Chapter Text
The landscape the train passes resembles a mere blur, reminiscent of the past three hours of Mista's life; the horrors he witnessed, the comrades he lost, the stress and shock that hasn't quite settled in yet, all that tangled into a giant ball of images that lack meaning, with no words to describe them, nothing.
Never one to dwell on things for too long, Mista pays as little mind as possible to the eerie quiet that dominates the train compartment that signals that everyone else has already succumbed to the haunting reality. Giorno Giovanna, the mysterious omen that promised a brighter future, the grim reaper that slew whoever crossed his path, is sitting opposite of the gunslinger, looking out the window with eyes void of movement, mind lost in its own landscape.
Trish, on the other hand, is seated by Mista's side, imperceptibly leaning into him while clutching onto the damn tortoise, possibly seeking comfort in her own silent way.
Mista doesn't mind, as he's itching to cherish this nonchalant form of physical contact, knowing there won't be many opportunities after today.
It's shameful how much he's going to miss the girl, and it's also shameful how much he wants her to stay with them, as a living memento of what they achieved – what his dead friends managed to preserve; the youth, the beauty, the courage, everything. With how thin the number of people he trusts and cherishes has grown though, it's hard not to believe this to be a silly whimsy of his lonely heart, that's desperately clutching onto someone who was never meant to stay – someone who's now the only person Mista knows he could fully trust.
Among the unidentifiable shapes in his memory, there are two clear images, both a snap of a dead body, each belonging to a different figure in his life.
Mista has barely enough strength to go back to the moment where Narancia had already passed on, without anyone having the chance to stop it. In a way, he was lucky to escape witnessing the hellhole that the streets of Rome turned into – he was spared the rest of the journey – unjustly, but mercifully by a death so quick he couldn't even comprehend his soul had departed from his body. He died feeling happy, hopeful. They left him there, because they had no time.
The second image and sentiments related to it were the breaking point however. They had lost so much already – he had lost so many by that point – and the only saving grace was meant to be getting Bucciarati back on his feet with the golden touch of Giorno's stand. The body – unmoving, on the ground, just the way they left it, with his bullets nesting inside the flesh that just didn't bleed. The first thought that came to his mind was that he had killed Bruno Bucciarati – that his bullets were what brought the man's demise; that the fact he was clumsy enough to drop four bullets on the ground was the reason his capo had perished. Tears already shed on Narancia's behalf, all he could really do was beg – he begged Giorno to fix Bucciarati up. And the boy did, with the most reluctant expression Mista had ever seen on anyone; in that moment it clicked. As Giorno warily attended to the dead body's wounds, as if putting on a mere show for the other two, it dawned on Mista that the golden boy may be more untrustworthy than previously thought – more of a curse than a lucky charm. When the boy pronounced Bucciarati unresponsive, Mista wasn't even surprised, and actually lost all resolve to dwell on the fact altogether; all the death, all the suffering, all the scars that will never heal. Everything lost its point at that moment. All he knew was that he was exhausted, and in need of a shower, everything else be damned.
Still, he knows it will take a long time before he will be able to enjoy a full night's rest – some irritably pessimistic part of him believes that after going through with everything the way they did, he has denied himself the right to sound sleep for life.
He wonders if Giorno feels the same way as he's observing him shamelessly. The future don of Passione; the idea somehow leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. All he can think of when he gazes upon the blond, eyes cold as steel, ready to tackle anything and eradicate everything that would stand in his way, is that it's unfair – not to him personally, but to those he's lost, his friends, his family. It should have been Bucciarati, not a kid who wandered in and overthrew the entire hierarchy in under a week – he can't deny Giorno's talents and capabilities if he tried, but that only makes it worse, pours salt into the already rotting wound.
He reflects on the past few days, and comes to an uncanny hypothesis – he had joked about it with Narancia a few times, half-jokingly, half-seriously commented on how it feels as if they were truly following Giorno, as if he was their leader instead of Bucciarati. Though not entirely convinced this was the case, for he knows he had chosen to follow Bucciarati, his trusted capo, he can't help but think that the whole thing was even more elaborate – it always is with Giorno Giovanna, the one thing he's currently certain of regarding the boy. He wonders if perhaps… they were all misled by their leader – believing that he was the one having things under control, that he was making the decisions, keeping them safe, when in reality, he could never keep them safe, he never had things under control and he wasn't the one making the calls.
