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Things had moved so quickly from the day that Mista first saw that goddamned stone. The days that followed were simultaneously the worst and best of his life, light and dark in near-equal measure.
He hadn't been expecting to come dangerously close to death not one but several times, fall head over heels in love and then skyrocket to the position of the second most powerful man in Italy in the span of a week. Now, Mista did not like to overthink things and keeping busy worked wonders for keeping his mind distracted, but even he had to admit that he very much wanted off this roller coaster for at least a second to just breathe.
Everything happened so fast.
He's blinked and now it's been a week since they held three funerals.
A week now and he still keeps turning to his side to find that Narancia is not there. He keeps hearing the wind fluttering and expecting it to be Abbachio's jacket, but it isn't. And he turns now to a man whose soul is bound to a turtle for guidance instead of Bucciarati. He'd cried for them a week ago but apparently that wasn't enough, and as the days go on he starts wondering when it'll stop hurting so much.
He has to be strong, though. Giorno needs him, Trish needs him to be. He needs to be that rock-steady presence in the swirling miasma of the chaos their lives have now become in Passione. The crude but reliable, happy-go-lucky Guido Mista that everyone can count on to be so, the shoulder to cry on. And the people he loves, their number cut so brutally short so quickly, they need him now more than ever.
If he's falling apart at the seams or crumbling under the weight of unspoken guilt, well, that's just something he can deal with quietly, by himself, and more importantly, later. Whenever he's asked how he's doing his answer is an immediate and casual “I'm fine” before the subject gets dropped. What he's going through right now is nothing compared to what Giorno must be dealing with, having just assumed control over an absurd amount of power on two counts. The boy is, quite frankly, untouchable now.
(Mista doesn't count the times when Giorno clings to him as though afraid that if he lets go he'll fly apart, as untouchable.)
There are a few times when Mista, in a moment of pure selfishness (to him, at least), wants to to seek some comfort and cry, or to even just say something about how empty this new villa feels. Sure, Fugo's come back to them with his own new little posse (who Mista likes very much, they're a fun bunch) and Trish's room is already fit to bursting with new furniture and clothes, but it just isn't the same. They're still short three rooms – well, two, technically, because Mista was the only one who knew of Abbacchio's plans to propose to Bucciarati when the time was right, and also of Bucciarati's plan to do the exact same thing. He wishes he could laugh aloud at that sitcom scenario with someone because what were the odds of that happening? It would relieve some of that increasing pressure weighing heavy on Mista's ribcage to do so. But he doesn't.
Because he sees the bags under Giorno's eyes and how those eyes seem just that much dimmer at the end of a difficult day, and he quietly tucks his words away and just holds him close. Another time, he tells himself. It's nothing, I'm just tired, he tells Giorno. Let's just get to sleep, yeah? Tomorrow is another busy-ass day.
His words burn unsaid at the back of his throat night after night. No matter, he'll vocalize his what-ifs when it's a good time to, and if that day never comes then that's just how it's going to be. It's just nonsense anyway, nothing important. The elephant in the room can stay there unperturbed for a while longer.
He doesn't catch Giorno's gaze lingering on him a little more than usual before he pretends to fall asleep. And he doesn't notice how Trish's hands linger on his own for a few extra moments when they separate for the day, and it definitely escapes his watch at how quickly Fugo's tone softens whenever he reprimands him for nodding off during briefings.
(The stand-users on Mista's security team send back private reports of contrasting natures. At times he's frighteningly efficient, sometimes robotic and silent; other times they note he lacks focus and is prone to harsh words unusual for him. Curiously, all the reports say that they see only five little golden figures redirecting his bullets, though Mista seems not to have noticed. What the hell are you talking about? They're all here, you're just seeing things. Watch your six!
No one knows what it means. Giorno fears the worst and tells them to keep him updated.)
Mista is fine. He knows that he's with people who would do anything and everything for him, but they don't need to.
He's fine.
---------
It's been about two months now from that day at the coliseum. Under Giorno's careful eye, Passione is now settling into the great organization he'd always wanted it to be, and things are easing into a mostly steady rhythm and routine. He's made and burnt the bridges he needed to and now most nights he and Mista have some quiet time before going to bed. Mista's brain has checked out for the day and he lies swaddled under the blankets, though out of habit he's got an eye trained on Giorno's whereabouts.
