Work Text:
Mista often dreams of a perfect world.
In a perfect world, Diavolo died (he deserved to die, that motherfucker) soon after Trish had been put under Buccelatti's care. Diavolo died in an accident, or he choked on his food, or slipped in the shower and broke his skull, whatever. Hopefully, he died a painful death. They go to Venice, and no one is there. They fight against La Squadra, they win. They ultimately take the lead of the gang, because that's what all of it was about in the end, wasn't it? They take over the gang and they live happily. No one is dead, no one is injured. No one witnessed the death of innocent people or friends. They live happily together until they grow old and tired of each other.
Mista blinks. The faint smile on his lips fades, he is back in reality.
It's been two weeks already.
Today is one of those days. One of those days where what happened at the Colosseum doesn't feel real. Where Mista is convinced that the way he feels is only the remnant of a terrible nightmare. But Giorno is sitting before him, legs crossed behind a desk in what used to be Beccelatti's home, and Trish is there too, and if Giorno and Trish are here, that means it was not a nightmare. It happened. Fugo left, and Abbacchio died, and Narancia died, and Buccelatti died. And Giorno took over Passione. And one of their allies is a ghost in a turtle.
It's ridiculous, isn't it. Not the ghost in a turtle. Well not only the ghost in a turtle. It's almost ridiculous that all of it happened in the span of a week. A week. Seven days. Mista's life had changed drastically in seven days, 168 hours, and Mista, who had never, never expected anything of life, finds himself listening to a fifteen-year-old offering him the position of third in command of Passione.
Mista rolls his eyes and replies, indifferent, “As long as I'm not the fourth in command.”
Trish, sitting on the floor with her back against the wall drowned in clothes three times too big for her, sighs a little. She never goes too far from them. These days Trish is quiet, even more than she used to be. She listens but barely replies. Mista doesn't push her. She used to be a normal girl. Then she lost her mother and found herself dragged into a gang life she never intended to join.
The atmosphere is growing heavy and Giorno senses it. “Mista, Trish.” His tone is different from before, more solemn, less friendly. Miles away from the kid Mista met three weeks ago. Lightyears away from the kid who was flabbergasted to see Mista set a makeshift table to feed his Stand in Capri. “I have a dream and it will require an atrocious amount of energy to reach it. There will be sleepless nights, perhaps sleepless weeks. The death of your father is in no way an end, if anything it is only the beginning.”
Trish lowers her gaze at the mention of her father.
“It will require determination and motivation on your part,” Giorno goes on. “More than even I can imagine, I believe.”
“Go straight to the point.”
“By staying with me, you are making my dream yours. If that is too much... If you are not willing to make sacrifices for it... if you don't want to follow my path, if you don't recognize yourself in it, then... you are free to leave.”
Mista shrugs a shoulder. “I'll stay.” Not out of devotion, but because where could he go? Mista has nowhere to go, no place to call his home. The closest thing he has to a home is that old house that once belonged to Buccelatti. The house is big and old and somehow dilapidated. Not welcoming. Not really a home either.
There's a pause.
“I...” Trish mutters. Mista whips his head to look at her. “I... I need to go home. I need to... to go.”
That was to be expected. Mista understands, truly. But his mouth is dry.
Ever since their death, Trish is what Mista has that is the closest to a friend. She is not really a friend though. She just hangs around, wanders near Mista. She is there. She is a presence.
Giorno is... Mista trusts him. They work well together. But that's it.
He is not a friend. He is a boy, just a boy Mista met 3 weeks ago and who is technically his boss now.
“I'm sorry,” Trish's looks at Giorno, then at Mista, then back at Giorno. For the first time since Mista met her, she looks relieved, and she lets her facade drop. Her eyelids are heavy, tiny hair fall here and there from her usual hairdo. She lets them see her in a weakened state. “But this.. it feels like a prison. Like I'm a prisoner of my father's past. I am losing my mind.”
Mista glances at Giorno. He has an unreadable expression on his usually expressionless face, that makes a shiver run through Mista's body. “I understand.” Giorno says, a small smile (probably meant to be comforting, but actually somehow condescending) on his lips. “Do not be sorry.”
And then it's only Mista and Giorno.
In a matter of months, Giorno manages to turn a majority of Capos to his cause. A few hours of conversation and bam, gangsters convert to Giorno's cause, kneel before him and kiss his knuckles as they whisper words of allegiance.
It's amazing, Mista can admit. It's grand, how easily Giorno manages to get into people's head and always finds the right words to make bandits adhere to his dream. It is like he mesmerizes them. Mista thinks he could turn the most agnostic gangster into a fierce believer.
There are a few old school gangsters who remain impervious to Giorno's appeal. Giorno shows no mercy towards them. A look at Mista is enough for the gunslinger to understand the orders. Get rid of them. Mista and Giorno do work well together. That hasn't changed.
But out of work, Mista doesn't know how to approach Giorno. That hasn't changed either. And with Trish gone, Mista feels alone.
Five months after the events of the Colosseum, Giorno talks about Fugo. About a mission, about former men of Diavolo's he doesn't trust yet.
Fugo and his team complete the mission.
And then Fugo is back.
Except Fugo is not really back.
He is no longer the person Mista once knew. The quiet boy who could lose his temper over the smallest thing, whose Stand was so dangerous and so deadly even he was afraid to use it. Fugo was that boy who always came up with the dirtiest pranks to play on Abbacchio. He was the one Narancia liked the most, the one Narancia was the most insufferable with. The one Buccelatti considered as his first child.
On the rare occasions Mista hangs out with him, Fugo averts his gaze and repeats, like a mantra, it's my fault, everything that happened, I'm sorry, oh so sorry, please forgive me. And he cries. A lot. And tears freak out Mista, and he doesn't know how to react, and no matter what he says Fugo never stops crying, so eventually Mista stops hanging out with Fugo. Mista hates that he does, because he's not a coward, and Fugo must need him. It's too much, for Mista. Fugo has somehow always been broken, but with their friends' death, it's definitely worse. If Fugo were already in pieces before, he is in dust now.
So Mista feels alone, and now, with Fugo back in Buccelatti's old house, Mista barely leaves his room at all. He could lose it, staring at a large crack in the old plaster white ceiling. He makes bets with himself as to when the ceiling will finally give and the entire upper floor will crash onto him, and break his skull and his bones. It's better than to endure Fugo's tears.
Three knocks on the door echo in his empty old room and the door squeaks open before he offers whoever it is to enter, it's Giorno, of course it's him. Fugo may not be at his best, at least he values privacy.
Giorno. Giorno will fix him if the ceiling gives and breaks all of the bones in his skeleton.
Mista trusts him.
“How are you, boss?” Mista asks, propping himself up on his elbows.
“Don't call me like that,” Giorno sighs. Oh, yeah. What is it that Giorno says? Boss was Diavolo's title. Giorno hates repeating himself. “I have an offer to make.”
Mista peaks through the window, the sun has settled and it is dark already, it really is not a time to talk about business. Living with your boss is annoying like that. “Yeah?”
“Let's go out.”
“Come on, we can talk here, Fugo's not listening and even if he is so what. He works with us.”
“No,” Giorno sighs. “I meant let's go out for a drink.”
“You mean... You and I?”
Giorno nods his head, eyes on him, staring, waiting for an answer.
There is nothing Mista wants less than going out for a drink with Giorno. But Mista is smarter than that. When the boss asks you out, you do not turn down the offer.
“Lemme grab my jacket I'll be ready in a minute.”
