Archive of Our Own ^beta

Mista had never really been fond of November 1st, for no particular reason other than Tutti i Santi (All Saint’s Day) had most things closed down. Waking up with a rough hangover didn’t help either, though neither of these things were the reason he wasn’t into moving out of bed right now. It was extremely lucky that he had the day off.

By now, it was already noon and he’d been asleep for.. maybe five hours at the most. The time didn’t matter, though. How tired he was didn’t matter. Hell, anything other than how damn loud his heart was pounding and the sweet taste that remained in his mouth didn’t matter at all. His mind was on last night, on Halloween.

Mista rolled over. “God,” he muttered aloud, smushing his face into the nearest pillow. “This is why I don’t take party invitations from strangers.”

The guy he got the invitation from wasn’t exactly a stranger. Could you consider someone a stranger if you’ve chatted while washing blood off your sweaters in your apartment’s laundry room? Maybe “stranger” was a designation for other people. Maybe Mista could consider Raoul an acquaintance, at least.

Whether stranger or acquaintance, Mista still didn’t know that much about him. He was a shorter guy around his age, in college for law, and tended to tie his strawberry-blond hair up on laundry days. His last name was “Segreti”, and he lived a few doors down. 

That’s all he really had on Raoul, but Raoul in turn apparently thought highly enough of his mysterious, blood-washing teenage neighbor to tack a party invite to his door. Either that, or he was just casting a net in every direction to see who would get caught. Probably the latter.

Mista was about half and half on the premise of going to a civilian party. Since his.. er.. coup-related job promotion, he rarely found himself without full hands and found it harder and harder to return to the relaxed, semi-civilian state he could pull as an insignificant underling. However, the last time he saw Raoul in the laundry room, the poor guy seemed so starry-eyed about the absolute “rager” his friend was throwing. Mista couldn’t let him down and say he wasn’t gonna go. He had the day off anyway, and Giorno had been on his ass all week about “using downtime wisely”. Why not. Why not.

There was a reason why not, actually. He didn’t know anybody there, save for Raoul, and he just knew the guy’s name. Mista never considered himself an introvert (that was Fugo’s job), but going to a party full of regular non-murdery people and attempting to mingle would be daunting to even the most outgoing. Well, except for..

Narancia. Of course.

Narancia was almost fearless. Mista couldn’t count the number of times he stared death in the face and told it to fuck right off. He’d even taken on what could only be called the Devil and got out just barely scathed, though Mista didn’t like to think about what would’ve happened to him if they didn’t reach him in time. He had those thoughts about everyone on the team, of course, but if anything happened to Narancia he was sure he’d become a mess.. not like that was anything to worry about now. He swore the guy was a cat or something. Nine lives and all.

If Diavolo couldn’t take him down, the crushing weight of social embarrassment wouldn’t either.

Still, how quickly Narancia accepted to go with him was a shock. Mista was expecting at least an “I’ll see if I’m free then, school’s been crazy lately,” or simply an “I dunno, maybe,” but what he got instead was an overwhelming “YES” and an excited rant about how it’d been for-fucking-ever since he’d gotten the chance to hang out. Could it have been the promise of free drinks and candy, the girls, or the opportunity to let loose that got him to respond so well? A mystery for the ages, it didn’t really matter. Party was on.

The evening was already upon them, with Mista idling a car ( his own for once) outside of Bucciarati’s house, trying his best to be patient with its second-youngest occupant. Narancia had been living there for a few good years since joining the gang, but upon leaving, the relationship between him and the others had become more familial. Mista supposed after seeing him in danger so many times, neither Bucciarati nor Abbacchio could keep themselves from doting over him.. He wouldn’t be surprised if they were holding him up right now, giving him a stern earful and ensuring he wouldn’t get into any trouble.

Mista’s nerves were getting to him, though, so he let the car stay where it was and got out to pace on the sidewalk. His tattered sweater let a chill run through his body, the holes in the knees of his pants not helping matters- it was a colder day than usual. He was tugging a red beanie over his ears instinctively, pacing back and forth in an attempt to warm up, when some creepy shape grabbed him from behind. He yelped a bit childishly, grabbing desperately for his pistol, but it wasn’t where he had it last.

When he whirled around to see what had come to attack him, it was just Narancia’s little frame giggling wildly and twirling the stolen pistol around in his hands. He was wearing what looked to be a white poncho with the hood pulled up, smeared eyeliner, and what had to be Abbacchio’s black lipstick. Mista was stunned by the suddenness of it all, but it turned into play-anger when he saw where his trusty weapon had ended up.

“Hey! Give that back,” he yelped, trying to grab the pistol from Narancia’s hands, but his friend was too quick and wily to give it up just yet.

“Don’t tell me you were gonna bring this,” he teased, whirling around to Mista’s other side. “You gotta at least try to look normal. Guns n’ parties are like oil n’ water- they don’t mix.”

“Okay, okay- I get that bringing it doesn’t look good on me, but the bosses will have my ass if anything happens to you. And, I really don’t wanna lose my ass. What if something happens?”

Narancia grinned, lined nicely by the lipstick. “We have Aero, y’know. I’m not rusty yet.”

“... Alright. I’ll keep it in the car,” Mista huffed. He took the gun back from Narancia’s outstretched hand, sliding the barrel back into his pocket. “What’s your costume?”

“A ghost, obviously! Bruno let me borrow one of his shirts,” the younger replied, twirling around to demonstrate how the white fabric billowed out around him. A black long sleeve shirt and skinny jeans lay underneath. “And you’re supposed to be a zombie..?”

“I don’t do costumes, man. I had to make do with cheap paint and one of my ruined sweaters.”

“Not an insult, dude! It looks cool. It’s what any zombie would wear.” 

Narancia then stepped closer to tug a corner of the tattered fabric. “Is this the one that got all ripped up in the DVNO fight? It looks familiar.”

“Yeeesss,” Mista whined. “It was so expensive, too.”

