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To be rather frank, Mista is still not that used to Giorno being the big boss of Passione .
Just a few days ago, Giorno was still a newbie who called Mista by his surname and would apologize profusely for not being able to use his stand against Ghiacco’s white album. Then, just a few days later, here he is, kneeling down to plant a kiss on Giorno’s hand as a symbol of his loyalty.
Kinda weird if you ask him.
Of course, it’s not like Mista is dismissive of Giorno’s capabilities. He’s long been impressed by the young man’s competence in battle. He’s seen enough of Giorno in battle to take him seriously as both a formidable ally and a terrifying foe. (If healing hurts like a truck, Mista could only shudder in thinking what his opponents would’ve withstood)
It’s just that… It’s kind of like a friend you’ve been hanging out with since elementary that you eat dirt with, suddenly came up to you with a shy smile, saying that he’s actually the president of the United States and you’re now hired in Congress.
Pretty weird
In only nine days, his life has gone through far too much change.
So when he opened the window to let some fresh air into the room, feeling the softness of his hat drift in the breeze, Mista leaned on the sill and let out a long, shaky sigh.
It finally hit him, heavy as a bullet in the chest: Giorno was the boss now. And they were the only ones left in Bucciarati's team.
Mista rubbed at his temples, laughing under his breath, though it wasn’t really funny.
“Merda... guess I fulfilled my wishes of becoming Capo”
Nine days. Nine days ago, they were eating cold pizza on the side of the road, bleeding out and swearing at each other. Nine days ago, Giorno still had baby fat clinging to his cheeks. Nine days ago, he looked shocked as the pistols demanded lunch. Nine days ago, Bucciarati was alive.
The hat brim fluttered again, and he caught it, holding it still against the wind. He stared at it for a long moment.
The door creaked open behind him, and Mista almost jumped out of his skin. He turned just enough to see Giorno step into the room, quiet as a shadow, golden hair catching the light like some saint from a painting.
“Are you all right, Mista?” Giorno’s voice was soft, steady. He’s always steady.
Mista snapped his gaze back out the window, forcing his shoulders to loosen. “Yeah, yeah, Boss. Just needed some air. Gets stuffy in here, you know?” He tried to laugh, but it came out thin, a little too quick.
He could feel Giorno’s eyes on him. Giorno always had that way of looking at you like he was three steps ahead, like he’d already figured out what you were about to say before you even opened your mouth.
Giorno took a few steps closer, his shoes quiet against the floorboards. He stopped just behind Mista’s shoulder, gaze following the line of the window, as if to give him space.
“You don’t need to call me ‘Boss,’” Giorno said gently. “Not when it’s just the two of us.”
Mista barked a laugh, too sharp for the calm in Giorno’s voice.
He turned, hat brim twisting between his fingers. “Yeah, but that wouldn’t be professional, would it? You’re my superior now. My Boss . Gotta get used to saying it.”
Giorno’s expression didn’t shift much, but Mista caught the faintest flicker of something akin to surprise in his eyes, there and gone in an instant. He shoved his hat back onto his head, tugging the brim low to hide the sudden heaviness in his chest. He didn’t want to think about what he’d just seen in Giorno’s eyes.
And maybe that was why, in the days that followed, Mista threw himself into mission after mission. Guard runs, negotiations, and cleaning up loose ends from Diavolo’s old crew. Even the ugly jobs that most of the others tried to dodge. If the boss needed something to be handled, Mista was the first to step up.
He didn’t know if it was loyalty, duty, or just desperation to keep moving. Maybe all three. Sitting still gave him too much time to think, and thinking led him back to Bucciarati’s absence, to the kneeling, to that quiet surprise flickering across Giorno’s face when he called him “Boss.” It was easier to load his revolver, easier to shout orders at the others, easier to pretend that being the boss’s right hand felt natural.
