The months following Diavolo’s fall were long and tiring. Giorno’s toppling of the mysterious Boss left the Capos scrambling and suspicious: just how had this young man ascended to the highest position in Passione in no more than two weeks?
That answer was nearly impossible to answer, of course, as it would require divulging so much about what had transpired, it would mean telling them all about Trish. Giorno had promised her, promised to keep her identity still a secret, promised to help in whatever way he could to provide her with a more normal life, a life close to the one Diavolo had upended. So instead, the blonde danced around the questions with a dangerous glint in his eye, threatening his new Capos to ask him exactly how he had sent Diavolo into the invite cycle of hell.
It had taken time, then, for the dust to settle. Fugo had been brought back into the fold, his palpable grief and guilt sharing what the other survivors had felt, particularly Mista.
Mista seemed unshaken by it all, at least during the day. Perhaps it was more accurate to say that the gunslinger had become accustomed to donning the mask of the cold-hearted mafioso he was so far from truly being.
But Giorno knew, he could hear when Mista woke in the middle of the night in the villa, hearing his loud footsteps outside Giorno’s bedroom as he paced. Giorno had seen the way Mista’s breath stopped when he saw Fugo for the first time, saw how broken his oldest living friend really was.
Thus, Giorno learned to keep his eyes always glancing over at Mista, checking to tell how his most loyal ally was that day. The Don wasn’t ever sure if he and Mista were friends, that term feeling foreign and new in his mind. Though he may silently have hoped the pair would be friends one day, Giorno wasn’t going to make any assumptions. Besides, Mista was just as strong and trusting as he had been before, when they fought against Ghiaccio, or Cioccolata, or so many others in that whirlwind of battle. That devotion was something Giorno found himself drawn towards, drawn all the closer to Mista.
Maybe it had taken him this long, until his mind was finally cleared of the mafiosos matters for a moment to realize that the feelings he held for Mista weren’t entirely platonic in nature. Well….Giorno knew better than to act on any such whims, they’d pass in due time.
This time had been hard on Mista, there were so few words to described the carved-out emptiness he felt in his chest. There had been moments as he, Giorno, and Polnareff repaired Passione that he looked to his side to crack a joke to someone who was no longer there.
For Mista, Giorno seemed to be overworked and over-stressed. Though, perhaps it was always how the blonde was. Mista hadn’t know him, not really. Only those few days that went by in a blur and ended in a pile of familiar bodies higher than Mista had ever hoped to see.
And yet despite how much of a stranger Giorno felt sometimes, he was still a constant in the sharpshooter’s life. He remained sturdy by Mista’s side, his goals as clear as they had been they day they met, and his loyalty only grown stronger. He was there through Mista’s botched attempt at staying clearheaded and unemotional when he saw Fugo once more. He was there through ll of the moments when in meetings Bucciarati’s name was raised and Mista’s breath hitched in his throat as he tried not to think of his now long-dead friend.
Mista shouldn’t have been all that surprised, then, when Giorno offered him a high-ranking position by his side. “I trust you, really, more than anyone else,” he had said and those words flowed through Mista like the crashing of a wave at sunset.
“Then I’ll do it,” Mista cracked a small smile as he added on the new but unnecessarily formality, “Boss.”
He could swear Giorno laughed at that, barely audible, but there nevertheless. The gunman turned his head away before he could see the pink dusting on the Don’s cheeks.
The first formal meeting of new the Passione was now finished, after months of reorganizing people, reevaluating each gang’s place in the organization, and beginning to slow down the drug trafficking. There had been so much to discuss, enough that Mista had lost track of what the conversation was about, and Giorno had lost track of time.
By the time that the final Capo had left, after far too long spent kissing up to his new Boss and suggesting he should be promoted, Giorno found himself exhausted. He deflated into his leather chair with a loud sigh. It wasn’t often that he was one for dramatics, but now was one of those days.
“You’re telling me,” he heard Mista chuckle from somewhere behind him, the sound of clinking glass in between his words.
Giorno just nodded as he rubbed his eyes, willing himself to stay awake a bit longer, “If I had known becoming Don would mean entertaining their whims for hours on end just to keep the peace, I’d have reconsidered this role.”
Mista came into view now with two glasses of red wine in his hand. He raised an eyebrow and held one out, enough for Giorno to smile and take one.
“I think they’ve gotta be some kind of like desperate since I doubt that fucker,” Mista didn’t need to say who, the venom in his voice apparent, “Probably never even met any of them.”
“Oh he almost certainly didn’t, so now I’m burdened with repairing his wrongs once more,” Giorno spoke with equal bitterness as he sipped his wine. Diavolo had left much to undo, to fix, and while Giorno knew it was the responsibility he had been after, it didn’t make the long nights and early mornings any easier.
Mista leaned back against the edge of the table, responding with a non-committal, “Yeah,” as his eyes glazed over Giorno. The blonde look devastatingly beautiful like this, tired and somewhat pouting. In another world perhaps he would allow himself the indulgence to think of Giorno in that way, to see him as someone to woo and romance.
Not in this lifetime, though. No, he couldn’t dare cross that imagined line in the sand and fall into the realm of ‘what ifs’. It was too dangerous, too slippery a slope.
Giorno had felt the eyes on him, his own heartbeat order in his ears as he wondered, wondered what on earth Mista was thinking. Perhaps it was the now empty glass in his hands, the warmth spreading throughout his chest, that made Giorno bolder than he thought he would ever be with Mista.
Standing, he walked over to where Mista was leaning and placed his glass to the side, his other hand laying on top of Mista’s own. Meeting the gunman’s gaze, Giorno blinked as he tried to formulate what to say.
“You okay?” Mista asked, his other palm coming to rest on Giorno’s forehead, “Doesn’t feel like you have a fever.”
“I don’t,” Giorno confirmed, thought he knew now that his face was warm and red. “I just wanted to express my thanks, is all.”
He let his hand linger a moment longer on Mista’s before feeling the other’s hand turning beneath his touch, Mista’s hand now holding onto Giorno’s properly.
“Anytime, Boss,” Mista’s smile wasn’t as wide and bright as it usually was, it seemed more shy and wary than anything else. Giorno couldn’t help but wonder if he was worried about something….no, Mista would tell him if that were the case.
Giorno laughed at the nickname though, as he stopped looking at Mista once again, “I think I’m going to turn in for the night.”
It wasn’t an invitation, but if Mista were to interpret it as such, Giorno wouldn’t be opposed. The blonde knew he was toeing a very careful line, and still felt unsure as to whether Mista was aware of that fact.
Untangling their hands, Giorno began to leave the room, his ears perked to hear whether Mista was making any move to follow. As he closed the door, his heart sank realizing that no, Mista would not be coming.
It was alright, Giorno convinced himself, he would move on from this.
Back in the room, Mista sat with his mouth hung open. Had he been so obvious in his attraction to Giorno? Had Giorno always felt the same or was this some odd mind game?
And was that an invitation?
Instead of spending time combing through what happened, Mista chose to do what he did best.
He followed his heart out of the room and to the blonde that had always entranced him.