To Mista's surprise Giorno doesn't take the car. He carries a big jute bag on his shoulder and it looks like there is something heavy in it. Mista doesn't ask about it. He follows Giorno to where he is bringing him, in silence. They don't have much to talk about.
They finally reach the tourist part of town. Tourists are laughing and chatting loudly in a variety of languages Mista doesn't recognize in the semi-crowded streets. Giorno gives him a challenging look and runs. Mista makes a choked, surprised sound, cocks an eyebrow, and looks around. People are staring. Screw it. Mista flips them off and imitates Giorno.
Mista is quick to catch him. Actually Giorno only ran for a good twenty meters, before he stopped and waited for Mista to reach him.
Awkward.
Whatever. They are on the pier, now. Mista hadn't been there in a hot minute. Giorno crosses his legs and sits on the wooden desk, he motions at Mista to do the same, and mh. Mista is confused, but he sits next to him.
Giorno takes out of the jute bag a pack of soda. “I apologize,” Giorno begins, his voice airy, getting lost in the rising wind. “You were expecting something else I imagine. We have the power to go to any restaurant of this city after all.”
Drinking soda on the... 'beach' suits Mista's mood better than any expensive restaurant, so he chuckles lightly. It makes him feel a little lighter and more relaxed.
“Things've changed,” Mista thinks out loud. “You remember that trattoria where we met? The owner always threatened to kick us out.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. He knew we worked for Polpo but that old moron didn't give a shit. Always said he would throw us out when we were too loud.”
“I see.” The waves crack on the shingle under their feet, people chatter behind them. Giorno cracks the soda pack open. “Want one?”
Mista nods his head.
Awkward.
Mista drinks his soda too quickly and it's too fizzy and now his mouth and his throat hurt. He makes a face, tears up and almost chokes, but he manages to keep a great control over himself. He only coughs quietly in the back of his hand.
“I was born in Japan.”
Mista snaps his neck to look at Giorno. It's just... so sudden.
“I moved to Italy when I was 4, back then I didn't speak a word of Italian. I used to come here all of the time when we moved, I thought there should be Japanese tourists here. I wanted to hear them talk. I missed my first language horribly.”
“You used to come here all the time when you were... you know. When you were that age?”
Giorno chuckles softly. It's airy and clear.
“My mother was not exactly the nurturing type. She wasn't there to notice I was gone most of the time. and my stepfather... He would always get so drunk that he passed out around 7.”
Still. Four sounds like a very young age to walk around the streets by himself.
Giorno keeps talking after that. He talks about his past, about his mother and his abusive stepfather and the gangster who saved his life, how he witnessed the lives of children being destroyed because of drugs, and how he made his life purpose to become a Gang Star and to stop the traffic.
Mista sobs quietly. Child abuse stories always get to him on a personal level and he can not hold his tears in, he doesn't even try to.
Giorno's hand hovers over Mista's back, hesitating. In a moment of boldness Giorno makes his choice and touches Mista. He rubs his back, gently. And Mista lets him touch him. Mista doesn't usually like physical contact, but with Giorno, it's different. The boy had touched his bare skin to heal him more than he could recall. And it had felt... not good (because damn, Gold Experience is painful), but alright. So when Giorno touches him, it feels like an old friend touches him. It doesn't feel foreign or awkward. Narancia used to rub his back like that and Mista yelled at him to keep his dirty paws to himself. How stupid was he.
Mista leans against Giorno's hand and he cries, more and more.
“Hey, mh. Giorno. Tonight was cool.”
“Was it?”
“I mean, yeah. I enjoyed it.”
“I'm glad then.”
“Yeah.”
A silence.
“Is anything wrong?”
“No!... … Fuck. Yeah. Listen Giorno, I should have tried and talked to you sooner.”
“Mh? But we do talk.”
“I mean, outside of work.”
“Oh. I wasn't expecting you to.”
“Well. I should have.”
Another silence.
“We could be... friends.”
“Friends?”
“Yes. Of course you're the boss and all and I know it's not really my place to ask you to become my friend, but. You know. We can talk.”
“I would love it actually.”
“Cool. You know where to find me if you feel chatty again.”
“I do.”
“Yup. Good night Giorno.”
“Mista.”
“Uh?”
“Thank you. Good night.”
A smile makes its way on Mista lips and when Mista finally falls asleep, at the hour where dawn cracks the night sky, he feels lighter than he had in months.
It's only after their fifth night out that Mista musters the courage to talk.
“My mother was a drug addict, the kind who'd do anything for her dose.”
Giorno furrows his eyebrows to that, he glances at Mista, a terrible light in his eyes. “Did she do anything to you?”
Mista shrugs his shoulders. He doesn't want to remember. “She got arrested for being in possession of drugs when I was twelve and then I just kind of survived until I met Buccellati.”
“How?” Giorno folds his legs against his chest, hugs them in his arms and rests his cheek on his knees. He looks like a child. Well, no, he looks his age; and for a short second Mista doesn't want to respond. He doesn't want to spoil the look of innocence on Giorno's face. Then... Giorno looks into Mista's eyes and the spell is broken. Giorno is not innocent. There is nothing in him that Mista could break.
The reality weighs on Mista's shoulders, the truth, his past. Everything. He ducks his head in shame.
“Mista?” Giorno calls. His eyebrows furrowed, his lips are slightly pouty. His eyes, burning and shining in the cloudy night.
“I sold drugs.” The words are out before Mista can think of holding them back. A wave of heat runs through Mista's veins. Shame. He looks at the reflection of lights wavering over the smooth surface of the sea.
“Oh.”
Mista peaks around to look at Giorno. His gaze his harder. The wheels in his head are turning at full speed. Mista kicks an empty can of soda into the sea, and he thinks of the fishes and the sea animals and he regrets. His eyes prickle, his heart hammers in his chest.
Mista is not proud of the person he used to be. “I did what I had to do to survive,” Mista says almost shyly. He spits on the wooden desk, in between him and Giorno.
Giorno takes a deep breath, exhales. He does that another couple of times before he speaks. “Think of a world where drugs have never existed. Your mother wouldn't have been an addict, you would have lived a decent life.”
Mista chuckles humorlessly. “I think she wouldn't have conceived me if she hadn't been high in the first place.” People shout in the street behind Mista and Giorno, a man and a woman, probably a couple. They are fighting. Mista laughs quietly. “There are days I wish I was never born.”
Giorno looks before him, far, far away. He drinks some soda and wipes his lips with the pad of his thumb. “I don't want any child to end up in your position ever again.”
That's very noble of Giorno. Giorno has an obvious soft spot for children, probably the result of not having a childhood of his own. “Yeah,” Mista hums. Only a mad man would disagree.
“Mista.”
“Giorno.”
Giorno folds his legs under him, turns on his knees to face Mista.
“I know you are not the type to seek revenge, but. If you want to, then, please know that I'll gladly rip the people who made you suffer heads off with you.”
Mista chuckles. “I'm not a damsel in distress.”
“That was not my point.”
“I know,” Mista huffs and he rubs his face with the palms of his hands. “I know.”
“Please do not spit on the ground anymore, that is revolting.”
Mista breaks into laughter, he laughs so hard it brings tears to his eyes. Giorno stares at him, eyebrows raised in confusion and it only makes Mista laugh harder. Giorno is so serious, and honestly, it makes him even more hilarious.
Perhaps they can make it work.
It quickly becomes a habit. Once a week, usually on Thursday nights, Mista and Giorno meet on the pier. This has been going on for two years already. Somehow, the weather had always been mild, even during winter.
But not tonight. The night is terribly windy, the clouds are full of rain and threaten to break into thunder at every given second.
