing in Dover, haven’t you noticed? Why’s that, huh? A secret girlfriend waiting for you?”
“Shut your damn mouth,” Mista huffs out; he doubts Narancia is aware of what’s been going on, yet he feels called out. “And get down to it. The gates open in less than an hour.”
“Just because you’re the singer, doesn’t mean you’re the boss here,” Fugo notices, kneeling down next to an amplifier with his Stratocaster. “That would be Bucciarati, no?”
“Y’all are getting on my nerves.” Mista slams the microphone stand at the centre of the stage, perhaps a little too violently - the feedback echoes loudly in the concert hall. “I need a fucking drink.” Or two. Or three. “Don’t talk to me until the show is over.”
Oh, he is pent up, and it won’t relent once the show starts. In fact, it’ll get worse before it gets better. Six years in a band should’ve slain his stage fright, but some days he’s just as nervous while performing as he was on that first show they did, back in Naples, opening for another, much bigger group. He knocked over the mic stand, too wrapped up in playing a solo on a cover of Whole Lotta Love, and then tripped over the wires trying to pick it up. Needless to say, the press had a field day, using his non-whiteness as an excuse for the rather mediocre performance they gave, as if his skin colour had anything to do with their lack of experience at that point in time.
Many of his decisions were driven purely by the spite he had for the music industry at large. The band name he came up with - Sun-Eating Xerophile - could be abbreviated to SEX, causing the more conservative music journalists to squirm in their seat anytime they’d have to pronounce it in an interview. The flamboyant clothing he loves to wear onstage wouldn’t cause anyone to bat an eye on a pretty white boy, as Abbacchio put it - Bowie had been doing it for years, hadn’t he? - but on a masculine guy like Mista, a happy trail running down from the hem of his crop-top to the waistband of his skin-tight leather trousers brought terror to people’s faces rather than delight.
And he doesn’t give a shit - let’s make that abundantly clear. Guido Mista is passion, he’s a sensation, and he’s the king of the goddamn Italian underground music scene, and he won’t give anyone who doesn’t treat him as such his precious time.
Pouring himself a glass of ice-cold coke with a splash of bourbon, he slumps onto the couch on the backstage - he’s a lightweight, and he can’t risk getting drunk to the point of slurring. Normally, he doesn’t care much about impressing the audience - but tonight, there’ll be a pair of eyes he’ll be trying to spot in the crowd - and for those, he needs to be in his top form.
That summer five years ago, when they first set foot in England, the weather was miserable; they got drenched while unloading the gear from the van, and Mista dropped the suitcase that contained his clothes into a puddle the size of the lake Baikal. Because of that, he stood before the choice of either spending his extremely thin funds on buying a new shirt for the show, before the damp ones would dry, or walking onto the stage topless.
Take a guess what he ended up doing.
In hindsight - one the best decisions in his career. The hysteria it caused was unlike anything he’d experienced before. He really felt every word of the lyrics he sang on The Mothers of Invention cover they closed the concert with.
Nature’s been good to this here band
Don’t ever think we’re shy
Send us some little groupies and we’ll take their hands
And rock them till they sweat and cry
When the show was over, he walked off the stage, stomping on bras and panties with every step, feeling like god. The ego boost that knowing all those women (and men) in the audience were thirsting over him was unparalleled.
Even then, he wasn’t ready for what was about to go down.
Leaning against the handrail by the fire exit, a - what he presumed at the time - blonde girl blew him a kiss, a flirty smirk stretched across her rosy lips - and Guido, drunk on the post-performance high, pretended to catch it and bring it to his heart.
And just like that - a spell was casted. Locking her eyes with Mista’s, she made a hand gesture that he read as follow me, despite the language barrier - and disappeared behind the exit door.
“Woohoo, man,” Narancia, who witnessed it, slapped him on the back, “someone’s gonna have fun tonight.”
“Fuck off,” Mista cut him off, suddenly self-conscious about being half-naked, which wasn’t a problem just minutes ago, while hundreds of people were ogling him on stage. “Be right back.”
“Don’t rush it!” Narancia yelled after him, but Mista barely heard him, mind laser-focused on not losing the track of the girl and letting his chance slip. Despite the popular myth surrounding rockstars, it’s not like he had gotten much action up to that point - they weren’t very popular, only making their debut outside of Italy, so he was grasping at a possibility of messing around a little.
He caught up with her some two hundred yards down the street; she was sitting on the curb, long, wavy hair cascading down her shoulders, in a flowery blouse and wide-flared jeans, like she time-travelled from the 60s. She could pass for a picture-perfect groupie from the summer of love era, and now, admiring her beauty up close, Mista felt slightly intimidated; he’d been told he was handsome, but she could have any man she’d want, yet she picked him - flattering, in all honesty.