“Knew it! Well, it’s really not that bad. Still feels soft to me,” Narancia said. His knuckles brushed Mista’s stomach as he released the sweater, hands as warm as they usually were. It.. tickled a little.

Mista averted his gaze, flushed. “You, uh.. ready to go?”

His plus-one clasped his hands in excitement, practically beaming. A sparkle crossed his heavily-lined eyes. 

“Hell yeah, man! Let’s go already.”

About fifteen minutes and a few squabbles over who gets to hold the road map later, the two of them came upon the right place. The house the party was held in, an impressive building in a very ritzy-looking community, had cars like confetti spilling from the driveway out into the street. It seemed almost.. too nice for people like them, even before things in their life got all bloody. Not that Halloween had ever been a big deal for Italians, but.. the pressure remained.

Sure, Mista’s sweater- despite the multitude of holes- was Versace. Narancia’s blouse was borrowed from one of the two bosses of the most prominent gang in this part of the country. But, there was a way you had to carry yourself that couldn’t be bought. It was alright for now, though. Normalcy is a costume, just like everything else. Today was a day for costumes.

Raoul was there to greet them at the door, predictably, both reeling in the catch of his net and proving his social capital to the other partygoers. He was thankfully dressed quite simply, the only hints toward his costume being some painted-on stitches and a headband with screws.

“It’s actually a pretty clever costume,” he explained to no one in particular as he led Narancia and a tailing Mista into the foyer of the house. Loud dance music thumped the walls about them. “Victor Frankenstein was born in Naples. I’m representing our greatest export.”

“That’s interesting,” Mista muttered, too nervous to really pay attention. Before the line leader could continue to explain the subtle nuance of two bolts hot glued onto a headband, though, they made it to the living room. The noise of talking and music reached its apex and Mista instinctively held onto Narancia’s hand as to not lose him in the thick of the crowd.

The house was quite a sight. The living room was sufficiently dark for partying, yet still lit enough to see there were quite a few attendees. To the right of them, a small group was dancing to a mix of Daft Punk’s Homework and a Kylie Minogue track. To the left, two adults seemed to be locked in a friendly drinking competition as their friends watched. The people Raoul introduced the newcomers to first, though, were a very important-looking pair- a guy and a girl- presiding cooly over the chaos.

“Alright, you two. These are our hosts, so be polite,” he joked, and it thawed the cold pair instantly. They lit up to greet Mista and Narancia as if they were old friends.

“Sigismondo Ferrara,” the man spoke first, shaking hands all around with a firm grip akin to a dad’s. “I own the place. People call me ‘Sig’. No need to be polite though, brother. We’re here to kick back and get wasted, and that’s about it.”

“Guido,” Mista said, casually, “and Narancia.” In all the excitement and noise, Narancia was busy looking away at every interesting thing that passed by their little group, leaving it up to Mista to introduce them both.

Sig looked every bit like a rich kid party host, all dirty blond hair and handsome smile, but at least he seemed to be a decent person. Besides, he was providing free drinks and food, so Mista let his guard down a small bit. The fact that the girl beside Sig (all black pixie cut and light eyes) was also very, very cute helped, but all thoughts of this in Mista’s mind were interrupted when she introduced herself.

“I’m Sig’s girlfriend,” she said, shaking hands with a similar friendliness and vigor as her partner did. “Benedetta. Or Tina. Actually, yeah, just Tina,” she chuckled. In the light, Mista noticed a  cheap plastic tiara pinned onto her short hair- and a corresponding crown on Sig’s hair as well.

Of course they’re together, Sherlock, a voice in his head berated. Matching costumes and all.

There wasn’t time to brood about it, though. The hosts had already taken over Raoul’s job of introduction, pointing out the drinking competitors.

“Contestant number one- Nat- got his shit wrecked on a mountain climb like, three weeks ago,” Tina explained. The man she referred to, the one with the cast on his arm, had a mess of curly dark brown hair and a hippie-esque getup. “He’s supposed to be wearing a costume.”

“Hey,” Nat piped up, offended. “It is a costume, alright?”

“You’re always dressed like that!”

“Yeah, and there’s nothing wrong wi-” he retorted, before a redhead at his side helped him finish his next drink. “-nothing wrong with it. I look good.”

“I still think it’s unfair how he gets help,” the other contestant, a tall girl with a crimped mass of plum purple hair, slurred. A pair of pointy ears adorned her head, nose and whiskers painted on the face, and furry cuffs on her wrists.

“Aw, Belbel , be a good sport. His arm’s broken,” Sig teased.

“So? He has two arms,” she huffed, throwing back her shot. This was Belbel. Or, as she delicately put it, “I’m Anni if you like keeping your head attached to your body. Other than that, call me ‘Belbel’ all you damn well please. Also, I’m a werewolf, not a cat. Three people have called me a cat so far, and I’m not about it.”

Particular girl, that Bel- no- Anni. Mista didn’t know if she was his type, but he liked her feistiness. Also, she could apparently take dry vodka without even wincing, which was cool. Even with Nat getting all that extra help, he already had bets on who the winner of this bracket would be.

In that moment, he felt.. slightly okay. He was surrounded by people he just met, but they were all kind and relatively normal for a change. Young, college-age, probably never killed anybody. Besides, he had someone with him-

Mista glanced to his side for a sense of comfort, but Narancia was long gone.

Logically, Mista knew he probably bailed on the group shortly after introducing himself, off to meet as many others as possible and take everything in. His mind went to bad places regardless. Places that had bad people and sharp iron bars. 

Narancia was an official adult now - they’d celebrated his 18th months ago - and yet Mista remained deeply worried, feeling the need to make sure his plus one was alright and within visual distance.

That, and standing here all by himself made him feel like an idiot.

After procuring a cup of heavily-spiked cider with Tina’s help, Mista abruptly disappeared himself into the strobe lights and sea of people. Narancia wouldn’t be alone here if he had anything to say about it.

