Chapter Text
Narancia, Giorno and Mista were getting ready to drunkenly go trawling the Neapolitan nightclubs. They would usually start from the fashionable Quartieri Spagnoli, eventually stumbling their way all the way up to Vasto, only diverging from their set course if one of them found a hookup, or got picked up by the cops. They’d occasionally get Abbacchio, Bucciarati or Fugo to tag along with them, but since most people considered Narancia and Mista’s alcohol fueled escapades something to be enjoyed in moderation, most nights, like tonight, it would just be the three of them.
“Who’s ready for another shot!” Mista exclaimed, not waiting for a response before slamming down three shot glasses, filled to the absolute brim, onto the coffee table.
In the background, some fast-paced EDM was playing way too loudly, and it was a good thing that all Giorno’s neighbors were senior citizens with either hearing loss or walking difficulties, or they’d all be up there, banging on his door.
“What is it?” Giorno asked, leaning forward to sniff at the colorless liquid.
“Something to get you drunk, Giogio,” Mista said, pushing one glass towards Giorno, the other towards Narancia, not even acknowledging that the contents were sloshing all over Giorno’s table.
“So, it’s water?” Narancia joked, cackling at his own lame joke.
Giorno was a lightweight in comparison to Mista and Narancia, and his reluctance to fully lose control meant he never quite reached their impressive levels of inebriation. But he’d still try and keep pace with them, at least up to the point where the duo started getting really out of control.
Now, the alcohol spilled over their hands as they raised the glasses and quickly downed them with a boisterous Salute!
“Sambuca,” Giorno said, recognizing the liquor. He dragged a finger through the spill on the table, considering getting up to clean it, but decided it would really make no difference as they were just getting started, and the only thing messier than Mista and Narancia were drunk Mista and Narancia. There would be more spills to come. At least Sambuca smelled kind of nice when it dried.
“Let’s do another one!” Narancia was only half-joking.
“It’s barely ten o’clock,” Giorno said.
Narancia raised an eyebrow: “Yeah, so?”
“So, let’s pace ourselves a little,” Giorno clarified.
“I guess,” Narancia said, but was already on his way to the kitchen to help himself to a beer.
Mista threw himself onto Giorno’s couch, the old wood creaking under the impact. The couch was just long enough for Mista’s legs to fit comfortably, and he stretched out, kind of pushing with his hands into the cushions to test for springiness. His cropped T-shirt hiked up a little, revealing more of his abs. Giorno smirked. This was usually how his daydreams started.
“What?” Mista asked.
“Oh, nothing.” Giorno hoped he wouldn’t start blushing, and if he did, that the lighting would be dim enough for Mista to not notice. “Just looks funny, your pants and the sofa.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie, the thought had crossed Giorno’s mind several times that night: how out of place Mista looked walking around in this outdated, frumpy apartment, wearing his cool tiger-striped pants and black knee-high boots, gun as always tucked into his waistband. Giorno lived in a fancier part of town than the rest of them, lucking out when he had found an old lady willing to rent out her inner-city apartment for half the cost of equivalent units in the neighborhood. But the place was really outdated and old.
“No one looks right in this apartment,” Mista said, sitting back up. He appreciated the fact that Giorno hadn’t even tried changing up the old lady décor, and it always amused him to see Giorno, all cool and polished, standing in a sea of doilies, floral patterned drapes and bowls of potpourri. “It’s like a bizarre time capsule. How do you ever get lucky in this place?”
Narancia emerged from the kitchen, clutching three open bottles of beer to his chest. He offered one each to Mista and Giorno, then flopped down next to Mista on the sofa.
“What are we talking about?” Narancia asked.
“Chicks,” Mista said. His eyes quickly darted to Giorno as he realized his mistake, and he corrected himself: “Or, getting lucky.”
It wasn’t anything they ever talked about openly, but Giorno was sure that Narancia and Mista knew, or at least had their suspicions, about his sexual orientation. They had spent too many drunken nights together to not have drawn their conclusions about why Giorno Giovanna never went home with a girl, despite getting plenty of offers. It wasn’t that Giorno was ashamed of who he was, but trying to make a name for himself in the criminal underworld was hard enough being young and green. The last thing he needed added to that list was being undermined for something as stupid as who he preferred going to bed with. No, he wasn’t ashamed of who he was, but now Mista’s glance had his cheeks burning for some inexplicable reason, and he tried hiding the blush behind his beer bottle, taking a way too long swig from it.
The mood shifted, and there was a slight lull in the conversation.
