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"I bet you five lires that that bird is gonna shit on that man." Mista points rudely at the man in question and you give him a mere glance as a little hint that you're not amused by his shenanigans.
"That's a pretty fifty-fifty bet, Mista, if I were you I'd—heh—pick my pois—"
Just as he predicted, the bird in question takes a ruthless dump on the man's expensive suit.
"Woah. Son of a bitch," you comment uselessly while handing Mista the money.
"Now, now, don't be a sore loser," he advises cockily.
"One off-chance doesn't mean anything!" You were willing to take the loss at first, but he's pushing his luck at this point. He must know that you're short-tempered before using the words sore and loser in regards to you. "I bet you five lires that this car is gonna splash the same man."
"I bet five lires he's gonna curse!"
"I bet five lires he's gonna trip on something!"
Bruno quickly shut the two of you up before you could make this unknown man's day any shittier with your cursed powers. He's getting irritated with your enthusiastic chatter either way.
But this is it. The moment which is going to trigger your ridiculous game of five lires with Mista for the next few months.
***
Giorno may be a newbie, sure, but the kid's already had a few missions with the gang. And to you, it was a whole lot easier to warm up to him than it still is to Abbacchio.
So, you have no trouble opening up to him. Sharing little snippets of your pasts is a normal thing between friends, as far as you're concerned. You tell him an overly convoluted story about how you used to be a con artist before you somehow ended up meeting Bruno, and tell him about all the notable people you managed to scam.
Giorno listens intently, though his face doesn't betray much interest. Even so, that doesn't stop your rant about making the mayor believe that you ate your fingers and how he then decided to lead an investigation on you.
The blonde opens his mouth to say something—most likely a story of his own—and you smile pleasantly in an attempt to encourage him. He isn't really much of a talker, but you'd like to befriend him.
Whatever it was he was going to say dies in his throat when Mista puts an arm around your shoulder. Your expression changes to one of mild annoyance.
It's not that you dislike Mista and seeing him is the cause of the drop of your smile. It's just that it's painfully obvious that he's here for another round of five lires, and you're kind of broke.
He points ahead somewhere in the horizon and you try to pinpoint exactly what it is that he's trying to show you. "You see that tree there?"
You squint your eyes before you nod.
"I bet you five lires that exactly three branches are going to fall off of it in the next few seconds."
You purse your lips and look towards Giorno, who's trying to hide his smile. It's almost as if they both know something that you don't. Cautiously do you observe the tree, wondering why Mista would bet on something so... strangely specific.
A lot of your bets tend to be obvious in nature, but this is plain unpredictable.
Until you realise— and your eyes widen— and this is why Giorno was smiling, that little—
He takes out his gun from his pants (you warned him that one day he's gonna shoot his dick off and he had the nerve to laugh at you, then proceeded to tell you to get your mind outta the gutter) and shoots at three relatively weak, withered branches.
They fall to the ground unceremoniously and a few people give him curious looks.
"Mista, you're so..."
Your tone is deadpan, yet your lips quirk up slowly but surely. He expects some sorta backhanded compliment or for you to admit that he outsmarted you this time. You want to tell him that he's cheating and that you're not giving him five lires, but all the comes out of your mouth is wild laughter.
"You're so extra." You throw the money at him hazardly and he starts yelling at you for 'not taking him seriously'.
***
"Five lires you won't eat two dishes of Vindaloo in an hour," Mista announces once you and the gang find yourselves in the usual knockoff Olive Garden.
You give him a cold, hard look. You're not sure if he's trying to give you diarrhea or what, but this time you might as well give up without a fight for a change. You reach into your pocket to give him the traditional amount, until Narancia nudges you.
There's something akin to disappointment in his eyes, though you might just be mistaking his desire for chaos for something it isn't. "Come on, [Y/n]. If you do it, the whole dinner's free!"
You twitch a bit, before cracking your knuckles. "Okay, fine. For you, Narancia."
He starts cheering you on—that makes two people a bit too eager to see you bedridden because of diarrhea—and you make your order with utmost confidence. Bruno says something about this being a "bad idea" and how sometimes you give him "headaches" under his breath, whatever that's supposed to mean.