A collected gaze meets his own, the alluring greens reminiscent of a viper's venom, and he internally flinches, though doesn't let it show on the outside – but he's sure the Golden Boy would find a way to see right through his facade – and dispassionately sits there while the other attentively scans his features in a practiced manner.
“Is there something wrong, Mista?”
The question unexpectedly strikes a chord – so, so many things are wrong, so many he can’t bear to think about every single one of them – can’t handle succumbing to one at a time either. He’s getting bitter about always ending up having to sit down in the dumps and merely accept things as they come and go, sometimes presenting him with a nice, thoughtful gift from fate itself, other times dealing repeated blows into his sore, bruised side without remorse, as if taking his word for it – acknowledging and actively mocking his proclamation that he can take whatever the omnipotent forces throw his way. He hasn’t broken yet, but he just about might this time.
The mind grows inexplicably empty and torpid, however – all the bitterness, disdain and frustration disintegrates into a meaningless vapor he cannot grasp, decode, or act upon even if he tried; he finds himself speechless, and finally shifts his pointed stare like a quitter. It happens to land on Trish, who’s looking in his direction curiously, but with a heavy heart and the nonchalance of a peacock who’s maintained its poise even though its feathers had been puckered out, possibly reading the worst from Giorno’s concerned inquiry – she somehow becomes the beacon that guides him out of the absurd, reigning sea of blurry images and intrusive whispers that lack both meaning and a voice, as her light represents concrete thinking – reality. It reminds him that not everything is over just yet, but in order to stay on guard until then, he needs to stay here, be ready to jump into action, ready to defend, ready to fight – unfortunately, the only one who can currently keep him in the present, fully focused and ready is the girl; they still owe her in a sense, he reasons with himself, wetting his lips with an expedient memory playing in his mind.
"He—" he clears his throat," Bucciarati had this wish of sorts, and I…" he trails off, Giorno's expectant expression an unwelcome pressure, and chooses to watch the trees and fields zoom by the window before finishing his thought. "He wanted to give Trish the house by the shore," he briefly realizes that neither one of the other two know which one he's talking about and shakes his head dismissively, "Whatever. What I mean is that I was thinking I should carry it out for him, and… that it should be today."
He feels the stares of both boring into his skin as if he had stated something downright preposterous, or offensive, and he's pretty sure Polnareff is also listening in on the conversation one way or another.
An exasperated sigh leaves him, "My question is: do you need me for anything today, or am I allowed to do this?"
Nothing, just heavy silence lost in the rhythmic bounces and gliding of the wheels against the rails. It prompts him to look up.
Giorno looks unnaturally taken aback, the piercing, concentrated green eyes overtaken by some emotion Mista doesn't care to identify beyond its association with surprise.
Trish on the other hand is positively uneasy, though the look in her eyes is understanding, as if she comprehends what he's thinking and doing on a very specific level – maybe that's why her attention shifts to Giorno so fast.
Their shady behavior irks him, and he asks, no one in particular, "What?"
And just like that, the spell breaks – Trish starts picking at her nails idly, as if nothing happened, and Giorno's eyes are stripped of the murk from before, once again steady and confident as he goes to reply with a quick shake of his head.
"I have some minor things to deal with today, but I believe that if Mr. Polnareff will be so kind to help me out, it'll be dealt with quickly," he says, shifting in his seat slightly, something obscure in his stare – a certain longing, "I would, however, like to… hear from you tomorrow – if you don't mind."
The gunslinger arches a brow at the phrasing, but naturally tries to find humor in it, "You think I'm gonna do something stupid while you're not watching? Run away maybe?"
Either his tone wasn't sarcastic enough or the timing was off, or perhaps Giorno, for some reason, saw something beyond the joke, because he very seriously asks something Mista has no definitive answer for: "Well, do I have a reason to think that?"
It's a joke, he thinks at first – albeit a shitty one – but there's not a single indication about the blond that this is a joking matter to him – that has him glaring at his soon-to-be boss as a sudden surge of frustration born from some restrictive, crushing feeling overtakes him; "Do I look like someone with a place to run off to – what do you think?"
