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At the time, Mista hadn’t noticed how quiet Giorno had grown, as the four of them trekked back to the Colosseum. All he was thinking about was Buccellati’s tired smile greeting him as he rounded the corner. He would tell him that they won, and he would recount everything that had happened, all while Giorno healed him with his newly-evolved Requiem. They would celebrate, then they would embrace, then they would cry about the lives that had been lost, now that they finally had a chance to breathe and relax before things grew hectic once again.
They had lost Abbacchio, then Narancia, both to Diavolo’s wretched hands. He doubts either of those scars would ever truly heal from his heart, but as long as Buccellati was with them, things would be alright. As long as Buccellati was with them.
When they find Buccellati’s body cold and lifeless, Trish drops to her knees and weeps, loud and clear, clinging desperately to the bloodied white suit that dons the corpse, shoulders shaking with the weight of a whole week’s worth of pent-up stress and misery. Polnareff remains silent, the turtle’s head bowed to pay his respects in the only way he can.
Mista doesn’t cry. He doesn’t say or do anything at all, other than kneel beside his capo with his eyes trained on empty space. There comes a point in grievance when there are no more tears left to shed, and the hole in your chest grows so painfully wide that it no longer feels like anything at all.
“He was already dead.” Giorno’s voice comes out soft and strained from where he stands, back turned to his friends. “He died back in Venice, at the bell tower. I was somehow able to prolong his ability to function, but his heart had already stopped beating long ago.”
Mista bites his lip, hard enough to draw blood. Even though he knows how damn stupid it is, he wants desperately to shoot to his feet, to grab Giorno by the shoulders and shake, wants desperately to yell and cry and scream at him why didn’t you tell us, why did you come, if you never came then they would still be alive it’s your fault it’s all your fault just fucking say something —
But Giorno turns slightly to glance to Buccellati, and he looks at those empty green eyes of his, and sees himself.
The golden boy refuses to let his unshed tears fall. The incapability of crying had been beaten too far into him. Instead, he trembles, pressing his lips in a tight line and wrapping his arms around himself, shivering madly as if it had suddenly grown cold. Giorno hides it the best he can, so Mista pretends not to see it, instead looking back down to the corpse before him, his blue eyes hollow and unseeing yet serene all the same, the eyes of a man who had already said his farewells. Mista just curses how he had never been able to say his.
“Mista,” Giorno murmurs. Mista lifts his head once again at the sound of his name. The scattered rays of that morning’s dawn pool in the misted air and onto the ground beneath their feet, casting a glimmering outline around the teenager’s slim silhouette.
“Diavolo is dead,” he begins, stating so with such conviction that Mista doesn’t doubt him for a second, despite the fact that none of the four had actually seen his corpse. “I’m going to take his place.”
He finally glances up and meets Mista’s gaze. His eyes shine bright against the sun, blown wide with both unsaid grief and resolute ambition. His voice is quiet yet powerful, muted yet deafening, ringing through Mista’s ears like it’s the only thing he can hear.
Giorno doesn’t say anything more, doesn’t extend a hand and ask Mista to follow in his footsteps. How could he, the boy thinks, after he had stripped the man of the family he had, of everything he loved? How disgustingly selfish it is of him, to even consider such a thing.
But now, Mista looks up to him, and sees something more angel than human.
Delicate voice, marble skin, a halo of gold that melts into the blinding light of the rising sun itself. It’s then that Mista decides that, yes, this is the boy he wants to follow. This is the boy he wants to give his life to, to protect and grow old with. They began their rebellion as a team, and so they’ll lead as a team, side by side, hand in hand.
A new purpose. A new life. Giorno Giovanna has a dream, and for as long as he dreams that dream, Mista will march alongside him. That’s what he decides, right there and then.
So he does the only thing left to do, which is to kneel to the ground and take Giorno’s trembling hand in his, and place his lips over the back of his fingers as the first oath to the new don of Passione. He doesn’t miss the way Giorno’s breath hitches in his throat, lips parted and brows furrowed with an unreadable emotion.
“Let me come with you,” Mista murmurs as he pulls back. “I’ll follow you, wherever you go, whatever you do. We’ll make a new Passione together. We’ll make a new Italy.”
Giorno shuts his eyes briefly. “It’ll be hard work,” he whispers, voice pained.
Mista throws his head back and laughs. It’s not entirely a pleasant laugh, all empty and hollow and not at all because of something entertaining. “ I chose to get on that boat with you, Gio. Every single one of us knew about the consequences. Can’t exactly go back on my word now, can I? I’m with you till the end. That much I can promise.”
