Chapter Text
Some things just weren’t fair.
Mista shifted where he stood on the spacious balcony, observing the lit-up neighbourhood from his place on a high floor of the Passione villa. It was a chilly night, and although Mista didn’t smoke, he sure wished he had a cigarette in his mouth right now.
A mild breeze blew by, causing Mista to subconsciously shiver in his mostly undressed state, the soft towel wrapped around his waist being the only thing that provided any semblance of warmth to the gunman.
Considering the workout he had just completed, Mista supposed he ought to have felt a little warmer at least.
The tiny huffs of cold air that escaped the gunman’s nostrils not only made him aware of just how cold it was outside but also, strangely, how...alive he was. When Mista thought of it, it sometimes baffled him how he was still standing. There had been many instances where Mista should’ve died, but here he was: alive, healthy and, debatably, lucky.
He guessed he could attribute about half of that to the not-so-newfound influence in his life, and despite that, Mista sometimes felt it wasn’t fair.
Mista loved living. He found beauty in living in the moment and taking life as simple and stress-free as possible. But if you asked him, Mista wouldn’t exactly say he deserved to be alive. Not only considering all the immoral things he had done, his very involvement with Passione being one of the strongest points. No, not only those.
Mista felt he had cheated and escaped death too many times. There were moments when the gunman had felt those were his final seconds on Earth, thinking on how his death would have been worth it. For it wouldn’t have been in vain, no. He would’ve died for some sort of worthy and noble cause, at least in his eyes.
He would’ve had at least one or two regrets, maybe wish he did a few things a bit differently, but all in all, he would be satisfied.
But just as his eyes had closed in what he had thought to be the bittersweet embrace of death, he would eventually open them again, most of the time in a relatively newer environment, dull voices filling his eardrums and inciting a headache. It was always the same, there was barely any change.
It would always be the same light-headedness that came with his re-awakening, the same searing pain that came with his numerous injuries being closed up…
The same turquoise eyes he’d wake up to, so full of concern, relief and sometimes anger, and Mista wouldn’t know if it’s directed at their adversaries or at the brash way the gunman had acted without thinking.
Again.
But the fact of the matter was at each of those times Mista would find himself alive and well once again, in the midst of his relief came a sense of dissatisfaction, like an opportunity had been swiped right out of his fingertips.
And then he’d wonder, why? Why couldn’t he just be let go of? What was the point of keeping him around any longer? Mista loved his life, yes, but he also fancied the idea of making meaning out of it, having a sort of legacy to follow him to the grave.
And when it felt like he was about to do just that, he would find himself in the land of the living once again.
It just didn’t seem fair.
The gunman rolled his shoulders, not ready for any unwanted tension in that region. Mista found himself once again thinking back to a little over a year ago, to that dreadful mission week in April of 2001 that had changed his life completely. Whether it was for better or worse, Mista didn’t know yet, he felt it was too early to say.
Mista’s mind began to wander even farther back. His previous, carefree life. The sudden incident that had landed him in jail. Getting bailed out by-
-Bruno Bucciarati.
Mista chuckled softly to himself. His thoughts always came back to Bucciarati, somehow. Not like he was entirely surprised, given several things. The gunman wondered how things would’ve been if his former capo was here right now. Would he be proud of Mista? Would he still be that same man that had saved him from a horrible life in jail?
There were some other things that Mista wondered about, but he would always remember other parts of the past that would discourage him greatly, so he’d stop wondering for a moment.
Mista shook out of his daze as he heard the soft slam of a nearby door and gentle footsteps pad through the room behind him. “Fancy seeing you here. You’re gonna catch a cold standing out there in that, you know.”
Mista rolled his eyes, a small smile plastered on his face as he turned around slowly, taking in the robed figure a few steps away from him in the middle of the dimly-lit master bedroom, mildly damp blond curls cascading down his neck and resting just above his back.
And those eyes, those emerald eyes that had been earlier steeled with fierceness and intimidation now looked upon him with a mix of fatigue and playfulness.
“I have tough skin, Giorno, I’ll be fine.”
Now it was Giorno’s turn to roll his eyes at the gunman. “Likely case. Why are you here?”
“What, can’t a guy come see his pal before going to bed?” Mista asked as he walked away from the ledge, making sure to close the glass doors on his way out of the balcony.
