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The car slips through the darkness.
Mista gazes out of the passenger seat window, observing what little he can see of the countryside flashing by, distantly wondering how close they are to the hideout they’d stayed at ten years ago. Ten years, huh. It’s been a long time—but it doesn’t feel like it, somehow. If he closes his eyes, he can still picture all of them sitting at Libeccio together, their voices floating above the indistinct chatter of the patrons nearby. He can still picture the grin on Narancia’s face; Bucciarati’s long-suffering expression; Abbacchio nodding his head in time with the music in his headphones...
“I think we’re near the vineyards,” says Giorno suddenly.
His voice beckons Mista out of his reverie. “Oh,” he replies, “yeah, I was just thinking about that, actually.” His lips twitch. Yet again, we have the exact same thought at the exact same time. Some folks would pay good money for a psychic connection to the Don. “How near do you think?”
Giorno is silent. Mista turns to look at him, and sees him looking intently at the road, his hands firmly gripping the steering wheel. “I don’t know,” he replies. “Maybe ten minutes.”
“Hmm, I see,” says Mista, studying Giorno. Perhaps ten years doesn’t feel like a long time, but he can see the evidence of its passing in Giorno’s face—his cheeks have shed the last bits of baby fat they’d carried when he was fifteen, and his features are sharper, more handsome. Some things haven’t changed, though. He’s still shorter than Mista. Giorno clearly missed out on that tall and buff gene that his relatives seem to possess, because he never really grew much; whenever they visit, he has to tilt his head up to meet their eyes. And, well, speaking of eyes…ten years have passed, but Giorno’s eyes still burn with resolve in the same way they did when he was younger. There’s something distant about them too, sometimes. It’s like he’s looking beyond; it’s like he’s gazing at something that only he can see, something hovering just out of reach, something bright and beautiful…
“Is there something on my face?”
Mista blinks; the world snaps back into focus. “Nah,” he says, smiling. “Just admiring your good looks, GioGio.”
Giorno doesn’t dignify his words with a response. Yet, his reaction is clear to Mista all the same—his breath hitches a little, and his face turns slightly pink, and his hands tighten on the wheel. That’s the way they are these days. Mista flirts, and Giorno listens in flustered silence. There’s an unspoken understanding between them. Mista will never go beyond words, and Giorno can shut it down if he really wants to. But he doesn’t, and Mista doesn’t want to stop; so they continue dancing around each other, unwilling to speak their feelings into the cool spring air.
All of a sudden, the car rolls to a stop. Mista looks at Giorno, confused. “What, did you find the vineyard?”
Giorno shakes his head. His face is still slightly flushed. “No, I…well, I was just wondering if we could see the stars from here.” He glances at Mista, fiddles with his left earring, and clears his throat. “I wanted to do some stargazing. Of course, I understand if you’re tired. We did just fight those traitors. I’ll bring us back to the hotel if you don’t feel like it, but…”
Mista chuckles. He’s so cute. “Nah, I’m down for some stargazing.” He unbuckles his seatbelt. “After you.”
Giorno smiles at him, unbuckles his own seatbelt, and gets out of the car.
One by one, the car doors slam shut behind them. They stand there for a while, on either side of the car, craning their necks to look at the night sky. Giorno was right; Mista can see hundreds of stars, twinkling brightly, scattered across the sky like diamonds glittering on dark silk. His eyes widen. He looks at Giorno, feels his chest warm at the wonder in his expression, and grins at him when Giorno turns to look at him too. They look at each other for a moment. They gaze at each other, drinking in the joy in each other’s faces, before turning to admire the stars once more.
Eventually, they make their way to the car’s bonnet. They stand in front of it for a while, looking up; at length, Giorno says, “There’s a hill over there. Do you want to head over?”
