Chapter Text
“Salute!”
Gripping a crimson crystal goblet in your fist, you down your over-priced prosecco at once along with your team. Flavor-wise, it seems no different than any other prosecco you’ve tried in the seventeen years you’ve been alive, but in the glow of victory, it just might be the best damn thing you’ve ever tasted.
Beside you, Narancia slams his glass down onto the marble island countertop, snapping the stem in half. “Whoops.”
“Narancia!” Buccellati exclaims. “You need to be more careful, these are nice glasses!”
Narancia barks out a laugh. “Who cares? It’s not like they’re ours!”
“Technically they are,” Trish points out. “Or at least Giorno’s.”
“Oh, yeah. Riiiight. Sorry, Giorno.”
“Nothing to apologize for,” Giorno says. Then with a sly smile, he pushes his own empty glass off the countertop with a single finger. It shatters on the tile floor into blood-red shards.
Everyone gawks at him, stunned by their new Don’s actions; but the surprise doesn't last for long.
Mista raises his glass high. “Let’s fuckin’ go!” he shouts, smashing his goblet on the ground with all his strength.
The rest of you follow suit aside from Buccellati and Abbacchio who mourn the loss of such expensive glassware, and Fugo who still feels too guilty at having abandoned the team to be enthusiastic.
Of course, you all help Giorno thoroughly sweep up the mess, but after that awaits a huge stainless steel fridge full of Peroni and Castle Silent.
Previously, Buccellati wouldn’t approve of the younger teens drinking to excess. Members of the mafia or not, there are certain rules, laws, and morals he believes one must adhere to.
Things are different now.
Your team had accomplished the impossible. You’d discovered the boss’s identity and taken him down. It wasn’t easy. Lives were almost lost. Buccellati, Abbacchio, and Narancia in particular had all been at death’s door before Gold Experience miraculously saved them from an untimely demise—sparing you and the others from losing half your family.
Then, with the assistance of your new ally, Jean Pierre Polnareff, you were able to uncover Diavolo’s properties and claim them, thereafter placing Giorno Giovanna as the head of Passione.
Bizarre as it is, someone two years your junior and brand-spanking new to Passione becoming the literal boss, it’s not as if Giorno doesn’t deserve it. Because of him, Buccellati had been given the courage to go against Diavolo to begin with. Because of him, your friends are still alive. Because of his dream, your life and the lives of many across Italy are going to improve.
There’s much to celebrate.
Once you all reach a healthy buzz, your heart soars at seeing how relaxed everyone is. The past few weeks had been nothing but life-threatening circumstances, tying up loose ends, and endless amounts of paperwork, so this is really the first time in a while you’ve all been able to be at ease—together.
You also notice the way some of your friends are looking at some others. Longingly, with repressed, unresolved feelings. It’s no secret that every single one of you has grown closer to one particular person more than the others, but it’s something no one’s dared to address. Aside from Trish, the life you’ve all become a part of doesn’t particularly allow for romance. Friendship is risky enough. Losing a friend is a tragedy, as your most recent adventure nearly proved. The death of a lover would be outright detrimental.
However, now that you and the rest of your team have reached the highest levels of the organization, perhaps it would be okay. Safe. Perhaps you and your friends might finally be able to express your emotions to the fullest and stand beside the ones you hold most dear.
While absolutely nerve-wracking for you, you're not opposed to one day simply telling the one you like how you feel, but how could you convince the others to do the same? You couldn't outright encourage them; they'd probably deny having any romantic feelings till their very last breath. Several of them almost did.
No, you'd have to be craftier than that. You'd have to trick them.
It’s then an idea comes to mind. Something you’ve read about in girly magazines and seen on tv shows. Something that you could do today that will force your friends into a quiet, enclosed space where hopefully, lowered inhibitions and impaired judgements will cause whatever tension there is to come to a head.
Seven Minutes in Heaven.
You almost spit out your drink laughing from the sheer absurdity of a group of high-ranking gang members playing it, but it also just might be the most ingenious idea you’ve ever had. That is, if they agree to play.
After sucking down the rest of your beer, you say, casually, “We should play a game.”
Buccellati, the only one who heard you, responds, “Like what?”
You shrug. “I dunno. Something stupid like Would You Rather, or Truth or Dare, or Seven Minutes in Heaven or some shit.”