Giorno raised an eyebrow at the other. “In that?”
“It was a spur of the moment thing! Besides, you’ve seen more than this before so don’t give me that surprised act!”
The blond chuckled at the gunman’s words. “I suppose you’re right. Care to join me downstairs?”
“What for?”
“Polnareff insists on watching a movie before bed, and I figured it wouldn’t be too bad. We still have room for one more person, if you’d like…”
A late movie with Giorno and Polnareff sounded like just what he needed to distract himself from his thoughts. They’d have a good time, eat some snacks, and who knows, maybe he and Giorno could cuddle up on the couch. It sure sounded like a nice time.
Mista wondered how movie dates with Bucciarati would go.
The thought came to Mista out of nowhere and the gunman blinked hard, trying not to let his mind wander again, but it was a futile attempt as more scenarios appeared in his head.
Laughing together at the movie they’d be watching, brushing each other’s hands as they ate from the same popcorn bowl, sneaking little kisses and whispers of love...
How cute. How intimate.
How hopeless.
Mista rubbed the back of his neck, an awkward smile forming on his face. “That sounds like fun and all, but I was thinking of just hitting the hay, so…”
Giorno’s smile faltered slightly at the other’s words. “Oh, I see…”
An uncomfortable silence began to form between the two and Mista took it upon himself to prevent it from lasting any further, making his way over to the blond and planting a quick kiss onto his forehead.
“Maybe next time, Giorno. That's fine with you, right?”
“I...suppose,” Giorno replied with a sigh, not fighting the onslaught of more forehead kisses from Mista.
“‘night, Gio." Mista glided past the blond and out of the room with a gentle slam of the door. The gunman wanted nothing more than to turn off his thoughts as soon as his head hit the pillow.
Then again...he supposed one or two more fantasies for the night couldn't hurt.
*:..｡o○ ○o｡..:*
Mista studied Bucciarati’s zipper often.
It was an odd little activity of his, observing the golden object on its stand next to a window in Giorno’s office. He often paid homage to his other fallen teammates as well, acknowledging the vase of flowers and the bottle of wine from time to time, but there was a certain specialness to the zipper that prompted Mista to give it just a tad more attention.
Not like the gunman minded much.
He might've been looking into things way too much, but there was a certain aura Mista felt whenever he studied the zipper. He fancied the way the object carried a certain sparkle to it in the sunlight, like it had been imbued with some sort of life force that drew him to it constantly.
Perhaps residues of Bucciarati’s soul had remained behind and taken refuge in the zipper? A sort of way to watch over the mission survivors? To watch over Mista in specific?
He was definitely looking too much into things.
It’s not like there had ever been anything more to his relationship with Bucciarati past being comrades and very good friends. At least, not from the former capo’s end.
Mista had noticed it about a day or two after he had been recruited into Bruno’s gang: the way Bruno would regard the eldest of the team, subtle undertones in their conversations, how they would both excuse themselves to “speak privately” away from the rest of the gang, how they would return looking just slightly out of place with tiny tinges of pink across their cheeks, perhaps a missed, faint smudge of purple lipstick somewhere on the capo’s neck or face.
The minuscule things that to any other person, nothing would’ve seemed out of place, and had Mista not been the observant person that he was, he may have never noticed as well.
Maybe that would’ve been better, to have been blissfully unaware of what was really going on.
The others never seemed to have a problem, or if they did, they never said anything about it to Mista’s face. Narancia had called the whole affair “strangely adorable” and Fugo had just shrugged it off most of the time, not wanting to stick his nose where it wasn’t his business.
Mista hadn’t bothered to speak on his...infatuation with his leader, there was never any point in doing so.
But that didn’t mean Mista didn’t try, albeit with subtle advances. He had held on to the faint glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d have a chance with Bucciarati in the future.
He had been foolish to waste his time on such a venture.
Mista felt his ear twitch from his place next to the window of Giorno’s office, turning around to the sound of the door opening and shutting quickly, only to find the blond himself just entering the room with a familiar-looking tortoise in his hold.
“I see you’ve been keeping yourself busy,” Giorno started, a hint of amusement in his voice that showed he was no longer in his Don mode. He felt he never needed to be when it was just him and Mista.
The gunman hummed in reply, turning his back to the other and looking out the window, suddenly wishing he had something to fiddle with in his hands. Mista kept his eyes focused on the outdoor scenery even as he heard the footsteps approaching his side.
