Chapter Text
Oh prom, the milestone of every highschool coming of age event. The fucking Met Gala of hormonal teenagers, where people spend hours and days to doll up in dresses and shiny bowties to showcase their true style.
Prom was the night of many firsts. First dress, first date, first shot, first hangover, first hookup and for some of the lucky ones, first kiss. It’s the real graduation ceremony before taking the first step to adulthood, and celebrate however each pleases while they can still get away with being teenagers! With that said, it is the night of all nights for the rest of their lives.
“I fucking hate prom.” Abbacchio gruffed, popping a yellow balloon with his bare fingers. Trish screams next to him.
“Stop popping the fucking balloons!” Trish then hastily scoops up every balloon within a 2 ft radius from the angry goth.
“Oh c'mon Abba, lighten up.” Narancia chimes before blowing into a purple rubber balloon.
“Let him be. He just hates it because proms been making Bucciarati crazy.” Fugo lowered a yellow balloon and let it drift on the pile next to him.
To Abbacchio’s defense, the gymnasium was a warzone. Students were brisking from point A to B then Z and back to C. Many of which were holding prom decorations, paint buckets and props whilst expertly dodging obstacles like every episode of American Ninja Warrior was played at the same time. It was expected, since they were only actually given a few days to get everything ready. It would've been impossible. Unthinkable even, to actually get a bunch of angsty, clique oriented, sleep deprived teenagers with raging hormones to band together towards one goal? It should've been, but no. Nothing is ever impossible for Bruno Bucciarati.
“Oh, there he is now! ” Narancia points to the frazzled teen gliding across the room. “Hey Bucciara--”
“A little more to the center of the stage, Doppio! Yes, those streamers need to be higher Luca! Who ordered these red balloons? I specifically asked for gold ones if not yellow ocre! And dont get those stiff shitty ones that pop easily! THEY BETTER BE RUBBER AS A CONDOM!”
The guy was in his fucking element, a force not to be reckoned with. Even with his frazzled bob and the sweat on his forehead from running around all day (and the past 4 days), his voice still booms with unwavering authority and subjugation.
“TIZIANO, SQUALO AGAIN, PLEASE STOP MAKING OUT ON STAGE!”
Narancia shoots his arms down to his sides, “Mom’s scary.”
The rest of the gang were in balloon duty, sitting in a circle off the side of the stage surrounded by an obscene amount of newly bought balloons waiting to be inflated. It wasn't supposed to be this much but the party store ran out of those single colored sets and decided to get the rest in a mixed bag. So here they were, Fugo and Trish were both holding a pump, whilst Narancia, knowing that there is an extra third pump, opted to use his breath.
“Ugh, what the hell is Mista taking so long.” Fugo whines, “Trish, I thought you told Mista that we’re having stage rehearsal today.”
“I did swiss cheese, put your forks down he’s probably on his way,”
“Or maybe hes sucking face with Giorrrnnno,” Narancia teases.
“Highly doubt that,” Panna scoffs, “They've been frolicking around each other all year. It's almost an extreme sport.”
“Hmm, I think you’re gonna be wrong about that my sweet Pannacotta.” Trish hums, tying a knot into a white balloon. Fugo cringed hearing his first name.
“Yeah, Mista has be acting more stupid than usual,” Narancia places a finger to his chin in thought, “Like remember last week during band practice Mista was really feeling himself... You know what i mean?”
Trish’s face gradually contorts into disgust, chucking a yellow balloon at him, “TMI NARANCIA.”
Narancia catches the balloon effortlessly with a confused expression, “What? I'm just saying he thought no one was looking but the guy was showing his everything. "
Fugo groans into his hand and looks at Trish, “He just means, Mista’s performance was better. ”
“My point is,” Narancia continues, “ That was the time Bucci and Giorno visited to watch us practice! Mista was totally peacocking!”
“Praise Satan, So the lil shit finally realized his own feelings, And it only took about 2 years?” Abbacchio comments from the back.
“I’ll give it another year.” Fugo says nonchalantly.
Narancia hums, “I don't know man, I feel like this is gonna be the year. I'm willing to bet they’ll be sucking face by prom.” Narancia says confidently.
Fugo scoffs, “I mean this is Mista we’re talking about, the guy with an emotional perception of a squirrel. He probably still thinks he’s straight wholeheartedly.”
Trish grins knowingly, “How about this, if they’re not together by prom, Narancia will buy you two weeks worth of strawberry milkshakes at Libeccio.”
“TWO WE-- MPGH!” Trish did not let Narancia finish as she shoves a plastic balloon into his mouth.
Fugo visibly perks at this as Trish sweetens the deal. “And, I’ll go buy you a necktie of your choosing and I won't complain.”
Ooh, Fugo does love his neckties.
“BLECH!!” Narancia spits out the rubber balloon from his mouth, rubbing the salty bitter taste from his tongue, “Trish!”
“But if they do get together, ” Trish says, raising a finger at Fugo and pointing down at his feet, “Those crocs have got to burn.”
Fugo gasps , “You monster.”
“Oh! And! And! I get to perform the Big Sean song! On stage, and you’re helping me.”