“Thunderstorms are not usual in this part of Italy,” Giorno says pensively as he looks out the window of his office, a rich room smelling like flowers, with books on shelves from the floor to the ceiling, full of plants and small living creatures (a frog here, a bug there, a bird chirping in a cage; all creations of Giorno's Stand.).
Mista looks at him from the comfy chair he is sprawled in. In the past two years Giorno grew up a little, but not much. He wears his hair in a low ponytail these days. Mista grew up, too. He is definitely more than 180cm now. Wealth and power do his body good, that's what he thinks.
“Let's drink here tonight,” Mista offers.
Giorno nods his head and shifts on the balls of his feet. He sits quietly in his office chair, kicks his (very expensive, Italian leather) shoes off and folds his legs on the chair. “I have beers.”
Mista smirks. “Beers.”
“Yes. I'm still legally underage but I don't think a beer or two can be so terrible.”
Mista snorts. “We've been killing people for years. A beer's fine.”
Giorno hums, pouting his lips slightly. He opens a drawer and draws out two can of beers (the cheap ones), throws one to Mista. “We have been killing assassins and mobsters. If justice is against us, then it's the justice that is wrong.”
Mista cracks the beer open. “That's not exactly how justice works.”
“Justice is wrong,” Giorno repeats. His features darken a bit. He hates repeating himself.
Mista doesn't insist. Giorno opens his own beer in an almost delicate move with his index finger. They clink their cans and drink. Giorno makes a face and Mista grins. He sometimes forgets that Giorno is still a child.
Mista stucks his can of beer in between his thigh and the armchair. “Have you heard of Fugo?”
Giorno puts his can on the desk with a soft clink. He puts his elbows on the desk and his chin in the palms of his hands. “I have. They say he is making great progress these days. He should be able to leave in a couple of weeks.”
A breath leaves Mista's lips and that's as if a heavy weight has been lifted off his shoulders. “Good.”
“It is. When he will be back I plan to make him consigliere, to show him that I trust him.”
“Isn't the turtle your consigliere?” Mista raises an eyebrow.
“Polnareff, not the turtle. I can have two, can't I?”
“Well there's no rule preventing you from it,” Mista shrugs his shoulders.
Making Fugo consigliere is a great idea actually. Fugo is smart and he knows the law. He could be a great asset. That, and giving him a high position in the gang will boost his self-esteem. Hopefully. Mista grabs his beer and drinks. Too much and too quickly.
Outside, the clouds finally break into thunder and rain follows shortly after, soft and almost quiet at first, tapping furiously on the window next.
“It will rain for days,” Giorno sighs, turning on his chair to look through the window.
Someone knocks on the door.
Mista checks his watch, it's 10. “You're expecting someone?” Mista asks with an eyebrow raised. Giorno shakes his head. Instinctively, Mista's hand moves towards his gun and his Stand appear, hovering around his head in a circle.
“Come in,” Giorno calls. He keeps his Stand within himself but he is ready to summon it.
The door opens, slowly.
The first thing Mista sees is pink hair.
“Trish!” Number Five cries in Mista's ear. “It's Trish!” Number Seven squeaks in his other ear. Then all of the Sex Pistols chant her name.
“Trish?” Giorno says, as if he is not sure. As if it could be anyone else.
“Hi.” She scratches the back of her neck. “It's been a while.”
She is dry despite the rain. Even her shoes, high pointy leather boots, are clean as though she just bought them. Her hair is sleek and in place. She wears white. A white shirt and a white skirt, under a white coat. Immaculate.
Mista thinks to himself, she looks like Giorno. Like a swan that rose from the dirt. She exhales a feeling of... holiness. Purity.
She pushes her lips forward and crosses her arms over her chest and the thought passes. “Is that how you're gonna welcome me?”
Mista jumps on his feet, the beer spills on the chair and the carpet, he doesn't care. He takes Trish in his arms and swirls her around like a doll. She giggles, and it feels... good. They hadn't known each other for long, but he feels close to her, very much so. To finally see her again after so much time sound and safe feels... It feels very, very good. Mista puts her down.
“You're not crying are you?” She grins.
Mista squints his eyes and stares at the ceiling. “Of course not dumbass.”
She laughs loudly, annoyingly so. It feels warm and like a piece of home. It reminds Mista of the old times, of Buccelatti and Narancia and Abbacchio, of a time where Fugo wasn't cracked beyond repair and out in a hospital for his own safety. Oh, fuck. He squeezes his eyes shut.
“You are very pretty,” Giorno says when Trish's laugh fades. “You've changed a lot.”
“Implying I was not pretty before?”
“N-no, you were.”
Mista hears the confusion in Giorno's voice and it makes him snort through his tightened throat and unspilled tears, wet and choked, and Trish makes a noise like she wants to throw up.
“Have you been eating well, Giorno? You look very skinny.” She asks, carefully and kindly. They were never very close. “I won't ask you Mista,” she grins and she cranes her head up (and up and up) to look the gunslinger in the eyes. “You look like you've been eating too much.”
“I've been eating the exact right amount for me,” Mista says furiously.
“Oh yeah?” The grin on Trish face is mischievous. It reminds Mista of Narancia. A terrible sweet-sour feeling spreads in his chest. “You've got a bigger ass than me.”
Scratch that. He only feels an infuriating rage. “Huh?! The fuck does that mean, you flat-chested, flat-ass little b-”
“Anyway,” Giorno interrupts. “What brings you here, Trish?”
After a second or two of thinking, Trish's arms fall limply to her sides and she sighs, lowering her eyes a little. “I wish I had great things to say or that I had great plans in mind. The truth is, I... I've been trying to go back to my former life for the past two years but I can't. The house I've been living in was mama's house, not mine. I... I need to create something for myself. To find my purpose in this life.”
The atmosphere becomes heavy, and for a while, neither of them speaks.
“Just say you've been missing us,” Mista yawns lazily.
“Shut up.” Trish rolls her eyes. “You're the last person I'd miss.”
“Yeah, right.”
“You are.”
“Yeah.”
“Damn it, Mista!”
Giorno giggles.
He giggles.
When was the last time Mista heard Giorno giggle?
The giggles turn into a laugh, Giorno laughs, he hides his face in his hands.
Mista is so startled he forgets to reply to Trish.
Trish nudges Mista in the ribs. “You're staring, gunslinger.”
“Shut up.”
They can definitely make this work.
A year passes. Fugo is back, Trish is back. Everything is fine.
No, really. Everything is fine.
Business is going well. Giorno is a born leader. Diavolo's former men... they all respect and fear him, they bow their heads before him, like subjects in front of their king. Every day, Giorno receives gifts from them. Flowers, candies, clothes, shoes... Mista once joked that they are all trying to seduce Giorno. Giorno had looked at him with a blank face and hard gaze.
There are small groups, mainly in the south of the country, attempt to restart drug trafficking. But, every time, by the time Giorno hears about those infidels, his men, so loyal to him, have already taken care of the matter. Giorno thanks them generously. Then they bow before him, low, and barely dare to touch the skin of his hand. They leave, their hearts thumping so hard it is almost visible, and willing to kill for their king again.
Everything is fine.
Fugo feels better, he talks and he jokes and he almost never loses his temper (almost). Mista has not seen Purple Haze in a year, which is definitely a sign that Fugo is doing better. He eats more, sleeps more.
Fine, fine, fine. Fine.
Trish seems to like her life. She complains a lot, which is a sign of well-being for her. She goes out a lot, she makes friends, does what girls her age do. She goes to school, shops for clothes.
And she talks with Giorno. A lot.
Like. A lot.
It is not exactly fine.