Turns out, though, Narancia wasn’t alone.

It took a while for Mista to see his shrouded form in the corner (the bright white of Bruno’s blouse helping a lot), but it was definitely him. He was laughing along with some girl he could barely make out, with fairy wings and a spiky Halle Berry haircut. Even if the little party ghost didn’t have any cider in his hand, though, Mista could tell he was tipsy. He knew this mostly from prior experience- Narancia was known to be an affectionate and giggly drunk. 

Curious, he hung back to watch the two before approaching.

There were few words he could make out over the howling chorus of Werewolves of London , but Mista could put pieces together. Narancia asking about the words on the girl’s shirt (“Be cheerful, enjoy life!”), surrounding a mosaic of a skeleton. Him with her arm around her shoulder, giving an enthusiastic hug. The girl shyly whispering something to him, to which Narancia gasped and excitedly grabbed her hands.

“You should do it,” Narancia beamed. “It’ll be alright! I think she’s-”

“A-are you sure? I don-”

“You kidding? You’re gorgeous! Amazing, even! Your leg-”

Mista was very suddenly filled with the realization that maybe he was eavesdropping on something he shouldn’t be. His stomach dropped, and he decided to look away before he accidentally interrupted Narancia’s good time. If Narancia didn’t want to stay around him and was happier flirting with the girls, what did it matter? It didn’t. It didn’t.

He took a very large gulp of the cider.

As he drank, a guy directly behind Mista caught up in the sheer euphoria of dancing to Backstreet Boys at a party slammed into him. The cider splashed onto his sweater, covering him in a nice cinnamon-apple scent but a gross, sticky feeling. Emotions began to swell in him- frustration, anger, jealousy ( what’s that doing there ), regret-

God, this sucks. This sucks and I should’ve never- But I haven’t seen Narancia so happy since he got accepted to- But I’ve only said, like, three words to people while he’s-

Mista felt a tap on his back.

“Hey man. Sorry I bumped you a second ago. I got you a new cup of cider. We cool?”

He whirled around, locking eyes with the same redhead guy who’d been helping Nat drink. 

“Thanks,” Mista muttered, accepting the styrofoam cup with a sense of hesitation. Did this guy put anything in it? Was this some sort of long-con assassination ploy? Was-

Nope. Just cider. This didn’t stop Mista from leering at the redhead suspiciously as he drank, but he at least let his shoulders down some. 

The guy’s name was Emil. He wore a perfectly average shirt and pants combo, the only thing alluding to his costume’s identity being a long, white coat and a pair of ski goggles on his forehead. Mista guessed he didn’t have to do much about the hair for a trademark “mad scientist” look, which spilled red curls out in all directions despite the goggles’ compression. A friend of Emil’s, Sergio, returned from a trip to the cider bowl to introduce himself also. He was a rather short, punkish-looking fellow with shaggy black hair. Black and white paint outlined his face in the shape of a skull, stopping only to make room for hair on his lip and chin, and a skeleton T-shirt hid under black leather both above and below. Mista would find out later that the two of them graduated high school together. It showed.

“I didn’t catch your name,” Emil leaned in to say after he and Sergio shared a couple of private whispers.

“Mis- I, uh.. Guido,” Mista stammered out. “Sorry. I’m on a last name basis with most of my.. er.. coworkers.”

“No worries, man, I get it. All work and no play can really get t’ you,” Sergio affirmed, leaning in as Emil had just done to make himself heard. “By the way, there’s been something driving me batty for like, five minutes now. Do you happen to speak any English?”

Mista gestured to indicate he knew some, but his expression conveyed rustiness in the subject.

“Alright, well, it’s not too hard. So, uh, during the Backstreet Boys song, the one with-”

Emil cut in. “The one where they’re back, right?”

“Mhm, when they’ve returned ‘n all that. The one Backstreet dude straight up just asks his buddies if he’s sexual and they all just go ‘yeah’. Is that.. normal? Like, am I translating it wrong?”

Mista blinked, thought for a minute, then shook his head. “No, that’s.. pretty spot on. That’s exactly what happens.”

Sergio thought for a moment, his furrowed brow cracking his facial paint. “Well.. good for the boys, I guess,” he muttered, before leaning toward Mista yet again. “I like you, Guido. You seem like a nice, fun dude. Why’re you stuck to the walls like this?”

Mista shrugged, trying not to look totally sullen. “My plus one is off flirting with other people.”

Emil nodded sagely. “Girl problems, huh? Well, it happens to the best of us,” he said, wrapping an arm around his guest’s shoulder with a degree of familiarity he wasn’t used to from strangers. “You don’t really need girls to have a good time, you know. We have free alcohol, and we have so much candy. Had any yet?”

“Of the candy?” Mista asked. “Not yet, no. Just cider and wine.”

“Really now! You oughta try some,” Sergio nudged. “There’s a reason Sig has so much of it, y’know.. and this massive house.”

Mista tensed, his heart picking up speed. He glanced back towards Narancia, still tipsily chatting with the girl, to ensure nothing had happened since he’d talked to these strangers. He sucked in a deep breath.

“Don’t tell me they’re drugged-”

Emil and Sergio paused, dumbstruck. They shared a wide-eyed glance.

“God, no, dude!” Emil finally exclaimed. “Sig’s one of the Ferraras - as in, Ferrara’s Confections. You know, the gourmet candy people?”

Mista’s shoulders dropped. The name “Ferrara’s” had a soothing familiarity to it.

Ferrara’s Confections had been a staple since coming to live here, sitting neatly on shelves in every candy store and checkout line. Back before Passione on days he had enough money, he’d buy something with that label to treat himself. Both relief and inferiority came over him in waves.

“Yeah. I’ve heard of them,” he said, after a moment. “Sorry. Work has been.. stressful lately.”

“Damn. What do you even do , man? What job has you this jumpy?”