“Hell fucking no!” Fugo aggressively throws a red balloon to Narancia’s face which only floated downwards to his lap due to minimal air resistance.
“Afraid you're wrong Fugo?” Trish teases, knowing it didn't take much to provoke him into a bet.
Fugo evaluates Narancia and Trish with calculating eyes, like probability numbers running inside his head, before breaking into a condescending grin, “Alright deal.”
“Deal.”
The pact is sealed.
Narancia whoops, punching a red balloon into the air.
“wait , fuck. Narancia, how many of those balloons did you make.” Fugo sits up.
“The whole bag, why?”
“You're supposed to inflate the yellow ones!” Fugo screams at the pile of red balloons behind Narancia.
Narancia tilts his head, “Uhh are you some kind of trip right now? They are yellow dumbass.”
Abbacchio’s head raises from its brooding. Trish releases a half aired balloon as it wheezes itself into the air. Fugo had a blank frozen stare. Trish looked at Abbacchio, Abbacchio looked at Fugo, Fugo looked at Trish, and all three at Narancia.
“What? Why are you guys looking at me like that?” Narancia shifts his sitting.
“Narancia,” Abbaccio says carefully, uncharacteristically, as he picks up a purple balloon on his side, “What color is this.”
“Are you guys serious? It's brown.”
Trish puts a hand over her mouth but the shock on her face was undeniable. Abbacchio slowly got up from his spot.
“What. Guys what.” Narancia asks like a statement, slowly getting up from his sitting position like an animal ready to jump.
“Narancia, I want you to calm down.” Fugo approaches, “That balloon is purple, and those are red.”
“You guys are fucking with me,” Narancia laughs with a sweat, “What are you tryna say? Im colorblind or something?”
Silence.
“Fugo, tell me I'm not color blind.” Narancia stands.
“You're colorblind.” Fugo says flatly.
“No fucking way!”
“That would actually explain a lot.” Trish places a finger to her chin, “Remember Mr. Kakyoin’s class last year?”
“Hey guys!” Mista and Giorno threaded through the sea of balloons upon their arrival. Mista cringing after popping one of the inflated ones. He tries to walk carefully, but pops another one by accident and apologizes. Giorno treads with finesse, swiping the balloons off their path.
“About fuckin time! We’re about to go in a few minutes!” Fugo hissed, “Hello Giorno.”
“Good morning, sweet Pannacotta.” Giorno says politely. Trish snorts from behind.
" Do you guys have some sort of telepathy with each other? Why are you both like this. seriously." Fugo throws his arms.
“GIORNO!” Narancia runs up to him, pressing a balloon right to his face.
“Good morning Naranmph--”
“Tell me this is yellow!”
"It's red." Giorno answers truthfully. Narancia screams.
“Is Nara’s colorblind?” Mista pauses and hums, “Okay that would actually explain a lot.”
"What's surprising is that you're not colorblind." Trish puts a hand over her mouth in horror, "Mista, what that fuck are those pants!?"
Everyone looks down at Mista’s ensemble. Hot pink tiger striped pants coupled a loud blue checked sleeved shirt and black boots to tie the hot mess together. Narancia looks up at Mista's clothes and his expression does a 180 and breaks out laughing like a hyena.
"Hot right? I got em at Buy 2 Take 1 thrift shop, a steal!" Mista grins proudly, sticking his leg out in a model pose.
"Sense of sight is truly a waste on you." Fugo squints at the eyestrain.
“Don't need it since I'm already a vision~” MIsta quips, striking a pose.
"That's criminal." Trish scrunches her face.
"Criminal because I'm stealing looks?~" Mista sticks another leg out in confident vogue fashion. "You guys should see the other two I got."
"Are you saying you have two other versions of this… atrocity?" Fugo gestures with his hand.
"Fugo, your pants look like rats ate through them in the dumpster, I dont think youre in any position to talk." Mista fires back.
"Pfft.."
Everyone turns their heads when they hear a chortle and a snort next to Mista. Giorno looks up, embarrassed at the sound he made, "I'm sorry-- Im- Pfft!" He chokes out looking away, trying to contain the rest of his laughter.
Mista's heart skips.
“Giorno! Finally, you're here!”
“Good morning, Bucciarati.” Giorno faces the teen dictator switching with cool composure.
“I'd like you to help with the flower arrangements for the stage, Pesci is…” Bruno scrunches his brows to find the word but gives up, “Fucking up. And I need you to lend him your artistic eye for composition.”
“Of course, right away.” Giorno perks at the mention of flower arrangements. Giorno follows Bucciarati to the other side of the gymnasium, but stopping first to look back, "Though tiger stripes are not my first choice, I think they fit you well, Guido."
Mista's face erupts to the color of the said pants. Narancia starts making gag noises. Trish nudges her elbow knowingly at Fugo, who only rolls his eyes. Abbacchio stares longingly at Bruno from the distance.
Fugo takes this as his cue, “Alright loverboy, get your shit together. Bucci says we need to be on in 5.”
-
Trish walks up to the center stage and taps a mic test humming a few notes. Once she was satisfied with the feedback she faced back to her bandmates, “Ready?”