Here is the thing. Mista is... Well. He is jealous. Yeah, okay, life is more entertaining since Trish and Fugo are back. Trish and Giorno are close. Mista doesn't know how they became so close. What do they have in common anyway?
…they do have some things in common but still.
Trish used to be Mista's friend. Then she left and Giorno became his friend. They can't become closer together than they are with Mista. It's just rude.
It is.
Giorno and Trish talk a lot, often in hushed conversations while one of them looks around to make sure no one listens, and they make each other laugh, they exchange light touches and playful looks and small smiles.
Thinking about it, it's probably more than friendship.
It makes sense. Trish and Giorno, Giorno and Trish. The new boss, the daughter of the former boss. There is some kind of continuity there.
Mista won't blame Trish for falling for the boss.
Giorno is beautiful. Recently his face is gaining sharper features, he becomes less childish. His body is still slim, yet still muscular. He is a very beautiful man. He is almost otherwordly.
Giorno is rich. Like, famous-actor rich.
He is humble too. He never forgot his origins, and always finds time in his very busy schedule to play with kids in the streets. This is how Mista found out that Giorno is terrible at soccer by the way. Mista smirked to himself. At least he beats Giorno to something.
Giorno visits orphanages, invests a lot of money in them. He takes care of single mothers. He bribes mayors so they build clinics in order to heal former drug addicts. He invests in small local shops.
To say that people love Giorno would be an understatement. They adore him. They almost worship him.
Almost. Giorno is humble, and he doesn't let anyone who is not under his command bow to him.
There are times where Mista thinks to himself... He thinks to himself that Giorno must be a demigod. Like Achilles, or Heracles. Something like that.
Anyways.
Mista quickly does the math. The only thing missing in Giorno's life is a woman.
Giorno keeps a straight face but he blushes vividly when Mista mentions it. “Don't be stupid Mista.” Giorno furrows his perfect eyebrows, and he brings his legs against his chest. He always does that when they drink together. Nothing really changes, Mista thinks.
Well, nothing, except that now they have to wear coats and hoods over their heads not to be recognized. And canned beer has definitely replaced soda, now. But the pier, and the view, and the small, wavering lights over the smooth surface of the Mediterranean sea, even the smell of food from the restaurants up the streets; all of that is still the same as it was the first time.
“What's so stupid about it?” Mista smirks, nudging Giorno in the side. Giorno punches his upper arm lightly and Mista chuckles.
Giorno cracks another beer open. “I don't...” Giorno fumbles with words, looks for them, and it is so uncharacteristic that it makes Mista giggle. “I am still young.”
“Woah,” Mista yawns. He stretches his arms over his head, stretches his legs, and folds them under him. The day had been long, and it's late, probably too late to drink beer outside. “You saying that is so weird.”
“It's true, though, isn't it?”
“You took over the country at the age of fifteen. When you were seventeen you had two thousand men under your direct command. Now you're eighteen and you've accomplished more than most people will do in their lifetime.”
“Mista,” Giorno snaps sharply. He doesn't enjoy being praised like this.
“Hey,” Mista shows the palms of his hands. “I'm stating facts here.”
“Still.”
“Anyways. There are hundreds of girls and women out there who want you, you lucky bastard,” Mista wiggles his eyebrows and Giorno swats his chest. Mista laughs.
Mista looks up at the sky, it is clear, full of stars, shining like a thousand gigantic fireflies miles and miles and miles away from them.
“I've never been in love,” Giorno says, voice muffled in his knees. “How does it feel?”
“Huh...” Mista thinks quickly. Movies come to his mind. He somehow got used to Giorno's strange habit to say things out of the blue. But this... Mista blinks. He blinks again. Everyone always says that movies are full of crap. “...I've never been in love, I can't really say.”
“Oh.” Giorno looks at a boat that sways softly with the waves, and Mista looks at Giorno. It is probably always going to be this way. Giorno, looking forward. And Mista, looking at Giorno.
“I've never been with anyone.”
Mista's face drains off of its colors. “Uhh. What.”
“I've never had sex,” Giorno says bluntly, shrugging a shoulder. “I should have, shouldn't I? People in my position generally have plenty of sex.”
“I guess?” Mista taps nervously his fingers on the wooden desk. That's an unexpected turn for this conversation. “'s not like anyone cares.”
Giorno sighs, resting his chin on the top of his knees.
Mista remembers his first time, with a middle-aged woman who had the reputation of loving virgin boys a bit too much. He remembers his second time, with a baker girl. His third time, with a girl in a club. All of it felt... dull. The dirty words, the dirty sounds and the dirty kisses... All of it felt forced. A bit like he was a spectator of a movie. Mista just, never really enjoyed sex with another person.
Mista sighs. “Sex is overrated.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah.” Mista drinks beer from Giorno's can, puts it down on the desk with a loud clung. He had a plan in mind when he started this conversation about women. “What about Trish?”
Giorno quirks an eyebrow. “What about her?”
Mista's heart leaps in his throat, the beer kicks in, and his head spins a little. “Well... You know.”
“Oh. Oh my God, Mista, please stop.” Giorno makes a disgusted face. Very uncharacteristic of him, very funny for Mista.
“Why?” Mista passes an arm around Giorno's shoulders, he wiggles his eyebrows. He has the upper hand on this conversation and he is not letting it go. “You two are so close, you thought I wouldn't see?”
“Mista.”
“Giorno.”
“I'm not interested in her. Besides I am too young for these things.” Giorno is strict, and Mista's arm falls limply from Giorno's shoulders. “We are friends, like you and I are friends. It doesn't mean you and I are going to end together.”
They are close to each other and they exchange a look, a long one and Giorno doesn't even blink. Mista leans away.
Guido Mista, change the subject. “You're the one who mentioned sex though,” Mista grumbles. That's the first thing that came to his mind, and wow, that was terrible. Mista looks away and hopes Giorno can't see how red he is turning.
“Sex and love are two different things, aren't they?”
Giorno's eyes are on Mista and they burn him, his cheeks are on fire and, wow. Sometimes he hates being the older one, the one who is supposed to have the answers to these questions. “I don't know, fuck. I don't know.”
Giorno must have sensed his embarrassment, he smiles. “Anyways. I am not into Trish.”
Giorno stares. He stares and he stares and he keeps on staring. Mista furrows his eyebrows and- “Wait, you don't think I'm into her do you?”
“Aren't you?” Giorno looks genuinely confused.
Mista stares at him with eyes big as saucers. “You're batshit crazy. The girl's like my sister. Fucking gross.”
Giorno nods his head. “I feel pretty much the same.”
Mista looks up at the sky. Starless, cloudy sky. Giorno looks at him.
For some time.
A long time perhaps.
“What about kisses?” Giorno asks, his voice is soft. “How do they feel?”
“Ahh.” It's not like Mista has kissed many people in his life. “They feel good, I guess. Definitely not as good as they say but kinda nice.” Mista drinks from Giorno's can and finishes it. “You're telling me a pretty boy like you never kissed anyone?”
Giorno stands up and reaches a hand out to Mista, who grabs it eagerly. They walk in silence. By the time they've reached Buccelatti's old house, alcohol has definitely hit Mista. He stumbles, laughs for no reason, lets his head roll on his shoulders. Giorno has to put an arm around his shoulders and help him to walk.
Giorno walks him to his room, it's on the first floor and easier to access than Mista's room, on the second floor.
The room is... very Giorno. Decorated with taste, with modern furniture and a soft carpet on the floor, and lots, lots of plants. Are they the work of Giorno's Stand? Mista giggles and rolls on his back. They must be.
