Chapter Text
.14th May 2003
Mista missed Giorno.
It had been 4 weeks since the latter was gone. No-one in the gang could say they saw it coming, not even Bucciarati in all his supposed wisdom. Just as how Mista didn’t expect to grow so close to the blond, so attached.
To say his absence didn’t leave an effect on the gang would be a flat-out lie.
Some way, somehow, everyone in the gang missed Giorno. Narancia had no-one to constantly tease about being older - he had Fugo, who would just end up decking him, so that wasn’t an option - and do the things that he considered special with just Giorno. Trish had made an attempt to fill-in for Giorno during one of those things, but Narancia quickly lost interest. It wasn’t Trish’s fault, really, it’s just the thing felt specially designed for Narancia and Giorno only.
Fugo had no-one he could have more...intellectual talks with? Even with his slight passive-aggressiveness towards Giorno in the past back when the latter was a newbie, the two had grown to be good friends. They’d talk about things Mista didn’t bother paying attention to unless it was something he could butt into or a topic that would answer one of his several obscure questions.
Fugo supposed he could try talking with Bruno or Abbacchio about the things he’d discuss with Giorno (he’d tried with Mista already but it didn’t go so well, and he wasn’t about to try with Narancia anytime soon without having several utensils out and ready to weaponize), but that didn’t mean he missed Giorno any less.
Trish and Giorno weren’t exactly close, they were more of really good allies...who shared a lot of views and tastes when it came to luxury, especially fashion (well so did Mista, but with the apparent pattern in his tendency to wear mix-and-matched clothing, Trish wasn’t all too ready to go down that path with him). The two would go shopping together on the few occasions Trish paid a visit to the gang, and Mista would catch them returning to Passione villa with several shopping bags in the arms of bodyguards behind them while the two chatted away about Lord knows what.
Mista would’ve gone for the sake of Giorno, but the blond didn’t want to subject him to that kind of torture. On one hand, those bags did look heavy and Mista was glad he didn’t end up venturing with them. On the other hand, Mista wished he’d taken up that opportunity to spend even more time with Giorno before he was gone.
Abbacchio would always deny any and every indication that would point to him being affected by Giorno’s absence, which would be understandable considering how he absolutely despised the boy right from when he initially joined the gang. Although, as time went by, Abbacchio didn’t seem to hate him as much, and exhibited a sort of respect towards him, Don status aside.
That didn’t stop Abbacchio from jumping at the boy whenever he had the chance to, though, and with no-one here to be his stand-in ‘punching bag’, the man just resorted to being more or less grumpy than usual.
Bucciarati was admittedly taken aback by the gang’s loss of Giorno. Where everyone turned to him for an explanation, he had none to provide. He ended up standing in for Giorno in terms of his duties as Don, working alongside Polnareff whenever deemed necessary. When the Don was to meet up with a capo or host an official meeting, Bruno would stand in, claiming he was “representing the very busy Don”.
He never took up the Don position fully. That was never his goal. Sure, he wanted something to be done about the incessant peddling of drugs around the city and its horrible influence, but taking over the entirety of Passione? That was Giorno’s dream. The one he had spoken of all the time that Abbacchio had once threatened to punch his face in if he spoke of it one more time
No-one knew if he ever meant it or not, who knew what was serious or not when it came to Abbacchio threatening Giorno?
The fact of the matter was that Bucciarati was merely warming the Don seat on Giorno’s behalf, making sure that no-one else would catch on that the oh-so fierce and powerful Don was no longer around, which would most likely result in even more attempts at overthrowing the big boss and claiming the top position.
And Mista?
As much as he tried to hide it, Mista was the kind of guy who wore his heart on his sleeve, so that worked against him. He was somewhat adopting Abbacchio’s approach to the whole situation, not admitting to any claims of missing the blond, avoiding talking about him whenever he was brought up or trying to change the topic whenever questions were directed at him, the whole gimmick. Or at least, he was trying to.
Anyone and everyone in the gang could tell Mista felt miserable. The uncharacteristic quietness he exhibited when the rest would engage in conversation, sometimes breaking out of it and reverting back to his cheerful demeanour for about five minutes, before retreating back to the shell he created for himself. Mista hardly took notice of the time, too. It was wake up, eat, a mission if he’s lucky, mope, sleep and repeat, and honestly, everyone else felt quite bad for him.
That didn’t exactly sit right with Mista, seeing as he didn’t want to be pitied. He was fine, or at least he convinced himself he was.
Giorno’s personal bedroom at Passione’s villa, which was just opposite that of Mista’s, was still there, nothing had been moved out of place and barely anything had been touched…for the most part.
