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This is terrible. This is without a doubt the worst thing that’s ever happened in his life. He’s never ever going to complain about shitty coffee again, he’s going to feed all the stray cats, he’s going to pray three times a day and avoid the number four completely and forever. He’s—
“I’m going to leave you behind,” the supervillain states, face an unnatural kind of calm, he tugs on Mista’s wrist.
Mista lets out a very manly squeak, immediately picking up the pace, trying not to stumble over the bits of rubble and cords of vine. Adrenaline courses white and hot through his veins, pulses beneath his skin, and he doesn't know if it’s from the fact that he’s so close Gold Experience—literally one of the biggest supervillains in the entire continent—or the fact that they’re both in the middle of battling a member of La Squadra, one of the most dangerous villain organizations.
Also, Gold Experience is pretty, like really pretty, like—
The blonde throws them around a corner, flattens them against a wall of concrete.
“Focus, Sex Pistols!” Gold Experience glares. It’s very intimidating. “Your powers match better against White Album’s than mine—I’ll work to give you an opening, but my growth is freezing over.”
And—yeah, of course, right. Mista needs to focus. Just because Gold Experience is very pretty and very deadly doesn't mean anything. They’re still enemies. Mista is still a hero and Gold Experience is still a supervillain, and still technically holding Mista captive...or something. (Kidnapping? The blonde had kind of just snatched him up and ordered Mista to help him.)
“Um,” Mista says, “yeah, focused. Very. So—”
The supervillain suddenly lunges, crashing them both onto the concrete. Mista squawks. A spike of ice breaks through the wall they had been hiding behind. The floors bursts into a field of wood and leaves, carrying him and Gold Experience up with the canopy. Which doesn’t seem stable like, at all. Mista hesitantly peeks down and—oh that’s high.
“Follow me,” Gold Experience tells him, it isn’t a request. A ladder of vines attach themselves from the unstable tree to the side of a skyscraper, and the blonde doesn’t even hesitate to grab them and swing himself straight through one of the skyscraper's windows. The glass shatters, splinters like a cracker, and Mista tries not to think twice about following.
He lands with a dull thump, vision momentarily swirling. When the colors settle, he’s landed in a dull-looking office room. A terrified looking civilian woman is staring at them, growing steadily paler. Gold Experience’s face twists from it’s blank mask to something vaguely resembling distaste.
“Leave,” he tells the woman, “run. Didn’t you hear the evacuation order?”
The civilian doesn't have to be told twice. She scrambles out in a heartbeat. After she’s gone, Gold Experience closes his eyes, takes a breath, opens them. His green eyes—like emeralds, glittering, bright, sharp and dangerous oh gods—burn into Mista’s.
“There has been an evacuation order, hasn’t there?” Gold Experience asks, eyes hard, lips set into a thin line.
“Um,” says Mista. Because his communication with the rest of his hero team, and the city agencies in general, have been cut off; smashed beneath the rubble and frozen through by ice. “Maybe?”
The blonde makes a low clicking sound. “The sheer incompetence of this government and you heroes continues to marvel me by the day.”
Mista squawks at the offense. “Excuse you,” he says, because it’s not like they’d have this kind of problem if villains didn’t make them.
Gold Experience has the audacity to roll his eyes. “Systemic incompetence. Come on, hero, we have a mess to clean up.”
“What mess?”
“White Album.”
“That’s your mess!”
The blonde raises a single, delicate, beautiful eyebrow. “I thought you cared about protecting civilians? If evacuation has been stunted it will be in your best interests to assist in the defeat of White Album.”
Mista makes a face because he’s right. Ugh. “Why do you even care?”
“I don’t enjoy hurting civilians,” Gold Experience says, faint distaste on his face, and oh. Oh no. He might actually be a good person. Mista is dead, he will die, this will kill him, he’s toast.
“Right,” Mista says, clearing his throat and absolutely not stealing glances at the supervillain who is maybe a good person and definitely very pretty and very deadly. “Yeah. Alright. What’s the plan?”
The plan, as it turns out, is more of a vague outline including a lot of broken buildings and dodging ice and ignoring the violent profanity being spit at them from White Album. Gold Experience steadily leads the rival villain into a corner. The blonde’s abilities are rendered useless in close-quarters with White Album, but that’s where Mista comes in.
He waits from a sniper position—darting around the concrete jungle, running along the blonde’s web of carefully constructed branches. He keeps a careful eye for any opening—any place to give the villain a fatal blow. As long as he can find the spot—find a chink in the armor, his bullets will hit. It’s his superpower, after all.
He definitely isn’t watching Gold Experience. Nope. Not at all. He isn’t admiring how the supervillain’s blonde hair flows like liquid gold around his form when his braid come undone. He isn’t admiring the way ivy blooms beneath his fingertips. He isn’t—
And then there’s an opening.
Mista jumps on it, years of hero training layered on razor-edge instincts. His boots clack against the asphalt, frost bites on his skin, White Album swerves—but not fast enough. Mista feels his superpower course through his veins, running parallel adrenaline; white, hot, and burning. It manifests in the form of bullets numbered one to seven (skip the fourth!) and he shoots.
They lodge against each other, chip against the chink in White Album’s armor. The hard ice reflects the first five back—they hit straight to his abdomen, pain blooming like one of Gold Experience’s flowers—but the sixth. The sixth pierces; breaks through the ice with the sound of cracked rock. White Album lets loose a pained screech, clutches his neck desperately, but it’s useless.
Gold Experience doesn't hesitate to take the opening, launches forward with elegant movements, presses off moving branches, lands right in front of White Album. From beneath his feet bursts ropes of poison ivies that wriggle into the broke armor—burgeoning even as they wither from frost.