Giorno’s unwavering expression crumples ever so slightly. “Thank you,” he breathes, like it’s all he can muster.
“I’ve always wanted to do that.” Mista stands back to his feet.
“Do what?”
“Kiss the hand of someone I trust. Pledge my undying loyalty to a leader I want to follow. Y’know.” He chuckles drily, scratching the back of his neck. “Though I had imagined it to be...to be Buccellati’s hand, to tell you the truth.”
“Do you wish it to be his?” Giorno can’t help the uncertain question that escapes him, looking pointedly away from the gunslinger.
Mista pauses to think for a moment, and settles for the truth. “Y’know what I thought when you healed me, while we were on our way to Venice? I thought, ‘This guy feels more like my capo than Buccellati does.’ Fighting under your command just felt so natural, like I’d been doing it all my life. And honestly,” he ponders, tilting his head, “I think he would’ve wanted it to be yours, too. I feel like he had always intended to hand his leadership off to you at some point. Buccellati was a natural-born leader, but I don’t think he wanted to be.
“In short, no.” He smiles down at Giorno, his first honest smile. “I’m glad it’s you.”
With those words, Mista pulls him into an embrace, the full-body kind that wraps Giorno in strong arms like a duvet. He feels Giorno flinch violently at the touch, and his immediate instincts tell him to flinch and pull away as well, but he holds on rather selfishly, relishing the warmth of his now closest friend. Like this, he feels the boy’s trembles like they’re his own.
Giorno, who has never been hugged before, not once in his fifteen years of life, feels the tension leave his shoulders as he sinks into warm arms with a long sigh, his body’s tremors ceasing slowly but surely. He doesn’t return the embrace, can’t bring himself to, hands clenching into weak fists at his sides as he buries his face in Mista’s shoulder, the waves of his hair falling to obscure his hazy peripherals.
“Thank you,” Giorno whispers again, eyes slipping shut.
They stay like that for a long time, feeling the thump-thump of their hearts against each other's, the rest of the world falling silent around them.
But all good things must come to an end, so they pull apart after some time, rather reluctantly.
It’s only then that Giorno turns to speak to Trish, who watches them with tearful eyes, the turtle—Polnareff—cradled in her arms. “What will you do, Trish?” he asks gently. “You’re free to do whatever you want, now.”
Trish doesn’t take long to answer, as if it was something she had been considering—fantasizing about for a long time. She wipes away stray tears with the back of her hand, and her lips stretch into a smile.
“I’ve always wanted to be a singer,” she says.
☆ ☆ ☆
The ascent to claiming the devil’s throne was not an easy one, not that the three had expected it to be. The sheer power and versatility of Gold Experience’s abilities already granted them somewhat of a head start, but not enough to prevent Giorno, Mista and Polnareff to spend several sleepless nights reforming Passione into an entirely new organization. Mista doesn’t have to do any digging to know there are already men calling them out on their bullshit when their backs are turned, looking for any excuse or evidence to kick the “inexperienced and immature“ fifteen-year-old from the top. But while Diavolo’s closely-guarded anonymity had been a massive hindrance during their revolt, it now serves as a blessing.
With Giorno Giovanna’s name and reputation spreading like wildfire in the streets of Italy, Mista and Polnareff are no exceptions. Polnareff becomes an unnamed consigliere, reputation not unlike the previous don’s in his facelessness. Similarly, Mista grows to be feared as the boss’s right-hand man, known for riddling enemies with bullets before Giorno even has to lift a finger.
Giorno is feared before he is despised, and he is despised before he is respected. Diavolo’s selfish cruelty had not gone unnoticed by Italy nor the members of Passione, and while the mafia is riddled with selfish men and women alike, they all knew not to expect any semblance of kindness or forgiveness from their newly-emerged don. It takes time for his reputation to shift, from a cold and unpitying tyrant to what he really is—cunning yet merciful, with a heart of gold. It’s then that respect turns to pure worship, more so by the civilians of the streets than the actual mafiosi working under him.
There isn’t a single member who hadn’t wondered about the sudden change. Some say it was a change in consigliere, some say it was merely the boy growing foolish with the wealth he had gained. And some, of course, say he had simply killed the old boss and taken his place. But ultimately, there isn’t a single thing anyone can do against the untouchable, so they quickly learn to disregard the rumors.