“Peaceful, don’t you think?” Mista noted the blond out of the corner of his eye, face turned to the gunman with a small smile on his face. The brunet gave no answer, even as the other gingerly leaned into his side, placing his head on Mista’s shoulder.
“Yeah...it is.”
“Peaceful enough to take in the sights of the streets. Care to accompany me, Guido?”
“Actually,” Mista was quick to answer, moving away from the other’s side and causing the blond to stumble a bit where he stood, “I have to run a few quick errands somewhere in a bit. Raincheck?”
That would be another addition to his long list of rainchecks, but he didn’t need to say that. He was certainly aware and, most likely, so was Giorno.
The entire ordeal was false, Mista had no errands to run and the blond knew that and could’ve called bullshit. For some reason, however, he didn’t.
He never did.
Giorno turned to the gunman, eyebrow raised and a neutral expression on his face. “Errands?”
“Busy as ever!” Mista shuffled over back to Giorno’s side, slinging his arm across the blond’s shoulders. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Giorno’s expression remained the same as he looked down at the reptile in his hold, merely humming out a rather vague answer. Mista, taking whatever he could get, planted a quick kiss to the side of his head before detaching himself once again.
“I’ll see you soon.”
Mista made his way out of the office with a firm slam of the door, leaving Giorno alone in the silence of the room. The blond placed the tortoise on the table near the window, just next to the memorabilia of his deceased friends, and turned to leave the office as well when a voice called out to him and stopped him in his tracks.
“How much longer, Giorno?”
The blond turned around and looked at the phantom that had manifested from the key on the tortoise’s shell, arms folded with a concerned expression on his face.
Giorno gave a small smile. “Till I’m tired of trying.”
The Don left the room with no further words, back turned to the head-shake the ghost was giving behind him back at the table.
*:..｡o○ ○o｡..:*
Sometimes, Mista did some deep thinking, more than he liked to.
He thought about his life and the endless possibilities that lay ahead. He thought about how things could’ve been different if certain things had and hadn’t happened.
He thought about some other distant universe where the gang was all together, alive and well, and they didn’t have the misfortune of antagonizing the boss. Perhaps they would’ve met Trish, perhaps not, but they’d all be together nonetheless.
He thought of another universe where Bucciarati ended up with him and not Abbacchio, where they would do all sorts of things side-by-side with each other, not giving a single damn what anyone else would think because they’d probably be in love.
In the end, it was all useless, wishful thinking.
Mista rolled away the slight tension in his shoulders as he walked up to the villa doors, still somewhat caught up in the thoughts that accompanied him throughout his late-night walk. Giorno had told him, earlier that morning, that he would be trying his hand at making dinner for the both of them, which threw Mista into a fit of wild laughter.
The blond’s deadpan face had lasted for about three seconds before he, too, joined in the laughter, and Mista could admit it was refreshing to see.
The two were aware that Giorno wasn’t the best in the cooking department, with his knowledge of mediocre meals for survival purposes and his tales of how he would run on bread, sprite and wine on most days of his school weeks. They would usually exploit the free meals at Libeccio or have some of Mista’s cooking whenever they were feeling it, but Giorno hadn’t ever offered to make dinner for both of them before.
“It would be really great practice for me. Besides, it’d be nice to spend some time with you. We’ve been so caught up with Passione duties, I thought a peaceful evening with some nice food was in order, just the two of us.”
Mista smiled at the thought of Giorno frantically trying to keep things in order while he cooked, resolving one disaster after the other, all the while trying not to set anything on fire. It was cute.
Mista found Giorno cute.
The gunman had agreed to the proposition and could look forward to 7:30 pm, Giorno’s allocated dinner time. Mista didn’t know what meal the blond had in mind, but he guessed he’d find out when the time came.
The day had gone by as usual and it had been somewhere around 6:40 pm when Mista told Giorno he’d be heading out for a short while.
“That’s fine, just be sure to get back in time for dinner.”
“You worry too much, Giorno.” The blond rolled his eyes as Mista placed a chaste kiss on the side of his head, mumbling something along the lines of the claim being untrue.
Mista had gone out on his venture, which ended up being far longer than he intended.