Then—a snake, and a screech of pain, and White Album collapses.
Mista doesn't focus on that, though, can’t focus on that. All he can feel is the sticky blood on his abdomen, all he can see is Gold Experience. Looking satisfied, almost smiling, and if the bullet wounds weren’t killing him already he’d definitely be dying from that.
Then Gold Experience looks over at Mista. The blonde’s eyes widen, face forming into an expression he can’t quite identify.
He’s over in an instant, strong arms sweeping Mista up into a close embrace and—oh, oh. Mista is nudged right into the blonde’s chest and he smells like wildflowers and vanilla and Mista is dead.
“Uhhhh,” he manages. Very eloquent, very impressive. Yep, totally, he impressed the blonde so much. By shooting himself. And taking out the villain. Uh-huh, definitely. “Are you okay? You looked fine. Or like, more than fine. Like, good. You look good.”
Gold Experience peers down at him. Emerald eyes glittering, blonde hair catching the light. He purses his lips. Pink lips. Like cherry blossoms. “Heroes,” the supervillain mutters, no little disgust in the statement. “You shot yourself.”
“I took out the bad guy!”
“By shooting yourself.”
Mista kind of flounders, struggling in Gold Experience's grip. Bad idea. “It worked!” And then he pauses. “Wait, why are you carrying me?”
“You ask that now?”
“Um.”
“I’m kidnapping you.”
“Oh,” says Mista, kind of dumbly. “Why?”
The blonde kind of just looks at him. “You’re bleeding out. I heal.”
“Oh,” he says, again. “I didn’t know that.” Then he pauses. “About the healing, I mean! Not the bleeding out part. I am very bleeding out. I know that. Um.”
Gold Experience huffs a kind of breathy laugh. It’s heaven. Lovely. Angels singing. “Of course they wouldn’t tell you that. My power is life, which extends to healing, in some part. But that’s a bad look for what the government wants to call a villain.”
Mista blinks. They finally come to a stop. The blonde carefully lays him down on a slab of concrete. He can hear vaguely, as if miles away, the steady hum of sirens. They’ve settled into an empty parking garage. The supervillain begins wiping away the blood, his fingers on Mista’s skin and—
Mista clears his throat. “So,” he says, causal as he can, “you, uh...” How does one have small talk with the very pretty supervillain that just kidnapped you? “You defeat villains regularly?”
Gold Experience hums. “Yeah.”
“Huh,” he blinks, because he wasn't actually expecting that. “You’re a vigilante?”
The blonde pauses. Shrugs. “I suppose. If you include trying to take over the government in that definition. I would consider myself a revolutionary.”
Mista chokes.
“Oh,” he says, “why?”
“Well,” says Gold Experience, “surely you’ve seen it yourself? Villains don’t emerge from nothing—they come from the poor, the dredges of society. The neglected, the disillusioned. And then the government isn’t even able to mange its mistakes, case and point the delayed evacuation order. Honestly the sheer incompetence displayed is truly revolting...”
And really, Mista could be listening. Could be pondering the ramifications of this. Could be questioning his place in the system. Could be reevaluating his view of the world.
All he can really think about it oh, oh no, he’s a good person.
He’s totally a good person.
And he’s smart. He’s a nice, smart, deadly, pretty person. Mista is dead, gone, absolutely fried.
Because Mista is a simple person. He became a hero because he likes helping people and had a superpower. He spends his free time reading romance books and fashion magazines. He likes relaxing with a good slice of pizza and drinking in the sunshine. He likes pretty people.
Gold Experience is very pretty. His hair falls like molten gold around his shoulders, his eyes glitter like emeralds. His form is slim but firm. His voice is smooth as silk, black velvet. And—and he practically glows with passion, with drive.
Mista is so dead.
“Hey,” he blurts, and this will probably be the last thing he says, “is it just the blood loss or are you the most stunning person I’ve ever met? Hint, it’s not the blood loss.”
“Uh,” says Gold Experience, and kind of just looks at him.
“Is it just my ears ringing, or is your voice akin to angels singing?”
“Um,” the blonde repeats, but it’s almost flustered this time, “that...doesn't even make sense?”
Mista should stop, he should really just stop. He should never speak again. He—“Well, you’ve knocked me senseless.”
“Oh my god,” Gold Experience says, and is looking a little red. Or maybe that’s the blood. “You—you’re flirting. You’re actually flirting. You don’t even know my name.”
“I’d love to know your name,” Mista says, kind of hopeful. And takes a leap of faith, because villains and heroes are absolutely not supposed to say their names, “I’m Mista.”
“You’re a hero,” Gold Experience says, eyes wide, “I’m a supervillain.”
“A supervillain who swept me off my feet,” Mista says, and is still kind of amazed he isn't dead yet.
“You’re serious,” the blonde says, and then, “you’re serious.”
“I’m serious,” Mista agrees, “and you are?”
“Giorno,” Gold Experience says, definitely blushing. And oh wow, wow, that worked? “I’m Giorno.”
“Nice to meet you,” Mista says, because that’s long overdue. He fishes something from his pocket, careful of the half-healed bullet wounds. He offers the slip of crumpled paper to Giorno. “Here’s my number.”
“Oh,” Giorno says, and blushes, then pulls out a pen and a notepad and scribbles something down. He shoves it into Mista’s pocket. “Well that’s mine.”
And oh, oh. That actually happened didn’t it? Mista is dead, is gone, is toast, but he’s going to keep living anyway.
“Um,” Mista says, intelligently, “coffee tomorrow?”
“Coffee tomorrow,” Giorno agrees.