“Complicated,” Mista blurted, hoping he’d never have to explain. “It’s complicated. It doesn’t matter.”

Emil and Sergio shared a glance yet again, even sharing a whisper or two, but eventually shrugged it off. Apparently, it didn’t matter to them what the new guy did for work, only that he wasn’t some garden-variety douchebag.

From then on, the three of them stuck together in a little group, and through gossip, passing interactions and costume compliments, Mista got to know most everyone else. On the couch was Orfeo, a dark-skinned platinum blond with a (now disassembled) cardboard box robot costume. Apparently, he believed in UFOs but only talked about it after a few glasses of wine. Sig’s younger sister Sabrina, a very attractive blue-haired girl, was the one perched on a barstool in an expensive-looking black dress. She came to every one of her brother’s parties without saying a word, her icy glare scaring most potential suitors- or even friends- away. Durante, a younger guy in a Dale Cooper trenchcoat (also on the couch), would always, always push everyone at the party to play some kind of self-revealing embarrassment game- along the lines of Truth or Dare or Never Have I Ever- simply because he liked to get into everyone’s business. “It’s because he’s a journalism major,” Sergio had said, as if that meant anything to Mista. 

It did help to learn stupid facts about random people, though. Like magic, it made them turn from faceless potential enemies into human beings having fun. Eventually, he could even put names to faces without assessing how dangerous they may be.

Everything seemed to get a little better after that. The music, once somewhat repetitive for his tastes, grew on him little by little. The candy scattered in bowls about the house, as the two had implied, was amazing. And it was all for free. Perhaps it was the surplus of alcohol, but he felt.. relaxed, and at points even had a little fun.

Something was missing, though. It hummed in the back of his mind.

It was, as it had always been, Narancia.

As many dense objects tend to, though, Mista and Narancia came back in each other’s orbit. The latter had his arm slung around the same girl he’d seen earlier, in the skeleton shirt and fairy costume, and appeared to be in as joyful spirits as he did when first arriving.

“Mistaaaa~,” Narancia called as soon as he recognized the silhouette nearby, waving his free arm to billow the fabric of his ghostly poncho. “Miiiistaaaaaa~!”

“Oh, hey man,” came the response, trying a bit too hard to seem relaxed. “I didn’t notice you get away from me. Who’s the uh, girl?”

Narancia gasped happily, taking his arm from around her and pushing her out in front. “Mista, this is Irma. She’s really fucking cool, so we’re best friends now,” he said. 

“You’re being way too nice, dude,” Irma giggled in response, holding out a hand to Mista to shake. “Nice to meet you, Mista.”

“Likewise.” 

They shook hands, the girl leaning on what appeared to be a cane for support while she did so. It was then Mista noticed something different about one of her legs. He wasn’t going to say anything about the subject, but Narancia brought it up anyways.

“Irma got attacked by a big nasty shark a long time ago ‘cause she used to surf, so now she has a really cool metal leg. She survived that shit, dude! And you’ll never guess-”

“Hm?”

“She still surfs ! She’s like a cyborg who surfs! You can’t tell me that’s not the sickest thing you’ve ever heard. Her costume’s pretty dope, too.”

Irma was full-on blushing at this point, embarrassed but flattered. “He’s just buttering me up because I’m about to talk to a girl I like, I think,” she laughed nervously.

Mista blinked, looking at Narancia for confirmation. “A girl- a girl she likes?”

Narancia nodded excitedly, holding onto Mista’s arm as he staggered slightly forward. “Mhmm! She’s crushing so hard. It’s the cutest thing on the planet, dude. She was all nervous about how to approach her, so I can’t not help her out, y'know?”

A wave of relief came over the message’s recipient for some reason, causing him to let out a long sigh. “That’s adorable, man. Need help?”

“Thanks, but I’m good. Irma’s totally got this,” Narancia replied as he gently lead her by the arm towards the bar area. Mista felt a chance, of what he wasn’t sure, slipping away. He called out for Narancia before he got too far, who stopped in his tracks. 

“What’s up?”

“They’re gonna play some movies in a minute- horror stuff- will you be back in time for that? To.. uh.. sit with me?” Mista blurted out, louder than intended.

It didn’t faze Narancia, who beamed in response. “I’d love to! Wait up for me, alright?”

“Awesome.”

This promise was fulfilled sooner than expected. Narancia had returned moments later, his fairy friend in tow, and behind her came Sabrina. She was in high spirits and smiling wide, a state most other partygoers were trying not to gawk at. Little fangs poked out as she giggled along to one of Irma’s jokes, revealing her costume at last.

“How’d you do it?” Mista asked once Narancia was close enough to share whispers. “I heard she never talks to anyone here who’s not her brother.”

“That’s the thing, right,” Narancia explained. “People get in their own heads all the time. No one actually spoke to her before because she scared them, but it’s lonely up there all alone. It’s like a cycle. Breaking it’s a two for one deal, man- one girl talks to her crush, and the other finally gets someone to talk to.”

“That’s incredible! Do you think they’re.. uh..”

“Not sure yet, but I got a good feeling about this. Either way, less wallflowers,” Narancia beamed, seeming quite accomplished. He settled in next to Mista on the shaggy rug, Irma and Sabrina giggling on his other side, while Sig dimmed the lights and Emil fired up a projector. The light reflected on Narancia’s face, highlighting what was definitely a knowing smile. 

“You talked to some people too, right? Made friends?”

“... Oh, you little shit,” Mista realized, joining him on the floor. “That was on purpose? Some kinda lesson?”

The younger shrugged, still wearing that same adorable smile. “Maybe. But it worked, didn’t it?”

“You got me there. Just.. you’ll stick with me for the rest of the night, right?”

“Aw, now. I didn’t miss hanging out with you this much to go back to wandering,” Narancia laughed, tugging on Mista’s beanie who pulled it even further down in response, hiding from the projector beam to conceal his redding face. “Besides. If you start crying during the movie, I gotta be here to hide behind.”