"Wait what song are we practice covering?" Narancia asks from behind the drums.
"Anything will do, it's just a sound check anyway." Fugo adds placing his fingers on the keyboard.
“Oh! Can we do the Big Sean--”
“No.” Fugo answers quickly.
"Don't worry guys, I got this!" Mista chimes, and without wasting anymore discussion he starts playing a few notes to a familiar song they all knew. Fugo blinks in surprise. Narancia pouts with a shrug, backing up with an upbeat drum. Trish smirks at their guitarist’s song choice, already smelling victory that will be Pannacotta Fugo’s red crocs burning in the dumpster. She nods in approval and takes the mic.
“The way you move is like a full-on rainstorm
And I'm a house of cards
You're the kind of reckless
That should send me runnin'
But I kinda know that I won't get far”
Mista instinctively looked across at the gymnasium, it came natural at this point. He didn't even realize what for when he spotted a little makeshift flower station near the exit and his heart skips to familiar blonde curls. It could have been the sun getting a little brighter outside, but In that moment Mista saw Giorno glowing amongst the flowers.
Come to think of it, Giorno always glowed. Not literally, but with the kind that makes people (and animals apparently) drift towards him. Like Moths to a flame. For Mista, it was like gravity. It was the kind of pull that makes you feel like, ‘yes, this is right. I was supposed to meet you.’ to another person. Like a final piece that he didn't know that was missing all this time. Mista couldn't even remember himself before Giorno Giovanna. Okay maybe it's an exaggeration, but he certainly couldn't imagine not ever meeting him.
Mista jerks his guitar and pours his heart and longing into the last verses of the song. He was in the zone, he didn't care if people looked at him weird or funny. There was only one person he wanted to look his way.
“Get me with those green eyes, baby, as the lights go down
Give me something that'll haunt me when you're not around”
Mista looks up from the stage and Giorno is looking his way. Were they even really looking at each other from opposite sides of the gym? It could've been his imagination. There are a lot of people looking at the stage now. But at that moment Mista could've sworn that Giorno smiled at him.
“'Cause I see sparks fly whenever you smile”
Mista didn't notice the crowd already forming in front of the stage, not the whoops or whistles for an encore around the gym. All he was perceiving were emerald eyes and the sound of his own heart bursting through his chest.
-
“Dude you fucking manifested.” Narancia launches himself into Mista's back in an arm lock.
Mista yelps tipping over, "Nara-! You’re choking---!!"
Fugo walks over to help Mista off the feral orange, "You did good, you surprised me towards the end. That freestyle was amazing, we should keep it for our other performances."
Mista gawks at Fugo for a sec and breaks into a wide grin, "Did.. You-- was that a compliment?"
Fugo furrows his brows, "Don't make me take it back."
"Try not to feed too much of his ego." Trish chimes in, "I'm pretty sure that's where all his stupid comes from."
"By stupid you mean my ingenious Fugo-Pannacotta-approved musical talent?" Mista wiggles his brows.
“Ah you see what I mean?” Trish rolls her eyes with a grin, “Then I'm sure you wouldn't mind updating us with the song you're supposed to perform tomorrow?”
“Yeah dude, play us a few.” Narancia says excitedly, "If it's not better than the Big Sean song then we're vetoing your slot."
"Again no," Fugo stops, "but I'm proud you remember what veto is from our History lesson. "
Narancia beams at the praise. Fugo buries his face into his sleeve to hide an obviously fake cough. Mista and Trish raised their brows at this, then look at each other.
“Mista. Your song.” Fugo says quickly.
“Oh right, Sure!” Mista puffs up his chest with his newly fueled ego, “It actually came to me in a dream last night, check this,” Mista places his fingers on the fret boards and plucks a couple of notes.
They expected something with a fast or upbeat tempo since Mista was irritatingly open to his musical tastes at every chance he gets (which is sitting shotgun seat in every car ride and monopolizing the whole sound system). Aerosmith, Ramones, AC/DC, heck if naming his puppies after Sex Pistols wasnt enough of a hint; this man liked to Rock n Roll. So naturally his bandmates figured he’d make something along the lines of that genre and maybe talk out some explicit content to keep the potential teen riot to a minimum.
However, the stunned look of his bandmates seemed like it was not going to be a problem.
Trish’s eyes widened in surprise. Narancia actually shuts up for once whilst Fugo kept a calculating gaze on the guitarist. Mista plucked the next sequence in a better rhythm than the last. It was a soft tune, sure and careful. The notes were low and shy, but kept at a steady and gentle pace. For the first time, his band members described it as something they never thought they would associate with the brass, loud, and the unapologetic. Guido Mista: Delicate.
Mista doesn't notice the awed faces of his friends nor the fond smile creeping on his own when he starts humming a few broken lines to the song of his heart. “Can we always be this close. My, my, lover...”
He fidgets a bit and slows to a stop, heat rising to his face, “It’s a working progress! It's still kind of rough.”
Trish and Narancia stare at Mista and look at each other. A wide grin on their faces.
“Going shy on us now Mista? Where did all that confidence go? “ Trish jokes.