When your dish arrives, your nose scrunches up and you glance sideways at the clock. You can see Mista's lips quirk up in your periphery and how Narancia looks more interested in you than he's ever been, but you don't pay either of them any mind.
It's around the thirty minute mark, when you're half asleep against the table with shit dribbling all over your face, that everyone—even Narancia—tries to convince you to stop. Mista throws the godforsaken five lires at you, but it's too late.
You're not a quitter.
"I'm not a quitter," you reassure, practically foaming at the mouth with either rage or drool, or maybe determination if an onlooker is being generous. A mixture of those might be exactly what it is. Drool filled with rage—that sounds like more of a Purple Haze kind of thing, but you guess you can share titles with Fugo's, in Layman's terms, off the shits stand.
In the nick of time you barely, scraping-desperately-at-the-bottom-of-the-barrel barely, make it until you half-heartedly stand up and stumble your way to the bathroom. With a burp which has the putrid smell of your pent up frustration, you speak your final words of truth before disappearing into the restaurant. "I can't breathe fire but soon, I'll be shitting it."
Narancia has some nerve to burst into a fit of giggles at your dramatically departing figure.
***
A few days later, you're not really sure what to do when Mista awkwardly approaches you with calloused hands rubbing at his neck nervously. Figuring that a raised brow should do, he takes the cue and proceeds with... whatever it is that he wanted.
"Um, are you okay?"
Oh, so that's what this is about.
"Crazy diarrhea happening right now," you answer in a teasing tone, which makes whatever remorse Mista had felt about your condition dissipate.
(This is probably why you give Bruno "headaches".)
***
A slap on your shoulder brings your attention to Mista. You were lost in conversation with Fugo as you tried to give him a few tips on how to make his, well, using the word lightly, tutoring more effective.
Your gaze snaps towards the male. An attractive smirk settles on his face and maybe your gaze lingers on his cupid's bow a bit too much, but you brush that moment of hesitation off with ease.
You know what he wants. It's just about time that he brings it up.
Though, this time, you manage to catch his train of thought and beat him at his own game.
"Five lires that Narancia's radio is broken?" you titter breathily and he frowns immediately.
"Aw, man! How'd you—"
"I saw you pour sprite on it. Again." Though you're not exactly sure why you were staring at him both of those times in the first place.
"Anyways, [Y/n]," Fugo chimes in after your exchange of both words and money is over, as Mista had interrupted you mid-sentence.
You continue your discussion with him regarding Narancia's tutoring, and Mista leaves with a pout. He's not really sure what he's more disappointed in—losing your attention for the hundredth time or losing five lires for the hundredth time.
***
Though you're less fiery than Fugo in his worst moments, you also have a temper and it's hard not to lash out at Narancia. It is a struggle for someone as candid and as blunt as you, but you do keep your rage over his lack of understanding at bay. Mainly for his sake.
Seemingly still not grasping the oh so complicated mechanic of multiplying double-digit numbers, Narancia scratches his head. Subconsciously, you scratch yours too, in a last resort to think of something.
You're not really sure if bribery can stimulate someone's memory, but you know that it can at least serve as motivation. For all that it's worth, you lean in and begin to whisper as if you're sharing otherworldly secrets with him.
Almost by the end of your hushed offer of free pizza for him if he manages to get at least a D by your standards, a hand is slammed on the table. You lazily look up at Mista. It's often, you realise, that he interrupts your business with the other members of Passione.
"What do you want?" you drawl out in a bored manner, did you seem more cheerful talking to Narancia just now or is it his mind playing tricks on him—?
"Five lires that I'll catch a pigeon before you do," he offers somewhat desperately. With no missions and almost no one in Passione, and all of his magazines read twice, he's been bored out of his mind for the past few hours. Since Narancia is supposed to be studying, he turns to you for entertainment.
"I'm kinda busy here."
There's a slight whine in your voice. Mista knows that you're never one to turn down a challenge.
"Guess I win then," he boasts with a shrug and a smirk, and you can only glare at him.