Mista huffed. “Christ, dude. Did you forget what I do for a living already?”

“Nope. You’re a single mom to six kids that has bullets in you far too often.”

Before Mista could think of any witty comebacks, a hush fell over the small crowd- the movie had begun, scored by eerie synths and focused in on a carved pumpkin, one of those iconic American imports of the holiday. It was almost eerier, though, how all the formerly raucous young adults had settled to whispers so fast.

The movie itself wasn’t a terribly long affair, but to Mista who had a strange, impulsive thought to lean into Narancia’s side every other second, it felt like it was lasting forever. Nothing had really made him jump so far (Emil had said this was one of those “psychological horrors” and a “slow burn”), but he almost wanted to just to have an excuse to hold Narancia in his arms. 

God, that was weird. 

It had to be a trick of either the wine or projector lights, but he still couldn’t help but think the first girl to snatch his friend up would be so lucky. There was an urge briefly to even take a page from Irma’s book- from where Mista could see, she’d gained a spark of confidence and had an arm wrapped around Sabrina’s shoulder. Her drink was in Narancia’s hands for the time being, along with his own.

Mista felt a nudge on his other side. A fellow partygoer was attempting to give him a bowl of individually-wrapped chocolates, passed around every hand like the collection at church. He happily accepted, picking orange creams, truffles, and caramels for himself, before attempting to hand it to Narancia- who kept shaking his head.

“What’s up, man?” Mista whispered. “I’ve never known you to turn down sweets before.”

“It’s not that,” was the frustrated response. “I’m holding two drinks. The carpet’s plush. Do the math.”

Oh. Duh. Of course. That, and the nearest coffee table was both far away and packed- getting up in front of the projector during a tense moment would be an even worse party foul than ruining the rug. Then, Mista had a.. strange solution, inspired perhaps from watching Emil help Nat compete in the drinking competition with a broken arm.

“I can.. uh.. help you eat them, if you want,” Mista leaned in to whisper.

Narancia laughed soundlessly. “You mean.. feed them to me? Like I’m a Pistol?”

“Damn. Sorry I offered.”

“No, I mean.. it’s so weird it might actually work,” Narancia whispered back, leaning in reciprocally but still managing to not spill any drinks. His expression took on a wild grin. 

“Do your worst.”

Mista felt suddenly quite warm for late October. “Sure.”

He unwrapped one of the orange creams, taking care to not drop it, and held it near the recipient’s lipstick-lined mouth. In his mind, he pictured it differently- Narancia gently pulling it out of his pinched fingers like a gentle woodland animal- but it was not that. Instead, he yanked it with his teeth like a crocodile, throwing his head back to drop it squarely in his mouth and chewing it happily.

“Mmm. Oh, these are so good. Holy shit,” he muttered. “I’ve been missing out this whole time.”

“You’re kidding! That’s a crime, dude, you should have more,” Mista prodded, prompting Narancia’s world-famous puppy-dog eyes. “Here. I’ll get you another.”

This one was a caramel, which this time Mista held in his outstretched palm. Narancia leaned forward to pick it up with his teeth, a little gentler this time, but kept his lips on the open hand even after the candy had been eaten. Quickly, he gave the palm a little kiss.

Mista flinched, yanking his hand back a bit and praying silently that Narancia couldn’t see his reddened face.  “What the hell- what was that for?”

Narancia snickered. “My mouth was full. It was a thank-you for the candy.” His voice took on a mocking, singsong quality. “Another, pleaaaase~.”

The keeper of the candy sighed, unwrapping another orange cream. “Only if you eat it like a normal person this time.”

“Ugh, fine,” Narancia scoffed, yet he leaned toward Mista as eagerly as he’d done before, and.. bit the candy in half, as it was still being held pinched between his fingers. His lips touched Mista’s hand again, gentler this time, and he could feel Narancia’s breath. The feeling on his hand.. would kissing him feel similar? Softer? .. Rougher?

What the fuck am I thinking about. What the fuck is wrong with me. I’ve drunk too much.

“Damn, dude. What’s taking you so long,” Mista finally sputtered out, hardly able to hear himself over the pulse pounding in his ears.

“I’m tryin’ to savor it, my guy,” Narancia responded, slightly muffled around the bits of chocolate, breath barely tangible on Mista’s fingers. At that moment, he was intimately aware of Narancia’s violet eyes burning holes in his own, lit and sparkling by the projection of a synth-addled horror film.

The sweets-provider looked away, deeply red. “Well.. hurry up. You’re getting your gross gremlin spit on me.”

“Too bad,” Narancia teased, finishing the rest of the chocolate in one swift bite before planting another peck on the tips of Mista’s fingers, akin to a pleased chef. He could feel a tiny smile on his lips. “ Gratzie , dude.”

“Yeah, no problem,” he muttered. God, what was his deal anyway.. trying to get a rise out of him? Vying for attention? Just.. being a weird drunk? Either way, a tiny bit of black lipstick had been smeared on Mista’s hand, among little chocolate crumbs. It stared back at him.

The climax of the movie was here with the heroine stabbing the killer with her knitting needles, but the watcher’s mind was far elsewhere, filled once more with the strange urge to lean into Narancia’s arms. He just wanted to make sure his friend was safe, is all. Too many near misses. That’s it. No more thinking about it. Ever.

At his side, Narancia finished his drink to wash down the chocolate, and unceremoniously dropped the cup.

By this hour, the huge crowd that had frightened Mista so much when he’d first came in had long dispersed, leaving a much more intimate group. He assumed that perhaps the stress in the back of his mind would disperse as well, but for one specific reason, he was deeply, deeply wrong.

That specific reason was Durante Accardo, that nosy little Dale Cooper-dressed shit, and his apparent obsession with making things awkward for everyone.

“Alright, fellas,” Sig’s voice echoed over the crowd after their first movie had finished, “My good buddy Durante has let me know it’s that time again-”

Several groans emitted from various partygoers.

