Chapter Text
If you ever asked Mista when the "weird shit" started happening, he'd probably mention the times with the organs, the hallucinations, the imaginary friend, the gold rat, the computer errors, Passione's sudden interest in DNA obtainment, or everything about Giorno's behavior change. If you knew him well enough (which, at this point nobody really did), he might've even mentioned his increasingly fucked-up dreams.
None of this was true, however, in two separate ways. For one, weird shit on an incomprehensible level was happening long before he was ever born.
For another, Mista's personal distress actually began earlier- the same day of the funerals.
The day itself wasn’t terribly unusual. For an April morning in the Neapolitan climate, the temperature was perfectly, exactly average. The weather was tolerable. The sun shining in from Mista’s apartment window didn’t help wake him up, however. The knocking did.
At the brink of consciousness, Mista was aware he’d overslept at least a little, it was all he’d been doing the past week as being asleep meant he felt a little less like shit. Though it wasn’t as late as he’d imagined.
The guests were.. really early, actually?
Oh right, he remembered, head still swimming. The new clothes. Trish’s gift.
Trish had first mentioned the gift when they were getting fitted for said clothes just a few days prior, right after she broke the news of going away.
“I’m gonna go live with my mom’s family really soon,” she admitted as they sat next to each other on a boutique couch, breaking from her typical irreverence. Giorno was getting measured by the tailor as she spoke. “They’re good people, I know them well, but because Mom trusted my father so much, I went to meet him first instead of going with them when she passed.”
She sighed, hating to admit all of this at once. “That.. was obviously a mistake.”
“Are you absolutely, one-hundred-thousand percent sure you’ll be safe with these people?” Mista asked after a few tense seconds, trying very hard to not sound worried. He failed.
Trish laughed humorlessly. “Unless my sweet old nonna and the manager I’ve known all my life are somehow conspiring against me, then yes, I’m ‘one-hundred-thousand-million’ percent sure.” She paused for a moment, rescinding her harsh tone. “Can I make something for you? Would that help?”
This was news to Mista. “Like what? You an artist?”
“ Performing artist, if that’s what you’re asking,” Trish joked. “But that’s not what I mean. When I get stressed or upset, I like to.. make stuff. I think I’m gonna be feeling a lot of that pretty soon. I used to knit on my off time between shows, but ever since I met Spice Girl, I’ve been thinking of how she can help me with something new. So, d’you wanna be my lab rat?”
Mista, though concerned with the phrase “lab rat”, agreed. It’s not like he wanted to refuse her, and all she needed from him was a handful of spare bullet shells (easy enough) and time. Now, days later, she and Giorno were at his door.
Mista found himself autonomously answering the knocks, thankfully dressed. He meant to say something- he really did- but instead of speaking he stared blankly at the visitors.
God damn the new clothes looked good.
Trish, standing in front, was easiest to notice. She wore a fitted velvet dress with many panels of fabric flowing around that transitioned from black to violet to a bright, sharp pink. Golden trim lined the ensemble.
Giorno’s outfit couldn’t be scoffed at, either. He wore a similarly velvet dark purple suit with an open chest- with what appeared to be hundreds of long leather strips (like fringe?) attached to the jacket. Gold trim adorned him, too.
The whole ensemble was so impressive, in fact, that Mista failed to notice they were staring at him, too.
“Mista! Your hair..!” Trish finally gasped. “I was in your body and I didn’t even know you had..”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mista sleepily retorted. The hair she was referring to was jet black like his eyes, came down past his shoulders, but most embarrassingly was tangled together from a restless night’s sleep. He could feel some of it stick to his face. This is exactly why he kept his hat on. “Don’t tease me. I haven’t gotten it cut in a while.”
“No, it’s incredible! When you get dressed, you have to let me do something with it! Won’t you let me? Pleeeeaaaase?” Trish pouted.
“Yeah, alright. Fine.” Mista sighed, but he couldn’t bring himself to say no. Even during a time of grief, she seemed to lighten the mood.
He nodded to the back. “Hey, Giorno.”
“Hi, Mista,” came the soft reply. “I brought you a card. I hope you like it.” Tact and quick as always, that one.
“Thanks,” Mista mumbled sleepily, opening the envelope. He stopped. “What.. on God’s green hell am I looking at?”