Giorno looks at him, and Mista looks at Giorno. Giorno always looks so serious, it makes Mista laugh. Giorno sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dips.
“I'll sleep in your bed tonight if that's okay. Will everything be alright Mista?”
There is a short instant, shorter than the time it takes Mista to press the trigger, where Mista considers kissing him. Because they've talked about it. Because he can't fathom that Giorno has never kissed anyone. He is not sure he wants to live in a world where the most handsome man he knows has never kissed anyone.
What is he thinking. Mista squeezes his eyes shut and clears his throat loudly. “Yeah, yeah. I'm so fucking tired, I'll pass out in a second.”
“Fine,” Giorno nods his head once. “Have a good night Mista.”
“Guido.”
Giorno looks at Mista over his shoulder.
Mista yawns, his head spins terribly and his eyelids are way too heavy. “You can call me... That's my name. Call me like that.”
Giorno snorts. “Sleep well Guido.”
One evening, Giorno says, lost far, far away into his own thoughts, “You'll always be by my side.”
Not a question. A fact. There is certitude in Giorno's voice, resolution in his eyes. Mista will always be by his side. Like he doesn't have the choice.
Giorno is always so god damn serious. Mista smirks. “Yeah, you don't know that.”
Giorno rolls his eyes to that and Mista chuckles.
Where would he go if not by his side?
It has now been seven years since the Colosseum events.
Mista is struggling with his hair in front of the mirror. He curses. He is still not used to it. He only recently decided he would drop the hat, and he is still powerless face to his thick black curls. He is pretty sure his hair has developed a mind of its own after years of being hidden under hats, and they are now rebelling against him, refusing to obey him. He curses again.
He ends up splashing hair gel in the palms of his hands and combing his hair backward with his fingers. The result is not convincing, but he doesn't care. Well, he does, but he's late and he doesn't have time to dwell on his hair now.
Somewhere in the past two years, Mista had said that they were too old to meet up on the pier of Naples. Giorno had agreed, and now, they meet at Giorno's new house.
Well. It is not exactly new, he bought it three years ago. But the house (or rather, the mansion) still feels new. The inside of the house is still empty, the walls are still white, and the gardens are still pretty desert. Giorno lives there alone, and more often than not, he looks like a ghost, haunting his own gigantic place.
He has changed, in the past two years. They all have. Mista dropped the hat. Trish cut her hair short. Fugo does yoga and collects stamps. Giorno wears his hair untied.
Giorno gets lost in his thoughts. More than he used to. Too often for Mista's liking.
When Mista arrives, there are children playing in the yard. They are children from one of Giorno's orphanages. The gates of his mansions are always open for them. Giorno says children bring life to that place. That must be right.
They don't drink canned beers anymore, but wine from the vineyard behind Giorno's mansion. The wine is not that good, but well, it's a local product and Giorno considers it very important to buy from local producers. It gets them drunk, so it's okay.
They sit in Giorno's bedroom, the bottle of wine in between them. Giorno, with his legs folded against his chest and his face resting on the top of his knees. He still looks young. It must be the way he is sitting, or the way his golden curls fall over his back, or the fact that he wears pale pink clothes. Or perhaps it is simply because he is younger than Mista, and Mista tends to forget it.
Mista's legs are spread wide on the white, marble floor of Giorno's room. He looks at him. He always does. The sun is setting already and the children have started to leave the grounds, their chatter and cries and laughs are slowly fading outside. The orange light peering through the window brings out the gold in Giorno (as if he needed that honestly). The gold of his hair, the gold of his skin. It makes his green irises almost amber.
Giorno is silent, more than usual. He talks less and less these days.
Mista has no idea what he should say, or what he should do. So he just sits in silence, occasionally reaches out for the wine bottle and drinks straight from the neck.
The sun and its orange light have almost disappeared when Giorno finally speaks. “I'm bored, Mista.”
Mista blinks at that. Isn't it his fault if he's bored? They've been sitting there, doing nothing for hours. The children are long gone and must already be in bed at this time. “Do you want to play cards or something?”
“I meant I am bored in life.”
Mista... thinks, runs a hand through his hair. Well he tries to. The hair gel has made his hair pretty solid. “Huh, mh. Maybe you could find yourself a hobby.” That was a very stupid thing to say.
“A hobby.”
Mista's cheeks burn up with embarrassment. He has to give some credit to his idea though. “Maybe you could do some sports, or learn a new language. I've no idea.”
“I'm terrible at sports.”
Mista remembers the atrocious number of times he has seen Giorno miss a ball when he played soccer against children. He snorts. “Yeah.” Giorno pouts his lips. He's cute, Mista nudges him in the arm. “Come on, I can teach you.”
Giorno snorts. He licks his lips. "I'd rather you teaching me something else."
The atmosphere shifts. The expression on Giorno's face changes. It becomes dark, filled with something Mista has never seen on him. His green eyes become black, filled with...
“Giorno...?”
“Will you?”
Mista opens his mouth to reply. Giorno briefly stands on his knees, and the next second, he is on Mista's lap, straddling him, facing him.
Mista must look bamboozle, it makes Giorno chuckle. Silently. Gracefully.
“Will you teach me how to kiss, Mista?”
Mista doesn't answer, Giorno cares very little about his replies anyway; so Mista tips his head up, and Giorno lowers his, and he bops Giorno's nose with his, and it makes his heart thump and his insides twist but he moves closer, just an inch closer, and puts his lips against Giorno's then backs up.
“...Is that it?”
“Well.” Mista shrugs his shoulders. “I'm not gonna kiss you like a woman.”
“Why not?”
Because you're not a woman. Mista doesn't say anything. The words are on the tip of his tongue, but as they cross his mind, he furrows his eyebrows and thinks that they don't really make sense. Giorno is not a woman, sure. But Mista never really enjoyed kissing women. And he wants to kiss Giorno. That must say something about him. Something, that was right before his eyes but that he had chosen to ignore. Because ignoring those things makes the life of an orphan easier.
He is not an orphan anymore though, is he.
Mista puts his hands on each of Giorno's cheeks. He brings his face closer to his, gently. Presses his lips against his hungrily. Moves his lips. He opens his mouth, Giorno opens his. Licks the inside of his mouth, his tongue. Hungry. Hungry hungry hungry.
Kissing Giorno is not like kissing a woman, it's more aggressive. There is more tongue. The jaw under his fingertips is sharper.
It's infinitely better.
Hotter.
Mista pulls back with a loud breath. He's going to have a problem if he keeps kissing Giorno so avidly.
“Mista,” Giorno breathes against Mista's lips. “Mista, please.”
Giorno presses his chest against Mista's and he kisses him. He moves his tongue against Mista's, pulls back, brushes their lips. Mista pecks his lips. Giorno pecks his lips in reply.
I wanted this. I needed this. I needed this so fucking bad.
“More.”
Perhaps it is a fever dream.
A fucking hallucination.
There is no way this is happening.
“Guido...”
“Does it hu-hurt?” Mista asks gently, panting in Giorno's hair. He didn't even know he was able of being this gentle.
Giorno doesn't answer. He keeps his eyes shut, and his eyebrows are furiously furrowed like he is analyzing every little piece of this new sensation. It probably hurts. Mista slows down.
Mista keeps his eyes opened. He doesn't want to miss a second of it. He wants the images to be engraved in his memory, he wants to remember every single instant, every single facial expression Giorno makes. He wants to remember it when they'll wake up in the morning and they'll regret everything.
Mista leans closer to Giorno and breathes in the smell of his hair. He wants to remember it. He wants to have flashes of what they're doing every single time he happens to smell it, even on someone else.
“You are... Aah.”