“I know, I know, but it’s tradition. Truth or Dare, Ferrara house rules. No backing out.”

A large clearing in the house’s massive foyer had enough room for most everyone to sit in a tight semicircle. Mista didn’t want to play, he really didn’t, being convinced someone would ask about what he did for a living- all these nice people would have very different opinions on him very fast. But, all a tipsy Narancia had to do was pull his arm a little, and he was joining anyways.

Mista sat cross-legged with the group on the rug, Narancia leaning into him on the right, Emil plopping his lanky self on the left. Others joined, and soon the clearing was full of curious young adults in the dark, in various states of sobriety and buzzing in general excitement- until Sig’s voice came over the crowd again.

“Friends, Romans, countrymen,” he boomed melodramatically, “We gather here today to celebrate yet another party- and yet another chance to embarrass each other. You know- more than some of us already have.”

A few laughs bubbled up from the crowd. On Emil’s other side, Anni could be seen cheekily elbowing Nat, very much the sore loser of their competition. He still appeared a little queasy.

“Durante,” he pointed to his spot in the circle, “You’re up first.”

“Rad. Alright, Nat, truth or dare?”

All looked expectantly at the victim, who collapsed in his hands. “God. I’ve had enough happen already.. fine. Truth.”

“What’s your greatest fear?”

“Honestly..? The Kool-Aid Man.”

The crowd giggled incredulously, and a few “what the fuck”s bubbled up to the surface.

“Look. Here’s the thing, right.. If I’m getting it on with my girl and I’m a little too loud- saying ‘oh yeah’ over and over, he’s gonna break through my fucking drywall. I just got that shit fixed.”

“So,” Anni laughed, “Your real fear is home renovation?”

“Yeah, actually, I take that back. Home renovation is way scarier.”

“So your real, real fear is growing up.”

“Don’t psychoanalyze me, Belbel. It’s fucking Truth or Dare.”

She rolled her eyes, throwing back the rest of her drink. “Whatever. I’m right and I know it.”

“Fine, then,” Nat sneered, pointing right at her. “Truth or Dare, Belbel?”

“Don’t even fucking try it, dude. Dare.”

“After that drink? Do a front flip. Right here, right now.”

Anni scoffed. “You shoulda picked something hard,” she said, backed into the hallway, and front flipped in her dress near flawlessly- only teetering at the end. A vase tipped over from her landing, but she managed to catch it in time to the crowd’s applause. Mista, watching in awe, pitied Nat immensely as he managed to get shown up twice in one party by who had to be the least embarrasable person on the planet.

The impressive athlete took her seat again. “Your turn, Sig. Truth or dare.”

“Dare’s more fun,” the host laughed. “Let’s go with that.”

“Slap your own ass to a beat and have people guess which song.”

“What.”

“I didn’t stutter, rich boy,” Anni said in a tone reserved for best friends. “You gonna do it or not?”

“... Mama didn’t raise a quitter, I guess,” the victim muttered, sitting up on his knees and hesitantly slapping the butt of his pants to a rhythm. A murmur went over the group as people made guesses amongst themselves, but one voice was more definite than the others. 

“It’s In The Air Tonight , ain’t it?” Mista blurted as soon as it hit his recognition, speaking in the circle for the first time. All eyes fell on him. “Is.. it?”

“Woah, the new guy got it in one,” Sig joked. “We got an ass slap scientist among us tonight, boys.”

“Um. Thanks.”

“Guido, right? Well, good news- you did totally get it right. The bad news is, it’s your turn. Truth or dare, new guy?”

Oh fuck.

Well, it couldn’t be Truth. Surely someone caught on by now that Mista wasn’t the sort of person he’d been pretending to be. If Sig asked the wrong thing, what would he even say? 

Sorry guys, my life is so embroiled in crime that I can either murder for a living or rot in jail.

Sorry guys, I’m constantly on edge because every time I see someone around my age they’re trying to fucking kill me- or I have to kill them.

Sorry guys, I’ve fooled you into thinking I’m not some kind of freak.

He sucked in a deep breath. “Dare.”

It was definitely still the safer option, but the wicked grin that spread across Sig’s face, visible even now in the dark, conveyed he made a huge mistake. “Awesome,” Mista heard him say. “I was hoping you’d ask that. You ready?”

A knot formed in his throat. Jesus, what sort of fucked up hazing ritual would these people throw him into? Were they onto him anyways? It couldn’t be anything too bad, right? It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.

“Ready as ever,” Mista finally said, feigning calmness. “Do your worst.”

“Good. You’ll like this one,” Sig smiled. “The cute girl you invited.. I think you should kiss her.”

Mista’s brain went from gray matter to mush as he became redder and redder. The what? The fucking whom ? He hadn’t brought anyone with him except for..

Oh shit. Oh shit .

He meant Narancia.

There wasn’t any mocking in the host’s voice, though, there were no signs of cruel jokes- it all sounded so sincere. In the dark and supplemented surely by distance and cider, the situation clicked in Mista’s mind. Sig must’ve mistaken Narancia as a crush of his and was trying to help. 

It would actually be quite a nice gesture if he hadn’t gotten this situation so obviously wrong.

“Come on, man,” the host’s voice cut through Mista’s internal monologue. “You’ve got it so bad. You’ve been making eyes at her all night like a lovesick puppy.”

Mista turned to his right, dumbstruck, feeling Narancia still on his arm. Instead of disputing the incorrect gender assumption like Mista was sure he would, the younger hadn’t moved or spoke, but was instead staring up at him for a response. He.. couldn’t do that to him. That’s his friend. He was.. attractive, sure, after this long without a partner and on this much wine it was extremely tempting.. but that’s his definitely-not-a-girl friend. Besides, he wouldn’t just do it without permission.

“I.. I can’t,” Mista exhaled, averting both Sig and Narancia’s stare. “No way, man. Sorry.”