After they succeeded in situating themselves at Passione’s peak, which was a feat in itself, Giorno immediately throws himself behind the desk that had once belonged to the devil, dedicating all waking hours to dealing with the monetary drawbacks that came with closing down the drug trades, along with the numerous traitors and rebellious groups that sprouted not long after. There are some days when Mista doesn’t even see him exit his office, so with each passing day, his worry grows. Not to mention the numerous meetings in between, where Mista often attends as his bodyguard per Giorno’s personal request. Mista never enjoys these for the obvious reason that they’re boring, but also because he’s always forced to tame his curls and wear a horribly uncomfortable suit. But they had agreed to lead together, so lead together they will.
It’s after a rather stressful conference with the higher-ups of rival gangs that Giorno’s facade finally breaks.
All throughout the negotiations, Giorno maintains his air of regality; words smooth as silk, eyes narrowed like a hawk watching its prey, fingers interlaced in front of him as he controls the conversation with ease, fellow mafiosi dancing in the palm of his hands like chess pieces on a board.
Like always, Mista notes, they first regard the young don with incredulity, scrutinizing eyes scanning the youth of his features, seeing nothing but a child playing king with false diamonds and gold draped over his being. Yet the tranquil timbre of his voice is enrapturing, his meticulously-crafted words weeding easily into their hearts and minds. Giorno is well aware of his own natural charisma, and wields it effortlessly as his deadliest weapon.
On cue, the moment he finishes speaking, Giorno smiles a small smile—angelic, yet devilish all the same, and both don and his underboss know they’ve already claimed checkmate.
By the time they exit the building, the sky has grown dark. By the time they return to Passione’s headquarters, it’s grown near black. Mista feels exhaustion pulling at his eyelids, but he keeps a watchful eye out for suspicious figures nonetheless during the short period they’re outside for, thumb hooked over his belt right beside where his pistol rests.
The two of them enter Giorno’s quarters rather gracelessly as soon as they escape the view of the public. Mista makes a beeline for the black and purple hat that’s strewn across Giorno’s desk, yanking it back over his head with a sigh of relief.
Right behind him, Giorno closes the door. As soon as they hear it click shut, he turns to face Mista. “Mista,” he says evenly.
“Yeah?”
“Catch me.”
“Huh?”
He barely has any time for the words to register before Giorno pitches forward.
“Shit—!” Mista lurches forward to catch him before he hits the floor, letting his weight pull him down to kneel on the floorboards. Tugging Giorno’s limp body close, he yanks his pistol from his belt, eyes frantically searching the room. “Stand attack?!” he cries. “Gio, I thought you said nobody could—”
“Mista,” Giorno murmurs weakly, startling him into silence. “Q-quiet down a little, please. It’s not a stand attack.” He presses a hand against his head, blinking rapidly. “I just—got really dizzy, all of the sudden.”
With a quiet inhale, he brushes a strand of hair from Giorno’s cheek. “I-is there anything I can do?” Mista whispers, keeping his voice as low as possible while still remaining audible. “To help, I mean.”
Giorno doesn’t respond for a moment, his breaths frighteningly shallow as he attempts to recollect himself. He lets out a pitiful, strained noise that’s so terrifyingly different from what Mista’s used to that he can’t help but clench a hand around his pistol despite his boss’ reassurances.
With a strangled inhale, Giorno abruptly shoves the other away with weak arms, but the surprise alone is enough to make Mista jerk away. The teen staggers to his feet, one hand shakily covering his eyes and the other pressed against the wall for support.
Mista shoots to his feet. “Giorno—”
“Stay right there,” he hisses through clenched teeth, before turning to sprint rather clumsily to the bathroom, door slamming shut behind him with a loud bang.
Mista stays rooted to the spot, partly because he was ordered to, partly because he has no fucking idea what to do right now, as his underboss and unofficial bodyguard.
He hears a noise that sounds suspiciously like a retch from the other side of the door, and springs into action. But when his hand falls on the handle, it doesn’t budge. Locked.
“Giorno!”
Mista presses his ear against the door to listen for any response, his fear mounting with every passing second of silence. He hears more gagging, undoubtedly the sound of vomiting.
“Open the door, Gio!” He shakes the handle furiously, as if it’ll do anything. “Open the door!”
He slams a fist against the door in his desperation, only to immediately jerk back like he had been burned when he hears Giorno’s breath hitch audibly at the sound.
“Sorry,” he says quickly, voice dropping to a murmur. “But open the door, Giorno. Please.”