“Care to take me out for the night?” she asked in a much deeper voice than Mista would expect from her, and when she stood up, he noticed that she was quite tall for a girl. That sharp jawline, too-
“Wait,” he said once he connected the dots, struggling to find the right words within his limited arsenal of English vocabulary, “are you a bloke?”
A throaty chuckle he got in response was definitely a masculine one. “Disappointed?” The guy approached him, a graceful sway to his walk, and stabbed a finger into Mista’s bare chest. “Something tells me it’s not your first rodeo, stud.”
The confidence in his tone - alongside his otherworldly beauty - was what made Guido follow him, down the street and into the cheap hotel room. If it’s a serial killer, he thought to himself, then at least I’ll die a happy man.
But by the time the Sun rose, he was still very much alive, and very much enamoured.
“Dude, get the fuck up,” Abbacchio slaps him on the back of the head, and Mista jerks awake. “We’re kicking off in five. And put some clothes on, you fucking deviant.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” he claps back, shaking the stiffness off his shoulders. A quick power nap to recharge, and he’s like a newborn - ready to take the fans’ hearts by storm. (Well - one fan’s in particular. Hopefully.) “Better worry about yourself. And tune that bass for once, for Christ’s sake.”
Abbacchio wants to bark back at him, but he’s stopped by Fugo forcing a can of beer into his hand. “There. Have a drink.” Satisfied, the bassist inhales two thirds of the can’s contents in a single gulp. “My throat’s still sore after the show in Rome, I might not be able to do the backing vocals tonight.”
As if Mista needed support - he’s good enough on his own, thank you very much. “I’ll manage. Get your asses going. We can’t keep people waiting.”
Not that he cares about anyone else - but he can’t wait to walk up that stage himself.
The crowd that gathered for the show is impressive, considering the town’s small population. A swarm of teenagers starts chanting “S!E!X!” as the band takes the positions behind their instruments. Narancia attacks the drums, beating away a galloping rhythm; Abbacchio adds a bassline, Fugo plays his signature, jazzy guitar riff, and Bucciarati joins in on the organ. Blood rushing through his veins, Mista picks up the microphone.
“Ciao, Dover!” The greeting is met with screeching of the fans as he adjusts his guitar strap. “Let’s rock it tonight, aight?”
The setlist is full of tracks from their latest record - Sadistic Slime, Wet Wednesday, Blackmail & Bondage (it’s a concept album, okay?) - and Mista has a lot of fun performing those for the first time in front of the English audience. The reception is nothing short of enthusiastic - the fans are chanting along the chorus, clapping to the rhythm, screaming their heads off during the breaks between the songs - and Mista is floating above the ground.
This is why he’s still doing this, against all odds, in spite of everyone who would love to see his downfall. His mere existence is a middle finger pointed at the media, the journalists snooping around, trying to speculate about his private life. Let them fucking wonder, he told Bucciarati when he showed him a local newspaper reporting on their show, with a headline reading Musical genius or a wolf in sheep’s clothing? Guido Mista’s whirlwind love life, featuring pictures snapped by paparazzi portraying him leaving a pub in the company of a man dressed in leather from head to toe. Bad publicity is still publicity. If they want to believe I’m a fag, so be it. He won’t be bending his spine to fit the mold of a respectable artist. Spiteful people will always find a reason to treat him poorly - if it’s not who he fucks, it’ll be his ethnicity or something else. And life’s too short to pay attention to those who make a living off bringing others down.
Music carries him through the night. Admittedly, he’s not as good at guitar as Fugo is, but he doesn’t miss a single note on his solos. Most importantly, however, he’s having more fun performing than he’s had in a while - after twenty shows played in a span of a month, you inevitably get tired of the same songs, yet tonight, it’s just like when was a teenager, strumming away on his beat-up Telecaster in his bedroom, dreaming that one day he’d make it.
While Bucciarati pulls off his brain-melting seven minutes long organ solo, Mista gets to catch his breath and rinse his throat with some water, to soothe his vocal chords. Eyes wandering over the crowd, he searches for the one and only person he cares about impressing.
He doesn’t find him among the fans in the front row; not to the left, where the more tame and quiet part of the audience has amassed; not to the right, amidst skimpily dressed, hysterical girls. Where is he?