One certain night Bucciarati, alongside Abbacchio, had been searching for Mista all through the villa, the rest of the gang having already retired to their private quarters. The gunman had been instructed to come straight to Bucciarati and Polnareff to deliver reports on the mission he had been sent out on for the day. He had returned, sure enough, the evidence in his slightly bloody signature hat that was laid out on the floor in a part of the living room, looking like it had been randomly tossed aside.
He hadn’t even been at dinner, which whether emotionally drained or not the gunman tried not to miss, be it for his sake or the sake of Sex Pistols.
“We need to do something about him, Bruno. He can’t keep moping like this forever, it’s pretty sad to see, even for me.”
Bucciarati sighed at the white-haired man’s words as they continued their venture through the villa. As much as it pained him to admit it, Abbacchio was right. Of course, they could mourn for the loss of their teammate and friend, but they also had to make sure it didn’t get in the way of their operations. One slip-up due to their emotions, and it could bring a world of regret for them.
“I understand your concerns, Abbacchio. I share those concerns too. And despite how much I’d love to talk to Mista about this, approaching this kind of topic seems a bit...tricky.”
“We’re in the fucking mafia, can’t he just...get over it? Shit like this happens almost every day.”
“Yes but none of those people had a connection with Mista like he did, now did they?” Abbacchio huffed at the question, obviously knowing the answer. “I’m aware it’s been weeks, but you can’t just expect him to get over it so qui-”
The pair stopped in their tracks as they heard a dull noise nearby. Being in the mafia forced them to pick up on certain sounds and be full-on alert of their surroundings, especially after the extreme near-death experiences they all faced on that fateful mission that had introduced them to Trish.
Bucciarati turned his head back and took notice that he and his partner had passed the two doors that led to Mista and Giorno’s bedrooms respectively, though the sound seemed to be coming from Giorno’s bedroom. After casting a quick glance at Abbacchio, who seemed to share the same sentiment, the younger stealthily made his way back to the ornate door that led to what used to be Giorno’s private space.
Raising a finger to his lips to ensure the older stays as quiet as possible, Bucciarati proceeded to conjure a zipper from the top left corner of the door, sliding it all the way down diagonally as silently as he could as a precautionary measure not to alert what or whoever might be on the other side. With the lower diagonal of the door now separated to accommodate full-body access, Bucciarati gingerly stepped into the room, Abbacchio following close behind, mentally ready for a confrontation.
That confrontation was something neither of them expected.
The room lights were surprisingly still on and Bruno felt his eyes go wide upon seeing a figure laying on Giorno’s bed, somewhat curled up, and what sounded like light snores coming from the figure. Bucciarati would have guessed Giorno had returned, had it not been for the all too familiar disaster of an ensemble that was Mista’s red tiger-striped pants and blue diamond-checkered turtleneck, his pair of black and red boots laying right next to the bed. His revolver lay on the tableside right next to him, and Bruno could see the mess that was the gunman’s dark hair.
Here was Mista, laying - sleeping in Giorno’s bed.
Bruno felt his heart slightly clench at the sight. The poor man must have mistaken Giorno’s room for his and passed out here. Bruno guessed he could just leave the gunman here for the night, turn off the lights and leave him to sleep, maybe inquire of him about the mission’s reports tomorrow. Yeah, that was a reasonable plan.
Unfortunately, Abbacchio didn’t seem to share that same idea.
“Oi, Mista!” Abbacchio barked out before Bucciarati could intervene, leading to the latter letting out a low groan while pinching the bridge of his nose. He swiftly lifted his head at the sound of quick rustling, and later on the click of a gun, before his eyes landed on the barrel of the revolver that was now pointed in their direction. Bucciarati heard a small gasp and a groan from the occupier of the bed, watching as he lowered the weapon as realisation struck his face.
“Ah...sorry about that, guys. Thought you were intruders.” Bruno did indeed understand, after all, Mista was someone who went on constant assassination missions, which usually required him to be on high alert and aware of his surroundings most of the time. Didn’t really help that he hadn’t even noticed that the two others had entered the room, had it been a real intruder things could have gone differently.
Giving another sigh at his failed plan, Bucciarati was about to speak out when he noticed the redness in Mista’s eyes, alongside the faint tear tracks that ran down his cheeks. Mista must’ve realized they had been noticed, as he was now rubbing his eyes furiously to get rid of any evidence he had been crying.
“Mista...why are you here, in his room?” Bruno asked tentatively, not sure how he could approach the subject without further upsetting the teen in front of him. Said teen began to get up, a bit sloppily as the fatigue had started to return to his body at the realization that he wasn’t in danger.