“Hey,” he sighs when the other man slips under to join him, lying on his side to face him. Giorno 'heys' back and rests his head on the pillow, just watching him quietly.
Today hadn't been too bad as far as workload went, but Mista's still as exhausted as he's ever been. His lids droop as he just takes in the sight of the one in front of him. His green eyes have that shine now that Mista would recognize anywhere – Giorno's studying him, though to what end Mista isn't sure. The silence stretches between them for a bit, and he waits for whatever analysis is about to come.
“Mista, I must apologize,” Giorno says suddenly. Mista blinks slowly before his eyebrows knit together in confusion.
“Uh, for what? You haven't done anything,” he points out. Giorno nods.
“That's exactly it. I haven't done much for you as of late, and while we are both busy with Passione, that is no excuse. I'm sorry.”
Mista can hardly believe his ears. What is Giorno talking about? If there's anyone who hasn't been pulling his weight around here it's himself, moping around like a-
“My love, don't think I haven't noticed how little sleep you've been getting,” Giorno says softly, a hand tucking an errant lock of hair behind Mista's ear. “Or how recklessly you throw yourself into your work. You're carrying a lot of weight on those shoulders when you shouldn't have to.”
“I'm fine, really,” Mista blurts out, but he can't meet those eyes anymore. Even for him it's a half-assed lie, and he knows that no one's buying it. He doesn't want or deserve the pity that he's sure is there.
“You aren't 'fine'. And you haven't been for a long time now,” Giorno murmurs, and there is no pity to be heard. Just the facts. “Every time you say 'I'm fine' it's meaningless.”
“Can we drop this, please?” Mista grumbles. The truth in Giorno's words are sharp as an arrow and hit their mark as true as one. It stings worse than anything he's been hit with. “I don't want to talk about this now, okay?”
“Then, when?” Giorno's voice has a bite of impatience in it for the first time.
“Maybe never! Is that answer good enough for you?” Mista snaps back, face flushing darkly. “I'm fine, seriously, why can't you just –”
And suddenly Giorno's arms have him in an ironclad hold, gripping his shoulders tightly enough to keep him in place. Panic swells in him and he thrashes like a wounded animal caught in a trap.
“Fucking – Giorno! What the hell–?! Let me – go – !” His voice breaks, and he hates it. He has to escape, needs to –
When did Giorno get so strong?
(Well, he already knows the answer to that.)
He's cursing up a storm, flailing about, trying everything short of violence to get out of this situation, but he can't. Giorno's arms remain steadfast in their grip, and his unspoken message is clear. If he's having difficulty with words, then action is the only path left to them.
“Mista.” Still, Giorno's voice is so soft by his ear, carrying such composure even now. His embrace is vicelike in comparison, and Mista knows now that he's not letting go. He'd never let go. “Please. You'll feel better.”
Mista also knows that he's right, he's been right about everything in his life so far, but not about this. He can feel the heat bubbling like a fever in his head, burning at his eyes, and like a child digging his heels in and throwing a tantrum, he doesn't want to do this. Pressure swells within him and he can almost taste the bile rising.
“You don't need to drown yourself to keep us afloat.”
Luckily for him his body is smarter than he is. The first few tears squeeze out almost painfully, pricking at his lashes before they drip down his cheeks; the emotional floodgates are suddenly flung open and then they start cascading. The seal has been broken at last and Mista along with it, with a loud, guttural sob that wracks his entire body. Giorno's arms shield him as the flood continues, as Mista howls his throat raw with the grief that he's finally, finally allowing himself to express, and his body shakes from the sheer force of it all. If it weren't for the layer of pajamas in the way there would probably be bloody fingernail marks in Giorno's shoulders, he's digging in so hard.
Bucciarati, Abbacchio and Narancia were gone, and all the wishing in the world could not bring them back. He misses them so much. Mista had been numbing this for so long that to finally admit it, to finally accept that they weren't here, it's painful beyond anything else he could have possibly imagined. Every sob tearing out of him feels like coughing up glass. He's not even sure if he's coherent enough to voice all his regrets right now, but there are at least a few words clawing their way up and out of his throat, even if he can't make any sense of them.