With an avalanche of dissonant sounds, Bucciarati’s solo comes to an end. Absently, Mista gets on the mic again. “Thank you,” he says, partially to his bandmate, partially to the audience. “Now, for the final song tonight, a tribute to Judas Priest, from their new album…”
Fugo slides smoothly into the opening riff, and the heavier tunes enjoyers among the crowd start yelling approvingly when they recognize the song. Has he had a chance to listen to it before? Did he instantly think about me upon hearing it, the way I did about him?
Heart thumping heavily in his chest, Mista begins to sing.
When I saw your face, I became a prisoner of your eyes
And I would do just anything to stay and be with you
A couple standing at the barriers starts making out, to the amusement of people around them; good for them, but where is the man who Mista addresses these lyrics at?
Don’t you hear me crying?
Take me in your arms again
Tell me that you’re trying
Or is our love a lie?
Narancia’s furious drumming drives him through the chorus. Up until that point, Mista has been doing a good job staying focused on the performance, but now he’s getting distracted.
Is it possible that his biggest fear has come true? Is this the year where his muse doesn’t show up, vanishing from Mista’s life, like he never appeared in it in the first place?
The spot light shifts, shining directly at somebody standing in the middle of the crowd, and Mista’s soul does a double backflip.
As each day goes by
I’ve given up completely
I’ve locked myself inside your heart and thrown away the key
Head thrown to the back, golden victory rolls bouncing with his every move; a button-down shirt that would be more appropriate for a business meeting than a rock gig; the determined look on the pink-blushed face as their eyes meet, for the first time in a year.
Giorno is here; Mista’s prayers have been answered.
He’s tempted to toss the microphone, jump off the stage and into his angel’s arms, but he needs to finish the song. Hitting those high notes is infinitely easier now that he can look at the person who he wants to scream these words at.
Love is blind, and love deceives you
You came along and captured me, now I’m a prisoner of your eyes
Giorno looks burdened, something clearly eating away at him - and Mista can’t wait till he eases off his pain, making him forget about his worries. Just a couple more minutes -
Trapped in time, I cannot leave you
I’m just a prisoner of your eyes…
As soon as that final line finishes ringing through the speakers, Mista’s duty is done; he runs for his life, barely registering Bucciarati picking up the microphone to do the honours. “Arrivederci, Dover!”
He’s flying, his feet barely touching the ground as he jets through the backstage and into the street.
It’s already dark outside, but the light of his life is leading him, and Guido Mista has no fear.
Room number five is vacant when he gets to the hotel. Mista skips over three stairs at a time, heart hammering in his chest so fast it makes him dizzy. Dingy green wallpaper and the coarse carpet greet him cordially, and there’s only one piece missing, before Guido can be whole again.
Pacing around the room, the floorboards squeaking underneath his feet, he waits, waits, and waits, for what feels like an eternity - even if according to the clock on the wall it’s been only four minutes - until the door is pushed open.
Giorno is standing before him, alive and tangible, and tears spring into Mista’s eyes before he can stop them. The hinges creak as the door falls shut, and for a second or two neither of them move, like gunslingers during a duel, calculating the right moment to draw the pistol and shoot.
Then, multiple things happen simultaneously.
Giorno steps forwards so abruptly he almost trips over his loafers - a rare instance of a crack appearing on the untouched, polished surface of his perfectly crafted persona; Mista jumps over the coffee table that’s separating them, knocking over a vase with artificial flowers; the glass shatters on the floor as Giorno falls into his arms; Mista clashes their lips together, and the world that’s black and white for 364 days a year turns into a kaleidoscope.
“Took you long enough,” Mista pants, breathlessly, between the open-mouthed kisses, “what’s stopped you?”
“Had to suck the receptionist’s dick so he let me here,” Giorno says, nonchalantly, like he expects a pat on the back for it. “It’s not as easy to get to the great Guido Mista these days as it once was.”
“Fuckin’ liar,” Mista drags him along, the broken glass crunching underneath their shoes on the way towards the queen sized bed. “Nothing but lies, lies, and lies, spilling from that dirty mouth of yours.”
“Jealous much?” Giorno teases, lips parted, begging to be kissed again. “It’s not like you’ve been saving yourself for me either.”
“What if I told you that I have?” Mista picks him up, effortlessly - it’s not hard, given how small Giorno is in comparison to him - and seats him on his lap as they sprawl on the cushions.
“Then I wouldn’t believe you.”
Suit yourself, then. Mista never claimed to be a prude, but he has turned down many of his admirers, women and men alike, in the past months - he can’t ever be satisfied with anyone else, knowing what’s waiting for him, once a year, under the cloudy Dover skies.