It wasn’t like Giorno hadn’t talked to him about it. More than once, behind closed doors, Giorno had laid a hand on his shoulder, steady as ever, and told him plainly:
“Mista, the right hand of Passione doesn’t need to take on every errand. These tasks aren’t yours to carry.”
And every time, Mista had nodded. Agreed, even. “Yeah, yeah, Boss, I get it. I’ll pace myself. Can’t hog all the work, right?” He’d laugh, tip his hat, make it sound like Giorno’s concern was enough to set him straight.
But the very next morning, he was the first to grab the keys, the first to load the gun, the first to answer when someone asked who’d take care of a job. Guard runs, clean-up, meetings with minor crews, he was always the one there.
Mista didn’t like thinking too hard. He’d never been the type to sit around with his chin in his hand, plotting out five steps ahead like Giorno did. No, Mista liked moving, liked going with the flow, liked laughing off his wounds and throwing himself at the next enemy. He was superstitious to his core, and he’d always worn that like armor. If the number four showed up, he’d walk the long way around. That was how he’d survived this long. Not because he thought too hard about the why of things, but because he didn’t.
To anyone else, it looked careless, laid back to the point of recklessness, but that was just how Mista kept his head clear. Trust the luck, trust the gun, trust the Sex Pistols.
The job should’ve been simple. A clean sweep, in and out, another loose thread from Diavolo’s crew tied off. The bullets came faster than expected, one catching him just under the ribs, another grazing his thigh. He’d kept firing, Pistols shrieking in his ears, until the ground finally tilted out from under him.
When he came to, it was with someone else’s arm hooked under his, dragging him step by step through the darkened streets. His vision blurred at the edges, breaths coming ragged and wet, but he could just make out the face of the kid carrying him, one of Giorno’s newer men, barely old enough to shave, blood smeared across his cheek from where he’d tried to staunch Mista’s wound.
Man, why is it always kids who are joining the gang? He thought sluggishly.
“Don’t- don’t pass out on me, Signor Mista,” the subordinate begged, voice breaking with panic. “We’re almost to the safe house.”
Mista tried to laugh, but it broke into a cough that burned like fire in his chest.
“Relax, kid. I’m not dyin’. I haven't seen anything related to four yet.” His words slurred, but he forced them out anyway. He had to sound like himself. Had to keep up that easygoing front.
The Pistols buzzed anxiously around him, their high voices overlapping in a frantic chorus, telling him to hang on, calling him an idiot, threatening to beat him up if he dared to let go. He wanted to tell them that beating him up would be equivalent to beating themselves, but even forming the thought was a struggle.
The safe house door came into view at last, its shape blurring in his vision. The kid shouldered it open with a grunt, half-hauling, half-dragging Mista across the threshold and down onto a battered couch.
The couch groaned under his weight as the kid lowered him down, Mista’s head lolling against the armrest. His shirt was ruined, soaked through with crimson that clung heavy and sticky to the fabric. Every breath rattled, pulling a fresh warmth from the wound just beneath his ribs where the bullet had gone clean in and refused to come out.
Blood had seeped through the bandages the kid had hastily tied around him, dark blotches spreading fast, refusing to clot. Each inhale pressed fire against torn flesh, and each exhale dragged a copper taste up his throat. His thigh wasn’t much better, a long, deep gash where a bullet had grazed, tearing muscle instead of piercing through. The leg trembled with every twitch, the fabric around it stiff with drying blood.
The world tilted again, and for a heartbeat, Mista thought he saw Giorno standing there in the doorway, golden hair catching the dim light like a halo.
He didn’t have enough energy to wonder why Giorno would be here. Didn’t have the strength to piece together if this was real or just his brain finally slipping. All he could register was the faint scrape of shoes against the floor, the quiet timbre of Giorno’s voice telling the kid it was safe enough now, that he should leave and regroup with the others
A shuffle of hurried footsteps, the slam of the door, and then silence.