And so they walk through the darkness, Giorno leading the way, Mista a few paces behind. He watches Giorno as they go, watches him intently as the grass bends beneath their feet and the breeze tugs at their clothes. His footsteps are steady. His braid blows this way and that. They approach the foot of the hill, and begin to ascend the gentle slope; silhouetted against the starry sky, Giorno has never been more beautiful. The sight makes Mista’s heart ache. He swallows the feeling, though, because there’s no point in expressing it. There’s no point in making it known. After all, he’s used to Giorno’s remoteness. Yes, the two of them have grown extremely close as the years have gone by. Yes, he knows almost everything about Giorno, from the number of alarms he has to set in the morning to the scars he bears from his childhood to the way he laughs in response to Mista’s jokes, his wide-eyed wonder dissolving into quiet chuckles, as if the laughter has been startled out of him. But Giorno is never completely, firmly Mista’s to know. And that’s just how it is. That’s just how it is, so there’s nothing to be said about it, nothing to be asked…
But when they reach the crest of the hill and lie down, inches apart, Mista gazes at the stars and feels a lump rise in his throat. “Hey, Giorno,” he says.
Beside him, Giorno doesn’t move. “Yes?”
“You…” Mista swallows. “You ever think you’re, like…one with the stars?”
At this, Giorno turns to look at him. Mista can hear the grass moving beneath his head; he can feel Giorno carefully studying his expression. “What do you mean?”
“Well…” He struggles to put his thoughts into words. “I guess it just feels like you’re up there sometimes. Shining brightly in the night sky, like a star. And…” A sharp laugh forces its way out of his mouth. “And I’m here, you know? On the earth. Watching you from afar.” He sucks in a breath. “Unable to reach you.”
Giorno is silent. The wind sweeps over the countryside; under the brush of its airy fingers, the wildflowers nod and the grass ripples. The stars are bright. Some of them are a little larger than others, some a little smaller. Mista’s eyes wander between them, occasionally stopping to follow what seems to be the beginning of a line. I bet Giorno can name all the constellations. Giorno’s silence is deafening; there’s a pit in Mista’s stomach that he’s doing his best to ignore. Orion, Ursa Major, Ursa Minor…what else? He chews his inner cheek. Giorno would be the brightest star. Which one is that? Sirius? But then, thinks Mista, no star is as beautiful as the man beside me. None can compare. He is simply…
“I don’t know,” says Giorno quietly, and Mista’s stomach clenches.
He hears Giorno shift beside him once more. “I…” He seems to hesitate. “I don’t know where my dream will take me, Guido.” There is something oddly raw about his voice; it clashes, dissonant, with the serenity of the night. “Two years ago, we managed to stop the sale of drugs to minors. But there’s so much more that I want to do. There’s so much more that I want to achieve. My path still lies before me—and it’s a path that doesn’t allow for…”
Giorno takes a sharp breath.
“Well,” he says, his voice small, “you know that, as a member of Passione, you may have to lay down your life in service of my dream.”
Mista huffs. “Yeah.” He rolls his shoulders. “I know. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Giorno shifts again. Mista looks at him this time, and sees that he has wrapped his arms around himself, tightly, and tilted his head away from Mista’s questioning gaze. “One day,” says Giorno slowly, “I may have to choose between you and Passione. Between you and my dream.”
Mista feels sick. “Oh,” he says. “Hey…it’s okay, GioGio,” he says, fighting the urge to reach out and take Giorno’s hand. “You know what I’d have you pick.”
“No,” says Giorno abruptly. His voice is strained; his body is tense. “It’s…” He inhales, exhales, inhales, exhales. “It’s not…it’s not easy. I can’t…if you died, I…” Mista realises with a start that Giorno’s hands are trembling slightly. “I…”
He trails off, his chest heaving. The minutes pass as they lie there together, silent, unmoving. Mista listens to the rustling of the grass and the chirping calls of insects; above all else, though, he listens to the sound of Giorno’s shallow breathing, and feels a wave of guilt at being the source of his pain. ”But you’re right, Guido.” When Giorno speaks again, his voice is steady once more. “It’s true that I’m not always there. I’m not always present with you. I just—my dream calls to me, and I must follow.”
“Okay,” says Mista gently. “It’s okay. Look, we can…talk about this another time.” Perhaps he’s a little discontented, but he can’t bear to be the cause of Giorno’s distress. “I—”
“Let me finish,” interrupts Giorno. “Yes, my dream is important to me. It’s the only reason I survived my formative years. It’s what fuels me, what drives me forward. But…” He pauses. “You’re important to me too, Guido.” His voice is brittle. “I can’t express the extent of it. I don’t have the words. You just are.”