1977
After the first time they slept together, Mista woke up naked in a stranger’s arms, and for a minute he couldn’t recall what had happened - blame it on the bottle of cheap champagne they shared between greedy kisses, as they stumbled through the hotel hall - and then it hit him how reckless his behaviour was. For all he knew, he could’ve gotten murdered, or - bit less dramatic, but equally horrible - he could have gotten a STD; back in the 70s no one heard about AIDS yet, but gonorrhoea and syphilis were well-known and common among sexually liberated people.
“Fuck,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand to chase the sleepiness away.
“Here in England, we say ‘good morning’, usually,” the sarcastic reply came. “You Italians could learn some manners.”
“You weren’t this cocky while you were sitting on my dick last night,” Mista snarled, earning himself a hit with a pillow. He drew back and pulled his aching body into the sitting position; the Sun was up in the sky already. His bandmates must have started worrying why he hadn’t come back yet, he couldn’t linger in here much longer. “What’s your name, by the way?” It’d be nice to have a tag attached to the pretty face in his memory.
“Now it interests you?” The guy threw the bedsheets to the floor, shamelessly exposing himself; underneath the feminine clothes, he was hiding some finely defined muscles. “In the moonlight, you were quite creative. I think I remember you calling me a godsent angel?”
“Fuck off,” Mista barked. He couldn’t stand having his weaknesses pointed out to him like that, and he’s a chatterbox when he’s horny; he was sure he had said way more embarrassing things while they were at it, no need to remind him. “Tell me or I’ll steal your ID and see for myself.”
“Oh, so you can read? Wouldn’t have guessed.” This time it was Mista who threw a pillow at him. “I don’t have one yet. I’m fifteen, haven’t I mentioned?”
Not skipping a beat, Mista called his bluff. “Liar.” Yes, he does look young, but Guido had also been a fifteen-year-old boy once, and he knew for a fact that at that age he wouldn’t last a third of the time his date did before cumming all over himself. “You know my name, why wouldn’t I get to know yours?”
The boy got up from bed and walked over to the window to open the curtains; if there had been someone walking down the street, they would surely have gotten flashed. “I just don’t like it,” he said, turning back to face Mista, the morning sunlight painting his blonde hair amber. “If you have to, you can call me Giorno.”
(He did get his hands on Giorno’s wallet, when he went off to shower, just to make sure - he had, indeed, lied. 1958, the ID stated, making him nineteen - only two years younger than Guido - and his real name, Haruno Shiobana, sounded too foreign for him to pronounce correctly either way.
So Giorno it was - Giogio or Gio, if Mista was trying to be nice. Angel - in those ecstatic moments, just before the dawn, when the pleasure got better of him.)
Giorno doesn’t waste any time - it hasn’t been three minutes since he entered the room, and his hands are already fumbling with Mista’s belt. “Easy,” the singer tells him, even though he’s dying to be touched. “Kiss me.”
Giorno submits; velvet, supple tongue licks its way into Mista’s mouth, like it’s the most luscious delicacy he’s ever tasted.
“God, I’ve missed you,” Guido admits, and the affection in his own voice almost scares him; he’s not used to making big declarations like this very often.
Tell me you have missed me too.
Giorno outstretches his fingers atop Mista’s thigh, squirming to find a more comfortable position, then attacks his neck and cleavage with pecks and nibbles; he’s insatiable, and the desperation in his conduct sends Guido’s mind into overdrive. “Giorno…” he whimpers, fighting to keep his composure. “Tell me you want me.”
Teeth sink into his Adam’s apple, none too gently, leaving him breathless. “I want you to fuck me so hard that my father will know where I have been the entire night the second he lays his eyes on me.” A peculiar request, that. “I want him to get angry.”
All that Mista knows about Giorno’s father is that he’s a disgustingly loaded landlord and he’s very unhappy about the fact that his son doesn’t want to follow in his footsteps. This amount of information is sufficient for him to accept the challenge.
“At your service.”
Then it’s nails, teeth, torn fabric and scratched skin, sweat, saliva, pain, then bliss.
1978
The second time they arrived in Dover - almost exactly one year later - he spotted the golden hair from the stage as they were wrapping the show with a Judas Priest cover - they got into a habit of closing with a heavy metal track, despite their signature sound being more akin to the likes of King Crimson or Electric Light Orchestra. Abbacchio insisted - and Bucciarati gave in, and once he’d agreed, no one could argue with him. But Mista wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t put his foot down and choose the song that resonated with him more than any other, as close to an open coming out as it gets without explicitly stating it - Raw deal.