"What's with the weird bet anyway? You gonna shoot an innocent pigeon and bring it here like you shot those branches a few months back?"
"I-I wasn't going to!" Though the slight stammer in his voice makes it obvious that this was his diabolical plan all along.
"Well, you won't get to anyway, because I have to help Narancia or Fugo will yell at him again and I'm really tired of knife fights—James Bond-style—right in front of my salad."
"Aww, you care!" Narancia chirps childishly, though his addition to the conversation is ignored for the most part.
"I don't think there were any knife fights in James Bond," Mista argues.
"Oh shut up, what do you know about the James Bond cinematic universe?"
"More than you, apparently."
"Unorthodox way of displaying your hubris, but very well."
"You don't need to make up words to win an argument."
"I'm not making up shit."
Narancia sighs as he looks over the notes you wrote for him. As appealing as pizza sounds, he's not really sure he'll get any if Mista keeps distracting you (which seems to be a favourite past time of his as of late).
"Shut up you guys," he whines, though there's a bit of malice in his tone. You figure that though he's been kind to you so far—perhaps because he favours your teaching method over Fugo's—you're not confident he won't whip out the knife on you if you upset him.
"Yeah Mista, shut up, I'm trying to expand my mind and sync my brainwaves with Narancia here." With a fluid motion and complicated gesture of your left hand, you shoo him away.
He leaves with a grumbled whatever as you go back to attempting to become a teacher overnight.
***
Your eyes drift between the peacefully sleeping Abbacchio and literally anything else in vicinity as you suppress your giggles. Barely, just barely. What was it again? Scraping-desperately-at-the-bottom-of-the-barrel barely?
Guido leers over your form. "Hey, why're you creepily smiling and looking over at Abbacchio? Did you pull some kinda prank, wha—"
Letting out a long stifled laugh, you motion your friend to come closer. Curious as to what's so funny, Mista complies. He follows your trembling index finger in Abbacchio's direction before you utter words of either pure horror or something that he should've expected you to say in his ear. "Grandpa piss is unconscious."
A bit anticlimactic, but he lets out a chortle anyways.
***
"Hey, [Y/n]," Trish calls out just as you're about to head out for groceries.
"Hm?"
"Other than the Perrier, can you get me some pudding?"
"Alright."
Just as you're about to step outside, Mista decides to be the one delaying your undoubtedly thrilling adventure to the supermarket by making his body an impromptu blockage.
"Hey, [Y/n]."
You let out another hum, just for the experience of deja vu. Feels kooky, you think to yourself.
"So, this is pretty spontaneous," he trails off, his eyes jumping to the side along with what appears to be some sort of unlikely meekness.
"Yeah?"
"Before you go. Outside, I mean. Wanna have our final bet?"
Your eyebrows rise up at this, though no words escape you. To be honest, you didn't think your little game would have any sort of grand conclusion. You figured you two would just drop it when you get tired of it.
"Sure?"
Despite quite the opposite reply coming from you, you sound quite unsure. The atmosphere has somehow changed, perhaps due to the realisation of his close proximity, or the abruptness of the situation.
"Since it is our final bet," you shuffle a bit backwards, "better make it count. Better take me out in one shot."
"Alright then. Five lires you won't kiss me."
Mista stares at you. You stare back. It's cool versus cooler.
You lips quiver with uncertainty, unable to tell whether he's genuinely attempting to express his feelings towards you, or if he's trying to get easy money—because, there's nothing between the two of you, so you wouldn't do it, right?
You freeze up for a bit. Hesitancy isn't something you display often, yet Guido seems to bring it out of you flawlessly.
But the way he seems anxious with anticipation of what you're going to say next, and the way his confession (you suppose that's what it is) is not romantic at all, yet it's so simple and out-of-the-blue and unbelievably Mista tells you that you can safely bet there is some sort of real attempt here. And, hey, you could at least get five lires out of it for all that it's worth, right?
The distance you forced between the two of you earlier, you abolish by yourself as you capture his lips in a sweet kiss. He's a bit too happy and a bit too eager at the contact, bumping his nose with yours, but at the end, you don't mind.