Mista’s chest hurts. Tentatively, he reaches out, crossing the space between them; he finds Giorno’s forearm, traces his fingers down his wrist till he’s holding Giorno’s hand, and brings their joined hands down to rest on the grass between their bodies. “You’re important to me too,” he says. He squeezes Giorno’s hand. “More than I can say.”
“I know,” says Giorno softly. “But I can’t give you what you want. I can’t give you all of me. And I can’t choose you over Passione, over my dream. It…” He takes a shaky breath. “Losing you would kill me.” His voice breaks as he speaks. “But I’d have to do it. Even though I…” His fingers tighten on Mista’s. “You know that I…”
“Yeah.” I love you too, thinks Mista. “I know.”
And so they lie there, hand in hand, gazing at the night sky. The air is fresh. Here, in the countryside where the city lights haven’t swallowed the stars, everything seems to have taken on a heightened quality—the wind caresses their faces with careless abandon, their hands burn with warmth against the cool grass, and their beating hearts lie naked in their exposed chests for the world to see. Mista looks away. Giorno’s hand is clasped firmly in his, but he himself, he as a person, cannot fully be his; as long as Passione exists, as long as he is still the Don, it must be so. He is near, but far; he is there, but beyond. Still, there is no doubt in Mista’s mind that Giorno longs for them to be together, too. They both crave each other. He remembers that drunken night, remembers the heady scent of wine on Giorno’s hot breath, remembers their faces inching ever closer, their eyes fluttering shut. Nothing had happened that night. They’d pulled away in the end, and they hadn’t spoken of it since. But maybe, in the future…maybe, if Mista can accept what Giorno can give, if Giorno can accept the fear and uncertainty that will live alongside their love…
“Guido?”
Mista turns to his side, shifting his attention from the stars to Giorno alone. “Yeah?”
“You…” Giorno turns to his side too; now they are facing each other, looking into each other’s eyes. “I’ve felt for a long time that, well…” He smiles. It’s a sad little smile, but there is a sincerity in his eyes that makes Mista’s heart flutter. “Despite everything I just said, you’re still the only one for me. There’s no one else. Just you.”
A warm feeling surges through Mista. “I feel the same way,” he says. His eyes fall on their joined hands; suddenly feeling brave, he reaches out, slowly, towards Giorno’s face. His fingers brush the shell of an ear. He tugs lightly at a strand of baby hair, and Giorno makes a small sound in his throat in response. “There’s only you. You’re the only one for me, too.” He smiles. Giorno seems slightly flustered, and if his face were illuminated by something brighter than moonlight, Mista is certain that it would be red; but he doesn’t bat Mista’s hand away, so Mista continues to let it roam. His fingers skirt the line of Giorno’s collar, rise to his face, and settle on the curve of his cheek. “And, well…this, all of this…” He shrugs. “It’s a mess. Of course it is. But our lives are a mess, and we’re still living. So, maybe, just maybe…if we can figure this out…not today, not tomorrow, but, you know…”
His fingers grow still right before they reach Giorno’s lips.
“What do you think?”
Giorno blinks in surprise.
Then he smiles, and he reaches up to close his hand over Mista’s, and he says, “I’d like that. I mean, I don’t know how, but if we can…”
“We will,” says Mista firmly. “Or, well, we’ll at least talk about this again. When we’re back in Naples, maybe?”
“Yeah.” Giorno looks at him with such affection that Mista feels himself melting in the warmth of his gaze. “Okay. Let’s do that.” He squeezes Mista’s hand. “But, for now—do you want to stay just a little longer? The stars are beautiful, and we won’t get to see them like this for a while…”
“Sure,” says Mista, smiling. “Of course.”
But they don’t turn to look at the stars. Maybe they should, for Giorno’s words still stand—but in that moment they are drawn towards each other instead, inexorably, like magnets with opposite poles…
And so they lie there together as time slips silently away, breathing as one, admiring the starlight in each other’s eyes.
fin