It was meant to be a short walk, just to get some fresh air flowing through his system and clear his head. Then his mind had started to wander again, and that had been his mistake.
He thought of Giorno and what they were. Mista wouldn’t say they were just friends when their relationship clearly went beyond that, considering their mild flirting and little shows of affection. He, without a doubt, found himself attracted to Giorno, not only physically but for his overall self.
Mista had begun to think of him in comparison with Bucciarati, and it all went downhill from there.
Hours had unknowingly passed with the gunman lost in thought, wandering around aimlessly till he had come back to his senses and stopped, frantically rolling up the sleeve of his turtleneck and checking the time on his wristwatch.
8:20 pm. He had been gone for almost 2 hours now.
Worse, he was late for his dinner with Giorno.
Mista had immediately turned back, trying to get back home as fast as he could, cursing internally for letting himself lose track of time like that. By the time he had gotten back, his watch read 9:45 pm.
He just hoped Giorno would forgive him for this, assuming he would still be awake.
Going through the villa doors, Mista was greeted by the eerie silence that filled the dim room. The gunman turned on the nearest light switch he could find and immediately made his way for the kitchen, trying his hardest not to think about the possible wrath he would face.
It was dark and empty.
Mista wasted no time in locating and flipping the light switch, illuminating the room and allowing him to see just what awaited him.
To say he was surprised would be an understatement.
Stacks of chopping boards and cooking utensils filled the sink, coupled with pot and pans of different sizes, all stained with all sorts of ingredients to indicate recent usage. Mista slowly walked over to the counter on the opposite side, noticing a neatly foiled dish and a seemingly heavy book laying next to it, which the gunman assumed to be a cookbook of some sort.
Finally uncovering the dish, Mista released a small gasp.
The sight and the aroma of the food hit Mista like a truck. Had he not been aware that Giorno would be cooking tonight, coupled with the several utensils in the sink, the gunman would’ve presumed the food came straight from a restaurant.
The mouth-watering feeling only lasted for a moment before he suddenly felt uneasy. Giorno went through all this effort and he hadn’t even been around to appreciate it. He couldn’t bring himself to eat when he hadn’t spoken to the blond about the dinner.
How would he even begin to apologize?
Mista cut his thoughts short as he noticed a piece of paper peeping out from underneath the plate, carefully slipping it out and instantly recognizing Giorno’s handwriting.
“It’s a shame we were unable to have dinner as planned, I was really looking forward to it.
Cooking was a mess, but having you around would’ve made it better at least.
The cookbook helped...a lot.
Perhaps another night, we could try this again.
And hopefully...you’ll be here that time around.
Eat well, Guido. See you tomorrow.”
Mista swallowed heavily as he finished reading the note, but his remorse was short-lived as his tummy grumbled from the aroma of the food. Mista sighed, covering up the dish once again and taking it into his hold. He’d eat in his room just in case the Pistols wanted to come out to eat too, which he was positive they would, and he didn’t want to risk disturbing anyone at this hour.
Mista swiftly made his way out of the kitchen, not missing the used plate and cutlery left behind in the sink and ready to be washed.
*:..｡o○ ○o｡..:*
"What have I told you about acting without thinking?"
Mista said nothing in reply to the scoldings from his boss, hissing in pain at each bullet hole that got sealed up. He had tried to become more accustomed to the painful healing methods, but that never made the whole process any less unpleasant.
In truth, it was one of those days again where Mista was less focused on his pain or what the blond was saying, and more on what had just happened.
Another brash decision by Mista had nearly sent the gunman to his grave yet again.
But this close encounter with death felt different. While he had been drifting in and out of consciousness, Mista swore he had seen Bucciarati, standing there with outstretched arms and the biggest smile on his face. He had his usual suit on, but there was something so...ethereal about him.
His lips had been moving, but Mista had no idea what his former capo had been saying. Everything had been quite overwhelming, and the least the gunman could do was to reach out to the other and take his hand, thinking that that would be it.
That would finally be the moment he had been waiting for.
But just when the gunman’s fingers were about to brush that of Bruno’s, the latter began to dissolve away, and the only thing that was left behind for Mista was an unbelievable amount of pain upon waking up.
So close, yet so far away.
“What if a day came when I wouldn’t be there to help you out?
“Everything worked out fine in the end, didn’t it?”