“I told you to stay put,” comes a tired voice from the other side. Mista hears his quivering breaths cut off, and there’s more retching. He winces sympathetically.
“I’d be a pretty shitty bodyguard if I left my boss to vomit alone in the bathroom, wouldn’t I?” Mista tries to keep his tone light, but can’t help the worry that creeps in.
A sharp inhale. A slow exhale. A weary laugh. “Not my bodyguard,” Giorno slurs.
“That’s not what you tell everyone else when you make me go to those damn meetings. Now open the door.”
“I’m fine,” Giorno retorts, in a voice that sounds very not fine. Mista feels his stress mounting.
“I’m going to break down this door if you don’t open it.” He cocks his pistol to emphasize, aiming at the handle. “I will do it. I know you can’t stand loud sounds right now, but it’s better than waiting for you to collapse or something. Open the door, Giorno.” His hands lower, ever so slightly, voice lowering as well. “Please. Let me in.”
There’s a long beat of silence, and Mista begins to fear that Giorno has already passed out. He aims again, finger hovering over the trigger, when—
click
The door creaks open, and Mista pushes slowly. Giorno has scooted back to the toilet, hovering shakily over the seat, hair falling in tangled waves around his face. Mista hesitates. He’s with Giorno in the bathroom, Giorno’s safe. What now?
Giorno lets out a choked noise, body wracking with dry heaves, and Mista immediately drops down beside him, purposefully averting his gaze from the toilet. He may have no idea what he’s doing, but he sure as hell isn’t leaving him here. Mista rubs one hand in comforting circles against the younger’s trembling back, the other tenderly brushing stray strands behind his shoulders and ears. It’s only then that he gets to take a good look at his boss’ state.
His half-lidded eyes are red, shining with unshed tears, a mix of bile and saliva dripping from his chin. Beaded sweat clinging to his skin. Complexion pale, almost gray, under the white lights, a far cry from the way it seemed to drip with gold back at the conference not long ago. And with his shoulders hunched and his arms pulled around himself, Giorno looks so, so startlingly young.
“Are you okay?” Mista murmurs, before mentally smacking himself upside the head. Of course he’s not okay. “Do you know what’s wrong? Are you sick?” It’s the obvious answer, yet Mista still finds himself disbelieving his own words. How could it be? They’re almost constantly together, whether it be in the office or out in meetings. Surely Mista would’ve noticed if Giorno’s health was deteriorating to this extent.
Giorno simply closes his eyes. “I’m so tired,” is all he whispers.
Oh.
Oh, of course.
Mista’s a fucking idiot.
He would often find Giorno working late at night. They would say their goodbyes, and Mista would go to bed. When he returned in the morning, Giorno would still be behind his desk, coffee in hand. Like a fool, the gunslinger always assumed Giorno was just late to bed and early to rise. He wonders how many of those nights were spent entirely sleepless, slaving away at his desk all for the sake of the golden dream he insisted on carrying himself.
Because Giorno had never faltered, at least not under the eyes of the public, Mista had allowed himself to assume everything was alright, and that his boss was not in fact being crushed under the weight of unrealistic expectations. If there’s one thing Giorno’s skilled at, it’s pretending to be someone he’s not. So they had all gladly placed him on a pedestal of gold, something even Mista was very guilty of.
But now, Mista looks down to him, and sees something more human than angel.
There’s none of the quiet serenity or air of authority he’s so used to. Instead, he sees him for what he is—a child, burdened with the fate of the world on his shoulders.
“When’s the last time you slept properly?” Mista asks softly. He has to know.
Silence. When Giorno doesn’t bother with an answer, Mista backpedals, asking a question that should’ve been easier to answer. “When’s the last time you ate properly?”
Giorno still doesn’t answer, lips pressed together and eyes trained on the opposite wall, and Mista fights the urge to cry a bit himself. Even with his boss held close in his arms, he feels so helpless.
When Giorno opens his mouth again, it’s not a question Mista expects.
“Did I hide it well?”
He sounds so goddamn miserable that Mista can’t even bring himself to tell him that that’s not the point, that’s not what fucking matters right now. Instead, he runs his fingers through Giorno’s hair with a forced smile on his lips, and says the truth. “Yeah. Nobody could tell a thing. Not even me.”