The kid doesn't reply, probably choosing to abandon this battle – a wise decision. Though in his head it's a victory, it may just be his clouded perspective – a deliberate pinch to his biceps has him looking down questioningly; Trish is giving him a look, shaking her head disapprovingly, apparently not invested enough to call him out directly, but enough to want to make him realize he did something wrong. It makes him roll his eyes exaggeratedly before accepting his insolence for what it is, and recognizing an apology might be in order; delivering one is another matter entirely.
"I'm not gonna do anything stupid, and I'm gonna stop by tomorrow. Jeez – happy?"
The young don doesn't seem convinced in the slightest – he has resigned on this battle already, however. "Yes. Thank you."
–-
That suit was really ugly, he thinks, transfixed onto their only group photo hung up in the living room. It was his first formal event in the organization, barely two months of being a part of the team, and it showed – while the other four are sporting their dress-code appropriate wear with practiced comfort, he’s stiffly standing there with a wry smile, sweating bullets. He’s standing to the far right as would be suitable for a newbie; Narancia next to him, heavily concentrated on not laughing – it was his idea to take a serious, proper mafia-esque photo because he believed the suits made all of them look extra cool; the kid always loved these events, though Mista remembers that on this particular night, he was complaining about how tight his shoes were and how he explicitly asked for a bowtie only to get a regular one. Bucciarati in the middle, looking as stylish as ever, has a content smile on his face – he confessed to Mista later that day that it was one of the best nights of his life; he didn’t know it then, but hearing that from Bucciarati was a big deal. Abbacchio to the far left, the tallest of them all, showing the tiniest of smiles to the camera; they talked the most during the event, shared the most drinks – the ex-cop shared that he’s not so fond of the parties, but that that year felt different – somehow better.
He averts his eyes, shifting away from the humble array of pictures because a heavy pang washes over him the more he dives into the memory, the longer he stares into the eyes of the dead in the photo.
He's been here examining the photos for about fifteen minutes – he told Trish to go check the place out, not giving much commentary beyond that, hoping that she wouldn't really question his reticence nor hold it against him. Now that he has selfishly scouted out the house, searching for nostalgia he couldn’t possibly feel since he had visited this place two times in total only to find melancholy embedded in the walls, he realizes that he hasn’t seen or heard Trish during all this time at all. That's not all though.
It came to his attention that his Stand has remained uncharacteristically inactive since their departure from Rome. Admittedly enjoying the serenity, he didn't really bother delving deeper into it, but now when even in the Pistols' absence he senses their disharmony and discontentment within himself like a never-ending tower bell, he begins to wonder what is going on.
Though feeling their energy practically pouring out into the real world, they refuse to manifest on their own, it would seem – or maybe he's subconsciously keeping them at bay, which he would deny straight away, but the whole ordeal is just inviting dumb, unlikely ideas.
A set of soft footsteps alerts him, and he swiftly moves towards the staircase to greet Trish with the most genuine smile he can muster, “So, what do you think? He always called this place small, but I don’t think he ever saw my old apartment – that was small.”
The girl wordlessly looks around, standing in her place as if she isn't exactly comfortable coming down to him but even less so sitting down on the stairs, or anywhere for that matter. His smile falters.
“It’s… certainly homely,” she notes, pressing a shy hand against her cheek, slightly shielding her mouth; though the gesture makes her seem small, the resolve in her eyes is immovable and quite honestly more than Mista currently possesses; if she argues with him, he won’t have much strength to reciprocate. “But I can’t stay here. It feels wrong – nothing in this place is mine, I couldn’t possibly call it a home,” she explains somberly.
“Not with that attitude,” he retorts with a grin so short-lived it looks more like a tick – the moment it’s wiped off his face, his tone deepens against his endeavor to keep it light-hearted, everything coming out of his mouth gaining a certain severity he did not ask for, “But stuff like this comes with time – just gotta give it a chance. But… I don’t know – maybe you’re right. But it was his wish for you to have this house, so… I guess you can just have the keys and leave it at that.”