“You’re kidding me,” Narancia finally spoke, after his own dumbstruck silence. “You really gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Mista refused to look at him still, face burning in embarrassment. God, of course this would make things weird between them.

“W-what?”

He felt another tug on his right arm. “The host of this really awesome party has given you a dare, and you just say no? To his face?” Narancia scoffed, prodding his side. “It’s so bold I’d be impressed.. if it weren’t so lame.”

What. The fuck.

Was- was Narancia calling him a pussy for not kissing him?

“So? Don’t keep the people waiting forever. Are you gonna do it or not?”

Yes. Yes he absolutely fucking was.

“Do it!” a girl in the group yelled. Many others shouted their approval as well, and before long there was a running chant of “Kiss, kiss, kiss” echoing in the foyer, swimming around the two of them like a school of fish.

“I- I guess I have to,” Mista decided, meeting Narancia’s gaze again to try and psych himself up. It was like Sig had said: Mama didn’t raise a quitter. She did totally raise an anxious bitch, though, as the small tremble he couldn’t get rid of betrayed. 

Well, he rationalized, he could at least make it easy on himself. All he had to do was kiss, right? A chaste, non-awkward peck on the cheek technically fulfills the dare, maybe kissing his knuckles would too, that-

Before he had time to decide, though, Narancia had grabbed him by the collar of his hole-filled Versace sweater and smashed his lips on his own, hard. The watching crowd went pin-drop silent, only the distant party music scoring the scene, as Narancia’s hands wandered up from the collar to gently grab Mista’s face and held him still exactly as long as he wanted him there. 

In a daze, heart plummeting and not entirely sure what had come over him, Mista began to reciprocate. His brain was a stream of repeated, astonished swears, his body felt like a furnace, he reached out for Narancia instinctively, he was enjoying it.  

Holy fuck was he enjoying it, actually. Narancia tasted of chocolates and cider and.. he hated to admit it, but.. felt just as sweet and intoxicating. In the moment, he became acutely aware of Narancia’s hands (and how soft they were) sliding down to hold him around the waist, his eyelashes brushing against his own, and even in the dark he could count every freckle on his kissing partner’s flushed cheeks. He’d never actually.. felt this way before. This was insanely, undoubtedly new.

When his partner pulled back, Mista had to tear himself off of his lips, or else he’d be mindlessly stuck forever in the universe kissing Narancia apparently created. Before he made himself forget- before he told himself it was all for a dare- he suddenly understood the meaning of the word lover .

Needless to say, the crowd was extremely pleased. The same voices that were chanting seconds ago were now clapping and cheering delightfully for the two, both for what they perceived as a budding romance and a successful dare. When Mista could bring himself to look at Narancia again, he was cheering too. Instinctively, the pair high-fived as they used to when battling a fierce foe, as if this were just as important and noteworthy. It certainly felt that way.

“I, uh, I guess I pick the next victim, right?” Mista asked once he could string words together again, which was confirmed by a nod from several group members. “Alright. Alright. Narancia, since you’re here.. truth or dare?”

It took him a minute to register he was being spoken to. “Ah, um.. Truth. For a change.”

Do you like me? Do you want to hold me in your room at night? Do you want to do that again?

“Well, since we had to just.. y’know,” Mista stuttered, laughing nervously to deny the fact he’d seen God in what they’d just done, “Um, what was your first kiss like? Hopefully not as.. weird?”

“That was it,” came the response, a little quiet. “That was.. yeah. Just now. That was it.”

“Oh.” Oh. Oh no, poor guy. Oh no, oh no. With anyone, it had to be me. At anywhere it had to be here. “I-I’m sorry. I-”

“It was nice, though,” Narancia smiled, shyly. “You’re not half bad.”

A few “aww”s emanated from the nebulous group, but they fell on Mista’s deaf ears. He suddenly felt quite dizzy and extremely nauseous.

“I- uh. Have to go to the bathroom,” he blurted and abruptly left. 

This was not happening. This was some kind of weird, messed-up dream. 

Mista had rushed into the bathroom so quickly and shut the door, so eager to get alone and splash some cold water on his face, he almost didn’t notice his reflection in the fluorescent lights. Staring back at him was a disheveled, tomato-red mess, sweater neck still crinkled from the strain of a very eager kisser. What ultimately did him in, though, were the traces of Narancia’s black lipstick smeared on his own mouth- the last remaining evidence. 

This was real. This had definitely happened. 

He tried to wipe the marks off, but doing so felt like willingly touching a hot stove. At a point in time someone gave me love, they said. Someone beautiful thought me worthy of their first kiss. The desire to remove the evidence was overwhelmed at this moment by the desire to let it linger, and the latter eventually won. 

Mista had returned to his place in the circle with the lipstick intact, in body only. The party game had continued without a hitch even in his absence, exposing more and more, but he was no longer listening. Without fail his eyes were on Narancia, giggling with the crowd and making light conversation between various truths and dares. Do it again, something in his head was urging. Put him on your lap and kiss him blind. Bury your face in his neck and cover it in spit. Scoop him in your arms and find an empty room and show him exactly how you feel- you want more. You want more.

“I’m going to head home for the night, if that’s okay,” he instead told Narancia once the game had ended. They’d both stepped outside for some air. “I wanna be able to drive tomorrow, y’know?” 

Mista knew it was a bullshit excuse, he just had to get out before the impulse to ruin their friendship forever took over. The sooner he left, the better. His head would be clearer in the morning, they’d swear to never mention it again, and this would all be gone. Fuck whatever he’d miss out on from leaving now, he was thinking and feeling far too much. He hadn’t slept enough. That was the problem, that had to be it. He was just tired. Greedy. Desperate.

Narancia held tighter onto his arm, a little despondent. “You aren’t just gonna leave me here, are you? Do I gotta find my own way home?”

