Chapter Text
Gingerly, meticulously, Guido Mista ran the cloth over the barrel of his revolver. It was a soothing motion, something he was used to. He could simply turn his brain off and relax in the familiarity, which was a rare occurrence. Halfheartedly, he glanced over his shoulder at the shut door that led to Giorno’s bedroom. He and Fugo were in there right now, doing God knows what, but he could hear laughter, which was rare for both of them, so he let it slide.
He still, admittedly, wasn’t quite used to Fugo. He had returned, sure, and it had been almost a year since then, but he had also been gone for half a year. Nobody else seemed to care about that as much as Mista did, but that wasn’t to say he hadn’t learned to love Fugo again; he had, it was just hard. Narancia was ecstatic that he was back, Buccellati and Abbacchio were quietly pleased, and Giorno… Well, who knew what was going on with Giorno. Mista couldn’t read him, had never been able to— that was part of the boy’s charm as the Don of Passione. He was unreadable at almost all times.
Giorno was different in a way Mista just couldn’t place. There was something off. Not necessarily a bad “something”, but something nonetheless. At times, he didn’t seem human. He was too beautiful, too strong, too much. He was Giorno Giovanna. And, somehow, he was Mista’s friend; somehow, Giorno trusted him with not just his life, but more: his past. Mista was pretty sure he was the only one that knew, excluding possibly Fugo or Trish, but, of course, he didn’t know the full story; no, Giorno had assured him that he only knew a small fragment.
That hurt Mista more than he felt it should. Not because it meant that Giorno didn’t fully trust him, but because it meant that all Giorno had gone through, all he had suffered through, everything and everyone who had beat him down— he only knew a portion of that. There was more, somehow. More pain, more hurt, so terrible Giorno couldn’t bring himself to tell Mista. That was why Mista knew Giorno wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t inhuman at all, but rather so, so human it was painful.
Sighing to himself, Mista cast another glance back at the door he was guarding. Fugo had stopped laughing, but Mista could still hear his voice, smooth and intelligent, speaking. It rose and fell and fluctuated rhymically, like he was reading, which he probably was. Mista wouldn’t be surprised if the two of them spent their time reading to each other, as boring as it sounded. They seemed the type. The two of them were surprisingly cute, actually. Mista himself felt impossibly fond when he saw them together, Giorno tucked against Fugo’s shoulder or vice versa, voices carefully lowered, fingers gently intertwined, wearing twin smiles. He was truly happy for them, if not jealous of their easy, innocent love. That, he thought, was proof of Giorno’s humanity.
He was jerked out of thought when he heard sudden pounding footsteps heading his direction. Spine straightening, grip on his gun being secured, Mista prepared himself for an altercation. And then a mop of raven hair caught his eye and he grinned, all teeth.
“Narancia!” he called, and his friend appeared in the hallway, sprinting at full speed. He crashed into Mista, who let out an oomph! of surprise, still grinning. “What’s got you all spooked, dude?”
Narancia raised his head, panting, his dark blue eyes wide with anxiety. “Bro, I can’t tell you here!” he whispered, shaking his head. “He’s right there!”
Mista’s brows furrowed. “Huh? Who? Is there a Stand?” he demanded, suddenly more alert, his eyes searching the area, summoning the Sex Pistols.
“No!” Narancia whisper-yelled. “Just— Come on!”
Mista set his jaw. “Look, dude. I’ve got a job: I have to guard Giorno. I can’t just leave without telling him!”
“It’ll be quick!” Narancia said, his eyes pleading.
Heaving a sigh, Mista finally agreed. “Okay. But I’m gonna let Giorno know, okay? Just to be safe.”
Narancia bit his lip anxiously, but didn’t stop him, so Mista knocked on the door hesitantly. Inside, Giorno’s voice called, “Come in.”
Mista opened the door, glancing around, his eyes finding Giorno pretty quickly. The boy was sitting on his bed, his head resting on Fugo’s shoulder, nose pressed into the other boy’s neck. He was practically glued to Fugo’s side, and Fugo had an arm around him, his other holding a large book. Mista felt a small surge of pride that he guessed correctly, even as Fugo shot him a scowl, his pale cheeks quickly heating up.
“What is it, Mista?” Giorno asked, his eyes and voice alert despite his position curled up against Fugo.
“Nara wanted to show me somethin’. Is it alright if I head out for a couple minutes? I’ll be back soon.”
Giorno pursed his lips, exchanging a glance with Fugo, who rolled his eyes. I don’t care, the action seemed to say. Giorno, then, looked back at Mista and nodded. “You can go. We can take care of ourselves just fine, I think,” he said, his eyes gleaming.
Mista chuckled. “Right, boss. Thanks. I’ll be back in a few minutes, then.” He took another second to look at the two of them, the obvious comfort they felt together, the trust they had in each other, and his heart warmed. “You two are adorable, by the way,” he said fondly— partially because they were, but also because he knew the comment would annoy and embarrass Fugo— before turning and leaving, shutting the door on his way out and muffling Fugo’s shriek of rage.