That noise. God fucking damn. Mista feels his member twitch into Giorno, and Giorno's mouth opens and breathes out a silent moan.
“I'm...?”
“You are bigger than I th-thought.” It requires a lot of self-control from Giorno to talk, and still, his voice comes out strangled and high pitched. His eyes are shut, his face scrunched up in deep focus.
Giorno squeezes around him and Mista groans.
This is what it is supposed to feel like.
Sex.
Not dull, or like he is watching an adult movie. But this. An intensification of all the senses.
The taste of Giorno's mouth, the sight of his naked body, of his golden skin, the touch of his muscles, and the way they contract under his fingers, Giorno around him, the noises they make, the obscene noises their bodies make, the smell of Giorno's hair.
This is what it is supposed to feel like.
Giorno touches, with his fingertips, where their two bodies are joined and he makes again one of those noises.
“G-Giorno-”
“Finish on me, please.”
Mista pulls out. He pumps himself, stares down at Giorno, mind clouded by lust. He asked him for his cum. He asked for it politely, like a well-taught gentleman. Mista groans. “Will you say please again?”
Giorno licks his lips lasciviously. “Please.”
“Fuck...” Mista's heart leaps. He grabs one of Giorno's thigh, digs his fingertips in the muscles, spreads Giorno's legs open. Heat coils in Mista's groin, his vision becomes white, and he releases over Giorno, groaning and panting.
Giorno is painted by his cum. What a sight.
Giorno pumps himself vigorously. What a fucking sight. Giorno's face relaxes in bliss as he comes in long streaks over himself. Giorno breathes hard and lets his arm fall over his face.
“Fuck,” Mista breathes. “You're fucking beautiful.”
Giorno replies with something in a language Mista doesn't know.
They never regret it. Never.
They do it again in the morning. And the week after. And after.
And again, and again.
It is a secret.
Kind of. Trish finds out immediately. But it's Trish, so it doesn't matter. She pretends to be grossed out but Mista knows she is secretly happy.
Fugo is quick to figure it out too. He knows but doesn't talk about it.
Mista could get high on the smell of Giorno's hair. It's a smell he can't place. It smells like flowers, but flowers Mista doesn't know. It smells sweet, too, a bit like sfogliatelle. But with something more exotic to it.
It smells delicious. It makes Mista want to eat Giorno whole.
“Giorno,” Mista props himself up on an elbow. Giorno opens tired eyes, and he's adorable (every little thing he does is fucking adorable). Mista draws little circles with the pad of his thumb on Giorno's upper arm. “Are you still bored?”
Giorno thinks for a couple of seconds. “I am.”
It was a question Mista had to ask. He already knew the answer and he knew he wouldn't like it.
“Mista.” Giorno sits up in the bed, the sheet slips from him, revealing his naked body. It is the early afternoon and it is fall already. Giorno's room is bathed in a clear, white light that makes his skin look paler than it is. “I want more,” Giorno says.
For a second Mista is confused. More what? More of them, more of this relationship? Then Mista catches the way Giorno's eyes gleam with determination, with resolve. This is about work.
“You're already at the top of the business,” Mista lays on his side. “What more could you want?”
Giorno straightens his back. “My position as a gang leader limits my opportunities. The orphanages and the clinics I built are considered clandestine. The people who work in it do not have a legal status, and it's more complicated for the children to join proper schools. That has been in my mind a lot lately.”
Mista raises an eyebrow.
Giorno turns to face Mista. His eyes are dark. Gleaming with ambition. With a dream. A new one. “Imagine all that I could do, if I were to take the lead of the country.”
Mista forgets to breathe for a second. “The country...?”
A pale ray of sun hits Giorno in the face, his face and his hair look almost white. Like a ghost, like an angel. “Politics.” Mista's mouth falls open with a pop, and Giorno smiles, he brings his legs against him and hugs them.
“Politics?” Mista repeats.
“Mh,” Giorno smiles.
“But politicians are like, our arch-enemies.”
“They are only because we've made them our enemies. In most countries politicians and organizations like ours work together. So, what do you think?
Mista smirks. “You're asking my opinion now.”
Giorno leans against Mista and rests his face on his chest. Mista passes a hand through the tangled mess of his golden curls. He admires the contrast of their skin, Giorno's light gold against his dark honey. “Not really,” Giorno admits. “But I want to know what you think about it.”
“You brat.”
“Guido.”
Mista feels Giorno's cheek heat up against his chest and he chuckles. “I hate politicians," the gunslinger finally answers. "I don't think you need any of them to take over the country. But who cares about what I think. If that's what you want then I'll help you reach your goal.”
It is harder than expected to gift Giorno with a country.
The political sphere is closed. Almost secluded. Every outsider that wishes to enter it is treated as a stranger and has to show proof that he is worthy of trust.
In more ways than he had expected politics remind Mista of the mafia world. It's a cruel, merciless world, in which mistakes are prohibited. A world of hypocrites who will smile to your face and wish to plan your downfall in your back.
Mista hates it.
It takes him more time than Mista had thought it would for Giorno to gain an inch of their trust. It takes two years.
Two. Fucking. Years.
Giorno requires Mista's presence at every dinner, every charity ball, every official event. He is officially introduced as Giorno's bodyguard.
Sometimes Giorno requires Trish and Fugo's presence too, but less often. He introduces Trish as a family member and Fugo as a lawyer friend.
Mista is often approached by... people. Plenty of people. Men, who fake liking him only to pry on Giorno, not so discreetly. Many young women approach him, too, young women looking for a husband. They touch him, and they compliment him, and they giggle at everything he says, and they don't care if he doesn't pay them any form of attention or occasionally yells at them.
It gets very annoying.
Giorno pretends he likes it. He looks comfortable when men twice or three times his age form a circle around him and force smiles and make small talk with him. Giorno even makes some jokes, and the men laugh. The young women look at him from afar. They don't even try to get too close to him. Giorno is intimidating like that. Giorno occasionally smiles at them and then they look away, cheeks red like high schoolers meeting their favorite artist.
An old man seems particularly interested in Giorno tonight. The man is short, fat, has rosy cheeks. He is disgusting. He keeps stroking Giorno's arm, and Giorno lets him, even smiles at him.
Mista stares, fists clenched at his sides and his Stand threatening to appear at any given second. If that pig moves his hand, Mista will shoot him. Easy, quick. Fuck that asshole and his filthy hands. Fuck his status, fuck who he is. A bullet in the head.
Mista feels a hand over his shoulder. It's Trish. “Let's get some fresh air.” The man moves his hand from Giorno's arm to his back and Mista's blood boils, a raw anger blinds him. “Mista,” Trish shakes his shoulder gently. “Let's go, please.”
Mista sucks his teeth. “Okay.”
Trish takes him by the arm, Mista lets her pull him. He doesn't really pay attention to where Trish brings him until the cold wind slaps his face. He shivers furiously. He looks around, they are on the balcony of whoever's mansion they are in.
The air is cold, but it feels good on Mista's skin. Kind of like a cold shower.
Trish doesn't look affected by the cold at all. She sits on a bench and crosses her legs with a grace that Mista thinks she learned from Giorno. “Don't do anything stupid fratellone mio.”
“I won't.” Mista is not a fucking animal, he is not going to shoot a politician at a fucking charity event.
But he would like to.
Oh fuck he would love it.
The wind blows, sharp and icy and Trish's short hair floats in the wind. The dress she wears is short and made of thin silk, and she must be freezing, but she doesn't show it at all. She is beautiful like that. Her frail, pale figure in the dark and the wind. But well. She will catch a cold at this rate.
