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When it was over, Mista couldn’t process everything that had happened. He was standing in a room, somewhere….he didn’t remember exactly where. It was a fancy room, nicer than anything he’d ever been in. The cobblestone walls were adorned with flourishing plantlife, tile spotless. The sun was setting, its rays lightning up the room with a faint glow. And in the middle of the room stood a chair, wait, more like a throne . Something made for a king. It was adorned with velvet cushion and thread, honestly a bit too lavish for Mista’s tastes. But it wasn’t for Mista, apparently. On it sat Giorno.
The boy seemed...uncomfortable, which was understandable. In front of him was a line of much older men, all holding gifts and saying prayers. The fifteen year old would shift in the seat between every kiss on his hand, like a restless kid at an important meeting. Or ceremony… Oh right, that’s what was happening.
Mista was supposed to be a bodyguard for Giorno, at the moment. Not that he needed much protecting. The kid could hold his own, Mista knew that first hand. The most he could do was stand by the door, looking each person that entered up and down. Occasionally Giorno would shoot him an uncomfortable look. “How many people are in this gang?” he’d mouth. Mista chuckled, but then stopped. He felt guilty.
Soon the line diminished to one last man. He was around middle-aged, a little short with a large frame. His suit looked expensive, and he was holding a vase. A vase of white flowers. They looked...familiar.
The man handed the vase to Giorno, and he set it on the end table next to him. The man proceeded to kiss Giorno’s hand and whisper something in his ear before leaving just as quickly he came.
Giorno immediately slouched in his chair. “Are they gone?” he groaned.
Mista looked out the window. He saw the last of the long black cars leave the secluded road. The room they were in was inside of a mansion that was on top of a large hill, Mista suddenly remembered. “Yep, that’s the last of ‘em, boss.” He felt weird saying that.
The other boy sighed in relief and stood up to gather the gifts he had received. It was mostly gems and jewelry, which they now had an abundance of. Giorno picked a ruby necklace up from the collection and held it up to his neck. “How do I look?” He said, turning around.
Mista rolled his eyes. “Ask Trish, she’s the fashionable one.”
Giorno laughed, putting down the necklace. “You’re no fun.” Fun. What a weird time to be having fun.
Mista felt… well, he didn’t know what he was feeling exactly. He couldn’t remember most of the events of the day, and it had to be pretty eventful to end with Giorno being appointed the boss of Passione. That statement felt very wrong. Maybe it was the fact that the new Boss was a fifteen year old, or maybe it was that Mista couldn’t for the life of him remember where the rest of his friends were. If Bucciarati was here, he’d probably be the Boss, right? Bucciarati….where was he, anyway?
“Gio-Boss...Hey, Boss,” Mista said, staring intently at the pattern of the tile floor. “What...I don’t… I don’t exactly remember what happened today…”
Giorno stopped fidgeting with the jewelry and turned around slowly. “Are you serious?”
What kind of question was that? “Yeah, of course I am, boss,” He hated being polite to his junior. “What happened today?”
Giorno shuffled his feet. Why was this question making him so uncomfortable? “I...Mista…”
His eyes shot up to meet Giorno’s. This wasn’t funny. “What happened today, Boss?” His hands were gripping the marble table he was leaning against. The memories were coming back.
“Mista...You know what happened today. Don’t make me say it.” Giorno’s gaze was unwavering. Mista knew what happened that day. And the day before. This whole week was clear as day.
Mista eyes darted to the lilies. They were pure white, unlike him. Mista had been described as many things in his life and “pure” and “white” were never words that came up. Physically, he wasn’t white. He was actually quite tan in complection, somewhat racially ambiguous. And metaphorically, yeah, as if. He’d been living on his own for around a year and a half before he was arrested. In that time he’d done a lot to forever lose the title of “pure”. He was...a violent person. In fact, he was feeling quite violent right now.
What kind of sick joke was this? Why would someone bring lilies to a celebration? Lilies represented death and innocence and...and now him. They were his flowers. He always talked about how his mother loved lilies. She died next to them, a vase next to her hospital bed.
Mista dropped to his knees, still clutching the marble table. They were gone. He was gone.
“He was only seventeen,” Mista whispered. He felt a hand on his shoulder accompanied by a calming voice. “It’s going to be okay.”
Okay? Okay? They were gone and it was going to be okay? “Back away.”
“Mista, it’s going to be-“
“Back the fuck away!” And in one swift motion, Mista had his pistol pointed at Giorno’s head.
———————————————————
They stood there for a moment, Giorno staring down the barrel of Mista’s gun, and Mista staring into Golden Experience Requiem’s beady eyes. It took a while, but Giorno complied, backing up until he stood at the foot of the throne. Their stare never broke. Mista’s violent thoughts were back.
“Mista,” Giorno said, calmly. “Put your gun down. That’s an order.”
“I don’t care about your fucking orders,” Mista hissed, finger on the trigger. “How could you say that? How could you fucking say that?”
Giorno stayed quiet for a moment before speaking quietly. “Mista, please-“
“It’s not going to be okay! Don’t you get that?” Mista screamed, walking toward Giorno. “They weren’t your family. You didn’t love them. You didn’t...you didn’t know them. What was Bucciarati's favorite food?” Mista’s gun was resting on Giorno’s forehead.
Giorno stare never broke. “I don’t-“
Mista pushed the pistol, forcing Giorno to sit on his velvet throne. It would be a nice place to die, surrounded by this kind of luxury.
“What was Abbacchio’s favorite movie?”
“Mista-“ He pushed the gun more, forcing Giorno further into the cushions of the chair.
“Tupac.”
“What?”
“Narancia-“
“Don’t you dare say his name!” There were tears in Mista’s eyes now, blurring his vision. “They were all I had! My family! They were all I cared about! He was all I cared about!” Mista tried to blink away the tears, but they kept coming.
“If it wasn’t for you, I would still have them! I’d still have my family, my friends! I’d still have a reason to live .” His choked sobs echoed throughout the room, but despite this, he held his pistol steadily to Giorno’s head.
“Maybe I’d still have Fugo here to drive me around! I’d be able to go on missions with Bucciarati, or have conversations with Abbacchio. Maybe I’d hear one of N-Naran….One of his jokes again! Who knows!” Mista was grinning now, a smile showing through his tears. Giorno’s face remained the same. “I could kill you right now. Yeah, I’d die for it, the rest of Passione would get my ass immediately, and I'd let them! But you’d be dead! You’d be long fucking gone!” He was laughing now, his slight chuckles growing into hysterical laughter. “Who knows? Maybe I’d go to heaven! Maybe I’ll get to see them again! Ah, I know I’m going to hell. But any hell is better than-“
“Mista,” Trish’s voice almost snapped him out of his hysteria. He whipped his head around to see her standing on the staircase, her hand held out in front of her, as if trying to calm him. Spice lady stood behind her, hands on Trish’s shoulders. “Put the gun down.”
"Trish,” Giorno said, his stare still on Mista. “Get out of here.”
Hm. This was not how Mista expected his night to go.
He stared straight into Giorno’s eyes, and for a moment Giorno’s facade melted. A glint of fear shone in his eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it came.
“It should’ve been you,” Mista said, stepping back. He pulled the trigger, and the vase of white lilies next to Giorno scattered on the floor.