All eyes hit me as I walked into the bar
Them steel and leather guys were fooling with the denim dudes
A couple cops playing rough stuff, New York, Fire Island
His angel was at the barriers, swinging to the music, enchanted; his chest protruding from his unbuttoned pink shirt, half-lidded eyes devouring his idol singing up on stage. Mista’s knees went weak, and he gripped the microphone stand to keep his balance. Giorno held up his hand and showed him four fingers - bad omen - and a split second later, he was gone, disappearing into the crowd.
No - Mista thought to himself - it wasn’t happening; his mind was playing tricks on him. He’d pondered about his one-night stand every time he’d spin a Pink Floyd longplay and Summer ‘68 would come up: We met just six hours ago, the music was too loud, from your bed I gained a day and lost a bloody year… What were the odds that he’d summon up that ethereally beautiful man with his singing again?
I guess I dream in pictures, not colours
The true free expression I demand is human rights, right?
As soon as the song ended, Guido dropped the microphone, not caring to thank the audience like he usually would, and booked it, fearing it was all just a hallucination, and that Giorno would spread his wings and fly away if he didn’t catch him soon enough.
The pretty boy didn’t wait for him in the street, like he did the last time - carried by his gut feeling, Mista ran to that same old hotel down the avenue, and found Giorno in the room number - you guessed it - four.
“Hey, handsome,” he greeted Mista, who almost yelped in joy at the sound of his voice. “Bold choice, that last song. Do you really need to scream from the rooftops how much of a dirty sodomite you are? I think it goes without saying.”
Grabbing his face in his hands, the rockman kissed him briefly, to convince himself he was real - then pushed Giorno towards the door.
“We’re not doing it in this room. Four means bad luck,” he ordained, but his command was met with a dry laugh.
“It was the only one left,” Giorno informed him, smearing the peach-pink lipgloss along Mista’s jaw as he kissed it. “Desperate, are we?” He mused as Mista all but forced him outside, into the hall.
“Speak for yourself.”
A hot puff of air tickled his neck, accompanied by a breathy moan. “Oh, I absolutely am.” Fingers digging under Mista’s waistband, he grinded against his thigh, searching for a relief; Guido shoved him away.
“I won’t repeat myself.” Agonising as it felt to reject Giorno’s advances, the number etched on the door unsettled him to the point of being unable to think clearly. “Hands off.”
“Make me.”
Mista bent him over the sofa in the lounge and fucked him senseless, to teach him a lesson; once they came down from it, they stumbled their way to a different hotel, across the street, and resumed their lovemaking there.
A disappointed sigh escapes Giorno’s lips when Mista tears the condom pack open. “I want you raw.”
In the past, he wouldn’t have to be told twice - but given the epidemic that’s been decimating the queer population for two years now, he’d rather be safe than sorry. “And I want you to live.”
Giorno feels up Mista’s abdomen, running his slender fingers down until he reaches the thick patch of hair above his groin. “Then you’ll have to save the goods until I’m done,” he dips his hand into his boxers, and Mista fails to contain a groan as Giorno starts teasing him, the way he knows best - slow, deliberate strokes, thumb pulling the foreskin down - he’s not making the task of keeping himself together any easier for Guido. “If I can’t have you finish inside, I want you to cum all over my face.”
1979
Meeting the same person and having the most mind-blowing sex of your life twice could pass as a coincidence; by the third Mista started questioning his sanity.
“I’m surprised you managed to abstain from it for so long,” Giorno breathed into his nape. “One does not wear tiger print trousers for no reason. It’s like you're asking to get your ass slapped.”
“If you don’t shut up-” But he’s the one to eat his words when Giorno spanks him, quick and harsh, like a cowboy herding a wild horse into a pen. Bewildered, he sucks a breath through his gritted teeth, hands grasping at the bedsheets, scrambling for balance - it’s in vain, he collapses face-first into the pillow.
“It’s only fair I give you a taste of your own medicine.”
If you told him a year ago - well, if you told him even an hour ago - that he would find himself in such a compromising position, with his bare ass up in the air, spit running uncontrollably down his chin, getting railed like there was no tomorrow, he would laugh in your face. Yet there he was - and truth be told, he was enjoying himself a little more than he would like to admit.
Thighs quivering with effort, he arched his back as Giorno’s lips kept kissing a trail down his spine. “Fuck, Giorno,” he whimpered, voice dripping with lust, pushing his hips back to meet the blond’s thrusts.