“Heh, must’ve stumbled here by accident,” Mista said as he stretched out his body from where he now stood, providing what he hoped to be a convincing chuckle afterwards. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, Bucciarati. ‘Was just really tired…”
Bucciarati was about to speak before he was cut off by Abbacchio’s somewhat accusatory tone. “Cut the shit, Mista. We all know that’s not why you’re here.”
“Abbacchio-”
“Who do you think you are, huh?!” Mista suddenly hissed out, his voice adopting a more aggressive tone, his stance changing to one that looked like he was about to get into a fight.
“Mista!” Bucciarati stepped in before things could go any further. The teen’s stature relaxed and his eyes slightly widened as he realised once again what he was doing. Rubbing his face with his two hands, the brunette let out another groan.
“Shit, sorry for lashing out man. Things aren’t exactly so great right now.”
“Yeah, I can tell.” Bucciarati shot the older man a look at the mildly irritated tone of his voice, but thankfully Mista chose to ignore it and rather resorted to placing his gun in the front of his pants, not without turning the safety on first.
“Don’t worry guys, this is just a one-time thing. Won’t happen again, you’ll see!” Mista’s voice had an all too fake cheerfulness to it that Bucciarati felt himself inwardly cringe at it, but decided not to make mention of it.
“That’s alright. I just wanted to see you for your mission report, but that’ll be handled tomorrow. For now, we go to sleep.” And with that, Bucciarati, alongside Abbacchio, turned on his heels to make his way back to the door, hopefully with Mista in tow.
With Abbacchio out the door and Bruno about to exit as well, the “Don” noticed that the steps behind him had gone silent. Turning back, he saw that Mista had paused his steps, his gaze turned back to the bed. Bruno could only imagine the true level of despair in his eyes at that moment.
“Mista?”
The teen jolted where he stood and turned back to face Bruno, the latter slightly raising an eyebrow.
“Ah sorry, lost my head there for a sec.”
Bruno seemed to contemplate saying something as Mista came closer, and eventually settled for “You know you could speak to me ab-”
“There’s nothing to speak about...Bucciarati.” Mista suddenly said, rather colder than usual, the name at the end likely added to avoid coming off as rude. “Let’s just go to sleep as you said.”
And with that, the teen walked past Bruno and past the unzipped door, leaving the latter to stand there in mild confusion. With yet another sigh, he turned around and made sure to turn off the room lights before stepping past the door, zipping it back into place and leaving that area, not missing the soft slam of Mista’s room door.
As Bruno made his way to his own room, he came across Abbacchio, who was leaning on the door with arms crossed, a somewhat sour expression on his face.
Bruno smiled at the scene, “Cheer up, Abbacchio. You were pretty much being an asshole.”
“What happened to calling me ‘Leone’ when we’re not working?”
Ah. Was that what he was really sulking about? Bruno let out a small chuckle, he figured the white-haired man wasn’t heartless enough to dismiss Mista’s feelings just like that.
“I knew you cared about Mista’s wellbeing.” Abbacchio huffed at the smile that was being thrown in his direction, giving a small one of his own.
“Never said I didn’t. I mean, yeah it’s just frustrating sometimes having to deal with that, but I get where he’s coming from. Besides, he’s not the only one who's lost…”
Abbacchio trailed off, visibly starting to get uncomfortable and Bucciarati, fortunately, got the message, remembering the story of his old partner back in his days in the police force.
“I understand that, Leone, but try to remember that whilst the situation may seem similar, you two are not the same. He may take to dealing with his emotions differently from you do, though he does seem to be in denial quite often, like a certain someone I know...”
“Can it, Bruno,” Abbacchio said, a bigger smile on his face, his past frustration slowly ebbing away. “Let’s deal with this tomorrow, you have duties, remember, Don Bucciarati ?”
“Don’t remind me…” Bruno let out a groan as he made his way into his bedroom, Abbacchio tailing just behind him.
*:..｡o○ ○o｡..:*
As it turned out, that wasn’t the only time Bucciarati would find Mista in Giorno’s room. The former recalled a time he had been looking for the gunman yet again, this time alone, and the first place he had decided to check was the blond’s room and surprise surprise, there he was yet again. He hadn’t even been out on a mission, and as much as Mista would have loved to convince himself, there was no way he stumbled there “accidentally” like his previous claim.
And it wasn’t just once after the initial time, it went on for days, threatening to turn into a long span of weeks.
Bucciarati mostly left the gunman to himself in Giorno’s bedroom, but he could see that the more he spent there, the more he grew attached to the thought of Giorno probably coming back and that...didn’t seem likely.
