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Guido Mista sighs.
“Do you think you can like, enforce your supremo Don status and have us skip the line?” Mista asks, quite seriously, and gestures to the thrall of bodies before them. The sun beats down on them and the heat soaks into his beanie, cooking his brain.
If he doesn’t get ice cream soon, he might literally melt. He will be brain dead and then who will protect the Boss!?
Giorno doesn’t entertain him. He stares straight ahead, his black-tinted Windsor glasses rendering him unreadable. “That’s not how that works.”
“Yes, it is!” Mista fights back. “You used it back at the Prada store!”
“You’re comparing apples to oranges, Mista. I didn’t enforce anything, they just recognized me and allowed me to check out first. This vendor doesn’t recognize me nor does he care about me.”
Mista scoffs. “Well, I think we should change that.”
Giorno slips off his glasses and swipes at the sweat gathering around his nose bridge. The flick of sunshine on the gold rims of his glasses briefly blinds Mista despite wearing shades of his own.
After a lengthy pause, he replies, “No.”
“Whatever.”
A devious smirk appears on his Boss’ face. “You’ve been immature and haughty lately. Did you reach your second puberty?”
It’s the sun that’s reddening his cheeks, yes, for sure. “You’re younger than me, Boss. I could ask you the same— especially after that growth spurt.”
The little ‘Oh?’ Giorno says has an edge to it; the kind of sharpness that warns Mista he’s crossing into territory he shouldn’t be. It also has the playfulness of a man who is obviously still in his 20’s and likes to play games with his pets, or toys , Mista should say. He’s not a partner, a best friend, rather he’s a toy made for a purpose: Giorno’s purpose. He doesn’t mind, not one bit. Because frankly, he doesn’t want a high status, he doesn’t need the power and influence of being the Boss’ right hand man— although, he’s quite useful with his right hand. . .
He glances at Giorno from the corner of his shades. He refuses to take back his comment! It’s true about that second puberty— that Giorno’s blond hair is now reminiscent of pure golden silk, brighter and shinier than it’s ever been. It doesn't help that he's allowed it to reach his lower back, like a modern day Rapunzel. He has a shimmering in his eyes that wasn’t there before, and at times he swears his eyes nearly glow in the dark. It has to be some kind of aura, maybe from Gold Experience Requiem, or something. Mista doesn’t like to think so hard, but it’s difficult not to think about how gorgeous he is.
“The line is moving, Mista, c’mon.” Giorno admonishes sweetly, tugging at his arm. “You want gelato, don’t you?”
Mista nods and lets him tug along.
“Are you burning up? You look a bit feverish.” Giorno attempts to place the back of his hand on Mista’s forehead but he cuts him off.
“No, no, I mean, yeah it’s hot as Hell today! I’m not feverish, I just need to cool down.” Now he’s feeling feverish. God, he really is like a boy going through puberty. He’s blushing, sweaty, butterflies in his stomach— you know, he has a running conspiracy theory that Giorno poisons his food with his Stand and actually causes bugs to flutter about his gut. That’s the only explanation why years later he still acts like a schoolboy!
“Oh, poor, poor Mista,” Giorno coos, the smart-ass, and relieves Mista’s blush with the chilly sensation of his hand.
Has he mentioned his Boss has the body temperature of a cadaver? And man, it feels amazing .
Giorno’s fingers idly brush at the coils of ebony hair peeking out from under Mista’s beanie. “You need a haircut.”
“I thought you liked my long hair?”
“I do, but you don’t.”
Mista shrugs. “If you like it long, I won’t cut it.”
Giorno smiles and twirls a tiny curl around his finger, then releases it. “What a good boy you are. At least, for now.”
He returns the smile. “For now.”
“Next!” The vendor shouts.
There’s a growing line behind them filled with yapping children, teenagers fanning themselves, and adults checking out their phones. The two men stand up to the counter, and Mista stifles a laugh at Giorno leaning onto the glass like one of the excited kids behind them would. His jade eyes scan the menu as if he didn’t already have a choice in mind. In fact, he picks the same flavor every time.
“I’ll have a couple scoops of pistachio, and,” he trails off, “. . . A scoop of mint.”
“Mint!?” Mista groans. “Are you having a heat stroke?”
Giorno barely replies, being unperturbed by his friend’s reaction. “I wanted to try something new. I’ve yet to have mint with pistachio. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever had mint flavored gelato.”
Mounds of green are piled into a cup and given to Giorno. With urgency, the vendor gestures to Mista. “What are you havin’?”
Mista opens his mouth and only a second passes by until the vendor is hurrying him again. Rolling his eyes, whether the vendor catches him or not, Mista points out his choice. “Tiramisu. Just tiramisu.”
He’s about to be handed his dessert when Giorno suddenly adds, “One more scoop, please.”
It’s a usual routine. Not that Mista isn’t swooning from his thoughtfulness, but it’s been a recurring accommodation ever since he joined Passione. Bucciarati— God rest his soul, has babied him despite his nonsensical superstitions, and Giorno has done the same. It’s become a habit, done without another thought in the same way that they scan crowds, taped to each other’s backs and searching for any threat possible.