He knew this would be a losing battle, and yet he can’t dodge the shot of disappointment thrown his way – he felt he couldn’t keep her here, close to them, forever. The fact that’s been true since she was handed to them is that she doesn’t belong here, not in the city, not with the people – not with the mafia. Thrown in the midst of her father’s business, it was an unspoken understanding between his team that she’s an unwilling participant and will cut all ties with them once this is all over so she can go ahead and live her life in peace. That silent agreement lost significance the moment his friends started dying, however. Now he's not so sure he wants to let her go.
“So… he really wished for that?” she asks, openly admitting her skepticism.
He senses no ill intent on her part, but deep down in his core feels a deep distaste for her doubting him so freely. “What? You think I’d make that up?”
“I don’t know,” she offers absentmindedly, head tilted downwards in what he thinks is shame – that is before she shamelessly accuses him, “You seemed really eager to get away from Giorno back on the train.”
Getting called out like that makes him feel like a culprit caught red-handed against his true sentiments – he bears very little shame for so openly expressing his distaste over spending time with Giorno at the moment, and even still it feels like he screwed up – as if whatever bad blood is currently between them should have stayed hidden, especially from Trish.
“I wouldn’t joke about something like that,” he huffs, moving away from the staircase so the girl can finally get down - she does so, albeit rather hesitantly.
The quiet that befalls them is a suffocating one, temporary in the worst way possible – once it’s over, everything is over, and they will inevitably part ways. He knows it, but he’s not ready.
His eyes slip towards the photos again, this time landing on one he’s not even a part of – it’s a photo of Bucciarati, Narancia and Fugo, the leader standing in the middle, holding the boys by their shoulders in a very familial manner. He almost doesn’t recognize the other two – the picture must be old, as it has Narancia in an attire he doesn’t recognize a single piece of – the kid looks fresh off the streets, actually. Both him and Fugo are leaning into Bucciarati’s side shyly, smiling – Narancia's is crooked, a bit awkward, but ever-so-hopeful and endearing, and Fugo's… he's never seen the guy this content, this amiable. Something in him shifts, and his mood sours; he deems it best he leaves the pictures be, preferably forever.
"I know you guys are all tough and don't like sharing, and that you probably won't tell me but I'll still say it," mutters Trish with the reluctance of someone who knows they shouldn't be doing something, and he predicts it before she even sets it free that she's absolutely right to feel that way, "If there's something bothering you, you can talk to me. Nobody cares what a dumb, young girl knows or thinks, so whatever it is, it's probably safe with me."
He has to appreciate her optimism – her bravery and good intentions, but he also has to curse her relentlessness and temptation – it's as if she knows what he fears and senses the turmoil happening in his brain and recklessly adds fuel to the fire, secretly wishing for him to burn to crisps, especially if he decides not to tell her. Would she hold it against him? Would she turn cold-hearted like a stranger she practically is to him? Would everything fall into place the way it's meant to, like a giant puzzle?
Or he could confide in her like the desperate jackass that he is – submit to the desire to share something like a little secret, or a silly little feeling and a crazy thought to go along with it with another human being – as long as she knows, he will live on in her memories. If he ends up doing something regrettable tonight, at least she will know it was done out of helplessness, because of how much pain he was in, because of how utterly, completely lost he felt in a world where trust is scarce and everything good is bound to perish in the cruelest way possible. If only she knew how terribly he needs her to stay here, in this house, like in a golden cage for birds that don't fly and don’t sing, to keep reminding him why the journey was worth it and needed to happen in the grand scheme of things, or maybe she could simply live here, without any strings attached, without his intervention, just so he would know where to find her, the last pure, good thing he knows.
But he's aware it's impossible, that there's no scenario where he gains what he needs from her and doesn't regret it afterwards – not to mention he can't do it to himself; if he tells her now about everything, about the stupid insignificant flashbacks of Narancia doing dumb stuff he keeps getting, about every time Abbacchio was there for him because deep down, as scary as the dude was, he cared for their crew, about every time Bucciarati bought them all dinner after a stressful mission, or about how much he fears Giorno lied to him and betrayed him. If he tells Trish, there's no going back; if he tells her, he's breaking the last promise the group made as a unit, still together, still friends, still alive.
In that moment, he realizes that he would much rather burn to ashes in his own personal hell, alone, than invite her to a one-way trip to the messed-up lands and insatiable seas that ruthlessly consume anyone daring enough to believe they will float on those unforgiving waves that dwell in his mind and soul.