Silence, except for the drag of Mista’s breath, rattling wet in his chest.
Then Giorno was moving, crossing the room with steady steps. He knelt down beside the couch, golden hair falling forward, eyes sharp but not panicked. Giorno never panicked.
Mista felt his vision swim again, a blur of gold and shadow. The Pistols’ frantic shouts were drowned beneath the thudding of his own pulse, heavy and uneven. He grinned despite the fire tearing through his ribs, forcing his voice into a rasping laugh.
“Hey, Boss… sorry for not listening to orders…”
Giorno didn’t answer right away. His gaze swept over the blood-soaked mess of Mista’s torso, the sluggish seep of crimson between cracked bandages. For a moment, his expression was unreadable, but then his jaw tightened, and his hands moved with a tremble.
“You should save your apologies,” Giorno said, voice steady but low. “You’ll need your breath for this.”
And before Mista could ask what he meant, the warmth of Gold Experience surged into him.
He gasped. The world lurched white-hot as Gold Experience surged into him, muscle and bone knitting back together in brutal, unnatural bursts. It felt like fire crawling beneath his skin, twisting into places it didn’t belong. The pain was blinding, worse than the bullets themselves, like something was chewing him apart from the inside out.
“Merda-!” His fists clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms.
Mista arched off the couch with a strangled cry, fingers clawing at the cushions. His revolver clattered to the floor again as his body convulsed.
A drop of liquid ran down the side of his cheek.
Damn, is he, Guido Mista, a grown man crying right now?
But the sting at the corner of his eye wasn’t his. The heat on his skin wasn’t sweat.
It took him a moment, through the haze of pain and the pounding in his skull, to realize: Giorno was bent over him, golden hair falling loose from its perfect coils, and it was his tears streaking down Mista’s face.
“Boss…” Mista croaked, but the word broke, raw in his throat.
Giorno didn’t answer. His hands pressed harder against Mista’s chest, Gold Experience burning through him, relentless, veins of golden light spiderwebbing across torn flesh and knitting it closed. His breath came ragged, shallow, as though every ounce of strength he poured into the healing was being wrung directly out of him.
The tears fell faster now, silent, slipping past his lashes in steady streams as he bowed his head closer, forehead nearly touching Mista’s sternum. His jaw trembled, lips parting, and then, like a nervous tic long-ingrained, his teeth sank into the tip of his fingers. The skin there was already raw, scarred faintly from years of the habit, but he bit down again, hard, the taste of iron mingling with the salt of his tears.
“You’re so reckless,” Giorno whispered, voice tight, almost breaking. “You put yourself in front of every gun, every blade, as if your life doesn’t matter.”
His breath hitched, but his healing didn’t falter, light pulsing between his palms. “What if I lost you, too?”
Mista blinked through the blur, chest heaving with the effort of breathing against the force knitting him back together. His arm trembled as he tried to lift it, fingers brushing clumsily at Giorno’s cheek. He meant to swipe those tears away, but they only smeared, and still they kept falling.
“C’mon…” Mista rasped, forcing a crooked grin that wavered at the edges. “Don’t cry, Boss. Not for me. I’m still here, ain’t I?” His thumb dragged weakly against Giorno’s jaw, leaving behind a trail of blood. “You’re gonna ruin your good looks if you keep bawlin’ like this.”
“When I saw you fall, when I saw the blood, I thought you were gone.” His hand pressed harder against Mista’s wound, though his healing had already begun to seal the worst of it. “I thought I had lost you. Just like Bucciarati, just like Abbacchio, and Narancia.” He broke off, breath trembling, shoulders taut with the effort of holding himself together.
“Please stop pushing me away. I’m sorry I let them die.”
Mista’s crooked grin collapsed the moment Giorno’s voice broke. He’d never heard him like this before. His chest hitched, and before he could stop himself, hot tears welled up, sliding down his temples into his hair. He tried to laugh it off, tried to bite back the sound, but the sob still shook out of him, rough and unsteady.
