Work Text:
September 7, 2007, 5:15PM
The older they get, the more Passione feels like a 9-5. Wake up early, kill the bad guys, run the numbers, clean the books, bribe the slimeballs, launder the money, and repeat– all for the greater good, of course. Giorno likes to give his top associates an early Friday. He spent the day at home in his office balancing numbers to his best abilities until mid-afternoon, sent Fugo to the office until 4, and Mista on a mission ending at 5 on the dot– as per his request. Mista didn’t mind the late Friday if it meant avoiding the wretched digit.
Mista bursted open the door after a perfect mission with the Pistols to see Giorno doing something rare: actually playing PS3. He was showing Fugo how to play Skate . Giorno was not into gaming like Mista was, but some gameplay trailer grabbed Giorno so Mista bought him the game. This was only the second time he’d ever seen Giorno play. Fugo was watching with eager eyes sitting criss crossed on the couch, more casual than his usual stance– shoes off, blazer unbuttoned. Mista felt his body tense before his heart and head, waved his hand up at them, and walked up the stairs with a little added pressure.
He felt something he couldn’t understand. Gaming was his activity with Giorno and now Giorno is showing it to someone else. It hit where it hurt. He opened the door to the master bedroom and searched around for the TV remote. He finds it on Giorno’s dresser next to Giorno’s ridiculously heavy crystal water glass atop some high-end coaster. He strips off the day’s clothes. He’s become excellent at never getting blood-stained, but his clothes, and more importantly his hands always feel dirty. He doesn’t usually mind doing Giorno’s dirty work. He gets a lot in return, but he feels like a mere cog in the machine right now.
He plops on the plush, black bed and turns on the TV and flips through the channels. History is showing a conspiracy documentary about how some comic book found in Egypt in the late 80s predicted 9/11, whose sixth anniversary is soon. Countless local channels are showing football matches. The local news is showing an editorial about the decrease in violent crime across Italy. That at least makes him smile– after all he’s one of the shadows making that a reality.
His heart sinks again as he hears something rare from down the grand stairwell- Giorno’s genuine laughter. He didn’t know Fugo had the capacity to be that funny. Mista may as well have had the bullets dress up as the devil and angel on his shoulder. The devil told him to feel jealousy so deep it's in his bone marrow. The angel reminds him of the truth. Mista did not belong to Giorno and Giorno did not belong to Mista. It still made Mista sick to think about anyone else holding such divine hips and being hypnotized by such emerald eyes and feeling Requiem’s vines. He was just as guilty. Pleasure came in many forms, but Giorno was the best one.
He hears Giorno laugh again in that same manner as he watches his Sex Pistols crawl out from his gun.
“Boss laughed twice, Mista. I counted,” Number Five said.
“Yeah, I bet Fugo doesn’t even shoot straight!” Number Three said.
If one’s stand was a manifestation of their soul, then why was Mista’s so good at saying what he wanted left unsaid.
“Play nice, Number Three,” Mista said.
“But boss never touches the PS3 and all of the sudden he does with Fugo of all people. We like playing games with boss!” Number Three says.
“You guys can play a game with me, go get the new one,” Mista says.
Number Five and Number One make their way to the media console and grab the new Medal of Honor and the controllers. They pop the game in and make their way back to the edge of the bed where Mista is sitting. Mista hopes this will serve as a distraction. They play local multiplayer until Mista feels his mind go numb, ironically missing shots and losing interests,
“Mista, are you doing this to forget about that boss stuff?” Number Five asks.
“What boss stuff?” Mista asks, fully pausing the game, to make eye contact with the tiny sentient bullet.
“That you like, like him and stuff. We can feel that you are jealous,” Five replies.
“What are you talking about, Five? Just play the damn game,” Mista says, irritated, unpausing and focusing again.
The pistols weren’t wrong, but they weren’t right, maybe. Mista thought’s got messier than his and his stand’s gameplay. When he was tripped up, so were they. Giorno wasn’t his and he knew this well. Giorno was his bed-mate, his boss, arguably his best friend, but not his. Giorno never seemed to care if he saw other people. Yet when Giorno did it, not in that context to Mista’s knowledge, it felt like a knife to the heart.
Mista had to sit and realize as he missed shot after shot in his game, taking damage from the enemy. He’s the reason Giorno even likes gaming. He’s the reason Giorno even bought the game he’s showing Fugo now. Fugo was never into it, but Giorno showing it to Fugo felt like betrayal if the highest grade. He hears Giorno laugh again, footsteps downstairs, leading into the kitchen. He finds himself wondering if Giorno ever laughs like that with any sort of frequency around him.
“He doesn’t Mista,” Number Three says, answering Mista’s thoughts.
Mista pauses the game and lays down. It feels like too much to handle. He hears a crash downstairs and realizes he can use it as an excuse to investigate. It sounds like something metal fell in the kitchen, but considering Mista is the bodyguard, he should see. He walks out of the room and starts to head down the grand staircase. He hears quick scurrying of footsteps and sees Giorno and Fugo on the couch– Fugo’s jacket completely off now, Giorno’s hair ever-so-slightly out of place. It hurts, but personal and work life must remain separate.
“Is everything okay?” Mista asks.
“Yeah, why?” Giorno asks.
“I heard a crash, it sounded like it was from the kitchen,” Mista says.
“Oh, we went to put something in the oven for dinner and a metal pan fell,” Giorno responds.
“Oh,” Mista replies, with a tinge of his true emotions shining through his voice.
“Care to join us,” Giorno says, with a hint of seduction in his voice.
Mista’s face goes frazzled and cheeks a little red. He can almost make out whatever the bullets are whispering about in his revolver and hopes the others can’t. He walks towards the L-shaped couch and sits next to Giorno, making a point to lean into the shorter man.
“Also, where are your clothes man?” Giorno asks.
“I took a nap before I heard the noise,” Mista says, lying terribly. He figured it was easier to avoid any questioning.
“I don’t mind,” Giorno says, eyes shifting to Fugo.
“Of course you don’t,” Mista says, laughing.
“Fugo, do you want to give Mista your controller so he can play?” Giorno says.
“Yeah, I don’t mind,” Fugo replies, rubbing his eyes, leaning into Giorno.
Giorno hands Mista the controller and he feels electric. All the feelings he had melted away from such a small gesture. He felt on top of the world as Giorno watched him play and Fugo was almost an afterthought.
Mista feels any tension in his body release, smiling, getting to share an activity with his boss whom he holds in high regard. The tension comes back as Giorno looks at Fugo in a way that seems longing, but it’s never long enough for Mista to have to process it and that alone is peace.