It should have been me.
What right do I have to be here right now instead of six feet under with the rest of my family?
This dream had a high cost and we knew that. I should have paid it instead of them.
I don't deserve any of this good fortune.
It should
have been
me.
If Mista's babbling, Giorno doesn't say anything. All he does is hold Mista close, and the gunman's eyes are too blurry with frenzied tears to notice Giorno's own, gently falling and dripping down into his hair.
The flow takes some time to abate but it does, as any reservoir would. He's pretty sure he looks just as gross as he feels, tears and snot combining into one disgusting mess all over his face (both were streaming with such frequency that he wasn't sure what was coming out of where, quite honestly), and he sniffles to try and clear it, without much success.
“...'M sorry I snotted all over your shirt, Gio,” he mumbles thickly, and his voice is still rough and sounds a thousand miles away.
“I've been covered in worse,” Giorno murmurs and his lips quirk up a little. His hands are so cool that when they come up to Mista's face they are almost searing against his swollen, overheated cheeks, but he is grateful to have them there, thumbs gently brushing away the last few stragglers. He lets Giorno manoeuvre him into a sitting position, and somehow there's a cool washcloth gently wiping his face clean. It's when Giorno turns away to accept a glass of water that Mista realizes that it's from Gold Experience Requiem, who at some point appeared silently to fetch these things; he was never very good at reading the Stand's expressions but this one has concern written all over it, hovering close and his sharp gaze focused solely upon him.
“Drink.” Giorno presses the cold glass into Mista's hands, and he takes it numbly. He hesitates, watching the liquid swirl around.
“...You're so good to me,” he mumbles, feeling tears threatening to flow again. He's still feeling emotionally fragile from the most intense crying jag he's ever had in his life, and well, in for a penny in for a pound. “I dunno what I'd do without you... thanks for sticking with my dumb ass for so long, I don't d-”
The washcloth is dabbing at his eyes again, and Giorno's other hand lingers by Mista's cheek.
“Guido,” he murmurs, and somehow manages to pack those two syllables so full of love and tenderness that Mista almost can't handle it. “I love you more than anything, and I fully intend on sticking with your 'dumb ass' for the rest of our lives. But please, don't ever feel like you are a burden. Rely on me as I do so for you. I am sorry I could not do more for you sooner.”
Mista's lip trembles violently and to stave off another crying spell he chugs the water all in one go, like he's never had a drink before in his life. It's liquid heaven for his poor throat, and just like Giorno said earlier, he does feel a bit better now that he's got something cool in him. The pain and guilt he's been carrying is still present, but it is much lighter now that so much of it has gushed out. He knows now that it will take time for the rest of it to be released since he'd put it off for so long. Doesn't make it any less painful, of course, but it's a start.
He's going to give Trish the biggest hug tomorrow. And maybe Fugo too, if he can catch him.
The next hour or two consists of soft words and occasional tears from them both, as Mista finally talks, about how many dumb jokes he'd saved to tell his best friend. About how sometimes he really wants to hate Fugo for not getting on the boat with them that time. Wants to, but ultimately cannot, because he knew how much Narancia loved Fugo and he wouldn't have wanted Mista to begrudge him for that. He even manages to laugh a little as he finally shares the story about Abbacchio and Bucciarati's rings, breaking the tension completely.
It ends with Mista slowly trailing off and falling into the deepest, most satisfying sleep he's had in months, lying safe and sound in Giorno's arms.
Whatever dreams he may have had that night, they are long gone by morning.
-------
The sun is high in the sky and the sunlight streams in through the partially drawn curtains of the room when Mista finally wakes up. He feels like he's been asleep for a thousand years instead of a few hours, but for once he's refreshed. He groggily reaches back for Giorno out of habit only to find that he's alone in the bed. Instead, Gold Experience Requiem's face, chin resting on his hands, is mere inches away and he jolts back with a yelp.