He raises his gaze to meet her own, wary one, and knows what he has to do – for her sake, his own, and of the lukewarm confidentiality hanging in the air.
“I think I can handle it,” he assures with an alarming lack of credibility, “but thanks anyway.”
The definiteness in this exchange is soul-crushing, however, there is the miniscule pride of having kept his part of the deal – having done something right.
And when he's met with a doubtful look instead of a sad or hateful grimace, he's willing to believe in his decision. "Your loss," she comments nonchalantly, looking at her nails just to have something to do.
He wonders if she understands something he doesn't, or if there's a hidden talent inside her helping her grasp a situation in a way someone her age couldn't – hell, he's older and he couldn't behave the way she just did – the way she carries herself after getting rejected, how she accepted it without malice, somehow recognizing the circumstances behind his actions and forgiving him even before he could think to express his regret over how things turned out to be. Which is a bummer, because the sadness in her usually lively eyes is very much real, and all he wants to communicate with her is that in all of its pathetic form, this is his best shot at being the best he can be at this very moment.
The quietude is hanging in the air unbearably, inciting him to make the next move; "What happens now?" he asks, way too meaningfully for his taste – he tries to rephrase, "Where are you gonna be staying, I mean?"
"I think I'm going to return to Sardinia," she says, countenance thoughtful, "There's not much waiting for me there, but… a home is a home, you know?"
He'd like to ask more – does she have a house? Has her mom left her one? Does she have the money to cover her expenses? And school – will she have to work now and drop out? Maybe she's staying with a relative? – but he doesn't pry, finding hypocrisy in doing just that. "Well, that sure sounds like a plan," he offers unhelpfully, a weak smile playing on his lips, "But I meant more like, where're you gonna stay tonight? And in the near future?"
Her head hangs down guiltily, "I was planning on leaving tonight, actually – taking a plane. But…"
"You can't possibly have the money for that," he tuts in disbelief, questioning the girl’s line of thought, “You thought they would let you on board for free?"
"No, I – I wanted to ask Giorno to pay for the tickets."
The confession leaves him speechless, all traces of good humor eradicated by this simple sentence.
"It's just that – it is my father's money. I was hoping he would spare me some before I leave," she explains, off-put by his lack of response – what's he meant to say, though? He always has an answer ready but this time he feels like he can't be bothered to respond, merely observing as her eyes keep jumping from one spot to another, searching for allegiance in inanimate objects.
"If you planned all this, why'd you let me take you here?" he asks at last, hoping she won't retort with an I don't know. or something equally ambiguous and pointless.
They lock eyes and her demeanor abruptly changes – all the regret temporarily lifted, she looks more decisive and unshakable than ever, and when she opens her mouth, the words are self-assured and genuine: "I felt like you needed it."
A moment is dedicated to take the irony in – somehow, this is worse than the worst reply he made up in his mind. He can't tell if he's enraged by the fact she wasted both of their time with this, or if he's abashed by the fact the time-wasting was done on his behalf. Either way, he buries it all as deep as he can, even if his current reach is limited because he's overflowing with shit to deal with – these minor inconveniences are thus left to spoil right next to the caustic grief and the unsightly mixture of emotions he couldn't care less to sort through.
A steadying breath is in order – when that doesn't help, take in another. It becomes quite clear to him that fate is mocking him, laughing at his misery as it sometimes tends to do – but he's truly had enough – all he wanted was a damn shower!
The image of the four bullets on the ground, rolling about hopelessly, invades his brain and he bites down hard on his lip – he wasn't the one who killed Bucciarati, and Giorno knows something about it – it wasn't him, it was the four bullets – not the bullets but the curse. They all always laughed! Said it was dumb, and maybe, just maybe, he came close to believing them once or twice, but that doesn't change the fact it always comes to bite him in the ass – causes him to drop groceries one time, comes to casually take lives another. Narancia never laughed, he reminds himself, the notion just plain painful instead of consoling – Abbacchio only ever did if it became too much, too silly for his tastes or distracting during a mission; Bucciarati always understood, his amusement never stemming from ill-intent but instead from some weird fondness only the man himself could understand. Come to think of it, there was only ever one person who belittled him for his preposterous superstitious beliefs, not only continuously commenting about how they logically didn't make sense, but also actively trying to disprove them every damn chance that presented itself.