The blond’s frown deepened at the other’s words, clearly not happy with the “end justifies the means” undertone in his words, it reeked of carelessness and eventual regret.
Although, Giorno figured Mista could use a little dose of regret in his life one of these days, maybe it would make him reconsider his actions.
“I wish you’d listen to me more, Guido.”
Mista turned to reply to his superior, only to find the latter already walking away from him. The gunman let out a frustrated sigh, a part of him wanting to go after Giorno, and the other part telling him to stay behind and give him some space.
*:..｡o○ ○o｡..:*
“Have you tried searching outside? He could be somewhere on the compound.”
Giorno hummed as he passed through the villa doors and into the outdoor environment, paying no mind to the guards that had bowed in respect to him. In his hands was Coco Jumbo, and extensively Polnareff, who had been speaking to the blond earlier on and was now helping him find his Underboss.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m being actively avoided,” the blond commented, using a hand to massage his lower back as he walked.
The blond had initially wanted to let Mista know just how much his actions of days ago had vexed him, but his feelings for the gunman didn’t let him go far. It was only a matter of time till the dust settled.
“...Giorno, I’m really worried about you. This whole thing, it’s not worth it-”
“Guido.”
The mention of the gunman’s name cut Polnareff short as his attention turned to the brunet in question, caught in the middle of feeding his noisy Stand on an outdoor bench.
“Oh, Giorno! Just give me a- hey! Stop with the fighting! Just give me a sec, Giorno.”
The blond took his place next to the gunman on the bench, observing the other as he tried to control his Stand. No matter how many times he saw it, it would always feel like the first time Giorno saw the Pistols get fed, it never stopped being so fascinating.
“Okay,” Mista began as he dismissed his Stand and dusted his pants, turning to the blond afterwards, “what can I do for you?”
“You were nowhere to be found for the whole day, why’s that?”
Giorno did all he could to keep his voice level, trying not to betray more emotion than he was actually feeling. Mista turned away from the blond, looking at nothing in particular. “Sorry about that, I’ve been all over the place today.”
The blond stared at the other, wanting to say something but quickly forsaking it, opting to change the subject instead.
“We’ll be heading to Bari in two days to see the capo in charge there. I’ve been hearing of some concerning things that I’d like to check out in person-”
“Sorry, Giorno, ‘m gonna have to miss out on that one too.” The gunman rose to his feet swiftly, about to walk away when the blond’s voice called out to him.
“What? Another raincheck? You’re my second-in-command, you’re supposed to be there.”
Mista gave a heavy sigh where he stood, turning to face his boss once again. “Just...take someone else with you.”
Giorno stared at the other man, baffled. “You want me to take a random guard with me to Bari?”
“It’s no big deal! Besides, wouldn’t it be better that I stay behind so no-one tries anything funny while you’re gone? Hell, you could even take Polnareff with you, I’m sure he’ll be of more help to you than I will!”
Giorno said nothing in reply, too stunned to even give an answer.
“Listen,” the gunman bridged the distance between him and the blond, placing his hands on Giorno’s shoulders, “I’ll make it up to you, okay? Geez, Bucciarati was never on my neck like this.”
Mista felt his eyes go wide at the sudden realization of what he had said, not missing the other’s perplexed expression. Giorno was about to reply but stopped midway, opting instead to silently shrug off the brunet’s hands from his shoulders.
“I’m going to pack.” Neither said anything else as Giorno walked away from the scene and back into the building, Mista silently watching the other walk away with an uneasy feeling in his stomach.
Giorno stormed into his office with a firm slam of the door, pacing over to his desk and placing Coco Jumbo on its surface before swiftly turning again for the door.
“Giorno,” Polnareff called out almost immediately, his spirit manifesting from the tortoise, “you don’t have to keep trying, not like this! Don't you think it's a waste-”
“Please, Polnareff,” Giorno suddenly cut in, not bothering to turn back around as he placed a hand on the door handle. “I don’t...wish to talk about this.”
Polnareff, sensing the melancholy in the blond’s voice, said nothing further as he watched the Don exit the room with a firm shut of the door.
*:..｡o○ ○o｡..:*
“I have never met a man with a stick so far up his ass!” Mista exclaimed as he burst through the villa door, holding it back for a tired-looking Giorno to pass through before shutting it.