“Dude that sounded silky as fuck!” Narancia says, “Big Sean song is still better though.”
“That's because it's not finished yet.” Fugo says with a hand to his chin, “It still needs a lot of work but it has potential. If you need help with musical arrangements, I'd be happy to assist you.”
Mista sniffles and wipes a fake tear from his cheek, “Fugo. You really do have a heart!”
Fugo scrunches his nose, “I hate it when you do that, I do help people! I tutor Narancia remember?”
“Yeah but you don't usually offer it” Trish quips.
“So? Besides, you guys are different..” A pink tint rises to Fugo’s cheeks. Narancia immediately wraps his arms around Fugos neck and screams at the top of his lungs.
“Fugo loves us!!”
Fugo’s face flares into a blush and grabs to strangle Narancia, “Shut up! I don't!”
Trish chimes in a sing song voice, “Our sweet Pannacotta!”
“Wait lemme grab the mic!” Mista snickers like an asshole reaching over to the mic stand.
Fugo whips his head back, “Mista touch that mic and you’ll be on the receiving end of a fork!!---”
“HEY!”
They freeze. Abbacchio suddenly appears from below the stage. Narancia hops down from Fugo’s back and Mista pulls his arms back behind him like a kid pretending not to get caught. Trish whistling on the side.
“If you brats wanna kill each other, do it after packing your shit. Bruno needs this stage cleared for the flower decorations.”
Well, the goth has spoken. And whatever their designated dad says, goes.
-
The band retreated back to their balloon station to clean up the excess balloons. Mista deflated the extra purple balloons while Trish was packing the other colors in a trash bag.
“Bruh, you sure Narancia did all these by himself?” Mista gestures to the pile of purple balloons, “How the hell is that guy still breathing!”
“Drummer’s cardio I guess?” Trish answers nonchalantly, “But onto more important details, did you ask Giorno to prom yet?”
Mista jerks and shuffles quickly close to Trish in an angry whisper, “Shh! Are you trying to tell the whole school?” his head perks up to scan the premises, eyes fixing on a familiar blonde tending to the flower decorations on stage.
“First of all, no one is around. Second, your fingers stink.” Trish says, reaching for her bag.
“I was thinking of asking him” Mista leans back looks suspiciously at his fingers, “… afterschool”
“Good good, all according to plan. “ Trish hands Mista hand lotion with a punch on his shoulder, Make sure you don't get the words mixed up this time okay, casanova?”
Mista scratches the back of his head in confusion and takes the lotion, “What plan?”
“PROSCIUTTO YOU BITCH!”
Both their heads whip towards what sounded like a whole drum set was thrown down a flight of stairs. Mista and Trish looked at each other with shock and panic. They knew that voice. In that moment, they dropped everything and scurried to the front bottom of the stage, already speculating what's going down.
“Fight! Fight! Fight!”
There was what could only be described as a mosh pit of screams and howls, and in the middle of it all was Narancia. He got up from the wrecked state of his drum equipment and hoisted one of the drumheads over his shoulders with a cry.
“Narancia!”
The said boy flinches and looks to the side of a familiar voice. Abbacchio joined the ring with his palms raised, “Put. The Drum. Down.”
Narancia growls frustratedly, but suddenly feels a bit guilty seeing his worried bandmates behind Abbacchio. He lowers his arms reluctantly.
“Drop it.” Abbacchio says carefully. He raises a hand to signal Fugo on his left. Fugo recognizes the hand gesture and snaps out of his shock and disappears into the crowd in a hurry.
Prosciutto stood on the other side of the ring, patting down his nicely tailored vest, “Truly, I'd advise you put this pea-brained rat on a short leash if he’s already riled up over a stupid joke.”
Pesci suddenly appears from behind, face seemingly bruised, “Pea-brain! Haha! Nice one, brother!”
“You mOTHER--” Narancia screams, raising the drumhead with even more momentum. Abbacchio quickly flashsteps and grabs Narancia’s arms from behind, droppin the drum head on the ground.
“Kid, cool it! Remember you're on probation.” Abbacchio reasons.
“Abbacchio!” Narancia whines, arms wiggling in the air, “Just let me punch his stupid face once!”
“You already did.” Abbacchio said, “Twice actually, and then Prosciutto threw you.”
“Then can you punch him for me then?” Narancia looks up at Abbacchio with the biggest eyes. Abbacchio only gave him a deadpanned look.
“Now you got your goth to fight for your battles?” Prosciutto taunted, “We’ll we got one too bitch letsgo, our goth against yours!”
“Uhh, bro, Ris already went home.” Pesci says with a low voice.
Just then, familiar hurricane footsteps enter the ring, the crowd parting like the red sea, “Enough, both of you!” Bruno appears with Fugo by his side, the albino heaving with his hands on his knees. In that moment, teen rioting immediately went down to a minimum in the authoritative presence of Bruno Bucciarati.
Prosciutto clicks his tongue in annoyance.
“Fugo filled me in on the way here, Narancia. I'm very disappointed in you. I thought we had a meaningful discussion about this.”
“B-but, Bruno, they started it!”
