Your Words Are Honey [Mista x Giorno] 🔫🐞

Wings

There was a simple understanding inside Giorno's mind, and that was that the more he ran away from him, the more Mista would think he had something to run away from and that was, obviously, the last thing he wanted to do. Mista was smart. If he looked carefully he would spot it: his weakness, his pattern saturated with shame and guilt and the effort he made to not spill himself all over the ground. Giorno was struggling to keep it down.

It was hard.

He wanted to show it, to let him know.

But if he was ready to do whatever it took to help him, then he would have to take everything at Mista's rhythm no matter how slow it went and he was willing. For Mista, he would always be. Time was but an afterthought, a reminder of the hesitation that got them to doubt, but he wouldn't do it this time when the moment arrived. He was just afraid of Mista's burning gaze. In the end, it was true that he was hiding something: devotion.

Lost in a memory neither of them could access to, Giorno would try to play his part in silence, even if it meant drowning the gargantuan fire that blazed upon him every single day. The pain was irreversible, but it was something he could get used to.

That morning, he opened his eyes. At the same time, so did his mouth and tried to make use of his neck muscles to push the sound out. Nothing came, not even a groan, just the feeling of air passing through. Today wasn't looking any good either. Giorno took a deep breath and counted. Three days had passed since their last argument (or it could very much be the first one, but he wasn't strong enough to admit it) and surprisingly, everything was calm. The mansion was quiet and Mista was given time to rest, so he would see him from time to time in the kitchen, in the living room and even outside, looking at his garden.

He started to miss his voice. Usually, he would come up Mista's back, caress those hips and lay down a small greeting, enough to perk him up, to make him turn around. Now, the things that could reach to him were difficult to control. How could he let him know that he loved the way he looked at the trees he planted without showing too much? It was the care, maybe, that laid under those eyes, that reminded him of the man he lost. The friendship that fell apart.

Every time Giorno got a glimpse of those black eyes, he trembled. It was inevitable. As much as he preferred to hide, to step back and wait in contemplation, that wouldn't do any good to either of them. It was selfish of him to admit it, but he couldn't just deny himself from looking at him. He had to see him if he wanted to stay sane.

Right now, in front of the mirror, Giorno was smiling at his reflection. He was put together, beautiful. He enjoyed taking time for himself to look delectable, with extra effort on his braid all twisted and pretty, he made sure the locks stayed in place. Today he even threw a little lip gloss to the mix. He wanted to look better than how he felt and pain was an ugly thing to feel since it could make his skin squirm. Not good.

"Push through it, Giorno." He reminded himself before stepping out of the door. Looking as perfect as always, The Creator walked downstairs to get the day started. He did it with elegance. Impassive, surrounded with dignity and the frail trail of his favorite perfume swaying from his braid.

Giorno felt vile at the thought, but he also had in mind that getting prettier than usual could make Mista's eyes fall on him with intent and curiosity. To get him looking could stimulate something. Giorno nodded to give himself some validation, ignoring the heat and stimuli that was gradually rising from him with Mista's lustful gaze in mind.

Yes, it's true that Mista was a simple man and it wasn't difficult to get him looking, but he proved to be quite cunning so his intention wasn't to take him for a fool. Giorno would experiment as that was he did best and as he got to the huge white marble stairs, he saw The Gunslinger looking up to where he was. Giorno froze but he couldn't let time pass with them looking at each other like that. He was to ignore the coincidences. He was to imagine that he wasn't waiting for him at all.