Katekyo Hitman Reborn, G./Giotto, beloved, "A Short History of a Nickname"
*
The joke was well established when they met Cozart Simon, something between their families that entered into their circle of friends. On hearing his introduction to Cozart, G. simply assumed a quietly martyred air as the three of them began rambling around town. But that evening, when they'd settled alone in Giotto's room as they sometimes did as per long tradition, he refused to let it slide. Especially with Giotto lying on the bed with a grin so self-satisfied.
"You can't tell out-of-towners things like that. Not everybody's going to get it. It's lucky his aunt knows some of the stories about what our ridiculous friends get up to."
"Cozart seems to have a sense of humour. I'm sure we have nothing to worry about."
G. got up from the window seat and jumped on the bed, crouching astride over Giotto to push him against the headboard by the forehead. Giotto's grin only grew, and G.'s fingers slipped into playing with his hair. "Not the point! Stop saying things like that before it ends badly!"
That grin of Giotto's made him look like he couldn't conceive of a bad ending to anything, but only of adoring and being adored, as he found so natural and others found so difficult to resist. "Cozart's a good person."
"Yes, fine. That seems fair." He snorted. "I already see you're not letting him go. You two are far too alike."
Giotto was rapidly losing interest in conversation, butting his head upwards into G's hand. "Wouldn't that be good news for you?" he said, gripping G's hips and pulling them down.
It was up to G. to listen for nearby noises and watch for shadows in the line of light below the closed door. "No," he grumbled as he was assured of their privacy, and kissed Giotto, "more trouble than it's worth—"
Now Giotto snorted at him, making his breath curl sharply in on itself by sliding a hand down the trail of hair on his stomach, following it past the waistband of his trousers and spreading fingers in the tight space between skin and fabric to stroke his length. Those fingers, always wonderfully too-warm. G. bucked his hips and hissed happily as he settled himself in Giotto's palm, and set to work wreaking vengeance on Giotto's shirt buttons. His friend made small vengeances necessary.
When they'd got out of their trousers and G.'s hand was around both of them, Giotto's fingers traced up the side of his chest and neck and cheek, following lines of fire and lending them heat. "G," he said, gratifyingly hoarse, "beloved—"
"Don't!" G. whipped his free hand out of a tangle of pillows and sheets to wave a finger in Giotto's face. "Don't start!"
Too late. They both began to laugh. "Bastard, you ridiculous bastard..." G. took comfort in sputtering the last of his laughter as he squeezed his hand around Giotto and let go, abrupt, to press on the smooth skin behind his sac and watch Giotto's eyes grow wide as release took him. G buried his face in Giotto's neck and stroked himself to completion, rather than wait out a recovery.
That had one problem - it meant Giotto had no distractions and watched him, too, with that look on his face like he meant what he said, even if it was ridiculous.
"Yes," said G, "fine. Same here," and felt the racing of his heart calm as Giotto smiled, unsurprised in the understanding of years.