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I.
Mista is not devout, but he believes.
He knows there must be some higher power that has granted him so much luck in his short time on the Earth, that there isn’t any kind of logic that can explain away how his blood still flows in his veins despite all that has happened.
He remembers from his early childhood the stained glass windows of the church, watching the morning light cast through the welded art of angels as the priest’s words fell soft over his ears. His mother would scold him for not listening, but Mista did, the tales of the saints and heaven and hell, and he decides rather simply that it is easier to believe than it is to live in fear of the unknown. Luck graces him and his mother always repeats that he must strive to go to heaven, curls his small fingers around a silver cross pendant before draping it over his neck and having him parrot the commandments.
Sepia memories of childhood blend together as he grows, but he never forgets the years of sermons, the colored light surrounding the trapped angels. He keeps the cross around his neck, hidden under his shirt to remind him of all that he stands to lose if he forgets.
He knows he believes, just as sure as he knows the moment that he meets Giorno, he’s seen the angel of death. It is all too easy to picture Giorno’s form immortalized in the glass he hasn’t thought about in years, radiant as though light shines through him.
Mista thinks this, and fights off the urge to cross himself, lightly fingering the silver chain around his neck and pushing the thoughts to the back of his mind instead.
It’s before he knows it that he realizes he would follow Giorno straight into the eternal hellfire if that was where Giorno’s dream would take them, and the thought doesn’t send fear into him so much as makes him contemplate the burning metal above his heart.
If Giorno would lead him into hell, Mista supposes it would only be fitting he follow a fallen angel down.
II.
Mista is first to swear his loyalty.
When the emotions have not quite settled but are locked tight under a veil in their chests, Giorno sits upon the chair that has long gone cold from Diavolo’s presence, and quietly assumes Passione as his own.
It’s in that moment, before any operatives enter, that Mista drops to one knee and takes Giorno’s hand in his own. His eyes are lowered but he knows there would be a tired look of fondness on Giorno’s face if he would turn his eyes up to see it. Mista contemplates the scars on Giorno’s knuckles, brushing his lips over them softly before lingering over the gems set in the ornate ring on Giorno’s finger.
Mista knows its unnecessary, that Giorno already knows and Mista has already pledged himself a dozen times over throughout their time together, with his gun more than his words but Mista likes to think that the message still got across. He does it now because he wants to, because whether Giorno says it or not Mista knows that he needs this.
He believes in Giorno’s dream as much as he believes in the boy himself, but despite the way Giorno commands attention with skill beyond his years, Mista knows he needs someone to lean on.
So he keeps hold of Giorno’s fingers as he sits back on his haunches, finally lifting his eyes and speaking to Giorno as seriously as he would if he were praying.
“I’m not good with words, you know that,” Giorno’s lips twitch at Mista’s words, and Mista forges on before he can picture how Trish would laugh at him for even attempting this kind of sentimentality. He doesn’t do it because he has to, Giorno doesn’t expect it of him, but he wants to. “But until god would take me from your side I swear my loyalty, my gun, and all the blood that would run in my veins to use as you see fit.”
Giorno’s breath catches, and Mista flips Giorno’s palm over in his hand to press a single kiss to the center, meaning heavier than any blood oath he could swear. There’s been blood on both of their hands, but when Giorno’s hair is lit gold by the afternoon light falling in through the window, Mista swears sees transparent images of stained glass angels framing Giorno’s form.
“Thank you, Mista.”
He doesn’t have to say why, and Mista presses down a smile in favor of a look more suitable to a proper capo bastone who would fight god himself for his boss as he lays a hand on the ornate doors that open their future.
“Of course, Boss.”
III.
When Mista turns twenty, it’s almost a surprise.
Not only that he’s managed to live to see the dawn of a second decade, but his birthday the year prior had been all but glossed over in the controlled chaos that was the transfer of power in Passione. Mista says controlled only due to Giorno’s incredible calmness, the young boss’ force of will surpassing even Mista’s expectations in his overhaul of the gang. The toll of it all on Giorno is also visible, but Mista does his best to keep the weight off Giorno’s shoulders when he can.
It was also quiet, but Mista prefers not to think of the notable absent voices from his table that winter morning.
This year, though, Mista wakes to the gentle movements of sheets around him, sitting up before he can think about his movements and reaching for his gun on the bedside table out of sheer habit.
Giorno’s hand closes around his wrist before he can get to the right state of mind to summon up sex pistols, and Mista grunts at the amused look on Giorno’s face before attempting to blink into awareness.
Giorno’s hair is unbound, falling over his shoulders softly in a way that always makes Mista think of how young he is, how young they both are, and yet here they are. Mista knows Giorno has him up early like this because the rest of the day will be spent in meetings with Polnareff, with officers and politicians and paperwork and won’t end until Mista can pry Giorno away from his desk to sleep for three hours before it all begins again.
But Giorno makes this time for them, when they’re just Giorno and Mista and too young for everything outside their doors, and to Mista that means the world.
He’s bare save the habitual silver cross around his neck, and Mista sees Giorno’s eyes flicker to it for a moment before continuing up Mista’s chest and meeting his eyes. Mista sees the dark circles under Giorno’s eyes and sighs, sitting up enough that Giorno slides back from his stomach onto Mista’s lap, raising a hand to rub his thumb over the dark shadows.
“Buon compleanno, Mista,” Giorno murmurs with a smile, brushing Mista’s hand from his face and slipping cool metal over Mista’s head instead. His fingers rest over Mista’s neck, stroking at the thick black hair there for a moment. Mista glances down in surprise to see a twin cross on his neck, this one shining a simple gold in the morning light. It hangs the same length as his mother’s cross, and Mista feels the added weight on his chest in more than just metal. “I thought you might like to wear them both, I wanted to give you something that would be of importance to you.”
Mista can’t do anything but nod at Giorno’s words, gaze focused on Giorno’s pale hand on his chest, both crosses in hand as he lifts them to his lips and touches the cool metal like a blessing. A kiss that touches Mista to the depths of his eternal soul, and Mista lets Giorno’s name fall soft from his lips as he pulls Giorno in for a real kiss instead.
It’s as much an oath as Mista has sworn to Giorno time and time again, and Mista’s heart thuds painfully when he thinks of how much he would give for this man.
Giorno doesn’t have to say it, because Mista knows, just as much as he’s sure Giorno can feel all his passion and love through the kisses glanced off the side of his lips, as sure as he is that he wouldn’t say any of this even at confessional, because what they have is not something needed to be known to anyone but themselves.
Mista leans forward enough to rest his forehead against Giorno’s before flipping them over, pressing a hand on Giorno’s chest and reading the words in the beats, murmuring his own response against the hollow of Giorno’s neck.
“I know.”
V.
The crosses on his heart is not heavy or burdensome, and he’s as sure as he could list the saints that his god could bear him no ill will for the path he’s taken.
Mista may be destined for hell, but he does not mind.
For when the world ends and he’s eventually dragged into its depths, he knows that even in the darkest of the fires Giorno would still shine brighter.