Mista never thought he’d be the ‘I’ll give my life for you’ kind of man— that’s so cheesy, it’s so. . . uncool . Who wants to die? Who wants to rot in the ground or sink in the ocean just for someone else to live?
Well.
Mista grabs his share of gelato and walks away from the vendor, shoulder to shoulder with his Boss.
A lot of things change, and as he sneaks another glance at Giorno, oddly innocent in how he scoops up his dessert and licks it, he knows now he’d gladly take any bullet to every part of his body if it meant allowing him to live.
“I don’t like that expression you’re wearing, Mista,” Giorno remarks. “You’re thinking too much.”
“Thinking too much? What, am I supposed to be full of hot air instead?”
“Yes.”
Mista barks a laugh. “Okay, okay, sure.”
“You looked concerned. There’s no threat around us right now. There’s no need to have this stiffness about you.”
He’s right; there’s no immediate threat. At the most, there’s been a few girls ogling them which is totally expected—
“I WANT A BITE! MISTA!”
“MISTA! DID YOU GET CHOCOLATE?”
“I WANT PISTACHIO! GIO, GIMME YOURS!”
“JUST ONE BITE!”
Mista swats at the tiny Sex Pistols floating around his head like the most obnoxious fairies that could possibly exist. “Hey! You have to ask politely! What happened to saying please? ”
Yet, his Boss rescinds Mista’s discipline and happily allows Number Two and Number Three a taste of his gelato. The yellow “fairies” prance on the pastel green snow, even making snowballs and hitting each other, mostly Number Five. Mista watches this spectacle with a gaped mouth and soon shakes his head.
“It’s like having toddlers; tiny, flying toddlers.”
Giorno snorts, and here returns that pretty smile of his. “You might want to tell your toddlers to slow down— your tiramisu is almost gone.”
“What!?”
Mista pokes Number Six off his mountains of gelato. “Stop! I haven’t had any yet!” How can something so small eat so much!?
“Mista’s been working diligently, Sex Pistols,” his calm, soothing voice is enough to placate them, and they all step off the desserts, politely bowing to him as Giorno feeds Mista his tiramisu gelato. “He deserves to have a treat.”
“YEAH! MISTA DESERVES IT!”
“MISTA IS SO COOL!”
Humiliated, Mista stammers, “It’s really not a big deal.” Goddamn, it’s been way too long since he’s had gelato.
“MISTA ONLY WORKS SO HARD ‘CAUSE HE LIKES YA!”
“MISTA LOVES GIOGIO! HE SAID SO!” Number One ‘whispers’ to Giorno, as if its’ screeching tone can’t be heard by its’ User right next to him. Those words being uttered—!
All the humidity and sunlight in the world couldn’t stop the icy shiver down his spine. And of course, there go the swarms of moths and butterflies and centipedes all around his gut, tickling his skin and gnawing at his tissues. When he wanted to recite those words, that exclamation of pure adoration, Mista was hoping to do so while entangled in satin sheets and Giorno’s limbs.
Or, if he was truly cool, he would do it as a dying breath. . . his blood splattered on Giorno’s cheek, and he reached up to wipe it away, using his last bit of oxygen to proclaim his eternal love. . .
Instead, the feelings for his Boss are being shouted at the top of his Stand’s lungs, while pistachio gelato is smeared on Giorno’s lips.
Giorno slips off his shades and folds them into his pocket, a mischievous glint now visible in his eyes. “How sweet. You want to hear a secret, Number One?”
Giorno covers his mouth with his hand and ‘whispers’ back to Number One, causing Mista to break the two up. The damage has already been done, evident by the red tint on Number One’s body. Since when could Stands blush? Well, the same way Number Five can cry; which, by the way, it’s still doing.
“GIOGIO LOVES MISTA! YAY!”
“I HEARD IT TOO! I HEARD IT TOO!”
Number Five is now crying because of a different reason. “GIO LOOOOVES MISTA!”
His adorable fairies sprint around the air, cheering for this wonderful outcome. Meanwhile, Mista stands still like a rock, flabbergasted.
As harmless as a ladybug, as if he didn’t turn Mista’s whole world upside down, he pats Mista’s arm. “Your tiramisu is melting. You didn’t get much of it. Do you want some of mine? You like pistachio, don’t you?”
Mista is suffocating , and right when he needs it most, Giorno kisses him and fills his body with vitality. He’s renewed from head to toe; his blood is clean, and his brain is cleared of any foggy thoughts or disruptive emotions. His tongue is graced with a minty, nutty flavor, topped off with a hint of strawberry lip balm.
His Boss pulls away first, licking his lips. Lovestruck, Mista robotically swipes at the corner of his mouth, his attention fixated on the apple of his eye.
“Did you like it?”
Mista nods. He’s too old to be like this, but what’s wrong with puppy love , honestly?
“I did.”
Giorno beams, and entwines his fingers with Mista’s. “We can share mine.”
Conjoined at the hip, the two gangsters share now-soupy pistachio and mint gelato, basking in the day-to-day lives of fellow Napolitanos. All while their love’s soundtrack rings loud with the applause of the Sex Pistols.