“That reminds me,” searing ghost of a breath between his lumbar vertebrae, “of that new Zappa’s song.” He intonated, in a pleasant, albeit slightly out of tune baritone, “I have been in you, baby, and you have been in me…”
Coughing out a laugh, Mista managed to lift his head from the pillow and wrestle his way to flip them over, squashing Giorno into the mattress. “You brought this upon yourself,” he warned, then sang the following part of the song, “Go ‘head, roll over, I’m going in you again…”
“Still here?” Hands roughly gripping at Giorno’s waist, Mista admires the ink etched into the younger man’s skin.
“That’s the point of getting a tattoo, no?” Giorno is trying to act cocksurely, but his voice falters by the end of the sentence, as Mista keeps slamming into him, unrelentingly, beating the nonchalance out of him as they speak. “That it doesn’t wash off.”
“Yeah,” Guido grabs a fistful of Giorno’s golden curls and pulls them, which shatters the blond's composure for good, a high-pitched, drawn-out moan tearing through his throat. “Does it make you remember how good I feel inside you every time you look at it?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Giorno fails to sound unaffected, chest heaving with every syllable as Mista brings his hands down to his hipbone and kneads at the soft flesh, hard enough to make him squirm in discomfort. “I bet you get horny every time you see yours.”
He is right, but Mista wouldn’t admit to it, even if you held him at a gunpoint.
1980
“Everyone in your band has tattoos, save for you,” Giorno noticed. “Why?”
Rolling over to lay on his back, Mista stuck a cigarette into the corner of his mouth and lit it. “I just never wanted one.” Not entirely true - he had considered it, so that he wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb among his band, but if a masochistic prick that Abbacchio was would say getting tattooed was pleasurable, then Mista wasn’t too excited about it.
Giorno sat up, cheeks glistening with sweat in the moonlight seeping through the opened window. They had gone through three rounds back to back, and Mista was astonished he was still responsive, let alone this talkative afterwards; usually, it would take him longer to come down from his orgasm(s).
“Twat.” Giorno sneered, seeing through his lie. “You’re scared of a tiny needle, that’s why.”
“Watch your mouth,” Mista blew the smoke out, and he earned himself a faint prod to his ribs. “I wouldn’t even know what to get.”
Giorno traced a finger down his chest, causing Mista’s muscles to twitch under the cold touch. “You could get a ladybug,” he said, “here,” he pressed his thumb into his left pectoral, where his heart should be, “so you could show it off every time you get shirtless.” Which would be at every show, pretty much.
Mista glanced down at him. “A ladybug?”
“It symbolises good luck,” Giorno explained, his hand travelling further down to pinch Mista’s left nipple. “I thought a superstitious guy like you would know that. People used to believe that if one visited you, it meant your prayers were going to be answered.”
If that was the case, then Mista wouldn’t have to wait an entire year to see those turquoise eyes again. His catholic mother would get a heart attack if she knew that anytime her son would get down on his knees, all he’d be praying for was for a certain man to reciprocate his feelings.
“Fine,” he replied, even though the idea of having a needle stuck into his flesh scared him. “I’ll do that. But only if I get to pick one for you as well.”
Giorno’s facial expression didn’t change, but his eyes lit up with interest. “What should I get, then?”
Mista didn’t have the time to think this through, so he said the first thing that came to his mind. “Maybe a pistol? Since you love danger so much.” He stretched his arm to pat Giorno on the small of his back. “Here. So I can look at it every time I fuck you.”
Giorno snorted quietly and took the cigarette out of Mista’s mouth to take a drag himself. “Not the worst idea,” he agreed. “I know a tattoo parlour downtown. We could go there in the morning.” He put the cigarette out in the ashtray on the bedside table and leaned over to brush his lips against Mista’s biceps. “Unless you chicken out of it.”
“Don’t underestimate me.” Pulling Giorno closer, he made the blond essentially lay on top of him. “Now give me…”
“...a kiss.”
Giorno obliges eagerly. Foreheads pressed together, they ride the wave of the utmost pleasure, as Mista sinks his tongue into the white-hot heat of Giorno’s mouth. A shiver runs down his spine when his lover readjusts his position, letting Mista push even deeper, deeper than he thought were possible, until whatever worry that had been clouding his mind for the past year dissipates. Nails dig into the flesh on his shoulder blades as Giorno’s breathing begins to waver, and the addition of pain almost sends him over the edge.
“I’m gonna-” Mista tries to say, but Giorno puts a hand over his mouth.
“No,” he orders, halting his movements. “Not yet.” His hand slides down to Mista’s throat, but the prospect of getting choked excites him rather than scares. “Make me cum first.”
“Giornooo,” he whines, not even trying to hide how needy he is right now. “I can’t-”
“You either hold it,” Giorno cuts in, “or I’ll take my turn. Raw, no prep.”