"You’re the one who punched me in the face!" Pesci shrieks from behind his brother.
Bruno bites his lip at Narancia’s shattered face and turns away. His expression quickly darkens at the sight of Prosciutto’s condescending grin, “If this some sort of retaliation, Formaggio only brought those consequences on himself, by provoking Narancia.”
“Your little runt got off easy, don’t you think Ghriga should be held liable with his actions? He did throw the first punch, at Formaggio and now my poor brother Pesci!” Prosciutto says in dramatic sarcasm.
“However throwing a student into a drum set would also hold you accountable punishable by suspension.” Bucciarati says cooly. Bruno Bucciarati was not a violent person, he was more of a diplomat. To solve issues in a reasonable and civilized manner with the least amount of casuality. However, Prosciutto wont take any of that pacifist shit. He is angry and he wants blood. And he was going to get it.
In Prosciutto's mind, he’d already punched Buccirati in the face, but instead he places a foot on a stray drumhead rolling his way. He suddenly grins with an idea, “Okay fine, I’ll take it back.. I'm sorry for calling you a buffoon.”
Narancia wiggles, and Abbacchio sets him down on the ground. Bucciarati scowls with suspicion, that was way too easy .
“You're a baboon.” Prosciutto finishes. Ah, there it is.
Narancia pauses and looks up at Abbacchio, confused, “What’s a baboon. Is that better?”
Pesci laughs behind Formaggio and points, “No dumbass, it's worse. It's so much worse!”
“Im going to KILL YOU--” Narancia shrieks, running headfirst into them.
A lot of things happened at that point. Here's what happened in slow motion as all hell broke loose: Abbacchio took Narancia's elbow to the nose. Bruno and Fugo try to catch Narancia but only end up unceremoniously crashing into each other. Pesci turned tail and made a run for it. Prosciutto flipped the drumhead with his foot, and swung his leg. Trish punched the air to instigate Narancia's growing bloodthrist, “Punch him in the balls!”
Mista was about to jump into the scene when a shadow flew over him. He looks up and sees the drumhead cartwheeling into the air over the ring, he follows the path with his eyes and his stomach drops. He tunnel visioned to the stage and the flower stands as his mind did the math. Flowers. Drum. Giorno. Fuck!
He sprints like his life depended on it.
Somewhere in the chaos of teen riot, Mista screams out his name. Arms reach out to his frame as he braces himself for impact. After that came a moment of silence and dread. Noise erupted all around them, Mista couldn't make out what he was hearing, or what happened at all actually. All he feels is the pain of a thousand needles piercing his torso and the warm pressure around his arms. He was fighting for consciousness and was pretty sure he felt something gross and sticky on his arm.
“Mista! Oh my god Mista! You’re so--- Why would you do-- ”
Mista couldn't make out anything except for a pair of blurry green orbs close to his face. His eyes finally focus and sees Giorno’s face etched with concern and panic. He does his best reassuring smile in his delirious state and does a weak thumbs up, “Just.. peachy…”
And then he blacks out.
-
First thing Mista felt after being conscious were the fingers brushing through his hair. It was a pleasant feeling. He could get used to waking up like this on a regular basis.
"That feels nice." He blurts out, eyes still closed. He nuzzles his head more into the soft cushion under his head.
"Your hair feels nice too, you look better without your hat, Mista"
"Yeah? well only if you wear your down more often. I've only seen it once, and it's a crime I don't see often enough.” Mista answers smoothly.
A laugh echoes around his ears and Mista feels a hand on his cheek, "Open your eyes then."
Mista's obeys and he loses his breath.
Staring back at him were vibrant green irises under blonde lashes glinting at him with amusement. What made it all even more ethereal was the waterfall of golden locks framing his face. Mista couldn't fight the temptation and ran his fingers through them gently, tracing a thumb over his cheek.
"Are you an angel?" Mista asks dreamily.
Giorno laughs the same way that makes the sparks fly off of Mista’s chest, "No, that would mean you're dead."
Mista felt like he was on cloud nine. His body felt weightless and zero gravity. Suddenly, he's also weirdly hyper aware of the small details around him. The birds chirping, the wispy clouds, autumn leaves drizzling, the romantic pink filter all around them. And, is he hearing an orchestra somewhere?
They looked like they were in the park. How did they get in the park? And Mista wasn't sure if it was because of whatever hallucination he’s currently on right now but, Giorno sounded a bit different today. But like, not in a bad way, more like a 1960s Disney Princess kind of way. Like he's about to breakout in a musical number kind of way.
"Mista."
Mista looks back up at Disney Giorno and realizes he's even closer than before. His heartbeat quickens, feeling his face burst with sudden warmth when pale fingers cup his chin.
“G-Giorno.”
Mista closes his eyes in anticipation when he leans closer.
“Is.. Is this real?” Mista whispers.
Dinsey Giorno pauses, “Nope.”
" Wait what.” The orchestral music stops.
“You're dreaming.” Disney Giorno says truthfully.
“Oh,” Mista says, disappointed but that would explain the current trip he’s on, “Can I still get a kiss thoug--”
Then suddenly, everything sped off into a pit of darkness.