Buccellati tilts his head, his bob cut swaying. “I’m not familiar with that last game.”
“What game?” Mista asks, flopping on the cream-colored couch beside you with a groan.
“Seven Minutes in Heaven,” you respond.
“Oh, I remember that,” he says, grinning. “Played it once when I was like thirteen with my sister’s hot friends.”
“How do you play?” Buccellati asks.
“Two people go in a dark closet, do whatever they want while they’re in there, and then are let out seven minutes later.”
“Whatever they want?”
“Yeah, like making out and shit. Or nothing, if you’re not into the person.”
“Sounds idiotic,” Abbacchio says from the armchair, then sips his wine, leaving behind a faint purple stain on the rim of the glass.
“I think you’re just saying that because you’re afraid no one wants to slip you some tongue,” you tease.
Abbacchio glances away. “No, I just don’t think sitting in a dark closet sounds like fun.”
“I don’t know, I think it sounds interesting,” Buccellati says, contemplative. “It’s different.”
Bingo.
If Buccellati’s on board, the rest are sure to follow.
“What sounds different?” Narancia has joined the conversation now, his violet eyes shining, hair even messier than usual.
“This game we’re talking about, Seven Minutes in Heaven. Have you heard of it?”
“Pfffft, everyone has! That’s a classic.”
“I haven’t.”
“Me either.”
Giorno and Fugo now.
“It’s a kissing game,” Narancia says.
Both Giorno and Fugo’s eyebrows raise, but neither boy says a thing in response. Taking that as a good sign, you crane your neck to look at Trish. She’s sitting alone in the bay window across the room drinking a beer, her knees drawn up to her chest as she gazes into the back garden.
“Hey, Trish,” you call, and she starts, whipping her head your way. “You ever play Seven Minutes in Heaven?”
“Um. A couple times,” she says. “Why?”
“We’re thinking about playing, if you wanna join.”
You aren’t sure if that’s really the case, but as no one contradicts you, you feel confident that it’s actually going to happen.
She seems to think about it for a moment, then gets up and sits beside Narancia on the floor.
Abbacchio, the only one who has outwardly shown distaste in the game, finishes his glass of wine and stands up.
“Aren’t you gonna play, Abbacchio?” you ask.
He makes a face. “I already told you, it sounds idiotic.”
“Whatta joykill,” Narancia says.
“It’s killjoy,” Fugo corrects.
“Yeah, that.”
Abbacchio crosses the room to a half-empty bottle of wine and refills his glass, saying, “I’m not killing anything. You’re free to play without me.”
“Come on, Abbacchio.”
“Yeah, come on, dude!”
“Join us!”
“It’ll be fuuuuun!”
“Don’t be a pussy!”
“Gesù Cristo, fine! I’ll play your little game,” Abbacchio says sharply, snapping his head toward the group. His bicolored eyes flash in annoyance. “As long as it gets you all to shut up about it. But don’t ask me to do anything else for the rest of the night.”
“Jeez, touchy,” Narancia says under his breath.
“Great! Okay, let’s all sit in a circle over here,” you say, pointing to the center of the room. You place your empty bottle sideways on the hardwood floor.
“How do we play?” Giorno asks, his cheeks lightly flushed pink.
You gesture to the bottle. “We each take turns spinning that. Whoever the bottle lands on goes into a closet with the person who spun it and stays there for seven minutes, when they’re let out. The lights have to be off, that’s the most important rule. And when you’re in there, you can do anything you want. Make out, get handsy—”
“—Fuck,” Mista adds.
“Oh, God, please, no,” Abbacchio groans. “I hear you brats jerking off enough. You’re not as quiet as you think you are. I don’t want to hear anything more.”
Mista shrugs. “Alright, no fucking.”
“No fucking,” you agree. “But anything else goes.” You take a deep breath and scan the group. “Who wants to go first?”
“How about you?” Buccellati says.
“Oh,” you say, taken aback. You knew you’d have your turn at some point, but you didn’t expect to be the first. “Okay.”
Crawling to the bottle, you wrap your hand around the glass, twist your wrist, and spin it. Your heart races in anticipation as you watch the bottle slow, both hoping for and dreading it landing on the one you like.
Soon, it stops. So, too, does your heart as you raise your head to see it has landed on none other than...