“Let's go back in.”
“Nah,” Trish sticks her tongue out.
“If you get pneumonia it's on you,” Mista grumbles. “If I die, it's also on you.”
She laughs. Mista shoves his hands in the pockets of his tuxedo and leans against the wall next to the floor-to-ceiling glass doors that separate the balcony from the reception and all the guests inside.
“Killing people is easier than that mundane life,” Trish breathes out a loud sigh.
Mista grimaces. She makes it sound like killing is easy. It is not, it never has been and will never be. But it has to be done sometimes so he does it. He is good at it. It is the whole purpose of his Stand after all isn't it.
“Not like you've ever killed anyone,” Mista snarls.
“I was talking from your perspective, shit face.”
Mista blushes hard. “You're 24 but you still talk like a little bitch. Bitch.”
She laughs and it gets lost in the wind. Mista smiles. It's rewarding to make her laugh, almost as rewarding as it is to make Fugo smile.
But, yeah. To some extent killing people is easier than dealing with those double-faced hypocrites, though paradoxically, it is just as dangerous. Mista keeps that to himself.
When Mista raises his chin, Trish looks at Giorno through the glass doors.
She doesn't shiver, but Mista does.
“We all hate it,” Trish says in a breath. “This life. I hate it, you hate it, Fugo hates it, he hates it. But we have to endure it for the sake of his dream.”
Mista furrows his eyebrows.
“They are afraid of Giorno, you know,” Trish continues. “They know what he did to my father and to those who refused to join his cause. They know there are no places for people like them in Giorno's world. They know they will end up like all of his enemies. They pretend they want to be in his good books, but they are looking for any blunder to permanently get rid of him. That goes for us too. Our smallest slip up will badly reverberate on Giorno.”
“I know.” Out of instinct, Mista shoves a hand in his slacks, Trish looks horrified but her face eases when Mista draws out his gun. He looks at it, its barrel, its cylinder, its trigger. “I can't help it. They're so bad and it reads on their faces. I'm the third in command. It's my job to protect him.” Trish tilts her head to the side. There is more and she sees it. Mista averts her gaze. “That pig was touching him.” Raw anger comes back, blinding and overpowering. Mista spits each word.
“Oh Mista...”
“Look, I know.” Giorno is not his. He has no right to feel this kind of rage at the sight of him talking with another man. “I know. I'm not fucking dense.”
“This is a temporary condition,” Trish says, with a smile on her lips and she bats her long eyelashes, her eyes full of hope. “He will take the power, he will have them killed. This country will become a haven of peace similar to paradise. Our role is to make sure he reaches his goal by obeying his orders and think about what would best serve his interests at all time.” Her voice is almost strangled, Mista can't tell if it is because of the cold or the emotion. “I want to be by his side when he will reach the top. I want him to dry my tears as I'll cry from happiness. This is my dream. Mista, Giorno is right. You've been bathing in his light for so long that you've forgotten how darkness feels.”
Mista's mouth is dry and his tongue is heavy in his mouth. He finds nothing to say, so he just keeps his eyes locked in Trish's.
Giorno's dream.
Giorno's world.
It sounds like a bedtime story for children. The tale of Giorno Giovanna, a boy born in the streets who took over the country.
A tale. Too good to be true.
Trish is sitting on that bench a meter away from Mista but she looks like she is out of reach, and she gleams. She gleams like a holy woman, with a look on her face of a nun witnessing a miracle. Like she believes in Giorno and his dream like one would believe in God. Like those men who work for Giorno and bow when he walks in a room.
Mista's heart thumps in his chest. He is unable to understand. Giorno is a man, of flesh and bone and blood, who just happens to have a dream. A fucking grand dream, sure. But a dream.
Mista's heart thumps and thumps and almost get carried away.
Wasn't he like them? Didn't he agree on this life simply because Giorno had said he wanted it? He didn't even question it, did he?
Deep within himself, Mista thinks that he's not totally human, doesn't he? He thinks of him as one would think of a magical creature, doesn't he?
Mista is just like them, another one of Giorno's worshippers, nothing else. His blood runs colder than the wind.
“I'm getting cold,” Trish pouts. “Let's go back in.”
“I'm thinking of getting married.”
Even if they just had sex, even if Giorno just pulled back from a kiss so intense Mista almost busted his lip, even if he whispers these words on Mista's pec, Mista knowsl that he is not the one Giorno plans to get married to. Mista had expected it. Giorno became closer to a woman the last four months, a normal-looking brunette whose only quality is to be the daughter of a very influential politician.
Mista smirks. “You're finally listening to me.”
“If I had I would have been married for six years or so already, so allow me to disagree,” Giorno cranes his neck to look into Mista's eyes. The blonde puts his forehead against Mista's, they breathe the same air for long, intimate, comfortable seconds.
“Hey Giorno.”
“Mh.”
“There is something I've to tell you. You already know it, but I never told you, so.”
“I'm listening.”
“I love you. Not the way your men love you or not like I love Trish or Fugo. I love you with all my heart. I think I've loved you since the first time you took me to the pier.”
Giorno smiles, he looks like an angel. He presses a kiss to Mista's neck. Mista puts his arms around him. Hugs him. Tight. Giorno laughs softly. Truly an angel. “Giorno,” he whispers in his hair.
“Yes Guido.”
“Please, show me the work of your Stand.”
Giorno pulls back and smiles. He picks up a sock from the floor, closes his eyes, squeezes his hand tight. Gold Experience appears briefly behind him, touches Giorno's hand and then disappears. Giorno opens his eyes, then his hand. A tiny bird sets off, chirps, and flies across the room and out of the window.
Mista gasps in awe. He will never get used to it.
“I love you.”
Mista is a lot of things, but a worshipper is not one of them.
Mista loves him. He could die for him, has already killed for him (more than he has killed for himself) and would do it again. All of it because he loves him.
If he threw himself body and soul in that new dream of Giorno's it was not out of devotion for him, but out of love.
Love makes people crazy.
What is it that Giorno once said?
By staying with me, you are making my dream yours. If you are not willing to make sacrifices for it, if you don't want to follow my path, if you don't recognize yourself in it, then you are free to leave.
So Mista decides to leave.
He doesn't talk about it. He waits for the night to fall, heart in his throat and unable to breathe properly, and when the clock on the wall shows 1 am, Mista jumps from the bed. He throws the door of his closet open, looks through it hastily. He finds an old backpack and throws clothes in it. A bunch of underwear, a couple of tee shirts and sweatpants.
He slips an old hoodie on, the one Abbacchio gifted him on his seventeenth birthday. It has holes on the sleeves and in the back, but fuck it. It has sentimental value. Mista sighs. Seventeen years old... It feels like a different life.
He puts the hood over his head and shoves his gun in his pocket mechanically. He leaves his house, doesn't bother with locking the door, he hops in his car and sets off.
The night is hot and the air is thick. The sky is almost gray because of the full moon shining through the clouds. Mista just left the city and he's now driving through plains and hills.
He sees something in the middle of the street. Something... No. Someone. He realizes just in time and kicks the brake pedal. The brakes squeak, the car bumps the person's knees, but the person doesn't flail.
Mista's heart stops.
He looks at Mista. His eyes are darker than they have ever been. The headlights make him look like he's insane.
From the inside of the car, Mista can see his lips move and calling his name. Mista's mouth is dry. He swallows painfully and gets out of the car hesitantly.
They look at each other in the eyes, for a long time. Too long.
“Where are you going?” Giorno finally asks.
“I don't know,” is Mista's reply. “Probably Sicily.”
“Since when do you care about Sicily?”