-
Mista jolts awake. For a moment, he didn't know where he was, all he knew was that his head hurt like a bitch. Oh wait a second, he knows this place. He was in the school’s clinic! If the ugly green curtains on each side of his bed looks familiar enough. He reaches over to feel the top of his head and then flinches with a sharp inhale.
That stings. What the hell happened? The last thing Mista remembers was Narancia’s voice screaming bloody murder whist throwing firsts in the middle of the riot. The gym must be a wreck right now. Aw man, Bucciaratis is gonna be so pissed. His hand droops down to the side of his head as his mind raced through the recap.
Flowers. Drum. Giorno. Fuck.
Mista jerks up from the bed with panic surging through his body.That's right, Prosciutto kicked the drumhead and missed Narancia by a mile. Which was good, knowing that Prosciutto can't aim for shit, but bad, really really bad, as soon as Mista realized the drumhead's trajectory towards the stage where Giorno was working on the flower stands. There were two on each side.
Of course. Of course there were four flower stands. He’s gonna have to deal with that one later. There's no way in hell they are performing on that god forsaken stage. There might as well be no performance at all! But onto more pressing matters.
“Giorno!” He quickly pulls himself off the bed, and skips despite half tripping over his shoes. He stumbles toward the curtain and basically tears it open, not expecting to meet a pair of stunned green irises looking back at him.
“Yes?” Giorno blinks at Mista’s unexpected burst. Giorno held a first aid box between his hands and a mixed look of worry and relief in his face.
“Uhh! Nothing I..”, Mista steps back and gives Giorno a look over, “Are you okay?”
“I should be the one asking you that.” Giorno scoffs and walks past Mista, “You shouldn't be walking around after taking a drum on the head.”
Mista turns to follow Giorno, standing next to a chair near the bed. It doesn't seem like Giorno took much of the crash. Face unscathed, hair still impeccable, clothes only slightly wrinkled. He masks a sigh of relief. He’s okay, well maybe except for the scowl on his face. He looks upset, oh no.
“I'm surprised you’re standing at all.” Giorno continues.
Mista walks up to Giorno, throwing a hand to his face theatrically, “Ah, you weren't supposed to find out about it this way but it's true, I have superpowers.”
“Well if you can still crack shit like that, I suppose you didn't hit your head too hard.” The tension on Giorno’s shoulders loosens slightly, “Sit. I still have to disinfect your wounds.”
“Giogio, chillout, I feel fine. Great even!” Mista says confidently, “I hardly even anythi-- OW! OW! OW! SHIT!”
Giorno takes Mista’s forearm, only releasing after he sits Mista on the bed. He whines after Giorno pulls away. He rubs the bruise on his arm and half heartedly glares up at the blende, who looks back at him expectantly.
“What?”
“Take your shirt off.”
Mista’s brain flatlined. “Um, sorry, what.”
Giorno looks at his feet but before Mista could make out the tint on his cheeks, the blonde looks back up with a masked face he’s seen too many times before, “Your upper body took most of the fall, I need to know if you're hurt anywhere else since your too stubborn to tell me otherwise.”
“Uh.” Mista answers dumbly. What are words again?
Giorno pauses, “Though I understand if you feel uncomfortable to do so with me, I can get Fugo--”
“No!” Mista pulls back his hand, “Uh I mean, you’re great-- I mean fine! I-I'd rather it be you than Fugo.”
Rather be anyone than Fugo. Fugo may be a child prodigy but the guy can't tell the difference between a bandage wrap and a stapler.
Giorno nods knowingly and sits himself on the side of the bed. Mista tries to steady his heartbeat when the bed dips to the side. Is he not going to sit on the chair? Mista swallows the lump on his throat and takes the bottom edge of his shirt.
Be cool, Mista. It's no big deal. Bros take off their shirt in front of their bros all the time! Stop freaking out! It’s only Giorno.
Just Giorno. Right. Mista raises his arms and all the embarrassment flushes away at the sudden pain on his shoulder, and basically his entire left torso actually. Mista winces as he takes the rest of his shirt over his head carefully and puts the crop top aside.
“Well that hurt like a bitch,” Mista whines, raising his left arm, "Is it bad?"
Giorno places the first aid on his lap and opens it, “The flower stand you landed on had roses. Roses have thorns. A few scratches and bruises, are to be expected.”
“They’re not poisonous are they?” MIsta says in genuine concern.
Giorno moves closer with a thin pair of medical tongs and a cotton ball on the tip, “Of course not. The worst you can get is a splinter.”
Mista sighs in relief. However that sigh is immediately retracted by a sharp inhale, “Ow!”
Giorno didn't look away and continued to dab into the wound on Mista’s shoulder, “Oh don't be a baby, it's just a scratch.”
“Well be more gentle! It still hurts!”
“I can’t really help much with the pain. Just suck it up. You’re a big boy aren't you?” Giorno says with a hint of humor in his voice, but still no smile.
Mista lets out another yelp when Giorno dabs another freshly doused cotton ball onto his open wound. Mista almost whimpers and shuts his eyes to try and think of anything to distract him from the pain. When he thinks of nothing, he opens his eyes to the blonde on his side. Wow .