As much as it pained him, he had to do something, or Mista would end up in a deeper emotional mess. It was only a matter of time until it would start affecting his work.
With his mind made up, Bucciarati made his way over to Giorno’s room, where he knew he would find the gunman yet again, the rest of the gang already off to their private spaces for the night. Arriving at the bedroom door, Bruno swore he could hear soft music coming from the other side. Taking a deep breath, the dark-haired man delivered three firm knocks on the door, careful not to accidentally make it four to prevent the other man from panicking any further.
“Mista? It’s Bruno.” No answer, just the continuous playing of music. “I’m coming inside.”
Bruno turned the knob and pushed past the door and into the room, which he was fairly surprised wasn’t locked. He was welcomed by the (now clearer) soft music that he had heard from the other side, noting that the lights were off as well, and proceeded to make a move for the light switch.
When there's no gettin' over that rainbow
When my smallest of dreams won't come true
I can take all the madness the world has to give
But I won't last a day without you…
Ah, The Carpenters. Mista’s favourite duo. Bucciarati recalls hearing their music from time to time whenever the gunman made use of Narancia’s boombox, or when he’d try a few attempts at serenading Giorno with those songs - emphasis on attempt.
Mista didn’t have an amazing singing voice, but it wasn’t so bad either, so Giorno had found it endearing and gotten a few laughs from it, and that was all that mattered to Mista - seeing the blond smiling and happy.
“Mista…” Bucciarati addressed the teen spread out on the bed, facing the ceiling with a blank expression on his face, the Pistols squabbling over several slices of salami. At the mention of their master’s name, their focus turned to Bucciarati, who gave them a warm smile as they cried out in a chorus of “Bucci!” s and “Bucciarati! ”s. Coming closer to the bed, Bruno hovered over the brunet’s face, taking note of the dark circles bordering his no longer vibrant eyes.
“Mista.”
That seemed to snap the gunman out of his daze as he jerked in his place on the bed, his eyes refocusing and landing on Bucciarati’s. He grunted as he began to sit up, Bruno moving back to give him some space.
“Oh, hey Bucciarati. Sorry I didn’t hear you come in. Was...I supposed to give a report or something? I didn’t have a mission today…”
“I’m not here for a report, Mista. We need to talk.” Straightforward, no shaking, yet empathetic was what Bruno was trying to establish as he spoke to the teen in front of him. There was a moment of silence between the two, the soft music in the background continuing to play till it reached the point where it began to fade out. As the song ceased, Mista began to shift on the bed, patting a space next to him, indicating a space for Bruno to sit. With a quiet “thank you”, Bruno made his way over to the space made for him and sat, adjusting himself till he was comfortable, and faced the gunman with determination. The Pistols seemed to have disappeared as well.
“I’m not gonna pretend I don’t know what you want to talk about,” Mista suddenly said, slightly surprising the other man. He hadn’t expected the gunman to submit so quickly, but Bruno wasn’t about to let that opportunity go to waste.
“Of course, Mista. I won’t beat around the bush with this, and I don’t really expect you to, seeing as you’re so willing to talk now.” Mista gave a nod, and Bucciarati took in a quick breath, the room suddenly feeling too small. “Why do you keep coming in here? Don’t you think it’s time to move on?”
“You want me to just forget about him?”
“No! Never, I’d never ask you to forget about someone who I know for a fact was very dear to you. I can’t even say I know the extent to which you cared about him, that’s something only you know.” At that, Mista breathed out what seemed to be a sigh of relief, and Bruno took that as a chance to continue. “What I’m concerned about, however, is your state. The whole situation seems to be eating away at your emotions, and it’s making you out to be some sort of...different person.”
“Is this just so I don’t mess up at missions ‘nd stuff?” Mista asked with a scoff, his gaze turned downward.
“I won’t lie and say ‘no’, because that’s a concern too, of course, but don’t be mistaken. You and your health come first far above any mission, understand?” Mista gave a stiff nod at that. “They may not say it, but everyone else is concerned about you-”
“Even Abbacchio?”
“Even Abbacchio. You for one know for a fact he isn’t some insensitive person when it comes to the people close to him.”
Mista gave a sad smile at that, ready to give a playful retort at that claim. Sure, the elder man could be unkind for the most part, especially towards Giorno, but he wasn’t entirely villainous. “Whatever you say, Bucciarati.”
“Now listen very closely, Mista,” The gunman looked up at his “Don”, taking note of the sympathy in his crystal blue eyes. “I miss Giorno too. We all do. But as much as we miss him, it doesn’t seem like we’ll ever see him again. And more than a month has passed...don’t you think it’s time to pick yourself up again?”