“That's my birthplace. I've got some emotional ties there and shit.”
Giorno glares at him like he glares at his enemies. Worse, perhaps. He looks at Mista like he has been betrayed. He glares at him, waiting for an explanation.
Mista gulps. His legs feel like jelly. If he didn't tell anything to anyone about his departure, it was precisely to avoid this. A confrontation. Mista straightens his back, knowing full well that it is pointless to act smug before Giorno. “I don't believe.”
“...You don't believe.”
Mista shakes his head feebly. “No, Giorno. I... don't believe... I'm sorry. I wish I could.”
“What are you talking about.” Giorno's voice is harsh and loud, and it echoes against the hills.
“Your dream,” Mista replies in the same tone. “I don't believe in your dream.”
If you don't want to follow my path, if you don't recognize yourself in my dream, then you are free to leave.
For long seconds Giorno stares and doesn't say a word.
“The life that comes with it,” Mista goes on, “I don't like it either. It's driving me fucking crazy. I almost shot a man to death the other night at the charity ball.”
Mista sees the wheels in Giorno's head spinning at full speed. “I can take care of your mess-ups.”
“No-- fuck Giorno, no! That's not the point.”
“What is the point then.”
If you don't want to follow my path, if you don't recognize yourself in my dream, then you are free to leave.
“The point is I don't recognize myself in your dream.”
Giorno's gaze is impossibly dark and intense, the kind of darkness only clear eyes can convey. “So you don't agree with my dream, which is to improve the lives of children and create a fairer society for all.”
Mista shakes a finger. “Your dream is...”
Giorno's gaze freezes him to the bones. “... Mista?”
Mista takes in a deep breath. “I was there when the dream bloomed in you because you were bored. Because Passione didn't need you as much as it used to.”
“I have ambition, I've never denied it. If my ambition can lead to a better world, then what is so bad about it?”
Mista finds himself at a loss for words. He clenches his fists and decides he will not shut his mouth, not today. “Are you aware of the way your men look at you, Giorno? They look at you like you're some kind of God because of your dream. What will happen if you fail?”
If you don't recognize yourself in my dream, then you are free to leave.
“Giorno,” Mista walks closer until he's a short step away from Giorno. His voice drops. “It's just you and I. Be honest. Do you think the world you want to create can be achieved? What does Polnareff think about it?”
Giorno furrows his eyebrows. “Polnareff is getting old, and he is nothing but a spirit. He doesn't know anything about today's society.”
“So he doesn't agree.”
“Fugo trusts me.”
“Giorno,” Mista looks around and his voice drops again, down to a whisper. “Fugo is... I love him, you know that, but he's weak. His brain shuts down when great plans and prospects of better lives for the people are mentioned and you know it just as well as I do.”
They exchange another look. A knowing look.
“Guido, these men are...” Giorno shakes his head. “They told me disgusting things.” Mista's blood boils again and his eyes lose their focus. “I would lie if I told you I don't want to kill them from my own hands. They are no better than Diavolo.”
And Diavolo is the epitome of evil for Giorno.
“And now that I have an actual intake on the people who rule a country, truth be told Guido, I don't think one country will be enough to satiate my appetite. I want...”
He wants the world.
“...the world. I will find no rest until I get what I desire.”
Trish had said it, that night at the charity ball. She called it Giorno's World and Mista found it so fitting it stuck with him.
“I want world peace. I want a better world. It's sad, that you of all people came to doubt my intentions,” Giorno says, as a matter of fact. “And in order to reach my goal, I will kill everyone who opposes it.” That is such a Giorno-esque phrase that Mista snorts. Giorno furrows his eyebrows. “You either walk with me, with my peace and in my world or against me and you become my enemy. I'd rather the first option, to be honest. Mista, you're one of the centerpieces of that world.”
That's stupid, but Mista's insides boil and melt with something else, beyond those grand ideas and those dreams. Something more primal. “What do you expect from me, to stand quietly by your side while you hold your woman's hand?”
Giorno looks genuinely surprised and his mouth falls open in surprise. “My marriage is purely business-”
“I can't do it!” Mista shows the palms of his hands. “I can't, Giorno. I can't stand by your side while you're marrying some basic bitch who will love you to death and ultimately give you children. That goes beyond everything I'm capable of.”
“Are you... jealous?”
Yes.
“No,” Mista snaps. “You and I are nothing but friends and work partners. I've no reason to be jealous.”
Giorno scans his face. Tries to read through him.
So Mista decides to change the subject. “There are people, like Trish or Fugo, who could give their lives for your dream. But to me... it just sounds delirious.”
Giorno's expression doesn't flinch. He swallows his saliva and says, “Then you leave me no choice.” Gold Experience appears from the shadow, hovering above the ground and staring at Mista with its bulging eyes.
So that's what it is. Mista shoves his hand in his pocket and takes out his gun, his Stand appears, forming a crown around his head. Three whispers, “We're not going to kill Giorno, right?” but Mista doesn't answer. He raises his arm, aims right in between Giorno's eyes.
“No!”
A yell, a familiar one though he has not heard her yell like that in almost a decade, coming from the top of a nearby hill. She runs towards them. She steps over the fences and throws herself at Giorno's knees. “No!” she repeats. “You can't kill each other, I won't let it happen.”
Ah. Giorno and Mista tend to forget that this city is just as much Trish's as it is theirs. Of course someone came to find her like someone came to find Giorno.
Giorno doesn't move, doesn't even look at her.
“Mista!”
Mista doesn't look at her either. He will hesitate if he does.
“Guys, just... Talk it through, please. This can't happen.”
“Move away Trish,” Mista says.
She stands up and slaps Mista's face, so hard his ear rings. She spits to his face, “Can't you act like the older person for once in your miserable life?”
“Trish, move.” Giorno's order echoes on the hills in the silent night. Mista glances around from the corner of his eyes. On the top of the hill Trish came from, there is a figure. A male figure, that doesn't move and will probably stay still. Fugo?
Trish breathes heavily. “But you... you are...”
“Move,” Mista orders one last time. He focuses his attention back on Giorno on his aim.
Tears roll down from Trish's eyes. She lowers her face, she steps back.
Gold Experience has a hand over his hip, Sex Pistols circle around Mista's head, the two Stands wait for a move of their users.
Trish falls on her knees and it acts as a signal.
Mista has watched Giorno fight so much he knows his technique like a dance. He knows Gold Experience will throw a punch at him before it does and Mista dodges it. Lead by its run-up, Gold Experience moves past Mista and this is Mista's opportunity, the only one he'll have in front of Giorno, he knows it. He grabs Giorno by the collar and presses the muzzle of his gun against Giorno's cheek. Hard, so hard his skin turns white where the gun touches his skin.
Giorno's face falls, he realizes...
“It's over,” Mista whispers. “All I have to do is press the trigger. Gold Experience could probably save you, but I know you won't use it.”
Trish sobs behind them, loud and chocked and pathetic.
Mista lets go of Giorno's collar, he calls back his Stand, draws back his gun, puts it back into his pocket.
Giorno falls to his knees. His gaze falls to the bitumen of the road, eyes blown wide. A look of shock, of pure horror on his face.
It's over.
If you don't want to follow my path, you are free to leave.
Perhaps those were just words, that Giorno had said to make himself look less fragile than he is.
“You'll find someone else. Goodbye.”
Giorno doesn't raise his eyes from the road and Trish sobs his name, crushed like a dead animal on the road. He doesn't look at her. He doesn't look at him. He shoots a glance at Fugo, who hasn't moved from his perch on the top of that hill. Mista gets in his car, turns the key.
You are free to leave.
And he is gone.