“I’ve seen toddlers better behaved than that ingrate,” Giorno said with a sigh, rubbing his forehead in hopes of exterminating the headache he had developed through the course of the night.
Mista, taking note of the blond’s state, walked up to the other with a somewhat concerned look on his face. "You okay?"
"I'm fine, thank you, Guido," Giorno replied with a small smile, slightly surprising the gunman.
Mista had expected things to be tense between the both of them after yesterday's little disagreement about the trip to Bari, but Giorno didn't seem to be mad at all.
Even if he was, he did a damn fine job at hiding it, not like Mista would complain though.
A yawn from Giorno drew Mista out of his thoughts, and the gunman couldn't help but smile. It made him think back to all the times he had to work so late with Bucciarati, with or without the other members of the gang.
Mista would take note of the little things that showed how tired the ex-capo was, as much as Bruno had constantly tried to deny his fatigue, and the gunman wanted nothing more than to take care of the man and shower him in love and care.
“Tired, Gio?” Mista asked softly as he walked over to the blond, caressing his face and peppering him with tender forehead kisses as he would’ve done with Bucciarati. “You should get some rest.”
“You have to let go of me first, Guido.” Giorno made no effort to stop the gunman, instead relishing in the affection being showered on him.
Mista continued with the onslaught for a moment before pulling back, resting his forehead on that of Giorno’s.
“You work yourself too much sometimes, y’know?” Mista whispered, feeling his fantasy come to life as the turquoise of the other’s eyes gradually shifted to that familiar shade of sapphire blue. “I wish I could just carry all your burdens.”
A small laugh rang through the air as Mista gently twirled loose strands of the other’s hair in his fingers, threads of fine gold shifting into inky black right before his eyes.
“I appreciate the thought, but you can’t take everything upon yourself. There is something you can do, though.”
“Anything,” the gunman replied, gaze shifting to the lips that spoke to him. They looked quite inviting, and Mista could feel himself getting drawn to them.
“Stand with me, and not just as your superior. No matter what happens, just...say that you’ll stay?”
“I’m forever yours...Bucciarati…”
Mista’s lips had merely brushed against that of the other’s before he was suddenly pushed away, eyes going wide with slow realization of what he had just said. In front of him wasn’t Bucciarati...
But, instead, a very hurt Giorno.
Mista stood in place wide-eyed as he silently cursed to himself, not knowing what to say to the blond, who didn’t even want to look at the gunman anymore.
A short moment of tense silence passed before Mista found the strength to speak. “Giorno, I-”
“I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”
“Giorno, wait!” Mista sprang forward to grab the other’s hand. To Giorno, the contact had been like fire: searing hot and painful to the touch, and he could do nothing but retract his hand upon contact.
“I’ve been living a fool’s fantasy,” Giorno muttered to himself, albeit loudly enough for Mista to hear given their proximity. The Don half-turned towards the gunman. “I’m sorry for wasting both your time and mine. Goodnight, Mista.”
Mista stood frozen in place as he watched the blond walk away and out of sight, only breaking out of his trance when the loud slam of a door reverberated through the air.
The gunman snatched his hat off of his head, running a restless hand through his hair as uneasy breaths escaped his lips.
What had he done....?
The sudden slam of the bedroom door prompted Polnareff to manifest from the turtle he inhabited. He had been awaiting the blond’s return from his mission with Mista so he could discuss his latest movie findings, and he could hardly wait!
“Giorno! You wouldn’t believe what I- Giorno?” Polnareff fell silent as he took in the boy’s melancholic ambience, eyebrows furrowing with worry.
“Apologies, Polnareff...you’ll have to save what you have to say for another time.”
Polnareff watched as the blond made to rid himself of the day’s clothes, beyond confused with what was going on. “Giorno...what happened?”
Giorno paused where he stood with his back facing the other man, half-turning in his direction.
“...You were right, and I should’ve listened to you much earlier...that’s all I can say for now.
Sensing the blond wasn’t about to say anything more for the night, as well as having an idea of what he was referring to, Polnareff retired back into the comfort of the turtle, leaving Giorno to his thoughts as he prepared himself for bed.
Giorno would talk about it with the older man tomorrow when they would be on their way to Bari, when they would be away from Mista.
He didn’t want to see the gunman for a while, nor did he want to hear from him.
And, quite frankly, Giorno wasn’t sure he wanted to try with him anymore.