Fists balled up so tight his knuckles turn white, he has to reprimand himself to take in slow, deep breaths – the storm inside of him – the Pistols' irritable shuffling and something eerily close to poking keeps riling him up, like a scratch he cannot satisfy for his hands are tied behind his back. He doesn't understand what's going on – how did this all start? With Trish telling him she felt like he needed his time wasted or was it before? Maybe right after Giorno pulled that trick on them – what even was that? No, it had to begin with Narancia or – no. It wasn't a death that started this unrelenting anguish. It happened in Venice, right in front of the grand church of San Giorgio Maggiore, during their official betrayal. It was in that moment that his emotions got clogged with slick, disgusting tar, painting his spirit black, eating away at his sound psyche and loving heart like a disease, overtime turning him into this – an utter mess.
"Mista?"
It's effective, hearing his name on someone else's lips – someone who’s alive and will stay that way for a long time. There’s only so few people that can say his name now, he thinks his last disheartening thought before dropping all his vexations, saving them for later.
Almost timidly, he raises his gaze, and notes how exhausted he feels – how drained he must look – so much so that he's unable to produce even a small smile when he asks, "Wanna go fetch Giorno now?"
–-
"I would like to pay respects and arrange the funeral within the next week. Your help with the organization would be very much appreciated."
He stops chewing – this was exactly why he didn't want to come along with Trish. He's not exactly sure why he did eventually agree, just that she was more convincing than he was prepared to deflect. But then Giorno offered for all of them to go have lunch together, not at all off-put by the girl's request – if anything, the blond appeared more skittish about the fact Mista was there too.
This must be his first time in over a year dining in a different establishment than Libeccio, and there’s a certain level of insecurity connected to that. Somewhere deep down he knows this must be Giorno’s way of being considerate – his effort to try and rid Mista of possible triggers and distressing reminders – and yet, he finds that it may have been better to settle in Libeccio; the restaurant is familiar, the staff understanding and used to their business. It’s almost like a second home, in a way.
But this is awkward and forced, pretentious and disingenuous in a way he didn’t think possible – a week ago, he couldn’t imagine a lunch between friends being this unpleasant, and yet here he is. Maybe friends is too strong of a word, he ponders bitterly when he notes for about the third time how dead and unnatural the conversation is between Giorno and Trish – almost as if it’s his job to bring them together, like they’re waiting for him to wake up from his slumber and activate the funnyman in his core like he used to within his own, thinned ranks.
He misses them so fucking much.
“Of course,” he replies, resuming eating as if he didn’t just take a ten second pause before speaking – the food is admirably tasteless; “Not today, though – I need some time for myself.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
“I’ll arrive when I arrive. Get off my back, man," he scoffs, the annoyance from earlier making a comeback.
"Mista!" he hears; the pitch too high to be a person, right next to his ear to add impact that is not needed – his eyes widen.
He whips his head towards the source, spotting No.2 and No.6 floating in the air next to him expectantly. Seeing them show up after such a long while only to presumably beg for food leaves him feeling rather cold. He's angry they ditched him like that, but he's not going to bring that up here – this is a private matter, after all.
"What is it, guys?" he asks dispassionately.
"Us and the rest are hungry - could we come out and eat something?" explains No.6, holding its stomach for emphasis.
Their polite attitude is something to raise an eyebrow over – they rarely send out messengers like that, especially when food is concerned. But he doesn't find it within himself to question their lethargy – at least it's more quiet than usual.
"Sure, knock yourselves out," he dismisses with a wave of a hand, "Gotta warn you, though – the food ain't much to gush over, so just don't go whining it's not salami, okay?"
And they merely nod before all six of them appear out of thin air and plummet to the table as if flying is too much of a hassle – they sit in a neat circle around his plate, passing around bits of his pasta, confident he won't eat any more of it. They are right; he sits back in his chair, arms folded on his chest as he enjoys the unprecedented docility of his Stand, as they barely talk to one another and don't even pay mind to the other people at the table, don't bicker or complain – they simply consume what he himself deemed unrewarding to eat.