Giorno was so close. So close he can make out the strands flying out of his curls. Mista couldn't fight the temptation and ran his fingers through them gently, tracing a thumb over his cheek. Hah, as if he could actually do that in real life. Though for some reason, why did it feel familiar? Shaking the rest of his thoughts, Mista takes the time to memorize the details of the blonde’s face. From the concentration of his brows and his high cheekbones, down to his slightly parted lips. I mean, how often is he able to stare at Giorno this close under reasonable excuses?
He looks so cute when he’s focused.
“-rry”
“Hhuh-- what?” Mista snaps from his daze.
“I'm sorry.” Giorno says, eyes not leaving his work, “This is because of me.”
“What?” Mista was immediately brought back to reality, “Giogio thats stupid, If theres anyone to blame its Proscuitto for bein a petty bitch.”
Giorno looks at him with a hint of guilt. He bites his lip. Is that what he was upset about?
“Listen, the whole stage was cursed by four flower stands. It was fucked from the start.” Mista puts a hand on Giorno’s shoulder, “ If anything, I should be glad this was all I got. The stage would have collapsed and we all could have died, but since you were there, we all survived. Seriously Giogio, your kind of a lucky charm. ”
Giorno looks at his friend like he just said he was pregnant, “That would be highly unlikely, and impossible, i'm not lucky.”
“Uh, yes you are. Plus, the fact that I took a blow to the head and practically body slammed myself into a patch of roses and still look this good, I’d say that's pretty lucky.” Mista nudges his elbow playfully and proudly gestures to himself, “I'm your living proof.”
“That is groundless and absurd!” Giorno finally smiles with a chuckle, and all is right in the world again. They sat in comfortable silence, well with the occasional yelps and whimpers from Mista’s low pain tolerance and Giorno telling him to stop squirming.
"Bucciarati told the committee that you were performing an original.” Giorno says, as an attempt to keep Mista from thinking about the pain.
“O-oh he did?” Mista’s heart quickens, but not for the usual reason, “ Oh yeah um, he did. It’s a funny story actually, I wasn't even thinking about it when I said it. It was a fluke, I suck at rhyming turns out haha. Im still sort of working on it im not even sure if it’ll be finished by tomorrow night, It’s stupid. Im stupid--”
“ I think it’s amazing.” Giorno says quickly.
Mista shuts up.
Giorno’s gaze flicked for a moment between him and the cotton, “ Its not stupid. You're one of the most talented musicians I've ever met. Your passion for music shines brighter than the rising sun. And when you’re on stage doing what you love best, it’s when I know music is what you’re meant to take. You’re breathtaking when you play. I'm sure youre song is going to be amazing, Mista." The blonde grins fondly at the last few sentences
Mista stared at him for a long while. A while that seemed to stretch to an eternity with only his words playing back like a skipping record spiraling him into the cosmos. Mista doesn't know exactly what kind of face he's making right now but its probably stupid because Giorno smiles at him with a little something in his eyes.
“So, for the record. Would you say i'm your favorite guitarist?” Mista wiggles his brows.
“If you’re asking if you’re better than the great, Jeff Beck. No.” Giorno grins, “but you're close second.”
“Fuck yeah I’ll take it!” Mista pumps a fist in the air, then cringes at the sudden pain on his side, “Ow ow ow..”
Giorno sighs through his nose and smiles at his friends' antics, "Can I ask what it's about? " the said blonde asks casually.
"Oh um, it's about… "
You .
Definitely can't say that. Mista eyes shift around quickly for an answer, “the Pistols!”
Wait what the fuck.
Giorno pauses for a moment, “You wrote a love song about your dogs?”
“Yes. Yep. Because I love them. So much. They're the best.” Mista answered with a slight cringe.
Giorno nods seriously, “Valid. They're very cute.” he hums. Mista does a mental facepalm and is slightly astonished that Giorno bought his sad excuse.
“Alright,” Giorno pulls away, dropping a bloody cotton ball to a trash bin, “see that wasn't so bad now was it?”
“It was, you’re brutal” Mista jokes and reaches for his shirt, but immediately pulls back when a pair of tongs slap his hand away. “Ow! What was that for?” he says, rubbing his hand.
“We’re not done yet. That was just your arm.” Giorno says with a confused look, “We still need to check your torso.”
“Aw man..”
Then you can probably imagine how that turned out.
Mista pulls his shirt back on and is finally released from the tortures of ethyl alcohol. Giorno stood away on a table, packing up the first aid and throwing away the bloody cotton balls into the trash. Mista stole a discreet glance at Giorno and concluded that he wouldn't mind body slamming into a patch of roses again if it meant being able to spend time with Giorno like this. He looks away quickly, tying his shoes together.
“Let me just get your hat,” Giorno says walking towards the curtains, “I washed off a few of the bloodstains, but it should be dry now.”
Mista freezes. He pats the side of his head, then the other side, sliding over the curls of his exposed nape. His beanie. Was he not wearing his hat this whole time? Giorno comes back a few minutes later holding his precious beanie. He looks at Mista, and for a second there he can actually make out a clear expression on Giorno.