“‘Kay. Let’s go,” Mista told Narancia, who had been lingering in the hallway. “This better be important.” Not that he didn’t enjoy spending time with his best friend, but this was just annoying— why couldn’t Narancia just tell him normally? He was being dramatic.
“Right,” Narancia said, his eyes flitting around anxiously. “Sorry. But it is important. Let’s just get a bit farther away.”
Mista stifled a sigh, but followed anyway. He wasn’t sure what had gotten into Narancia.
“So,” his friend said after a couple more seconds spent walking. “I think Giorno’s a vampire,” he blurted out, totally serious.
Mista stared at him, then huffed out a weak laugh. “What…? Is this a joke?” he said nervously.
Narancia shook his head urgently. “No! Look, I’ve had this suspicion that something was off. I’m sure you can feel it too. And I was trying to figure out what it was, but I just couldn’t, and then… Don’t you think it’s weird that he insists on being allergic to garlic? In Italy?” he demanded. Uh oh, he was on a roll now, Mista thought. There was no stopping him now. “And he’s, like, super strong, even though he’s smaller than Fugo! Remember when he beat you in that arm wrestle? Or his super healing! I know part of it is Gold Experience, but he said himself that his Stand only creates new body parts. Yet his own parts meld to him easily! When he heals you, it hurts, right? Because he doesn’t heal you. But when he heals himself, he’s fine after an hour or so.”
Frankly, Mista was surprised he had put so much thought into this— it was Narancia, after all. He scratched his jaw and frowned. “I think he just has a higher pain tolerance than me,” he admitted. “He cut his own hand off twice.”
“And he reattached that hand in minutes!” Narancia exclaimed. “Yet when the rest of us lose limbs, Buccellati still has to zipper them back on!”
There was something about the conversation that was inherently absurd. Casually speaking of losing limbs, healing back those injuries, creating new limbs or organs with a single thought. Hell, vampires. Stands always led to bizarre conversations, of course, but even for Mista, who considered himself a seasoned Stand user, this conversation was weird. Perhaps because he had never encountered vampires before.
He crossed his arms and thought about it for a moment, then was surprised to realize that Narancia’s argument made sense, and his evidence worked. “Holy shit,” he breathed. “You’re actually right.”
Narancia looked at him with wide eyes, nodding ecstatically. “See what I’m saying?”
“But… What about the sun? He doesn’t burn in the sun,” Mista said confusedly.
Narancia just shrugged. “It must be because of his Stand. Fugo once said that Gold Experience was like a plant— apparently, it photo-sizes or something.”
“Photo-sizes?” Mista asked, making a face.
“That’s what he said!” Narancia snapped. “That’s what Fugo said, so it must be a real word!”
Mista frowned. “I’ve never heard it before, but I guess you’re right.”
Narancia nodded again. “Gold Experience needs the sun— like the Sex Pistols with food. Fugo said some Stands are weird like that.”
“That makes sense,” Mista agreed. “So if Gold Experience needed the sun to survive, that must override Giorno’s vampire weakness?”
“Right,” Narancia said proudly. “See? That’s why he’s so powerful! A vampire Stand user!”
Mista nodded along for a moment before he paused. Wait. “Hang on. You were scared of him earlier: that’s why you didn’t want to talk about this over there!” he realized.
Narancia looked away awkwardly. “Well, I wasn’t scared…”
“You were,” Mista accused. “Even if he’s a vampire, he’s still Giorno! He’d never hurt us, dude. I know he’s weird, but he’s sweet as hell— you know that. He loves us, in his own way.”
Narancia pursed his lips, then finally sighed, slumping in what might have been relief. “Yeah… You’re right,” he murmured.
Mista hesitated again. “And vampires have super hearing,” he added, eyes widening. “Oh! That’s why you wanted to be further away!” Everything was lining up now. Then he froze. “Wait. Bro, do you think… If he and Fugo are…”
Narancia squeezed his eyes shut. “I really don’t want to think about that…” he complained. “But… Probably.”
Mista made a face. “Eugh. That’s weird to think about.” Fugo, getting his blood sucked by Giorno. Suddenly he wanted to get back to guarding Giorno’s door, make sure something like that didn’t happen. Surely Giorno didn’t need blood to survive, since he ate human food, but who knew. He didn’t like the thought of Fugo being vulnerable like that, even if he was with Giorno. “So Fugo knows, too, then?”
“Probably,” Narancia said. “Of course he wouldn’t tell us. It’s Fugo. But… he’s okay with it, right?”
Mista smiled at him reassuringly, patting Narancia’s shoulder. “It’s Giorno, dude. You really think he’d willingly hurt Fugo without his permission? No way. He’s head over heels.”
That did seem to help Narancia, who smiled back slightly. “You’re right,” he said. “Even if Giorno’s a vampire, I trust him. He’s still our friend.”
“That’s the spirit,” Mista said cheerfully, slapping Narancia on the back more roughly. His friend smacked him back, and Mista laughed, grinning. “C’mon. I gotta get back to guarding our vampire.”