He catches both of his companions staring at the Pistols with an emotion he doesn't like – namely Giorno who looks like he's just been given a justification for endless prodding he surely will bestow Mista with.
"What?" the gunslinger lets out gruffly, hoping to deter them with a nasty attitude.
The two share a look – something preplanned on their part, a cue. That's when Trish gets up, and excuses herself to use the restroom, leaving them some unwarranted privacy.
The way Giorno leans closer once the girl is out of earshot irritates him, because if the kid wanted to discuss deeply private matters, they should have done it somewhere else – someplace, well, more private.
The boy opens his mouth, but he rather crudely cuts him before a single syllable is produced, "If you wanted to make this more personal and intimate by making her leave, then you failed – Polnareff's still listening," he gesturing towards the tortoise on the table with a thumb.
"That's unlikely. He is busy running through some databases; it should allow us access to funds and useful intel," Giorno informs, hands neatly folded on the table in a grand gesture of composure. Sensing Mista probably doesn't care, he swiftly moves on to a different topic: "Mista… did I do something wrong?"
"Well, I don’t know – did you? You tell me," scowls Mista. Any other time, he would honestly want to know the truth, but right now, his goal is to make Giorno as uncomfortable as possible so that he just drops the issue before things get too pesky.
Just as predicted – and admittedly to his unsolicited disappointment – the blond remains mute, a troubled look playing in his downcast eyes; Mista lets out a disdainful huff, forgetting to cherish the victory of avoiding the topic.
Giorno sighs, traces of frustration mirrored in his expression, “I know this is hard, and I’m deeply—”
“No – no, Imma stop you right there,” he cuts the boy off rudely, vigorously, as if defending someone’s honor – his own or maybe, in some twisted sense, his departed friends’; “You don’t know shit about how this feels, so just – don’t go there.”
“I apologize.”
The sincerity in his voice has Mista questioning if perhaps he’s not being unreasonably harsh on the boy – and yet he cannot quench the restless flames by obeying reason and following the kindness of his lamenting heart, for, from where he stands, that only makes the ache worse. All he knows is that he shouldn’t be here – with people; that he should have ditched Trish right after leading her to Giorno, make their final goodbye as unmemorable as possible – maybe not to spare her the pang of departure like he keeps telling himself, but to make her suffer a bit more as a punishment for itching to leave – to desert him in his moment of anguish.
They all left him, stranded in this world without instructions for how to deal with it – without as much as a goodbye. San Giorgio Maggiore – maybe if Narancia stayed on the shore, he would have been spared; maybe if Abbacchio wasn’t the first one to jump on the traitor boat, none of them would, fulfilling the prediction of their very own failed prodigy. Just thinking about Fugo makes him feel exasperated, but rather than feed the churning pot of reproach that is both fresh and old, he chooses to to shun all thoughts related to the boy; though he’d like to think of it as an act of contempt more than anything, he would have a hard time justifying making that decision right after an anxious, unwelcome thought nagged him into a certain direction: What if Fugo was killed, too?
What if they all left him here..?
He clutches his glass tightly before taking a wild sip, enjoying how the liquid cools his throat as it runs down – that’s as much of a wake up call as he’s getting now. “If you wanna help me out then just, don’t bother for a while. I, eh – I’ll report tomorrow or something,” he promises, getting up from his chair, ready to leave. He senses Giorno’s attentive gaze on him along with an unspoken question hanging in the air that the future don probably deemed too unimportant to ask.
“I’ll be going now,” he answers the question anyway, wanting to at least seem like he made an effort to be civil and not fussy, “I’m gonna take the rest of the day off to rest and – you know.”
Diving into the depths of his boot, he pulls out a wallet, praying there’s still bills that survived their small adventure intact.
“You don’t have to; my treat,” offers the blond, looking almost bored with how he rests his head atop his propped up hand.
Mista ignores him, fishing out for the amount of cash that feels right and placing it on the table; he turns towards his plate to gather up his Stand, “Okay guys, let’s—” only to find them gone, as if they weren’t just munching on his dish minutes ago.
"Fucking figures…” he mutters under his breath, dejected. There’s only so many ways Sex Pistols could surprise or rile him up nowadays, as he has seen pretty much everything, but this is one of them.