“Man, nothing beats a cold beer,” Narancia said. A not so great effort at changing the subject and diverting attention from the uncomfortable energy even Narancia could feel coming from Giorno. “It’s really good. Ice cold beer.”
Narancia’s stiff attempt at alleviating the tension only made the situation worse and Giorno could feel the slightly pink blush of his cheeks now blooming into a deep crimson.
“Is it too hot in here, Giorno?” Mista asked innocently. “You’re looking kind of flushed?”
Giorno’s eyes shot up to look at Mista, expecting… he wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but he was met with a cocky smirk followed by a laugh that had his cheeks blushing an even deeper red.
“Fuck you,” Giorno mumbled, but his shoulders immediately sank back into a more relaxed position and he allowed himself a chuckle, joined in by Narancia.
It was an easy mistake to make, equating Mista’s bluntness and brash personality with him being oblivious to social cues. But Mista often surprised his friends by being the first one to pick up on when someone was having a bad day, or needed a shoulder to lean on, or by knowing exactly how to defuse a really awkward tension.
Soon, several bottles of beers had been emptied and Mista was busy pouring them their fourth round of shots. Something dark, this time. Whisky? Rum? Jager? Giorno was already feeling the effects of the previous drinks: that heavy, sort of buzzing relaxation, his words coming out slightly too fast and slightly too slurred. Narancia and Mista, on the other hand, looked like they just as likely could have been sipping on orange juice all evening. Giorno looked hesitantly at the glass in his hand, wondering why he voluntarily kept subjecting himself to bouts of mild alcohol poisoning.
“Bottoms up!” Narancia said, emptying his glass.
“Already hit your limit, Giovanna?” Mista asked, nodding at the unfinished shot in Giorno’s hand.
“You didn’t drink yours either.”
Narancia noticed his friends still had their glasses full and he let out an annoyed grunt: “Hey, we’re supposed to go together! Wait!” He rushed to the kitchen and brought with him a bottle of dark rum, pouring himself a new shot. “Alright. On three: One, two three, salute!” Salute!
Giorno swallowed hard, feeling the liquor trying to burn its way back up his throat. He sank heavily into the armchair, closing his eyes as he felt the room spinning. He could hear Narancia and Mista talking through the loud music, but their voices were muddled, and for a moment he thought he was going to fall asleep, or pass out, but something brought him back to focus, and he opened his eyes.
“I said, are you ok?” Mista was leaning towards him, dark eyes looking at him. Everything else but those eyes was spinning.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Hm,” Mista said, not entirely convinced. “No more shots for you. At least not for a while,” he added, as he remembered it was still barely midnight and they had a lot more hours of partying to get through.
“Maybe we should get going?” Narancia said, nodding towards Giorno. “Before anyone passes out.”
Giorno opened eyes that he hadn’t realized he had been closing, and scoffed, annoyed: “I’m not going to pass out. I’m fine.”
“If you say so,” Narancia shrugged. He turned to Mista: “So, where are we starting tonight?”
“A though choice,” Mista said, putting some real thought into his answer. “Amore has the hottest chicks, but Club M’s got the craziest. Or Etage if we want to hit on tourists?”
“You ever think about anything else than getting laid?” Giorno asked, already knowing the answer to his question. He sunk back into the soft armchair, closing his eyes again. Of course it was just his luck to be crushing on the biggest horndog and skirt chaser in Napoli.
“I’m really a romantic at heart,” Mista said, making Giorno crack his eyes open and raise one amused eyebrow.
“I am!” Mista continued. “All I really want is a girl I can hang out with, watch stupid movies with, go shopping with. You know, the simple things in life.”
Giorno ruminated on that for a moment. He would never have Mista pegged for a romantic. “Not much time for romance, at 3 in the morning, is there?” Giorno said.
“Don’t be such a stiff, Giovanna.” Mista scoffed. “You never know when or where you’ll find her. The dream girl. The girl you finally want to bring home to your mama.”
Narancia laughed: “Well, I’m pretty sure you won’t find her at Club M.”
By 1 a.m. Narancia and Mista were dressed and ready to go, waiting in the hallway for Giorno. The two of them were satisfied with just running a couple of hands through their dark, messy locks while Giorno’s braid required a little more maintenance. They had called a cab, it was already waiting outside, and they still hadn’t decided at which club they wanted to start their night.
“Where do you want to go, Giorno?” Mista asked. “Feels like we’re always dragging you around everywhere.”
Giorno’s drunk tongue almost had him saying I’d rather just stay here with you Mista, but he bit down on it and instead said:
“Tourists are always fun, I guess.”
“Etage, then!” Mista said, clasping his hands together, signaling that the decision was final.