Even as he comforts him like this, the mere thought of such is utterly horrifying to him. How long has this gone on for without any of them knowing? Perhaps since the very beginning, all those months ago? Even Mista, his closest friend, was only able to catch on during this rare moment of vulnerability. He wracks his mind for any moment Giorno had wavered, had looked like anything short of perfect, and comes up with nothing.
He’s pulled back to reality as Giorno shifts to rest his back against the nearest wall.
“You need anything?” Mista uses that moment to stand up, wetting a cloth and kneeling back down to dab gently against Giorno’s chin.
Giorno doesn’t push him away this time, eyes fluttering shut. “Water,” he rasps.
Mista is on his feet immediately. “Stay here, okay?” He only leaves after Giorno gives a small nod, flushing the toilet on his way out.
When he returns with the water, he helps raise it to Giorno’s lips. Mista watches his throat bob with each swallow. The blonde only pulls away once the glass is empty.
“More water?”
Giorno shakes his head. “It’s fine.”
They fall into a rather awkward silence, the only sound being Giorno’s trembling breaths. He’s still trembling, Mista realizes with a start.
“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” Giorno confesses quietly into the silence, drawing his arms around himself once again.
But it shouldn’t be like that. Giorno shouldn’t be scared of not being anything short of perfect around him, and Mista feels like he’s already failed as an underboss and as a friend.
Mista’s far from great at this whole comforting thing. He knows how to take care of someone when they’re drunk or sick or hurt, but not like this. He’s loud, he’s simple-minded, he makes stupid jokes at all the wrong times, so when it’s up to him to stop the tremors running up Giorno’s body, his mind refuses to function.
But he remembers the last time Giorno had shivered like this, back at the Colosseum. God, it feels like that was ages ago. It’s a memory he’s learned to block from his mind, just so he can continue functioning without breaking down every so often, but he does vividly remember the hug, the only time he’s really been allowed to touch his boss without immediately being shrugged away.
So he does the same thing as before, and circles his arms around Giorno, resting his chin on top of the head of blonde hair. Like before, Giorno flinches, but doesn’t attempt to move away.
“Being...vulnerable like this isn’t a bad thing,” Mista murmurs. Even to him, his words sound cheesy as hell, but he desperately hopes Giorno can understand how genuine they are. “It really isn’t, I promise. You know I’d never lie to you. And you’ve seen me cry and get hurt a lot, but you don’t think any less of me, do you?” He pauses, and continues when there’s no verbal response. “Yeah. I know it’s not the exact same thing, but it’s the same idea, I think. It’s not anything to be ashamed of. Jus’ lets me know you’re still human, if anything. And being human’s good. I promise.”
Giorno doesn’t say anything in response. Mista doesn’t ask him to. He wonders if his words got through to him. Wonders if he’s helped.
But, Mista notes with a breath of relief, the shivering has stopped.
They stay there for a while longer, sitting on the cold, hard tile of the bathroom floor, neither making a move to leave.
When Mista glances down again, adjusting the boy gently to take a look at his expression, he realizes Giorno has already fallen asleep, all curled up in his hold, head falling to rest against his chest, his eyes closed and lips parted in his relaxed state. It’s a sight that would’ve been terribly endearing, if only their situation was anything but this.
Careful not to jostle him, Mista circles his arms under Giorno’s knees and around his back and lifts, standing up. And, God, he’s so startlingly light, so much more so than he remembers. Mista curses himself for not having noticed anything sooner.
When he carefully lays Giorno down in his bed, the boy barely stirs, weeks upon weeks of built-up exhaustion dragging his consciousness someplace far, far below. Mista watches on fondly, listening to his quiet, slow breaths in tune with the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Slowly, carefully, he pulls the covers over him, tucking it around his sleeping form. Only when he ensures the boy is safe and comfortable does he turn to leave, shutting off the lights and closing the bedroom door quietly behind him.
Giorno sleeps for 22 hours straight.
In that time, Mista goes to Polnareff, a man twice as old and twice as wise as either of them. Together, they decide unanimously that if Giorno refuses to take care of himself, they would simply do it for him. Polnareff would take some of the workload off his shoulders, and redistribute it to himself and other members he trusts with the responsibility. Mista would help him set a schedule, one that allows him to function as the don while still fulfilling the sleep and nutrition requirements a fifteen-year-old needs, and stay by his side for as long as his own schedule allows.
Polnareff warns that it’s not easy to mend bad habits. That Giorno will need both comfort and space to learn to readjust, and that it’ll take time to learn where those boundaries lie.
That’s alright, Mista tells him. They’ll take it slow.
One step at a time.