He’s coming before Giorno can finish his threat.
1981
Before the dawn I hear you whisper in your sleep
“Don’t let the morning take him”
Outside, the birds begin to call
As if to summon up my leaving
Damn Abbacchio for harassing everyone in the band by blasting his metal tapes every time they’re on the tour bus, but Judas Priest had grown on him - Mista found himself singing their songs in the shower from time to time, especially the slower, more wistful tracks. Some of those lyrics hit close to home.
The mornings after were always painful, as Giorno didn’t hold back at the heat of the moment; there was a smudge of blood on the sheets when Mista got up, and he couldn’t figure out if it came from the scratch on his back or from his lip that Giorno had bitten hard enough to break the skin.
The physical side wasn’t the worst part of it, though - mentally, the mornings after were a torture. Waking up next to the person you wanted to spend the rest of your life with, then having to walk away, knowing full well you wouldn’t see them for the next 365 days - pulling out all of your nails one by one would feel less agonising.
His heart almost leapt out of his chest when a pair of arms wrapped around his waist - Giorno stepped into the shower soundlessly. “Don’t mind me,” he said, voice still hoarse from sleeping. “Go on.”
Relaxing into the warmth of another body pressed against his, Mista resumed singing.
It's been a lifetime since I found someone
Since I found someone who would stay
I've waited too long, and now you're leaving
Oh, please, don't take it all away
Hot water pouring over their entwined bodies, Giorno’s hands greedily grasping at everything they could reach, steam burning his lungs with every breath he drew - and Mista gave into it. For a minute, he could fool himself that the thing they had was a loving relationship, and this tender moment they shared was just one of the thousand more slow mornings to come.
“Giorno,” he was glad he was facing the wall, because he wouldn’t have it in him to ask while looking in his lover’s eyes. “What would you do if I didn't turn up here next year?”
Giorno tensed up, like he didn’t expect this question. “I would find another hot rockstar to fuck,” he replied plainly, resuming his ministrations, hand sliding down Mista’s V-line. “I quite enjoy the danger, as you once put it.” There was no way of knowing whether he meant his words, or if he was just cruelly messing with him; Mista chose to believe the second option, optimistically deluding himself that perhaps whatever feelings he’d developed towards Giorno weren’t one-sided. “Why? Trouble in paradise? Band’s breaking up?”
“No.” Quite the opposite - they had been doing great this past year, selling more records than ever; after the tour was done, they would be recording their third studio album, and everything was headed in the right direction. “Suppose we’re not coming back to England next summer, for whatever reason. Would you miss me, at least?”
Giorno’s lips brushed against the shell of his ear. “You think you’re so special, hmm?”
“Yes,” Mista said, proudly, “I do, actually.”
The amused sigh might be Mista’s favourite sound in the world. “Special and modest,” Giorno joked. Guido wished he could make him laugh more often - every day till the end of his life, preferably. If only the ladybug carved into his skin would work the way Giorno claimed it would…
“I just know my value.” Did he, really? If he did, he wouldn’t be crawling back to a guy who viewed him as just another fling - a good laid, sure, but that’s about it. Maybe if he wasn’t a damned nancy, it would have been a little easier - as it was now, he had to stick to dark hotel rooms and whispered prayers rather than the spotlight and loud declarations.
Giorno spun him around, almost causing Mista to lose balance on the slippery surface of the shower floor. “I have half an hour before I need to go,” he said, a short sentence that tore Mista’s heart to a thousand shreds. He wasn’t ready to let him go just yet - he doubted he ever would be. “Let me blow you goodbye, The Chosen One.”
Next year, Mista thought to himself as Giorno dropped to his knees, next year, if he’s still here, I’ll tell him I love him.
1982
A loud sob falling from his own mouth startles him.
“What’s wrong?” Giorno lets go of Mista’s wrists that he’s been holding pinned above his head, a genuine concern in his voice. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” A pathetic little sound.
“Then why are you crying?”
Good fucking question - he’d like to know himself.
The pillow is soaking wet underneath his cheek when he tries to turn his head to the side to avoid looking in Giorno’s eyes.
“Hey. Talk to me,” the younger man insists. Careful not to cause his partner any more discomfort, he wants to pull out, but Mista clenches his thighs around his waist, restraining him from moving - he thinks he might actually fall apart if Giorno draws away from him.