“Thank you, Mista. For catching me.”
“Of course Giogio, I’ll always be here to sweep you off your feet..” Mista says without thinking as he takes the beanie. He pauses, seeing the stunned look on the blonde’s face. Wait.
“I-I mean like platonically like how bros catch each other y'know? Like how Abbacchio is to Bucciarati-- No, wait not like that- They’re a couple and we’re-- But i’d still carry you though like not just you but also Trish and Fugo--”
Giorno’s laugh pierces through his ramble. He had a hand on his mouth but it was hardly enough to hold off the mirth on his lips. It was a rare thing for Giorno to laugh. Sure there were some giggles and chuckles over some snappy remarks here and there, but Mista would gladly be the butt of the joke if it meant Giorno laughed like this because of him.
Their laughter dies down as they gaze at each other. Mista fiddles with his hat, realizing he hasn't put it on. He pulls it up and plops the beanie over his head, “Thanks.”
“For the record, you look better without it,” Giorno comments with a shy blush.
Woah, dejavu?
Mista wipes his clammy hands on his pants as he swallows the dryness from his throat.
Ask him! Ask him!! a little voice screamed inside his head
“Listen Giogio, will you… Are you planning.. On going to prom this weekend?”
The smile on Giorno’s lips slowly disappears and for a second, Mista thought that he fucked up, “Oh, Mista haven't I mentioned I have a rec-- ”
In that moment a shrill sound of the curtains being pulled back was cut through their conversation. Fugo looked at the two with a worried look, a look that says shits about to really go down.
“Shits about to go down.” Fugo says.
They both looked at each other, a new worry in their faces. That conversation would have to wait.
They immediately followed Fugo back to the gym. Upon arrival, Mista’s premonition of the stage was just as he pictured it would. Fucked. The flower decorations were wrecked, petals were scattered around the stage and props from the set design were completely ripped from the walls, and in the middle of it all were Bruno and Prosciutto. Thankfully, the rest of the decorations around the gym were still intact, but that stage is seriously gonna need some makeover miracle. Giorno, Mista and Fugo made their way through the crowd.
“Oh shit Mista you’re alive!” Narancia hugs Mista’s neck.
“Not if you keep choking me- Narancia-- My neck-- Let- Go--!” Mista chokes struggling under the tight grip of the feral orange. Abbacchio pulls the child off by the back of his collar as Mista gasps for air.
“Thanks AbbacchiooOH MY GOD! What the fuck happened to your face!” Mista points at the bloody twin tissues Abbacchio held to his nose. The goth only seethes in response and looks accusingly at Narancia, who only laughs nervously.
“I said I was sorry, Abba!”
“Whats happening?” Giorno asks, joining Trish and Fugo in the front row.
“Well, after Mista got knocked out shit hit the fan really quick.” Fugo says, “Narancia went batshit at Prosciutto and just got his ass handed to him.”
“I was winning by the way.” Narancia whines in the background.
Fugo turns back with a scowl, “Narancia, you're literally half the guy’s size. You weren't winning shit. Participation award at best! Anyway, Bruno stepped in and Prosciutto went batshit on him and started throwing shit on stage, but Bruno--”
“Sh! Prosciutto’s saying something!” Trish shushed Fugo’s lips, eyes still invested at the two men on stage.
Bruno and Prosciutto were both standing over each other, both slightly disheveled and out of breath from strife and grappling.
“Prosciutto, this isn't looking good for either of us! This is pointless!” Bruno argues.
“You just can't sweet talk your way out of this one, Bucciarati.” Prosciutto heaves and straightens himself, “So let's settle the score and end this, once and for all.”
Bruno raises his brow in question.
“A fistfight. You, me. Tomorrow. 8am. Parking Lot.“ Prosciutto dusts his shoulder.
It went quiet for anticipation as all eyes turned to Bruno Bucciaratti. Bruno stood frozen with a dark shadow in his eyes, and for a moment he did not look like their usual mom who preached about using words instead of violence not too long ago in the groupchat. Oh, how did it come to this? To come this far to only see yourself turn into a villain? Bruno glanced at the faces of his worried gang sitting in front of the stage. Narancia’s bruised face, Mista’s bandaged arm, and Abbacchio’s bloody nose.
Realization hit him like an ice cold bucket of water in the middle of April. How could he have been so selfish? This wasn’t about him. If only he hadn't been so busy maybe he could have prevented this from happening.
No, I can blame myself later. Right now, someones gotta knock these bitches down a peg.
Bruno looks back up at Prosciutto with a new fire in his eyes, “You hurt my boyfriend and two of my kids. I’ll be damned if I let you get away with it.”
Prosciutto grins, “It's a date.” and walks off with Pesci tailing behind but not before flipping the bird.
Everyone stood still even when Prosciutto left. The whole gang (and the rest of the school) left with their mouths hung at what they’ve just witnessed. What they think they'd ever witness from the pacifist that is Bruno Bucciarati.
Prom was definitely a day of many firsts. First dress, first shot, first hangover, and for one Bruno Bucciaratti, his first first fight.
“Go Brucciarati! Whoo!”