“Enjoy your meal or whatever,” he throws over his shoulder indifferently, almost out of the room, hands in pockets. With all of his thuggish glory, he’s sure that the staff is happy to watch him leave – he still smells like sewers and death, too…
Crossing through the entrance hall, he almost exits the building when he spots a flock of pink hair in his peripherals to his right. He briefly entertains the idea of simply leaving, but his body has already stopped moving, turning in Trish’s direction. She’s observing him with a watchful eye, though the moment he faces her, she curls in on herself in a demure manner, seemingly not having anticipated him to spot her, let alone stop once he sees her.
Approaching with caution and an empty mind, it dawns on him that he doesn’t have that much to say and that a single goodbye may not be worth all that effort – and yet he keeps going, some higher principle telling him to proceed towards the girl.
“Hey, uhh, I’ll be going now,” he explains awkwardly, guilt blossoming inside of him for some reason.
“Yeah, I figured.” Unbothered, as if nothing happening in her surroundings ever concerns her, she admires her nails with empty eyes. He’d like to think he understands her to an extent and that he’s right to think that this is her way of coping - drawing a line between them, distancing herself, just like he had wanted, just as it should be.
But then he thinks that… maybe this isn’t what he wants, nor is it what she wants, and yet she sticks to the script like an actress, willingly playing the role he had assigned her with – why? Because somewhere in that brain of hers, she wrongfully determined that this is what he wishes – what he needs. They both trusted him to know what he’s doing, to communicate exactly what his heart demands; he managed to fool her and himself that his interests lie where reason does when in reality he has no idea what he needs right now, what step to take next, how to deal with everything placed upon his shoulders, how to go on without constantly thinking of the heart-ache, nor if it’s even possible to crawl out of the depths back into the light again.
He wonders if it's too late to change the script and her mind by begging her to stay.
"So, you're really leaving today?"
She shrugs absentmindedly, and replies in kind, "Yeah. Haven't booked the tickets yet, but…"
The air is too heavy and the fact she trailed off like that indicates that she's aware of it too. It's also telling of the fact she may be getting lost in her role, too confused to deliver the lines right, passing him the torch as the senior – giving him space to direct this exchange.
He gulps, hoping he won't mess this up for her too.
"I hope you're gonna lead a happy life once you get home," he says, reluctantly accepting the inevitable end, "And, eh… you know."
I think I'm gonna miss you.
She meets his eyes, once again full of confidence out of this world and an iron resolve to go along with it – it unnerves him, quite frankly.
Before he has a chance to make a funny comment or say anything else, he's engulfed in a warm embrace – she's holding him by his neck, which inevitably forces him to hunch over, but he's too taken aback to really protest.
"I still – haven't taken a shower," he says lamely, not entirely sure if he's allowed to touch her back in his current state.
She scoffs into his shoulder – it's a sharp, offended sound; "And you still got hairy fingers; I don't care."
That's all the reassurance he needs before gently reciprocating the hug, ludicrously thinking that if he's too receptive to the contact, he won't be able to say goodbye no matter how much he'll try to convince himself that it's the right thing to do.
He pulls away after a few more seconds of simply basking in the touch, feeling that as far as human touch goes, it will be the last one in a while. She follows suit, and discontentedly rubs her arms, trying to hide her minor disgust, much to his amusement. He knows he smells – he tried to warn her.
"Well, I guess it's time," he offers casually, looking in the direction of the exit somewhat sheepishly.
"Mista."
He regards her one last time, patiently waiting for her to relay her thoughts. Green eyes like little emeralds, not unlike Giorno's yet still very unique on their own, stare into his soul with a wishful message.
"Please… figure things out; for yourself, for your – for those that aren't with us anymore. I'm not sure I can say much about – about anything that's happened but just… Please, stay strong."
Utterly stunned, heart pleading with him to go for another hug – if not in order to discover how much comfort she can truly offer, then to conceal the unshed tears that begin to prickle in his eyes – he stands before her, now more lost than ever, being forced into making a decision he’s not even sure matters to any capacity. Although, maybe he’s being too dramatic; maybe he’s already decided and is just getting cold feet because… that’s what happens nowadays.
Do people ever regret making the right decision?
“Thanks, I’ll… I will. Goodbye, Trish.”
Guess it’s time to find out.