“Giorno,” he mutters. Tell me you love me. “Giorno.” Gripping at his shoulders like a lifeline, Mista holds him close, while Giorno kisses the tears away from his face, like a hummingbird drinking the nectar of a flower in full bloom. Tell me you care. “Giorno…”
“I’m here,” his angel affirms, soft lips finding Mista’s; the kiss tastes of salt and affection, and it makes him touch the skies, then brings him back down to Earth, grounds him. “I’m here.”
And he’s crying, but these aren’t tears of sorrow - they’re born from the longing for something that he could never have, the love that seeps through his fingers when he tries to grasp it. Balancing on one leg over the precipice, he holds onto Giorno as he brings them over the edge, for the second time this night.
“Giorno.” I love you. “Giorno…”
“Don’t cry. I’ve got you.”
The world melts around him until there’s nothing but a warm cocoon on velvety wings holding him together.
The mornings after are always painful. Physically - to some extent. Mentally - beyond description.
Giorno is tossing and turning in his sleep when Mista wakes up, a golden storm of hair scattered on the pillows. “No,” he mutters, the muscles on his back where Mista’s hand is resting suddenly contracting, “no, no…” He talks in his sleep sometimes, usually not in English, though - he’s half Japanese, as Mista has learnt, and while he’s asleep, it’s his mother tongue his brain operates in. “No. Don’t...” Anxiously, he turns over and buries his face in Mista’s chest. “Don’t go.”
It’s like a knife stabbed into his gut. “Don’t,” Giorno whimpers, delirious, hands reaching blindly forwards to grasp at Mista’s shoulders. “Matte kudasai… Wait.” The knife keeps twisting, tearing through his vital organs; Mista is bleeding out, and he does nothing to stop it. “Don’t leave.”
Mista tousles Giorno’s hair, hugging him closer to his chest. “Giogio.” He doesn’t hear him, still the three words he’d always wanted to tell him won’t go past Guido’s throat. “Wake up.” Giorno’s eyes flutter open, and he blinks a couple of times, confused, as if not recognizing where he is. “Mornin’, prince. Had a bad dream?”
“A nightmare.”
Well, welcome to my reality.
He kisses the top of Giorno’s head, inhaling the scent of his expensive cologne and flowery shampoo. This smell will follow him for weeks, as they’ll continue the tour around England - perhaps all the way back to Italy, to the cramped flat he shares with Fugo and Narancia, to the recording studio where he’ll sing the lyrics to a love song he wrote with one specific person in mind.
“What time is it?” Giorno asks, sleepily thumbing Guido’s cheek.
Mista glances at the clock hanging on the wall opposite of the bed. “Nine twenty-five.” No wonder they slept in, after an absolute sex marathon the last night.
“Shit.” Giorno wiggles out of his embrace and sits up, as if struck by the lightning. “I’ll be late.”
“What’s the rush?” Mista doesn’t trust his legs enough to get up as abruptly as Giorno did, so he watches impassively as the man scrambles to find his clothes on the floor. “No chance for a quickie?”
“My father is closing a deal on a plot of land at ten,” Giorno explains, putting his shirt on. It’s missing one button - oh, the old man will be enraged. Wonderful. “He needs my signature on the documents.”
“The fucker can forge it,” Mista shrugs. “He’d probably done this before. Come ‘ere.”
Giorno pulls on his trousers, no underwear - who’s the perverted one now, huh? - and struggles to clasp the belt with his trembling hands. “I need to go.”
“You’re not leaving until you give me a kiss,” Mista ordains.
Giorno rolls his eyes, exasperated, but walks over to the bed to do as he’s told. Mista takes full advantage of that - he’ll be dreaming about the shape of those lips against his own for months to come, like a starving man fantasizing about a gluttonous feast; he’ll be clawing at the bedsheets like a rabid animal trying to find an escape route from the cage his life without Giorno is; he’ll be crying helplessly at nights, like a child afraid of the dark, praying the morning will return him the missing piece of his heart that he left on the other side of the sea; he wants to savour every last drop of his personal aphrodisiac before it’s taken away from him again.
Giorno tries to pull away, but Mista holds him in place by the front of his shirt. “Giorno…” Get a grip, just say it. “I-” Come on, you spineless cunt. “Goodbye.”
Turquoise eyes are soft with woe as they meet Mista’s. “Goodbye, Guido.”
He lets go of Giorno’s shirt and walks him to the door with his gaze. “Hey, Giorno?”
“Yes?” His angel looks back over his shoulder.
I love you.
“Take care. Till next time.”
Giorno blows him a kiss, just like the first time; just like the first time, Mista catches it and brings it to his heart. “You too. See you next year.”
Next year. Next year, he’ll tell Giorno how he feels about him.
And this time, he’ll bring a ring with him.