“God, no, of course not,” Mista assured, squeezing his hand. “I’ll be back tomorrow, I promise. I just.. ain’t feeling great. I need sleep.”

“Okay,” he sighed. “But, uh.. before you go, I got something to tell ya, and it’s real important, so listen up.”

“Mm?”

Narancia looked at his feet, gathered a breath, and looked back in his departing friend’s eyes. “In.. uh.. in case I forget to tell you later, I had a really good time tonight.”

At that moment, everything burst into flames. Thought and reason went out the window as the urge to grab Narancia and kiss him senseless crashed over Mista again like the sea. He suddenly couldn’t breathe. His legs threatened to buckle under his weight. This wasn’t a fucking mistake or coincidence, not after all this. There’s no way it could be.

Mista had to leave this party. Now.

He turned on his heels and ran, ignoring Narancia’s cries for him to wait, to come back. He was in the car, he was trying not to fly off the road, he was in his bed in his apartment screaming frustrated swears into a pillow until his throat was hoarse. The world’s most beautiful boy quoted fucking Pretty Woman to him shortly after kissing a thousand fucking volts into his body, as if someone had made blueprints of his daydreams. And it had felt better than ever before, not due to the kissing partner’s experience, but due to.. something else.

I’ll feel different tomorrow, Mista told himself as he slipped into unconsciousness, leaving it up to fate whether or not he was terribly, horribly screwed. 

He didn’t want to think about what it meant if he didn’t.

Tomorrow was now, though, as the sunshine streaming in his bedroom window taunted, and the river of denial could only take him so far before the boat flipped over.

Mista’s heart remained square in his throat, still beating so loud he could hear it. The taste of chocolates, orange and cinnamon lingered on his lips- and if he didn’t have a Pavlovian reaction to these flavors before, he certainly did now. And he was absolutely fucking petrified.

God. Maybe they did drug the candy or something, but surely coming down didn’t take this long.

While recounting the night to himself, though, one regret started to overtake the other- he’d left Narancia there without saying goodbye. In fact, he didn’t say goodbye to anyone. The fact he left his friend there at all simply because he was experiencing weird, regrettable emotions felt like such a horrible copout. Not to mention, he’d woken up late. The least he could do to make it up to the guy was go pick him up and deliver him safely to Bucciarati’s, feelings be damned.

Getting to the place was a little bit easier in the midday, with far fewer cars in the driveway and much more light on the roads, but the pounding in Mista’s chest and the shake in his hands got him there far slower than he would’ve liked. The only relief he got was telling himself that maybe, just maybe he’d see Narancia in the daylight and would snap out of it, and the whole night would just be a funny story to tell at other parties in the future.

It was to no avail, though. Mista’s hands still shook as he reached up to knock the front door, and the situation only got worse when Sig walked him inside the house and he finally saw Narancia again, sleeping soundly on the couch. His hair was ruffled madly with smears of black makeup across his face, limbs splayed in all directions, and yet he remained the picture of beauty as sunbeams highlighted every visible freckle. Mista was so distracted by the sight he almost didn’t hear Sig trying to ask if things were alright.

“Y-yeah, man. I’m uh.. sorry I bailed on y’all last night,” he muttered, still not taking his eyes away from Narancia’s sleeping form. “I just started feeling bad.”

“No worries, dude. Several of us- including your buddy here- were just worried about you. Still have fun, though?”

Mista nodded sincerely. “It’s just been a hot minute since I’ve hung out with people my age, I guess. I got a little overwhelmed.”

“I totally get that. I uh.. also wanted to say sorry for mistaking your buddy for someone else. I said that to him before he hit the hay and he said things were ‘cool’ but I still feel like a total asshole,” the host laughed sheepishly. “He seems to quite like you though, the way he was fretting about if you were okay.. I mean, if you want to go for it, I won’t judge.”

Mista was struck dumb by the statement, but was far too eager to get Narancia home to avoid Bucciarati’s wrath that he didn’t dispute it. He gathered a breath and scooped his friend’s sleeping form off the couch, cradling him gently and leaning back just a bit to account for the weight. “Thanks for taking good care of him.”

“No problem, man,” came the reply. “And oh, by the way-”

“Hm?”

“You’re invited whenever I throw another one of these, if you want socialization practice. And, if you two wanna hang out with me and the boys sometime, I wouldn’t mind either.”

Mista felt a warm, fulfilling sense of pride, but tried to not sound too excited. “Tell you what, if you bring more candy, I’ll be back.”

“Deal.”

It had been a few minutes down the road when Narancia finally woke up in Mista’s car, still drowsy but at least able to string together sentences. Instinctively, he curled up in the sun rays on the leather seat.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Mista laughed, trying to not betray his nervousness as he drove. “I.. I’m really sorry I left you so quickly last night, I just..”

“You came back, right?” Narancia yawned, smiling a little. “We’re all good, I’m over it. I’m just happy to see you.”

Mista kept his eyes on the road, but a corner of his mouth turned up. “Happy to see you too.”

There was a moment of comfortable silence, undercut only by the sound of the road. Then, Narancia spoke again.

“I have some good news, if you wanna hear it.”

“Mhm?”

“The girls we met, Irma and Sabrina? They were inseparable for the rest of the night,” he smiled. His voice was still tinged with exhaustion, but Mista could still tell how proud he was of his matchmaking skills. “I dunno if they’re dating yet, but I give ‘em a week at most. You know what I think?”

“What do you think, Narancia?”

“I think they’re meant to be, dude.”

With this, Mista snuck a fond look at his sleepy passenger, curled up like a cat and smiling back at him, and his heart swelled in.. what was it, a crush? More than that?

“Meant to be, huh?”

He suddenly decided it didn’t matter, really. All he understood now was the meaning of the word lover , and that Narancia was it. Affection rushed in like a wave, and brought a stupid grin and flushed cheeks with it. He didn’t push it down, not this time.

“Yeah, man, definitely,” Mista laughed. “I think so too.”