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Two bolts were speeding through the air, whistling a song of double death for anyone not strong to survive. It was a Stand known as two-shot, because all those who were hit twice were killed instantly, with no exceptions.
Giorno and Mista didn’t even need to look at each other to both reach the same conclusion. It wasn’t a question of sacrificing one of them so the other might live: that had never been their style, and they wouldn’t be happy if they were separated from each other by something as commonplace as death anyway.
Bolts shattered bone, as each took a hit. They turned to face each other in triumph, their ragged breaths shouting hoarsely into the wind that we will live to face another day together. Mista laughed as euphoria coursed through him, even as blood gushed from his mouth.
Then they rained hell on their enemy, the one who had dared conceive of the notion of separating them, and when it was all over they kissed with broken mouths over the corpse of their fallen foe.
Then reality came back to them, and so did Mista’s knees to the ground; he had been hit near a vital area, unlike Giorno.
Mista was used to being wounded in battle and could take several hits without making a sound, but by the time he collapsed onto the surface Giorno dragged him to, loud and painful wheezes were escaping him and he could feel tears pricking at his eyes.
They had been battling enemies in a slummy corner of Rome: wannabe rebels of the gang, not valuable enough to leave alive but high-up enough that Giorno had felt the need to take care of them personally. And so, the nearest place the two of them were able to settle for an emergency healing session was a public bathroom, some miserable cubicle in the middle of the sidewalk, graffitied on the outside and shit-stained within.
There was a long aluminum counter dotted with sinks and small piles of discarded paper towels on the left wall, and Giorno helped Mista settle down at one end of it, hoping it would be slightly more sanitary than the floor.
Mista tried to hold himself in a half-upright position by learning into the corner where the tile wall met the mirror, but could already feel himself beginning to slide down its unforgiving surface, his pelvis slipping into the nearest sink and its faucet jabbing into his thigh.
“God, Giorno, please, ” he managed to say, and Giorno’s heart clenched at the sound of his pleas. Mista was strong, and solid, and held Giorno upright when he couldn’t stand, and it was rare for him to plead for something he knew he was about to receive.
Giorno was grateful that Gold Experience’s hands shook less than his own because even as his Stand began to work on Mista’s wounds, he was struggling to unzip the miniature first aid pouch he had brought along. He breathed deep lungfuls of the foul restroom air, trying to send oxygen to his fingertips and calm the nausea raging within him, but as Mista clenched his teeth and cried out in pain, everything became harder to bear. It was pure willpower that forced Giorno onward, and thankfully some of his shaking subsided once the smell of antiseptic hit his nostrils, grounding him away from all the murky and horrible sensations surrounding him.
Giorno looked more closely in order to assess Gold Experience’s progress: to his relief, Mista’s most grievous wound was already beginning to knit closed. But the tears swirling in the gunman’s black eyes, made them look like pools of oil, and Giorno could no longer tell the difference between the pain from his physical wounds and his heartache at seeing Mista like this.
“Mista, it’s alright,” he said, “You’re being healed, we’re both going to be alright.” He reached over and brushed Mista’s dark and curly hair back from his brow, which was glistening with sweat.
“I know,” Mista croaked out. He shut his eyes closed, expelling tears from the force alone. “I know, it just—”
“It will be over soon,” Giorno said, tone edging on desperation. “You’ll be healed.”
Mista took a shuddering breath, slumping back further against the mirror and into the sink. Giorno wished he had somewhere more comfortable to lay.
“That’s not what I mean,” the gunman rasped then. “I don’t mind the pain.”
“ Mista, ” Giorno said, a warning note in his voice, “I know what you’re going to say.” He always let Mista speak his mind, but wasn’t afraid of letting his lover know when they were approaching a sensitive topic, either.
Perhaps because of his delirium due to blood loss, Mista wasn’t deterred. “I’m your bodyguard, GioGio. Getting hurt for your sake is my job.”
“It’s not, ” Giorno said, tight-lipped as he continued to work. “And stop talking, you’re making it worse.” His expression was obscured by his bangs, which were falling out of their usual place, but Mista knew there was sorrow written there. Neither of them were strangers to violence, whether inflicted or sustained by them, but Mista knew that Giorno would always hurt for his sake regardless.
“Ohhh,” Mista groaned, half in pain and half exasperation. “Don’t act like you haven’t put yourself in danger to save me. I never forgot Venice, you know.” His phrases came in between shallow breaths. “Telling me to escape, while you sat waiting to die. I know you’re lucky, but God, Giorno…” As he spoke, he lifted Giorno’s hand in between them, looking at it closely. Mista’s blood was running down Giorno’s fingers, staining his pale skin. Then he pressed a kiss to it, not minding the way his own blood was getting on his mouth.
Then Mista’s grip lessened and his head slumped back against the mirror. “But you’re the Don now. And I’m under you. Our fates have changed, now I can be the one who gets hurt… Though you keep saving me, don’t you, Boss...”