“Dammit, Giorno…” His voice was ragged, wet. “Why would I ever blame you?”
His hand, trembling, moved around Giorno’s free hand, stopping him from biting himself.
“I’ve been watchin’ you bury yourself in all that weight, and I…I don’t know how to help you except this.” His tears fell faster, stinging as they slipped past the corners of his eyes. “That’s why I take the missions. I thought if I did enough, if I kept you from having to… maybe you wouldn’t have to feel like you failed again.”
With what little strength he had left, he pushed himself up enough to wrap his arms around Giorno. It wasn’t graceful, the effort made his ribs burn and his muscles shake, but he dragged the boy against him anyway, burying his wet face against the soft gold of Giorno’s hair.
“You gotta cry more,” Mista rasped, his breath hitching against Giorno’s temple. “You’re only fifteen. Fifteen, Giorno. You’re not supposed to be carrying all this grief like you’re thirty. You’re not supposed to be the one buryin’ us and keepin’ the rest of us together.”
Giorno’s shoulders shook violently in Mista’s arms, his head pressing deeper into the other’s chest. The tears came faster now, hot and unrelenting, as though years of restraint were pouring out all at once.
“I’ve… I’ve never done this before.” Giorno’s voice cracked between sobs, almost strangled.
Mista’s hand rubbed soothingly along his back, steadying him despite his own trembling from pain. Mista kept holding him, tighter than he thought his arms had the strength for. Giorno’s sobs muffled into Mista’s chest, and every one of them felt like a bullet going off inside Mista’s ribs, loud, jarring, impossible to ignore. His own tears spilled hot into Giorno’s hair, dampening the perfect golden coils he’d always thought looked too neat for a guy who waded through blood with the rest of them.
“Don’t worry,” he rasped, voice rough but gentle. “I’ll teach you, I’m a master at crying.”
His arms ached, his chest burned, but none of it mattered compared to the solid weight of Giorno clinging back just as fiercely.
Mista huffed out a broken laugh, the sound catching in his raw throat. “C’mon, you’ve- seen me cry before. Hell, you were there when I bawled my eyes out in Trish’s body.”
A muffled sound came from Giorno’s chest, half a laugh, half a sob. His shoulders shook against Mista.
“There it is,” Mista whispered hoarsely, pressing his cheek into Giorno’s hair with a sniff. “Knew I could still get a laugh outta you.”
But even as Giorno laughed, the tears didn’t stop. They only kept spilling, hot and relentless, soaking through Mista’s sweater. Mista’s own tears kept running too, burning at his eyes, dripping down into the golden curls clutched against him.
Giorno’s fists bunched into Mista’s sweater like he was afraid to let go. His voice came out hoarse, words trembling against the fabric.
“Promise me… You won’t take up the dangerous missions anymore. I can’t-” his breath hitched, ragged and sharp, “I can’t lose anyone else”
Mista’s chest ached at the plea, deeper than the wound Giorno had just sealed shut. He swallowed, his throat thick, and let his hand rest firm and steady against the back of Giorno’s head.
“Alright,” he rasped. “I promise. I won’t do those missions. You’re stuck with me, Giorno.” He tried for a grin, but it faltered, softened. “But you gotta promise me somethin’ too.”
Giorno stilled slightly, tilting his tear-streaked face just enough for Mista to see the raw red rims of his eyes.
“You gotta start actin’ your age, Giogio,” Mista said, voice breaking. “Cry when you need to. Yell when you’re pissed. Smile when you’re happy. You’re- you’re fifteen, you’re supposed to feel stuff. You’re not… some statue. Don’t keep it all locked up ‘til it eats you alive.”
Giorno’s lips trembled, fresh tears threatening again, but this time his nod came firm, even through the shaking of his body.
“Okay,” he whispered, almost like a vow. “I promise.”