“Geez!! You almost gave me a heart attack,” he wheezes, heart pounding. He blinks a few times to clear the sleep from his eyes and stifles a yawn. “... Did Giorno send you to watch over me? And uh, how long were you watching me sleep?”
The Stand nods, pointedly ignoring the second question, and points over to the bedside table. On it there is a plastic-wrapped plate of sandwiches (there's enough to feed half of Passione, let alone just him and the Pistols) and a bottle of water, along with a note. Ignoring the sudden lurching grumble of his stomach for now, Mista reaches for the note first.
Good afternoon.
I had to step out for a moment but I didn't want to wake you. Send word with GER if you need anything, I will try to get back to you as soon as I can.
Take the day off, boss' orders. :) - G
Just like that, Mista can feel his eyes welling up. Giorno even took the time to draw a little smiley face... he didn't write it out, but it sure was hard for Mista to read this note as anything other than I love you. He really didn't deserve this man. As if he can sense Mista's train of thought, GER comes over and grabs his face to look very deep into his eyes, making him squirm a little in his grip and under that unblinking stare.
“He loves you very much, you know. And he does not love easily,” he says after a moment. His voice resonates with utmost authority. “I will tell him you are awake.”
He starts shimmering and moves as though he's about to fade out of sight, though his hand lingers for a beat on Mista's cheeks.
“W-wait! Don't go yet!” he protests, and he makes a grab for GER's wrists. (He's the only one besides Giorno himself who could get away with laying hands on the Stand without incurring some sort of retribution.) “Can you, uh. Can you tell him I'm gonna be... out? For a little bit? I'm gonna go pay a visit to some friends. And uh, tell him not to worry about me.”
GER just stares at him. If he had eyebrows Mista's pretty sure that one would be raising at him and his inelegant stammering, and he blushes.
“I'll be f- ” He backpedals quickly. “I'll be better, not fine, promise! I'm just gonna go get some peace of mind! Okay?”
Satisfied with this answer for now, GER gives him a nod and disappears. Mista lets out a deep sigh, but his words were genuine this time. Time for a drive to the ocean to maybe, finally get the closure he needs.
-------------
Mista sits cross-legged on the grass in front of the three headstones. At least they got a simple little plot by the sea, he knew Bucciarati would have appreciated that. A lump rises in his throat as he reads the three names engraved upon them, but he holds it together. There are things he has to get off his chest first.
“Y'know something?” he says aloud. “We always used to joke that we were just two-bit Passione gangster nobodies, that we'd wind up dead or worse in a ditch somewhere. We laughed about that shit all the time. And now, well...”
He gestures to the audience he'll never see again. “I'm pretty sure my dumb luck's gonna run out someday. Yours ran out before mine, with some terrible timing.” He clears his throat but it doesn't stop his voice from splintering all the same.
“I just wanted to tell you guys something, and you'd probably laugh at how long it took me to come to this, but...”
He leans back, taking the bright, undisturbed blue of the sky above him and the gentle breezes from the sea behind him.
“You deserved better. You deserved a better death than what you got. A-and I... I'm sorry.”
And he mourns from the bottom of his heart. He apologizes, rages on their behalf, tells them what they've missed in the few months they've been dead. He says all the things to them that he wished he'd said more of while they were alive, though it was no secret to any of them how much he cared.
“... and I'm sorry I wrecked your CD player, Narancia,” Mista finishes. “Gotta come clean about that.” His sweater sleeve is absolutely soaked now but it doesn't stop him from wiping at his eyes anyway. Maybe he'll fix it up, get it running again.
Now that he's finished what he set out to do he dozes in the warm sunshine, stretched out on the grass. He's still raw from last night, but he does feel better. The Pistols appear now, and keep a more diligent watch for him as he starts nodding off. They needn't have worried though, Mista is the safest he has been in a very long time.
And at long last, No. 5 blinks his little eyes and awakens fully for the first time in months, and gets immediately buried by the other five in a loving dogpile. We missed you so much! Are you okay? You big crybaby, we were all so worried!!
Mista's going to be okay now that you're back. You need to keep your eyes on him!
When Mista's finished laying flowers at the foot of the three graves, he turns and only looks back for a moment before moving on, the crashing of the ocean waves behind him the only words he needs.