“ Mista, ” Giorno finally couldn’t control his voice anymore. “D-don’t call me that right now.”
“Oh, GioGio,” Mista whispered. “Don’t worry about me. I’m guarding you now.”
Giorno’s hands tightened momentarily as he fought to accept what Mista was saying, but then he calmed himself and shushed the wounded man in front of him.
“Just be still for now, and don’t talk so much. I need a few more moments to heal you properly.”
Mista nodded, having finally worn himself out too much to continue his train of thought.
Giorno’s eyes betrayed his worry, but he also managed to smile. Mista’s heavy words had made him afraid for a moment, but now he could tell that, once again, the two of them were going to survive. Soon, Mista’s wounds were completely healed, and he sat himself down on the counter between two sinks to be able to patch himself up. Now that the bulk of his worries had subsided, the pain of his own wounds was growing sharper, and he noticed that he had ruined yet another suit of clothing with a copious amount of bloodstains. He wrinkled his nose and grimaced as he guided Gold Experience’s healing hands to a gash in his thigh.
On the other side of the sink, Mista was regaining some of his focus. He chuckled darkly as he noticed the damage to his and Giorno’s clothing, as well as their dismal surroundings. “We’re a couple of damn street thugs, aren’t we… even you.”
Giorno’s lips curved upward. “Occasionally. When I have to be.”
“I know, I know, you have expensive taste,” Mista laughed. “That’s the real reason you joined the mafia, I get it.”
The Don shook his head. “Don’t let that rumor spread.”
“Rumor, or is it the truth?” Mista teased, wiggling his eyebrows.
“You still need to rest,” Giorno huffed. “You shouldn’t be talking at all… Do you want me to tell you the details of how much shit Gold Experience just cleared out of your left lung? It was punctured by your rib, and…”
“Ugh, Giorno, spare me,” Mista groaned loudly, waving his hands. “Spare the invalid man! I don’t need to hear all of that…”
“You’re in the mafia, aren’t you?” Giorno shook his head. “This is the sort of damage you deal and take every day, yet you can’t even handle hearing about it…”
“That’s different, ” Mista insisted.
Giorno didn’t’ reply directly, but there was a smile visible on his face.
“We’re pretty disgusting, aren’t we?” Mista said eventually.
Giorno paused and raised his head.
“Mista,” he said, “I don’t care.” There were only bug-stained fluorescent lights to illuminate his expression, but his gaze was so honest that it seemed to Mista as if the light of Heaven itself was shining down on him. “I will love you when you’re violent and hold you when you’re wounded. I will kiss you when it’s raining blood down on us, and walk you through the gore of those we defeat.”
Mista was temporarily struck dumb, and for a moment he wondered if he was hallucinating again. “GioGio…” he murmured, “You say the craziest shit sometimes.”
“Thank you,” Giorno replied wryly.
“You’re welcome, because I meant it as a compliment,” Mista hastened to explain. “I don’t know where you come up with stuff like this, but I always believe whatever you say, even if it’s like nothing I’ve ever heard before.”
“That’s good to know,” Giorno said. “I wouldn’t want to be saying all of this only for you to not understand what I meant.” He was teasing again, but radiating gratitude at the same time. Just as he looked up, Gold Experience drifted away: Giorno’s wounds had finally been healed as well, and Mista could feel a calm he hadn’t realized he’d lost until now settling back over him.
Mista hopped off the counter and surveyed the mess they had made. Giorno had mopped up the largest puddles of blood, but the trash cans built into the wall were already overflowing; besides, paper alone wasn’t enough to clean up the mess.
“We sure fucked this place up,” he sighed.
Now beside him, Giorno shrugged. “I don’t think it looks much worse than it did before.” He reached forward, and the bloody paper towels turned into two small bats, who flew out of the bathroom door into the night. “There.”
Mista grabbed Giorno’s hand with a smile. “So thoughtful.”
Giorno scoffed lightly. “It’s the least I can do.”
With that, they left that gloomy, smelly building behind and stepped back out into the night. Neither of them had been particularly impressed by the neighborhood when they first arrived, with its overflowing dumpsters and scrawled-on safety gates, but in comparison to the public toilet, the streets seemed oddly beautiful under the glow of the streetlights and the moon.
“Boss, your kingdom,” Mista said, gesturing grandly at the road before them and putting on a posh accent.
“Please,” Giorno replied, “I believe it’s ours .”
Mista hummed. “I like that,” he said, and squeezed Giorno’s hand tighter. And he meant it: just as much as Mista valued the idea of continuing to stay alive together with his lover, he was happy to help Giorno rule. As long as the Don was less afraid and more comfortable when Mista was around, he would prioritize his own safety as much as Giorno’s, and he knew the Don would do the very same.
It was their own unspoken promise, their shared resolve: now that Mista thought about it, he wondered if the glow of this resolve, rather than the streetlights or moon, was what made the city look so beautiful that night.
Giorno wrapped an arm around Mista’s waist; in this fashion, they headed home through their royal slums.