Bruno took note of Mista’s hands, which were twitching involuntarily, and refocused his gaze on the gunman’s face as he heard a sigh.
“It’s not...I mean-” Bruno placed a hand on the other’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze, a show of encouragement. “You don’t get it, Bucciarati. I haven’t felt like this about anyone in a fucking long time, probably ever, not even the first-ever person I had a crush on compares to this.”
Mista ran a hand down his face, the fatigue eating away at him. “The fact that I had found someone like him who’s so...so perfect for me. That’s what he was, perfection. ”
“Nobody’s perfect, Mista.”
Mista gave a slight chuckle at that. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. But shit he came real close to it. Guess it doesn’t matter anymore cuz he’s fucking gone.” Mista wailed his arms as he said that, exaggeratedly landing them back on the bed, Bucciarati taking the whole thing in. “I should’ve spent more time with him. I would’ve never let him go on that mission alone if I knew what happened would’ve happened. Shit, did you know we even had a gondola date set up for a few days later? Was gonna take him on one after we finished our business in Venezia…”
Bucciarati watched as the gunman’s facial features adopted a sunken look and resisted the urge to pull him into a hug just yet.
“I was gonna tell him so many things, y’know? That I think he’s more beautiful than any creation I’ve ever seen, that I was so proud of him for his achievements, and then he’d try to act all humble and shit like he always does, and then we’d get into a small, insignificant argument and just laugh about it till he’d try to drag me off to someplace for pudding... again. ”
Mista felt his face heat up just by thinking of the blond and the things about him before he turned to face Bucciarati, who had been sitting in silence, taking in all of the gunman’s words till he took the chance to speak up. “You seem to be really smitten with him, huh…”
“As I said, never felt like this about anybody before.”
“Think you could call it love ?” Mista physically seized up at the mention of that word, his eyes quickly darting away from Bucciarati’s hold, it had meant to be a light-hearted joke but now the older man wondered if he had said the wrong thing.
“I was really hoping to avoid talking about that, guess I couldn’t run from it forever.” Mista turned back to Bucciarati, a sad smile on his face as he visibility relaxed. “I know I can be a sap for romance movies and all that shit, but I’ve had my fair share of ‘is this love?’ scenarios. Mostly ended up with me getting heartbroken and disappointed.”
Mista breathed out a laugh but Bucciarati wasn’t finding the situation funny, a frown creeping onto his face at the brunet’s words. “That’s why I’m afraid to jump into any conclusions with Gio, what if it’s not what I think it is? What if I think it’s love and I just end up getting disappointed again? Can’t lie, that would hurt like shit. But you know what?”
“What is it?”
Mista shot Bucciarati the most genuine smile he had seen from the teen for a long while. “Giorno’s made me feel something no-one else has ever made me feel before, like I’m just as appreciated too, like I’m not just wasting my time over nothing. Shit, I can’t really put it into words, I just adore him so much. Maybe...maybe if I had more time with him, I could’ve called it love after all.”
Bucciarati absently felt his frown morph into a soft smile, his heart fluttering at the gunman’s words. It felt nice to see that he had found someone that made him feel equally loved in a different way than the gang.
“But...I guess you’re right, Bucciarati. Giorno...isn't coming back, and the sooner I accept that, the better. Guess I was just a fool for hoping,” Mista began to get up from the bed as Bruno was still sitting there, watching absentmindedly as his face fell into a frown once again. Hearing those words from the teen, he suddenly wished he hadn’t said anything.
Finally deciding to stand up and join Mista as he made for the door, “Mista…”
“I’ll be fine, Bucciarati. For real this time. And hey, maybe I’ll find someone else! Wouldn’t that be great?!” the gunman asked as he turned around in his tracks suddenly, causing Bruno to stop as well, an incredulous look on his face.
“Mista, are...are you sure about what you’re saying?”
“...I am,” the brunet gave a small reassuring smile, but that didn’t somehow quell the other’s uneasiness at the whole thing. “Also, you don’t have to worry about me coming to Giorno’s room again. This’ll be the last time, promise.”
When Bucciarati didn’t answer, Mista took that as a sort of confirmation and continued making his way back to the door and out the room, Bucciarati still rooted in place till he heard the soft slam of Mista’s room door once again, shaking out of his trance.
Dammit, this was the right choice...right? Bruno couldn’t seem to get that thought out of his mind. He shook his head, deciding to deal with that another day, as he made his way over to the light switch, flipping it and allowing darkness to descend on the room once more. With one final glance back at the interior parts of the bedroom, Bruno made his way out the door, not bothering to lock it, he couldn’t bring himself to do that, and off to his room he went, his head swarming with the events of the evening.