The card was.. probably placed in the wrong section of whatever store Giorno procured it from. On the front was an animal (presumably a small dog?) drawn in garish clothing and a wide-brimmed hat. Across the top, in big bold letters, was the word “Adios!”
“Do you like it?” Giorno asked, seemingly oblivious. “I found it cheerful. I like his little smile. I admit I don’t know what “adios” means, but it sounds similar enough to addio that I can only assume it means the same.”
Mista tried not to say anything rude. “It’s nice,” he finally settled. “I appreciate the small dog.”
“Excellent! I’m so glad,” came Giorno’s soft response, but Mista had already left the front door to go shower before he could hear it.
The shower was over in what felt like a blink, and the new outfit was on before Mista even knew what he was wearing. The top was easy enough to get on: black with open chest, shoulder support, and puffy sleeves of a different fabric. The pants, leather and fitted, also black. And of course, the gold designs everywhere . And although he desperately wanted to wear a hat, most at a funeral for any highly-respected Neapolitan would cut him a dirty glare for it. In replacement, Trish was hard at work above him forming a false-mohawk updo with a braid. He’d never put up with so much hairspray in his lungs (or on his head!), but if it cheered Trish up, he’d do it.
“All done,” she announced, after what felt like ages. “Ready for your gift?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”
To Mista’s surprise, the gift wasn’t something normal like flowers, cake, or even an “Adios!” sympathy card. When Trish sat in front of him and opened the package, it was.. nails. Shiny, brass fingernails, made of bullets, polished to a painful brightness. It made him feel.. confused?
What kind of gifts do these people think I need, anyways?
Before he could process the feeling, though, both Trish and Spice Girl were carefully fitting them to his hands with softness and precision. When they were hardened again, they were short and sharp and had a heaviness to them that actually felt.. pretty good.
“You bite your nails, Mista,” Trish finally spoke up, as her stand helped fit the last pinky nail. “I noticed it at the tailors, and when I was, well.. you. You’re horrible at hiding when you’re nervous. Maybe this’ll help.”
Mista examined his hands. The kindness and care put into these, the noticing , the careful application.. The more he looked, the more it grew on him. She was right. She was so right.
“Thank you, Trish. Honestly. You really are like my sister, now.”
For the first time in what felt like a good bit, Trish beamed. “I’m always gonna be with you, y’know. And so will these nails.” She then turned to Giorno, who had been spending this time distantly contemplating the clouds. “Now, boss, are we ready to head out?”
Mista had been crowded before. Central Naples was usually pretty packed, and when festivals came around, it was almost too thick to walk through. And yet, he never felt as crowded as he did at Bucciarati and Abbacchio’s funeral. He found himself surprised he made it out alive, and wouldn’t have remembered much of it at all had it not been for the constant questioning.
“Who’s the man being buried near Bucciarati?” A good friend of his that he didn’t want buried alone. They were close.
“The statues of the deceased are lovely, where are they from?” Commissioned from an artist friend of our organization. I can give you his number if you’d like.
“Are you accepting gifts?” Sure. Put ‘em on the table to the left.
And so on and so forth.
Making this even harder was Trish’s absence. Enemies of Passione could be in the impassable crowd, so Giorno thought it best she didn’t go to this one and instead met up later. She would’ve been better at public relations, though. Much better at acting elegant too.
The other notable thing from the world’s most crowded dead guy viewing was the flash of familiar blond hair between people. He tried to alert Giorno in case of potential aggression, but when he looked back at the spot, there was no one but a thousand faceless, unrecognizable citizens. Maybe he was just seeing things.
The scheduled, Passione-funded community lunch held afterwards was the perfect time for Giorno and Mista to bail to more sincere matters, distracting the civilians with local foods long enough to let them escape to a car out back. In Giorno’s arms were several bags of embellished gifts and letters, and both thanks to this and the last time they were in a car together, Mista elected to drive them to the next location. This was, of course, Narancia’s funeral.
Neither of them spoke the entire drive.
A flash of pink was there to greet the two when they arrived at the small Neapolitan church about twenty minutes later. Trish had been sitting around on the front steps counting cracks in the stone for the past half hour when they’d arrived. Her eyes were red, but she was smiling nonetheless.
She rushed up to greet them. “I’m assuming he’s inside, right?”
“Yep. Getting his beauty sleep,” Mista responded first.
“Not for long, though,” Giorno added, “We’re sending him to the crematorium in the evening.”
Trish tilted her head. “Why have a funeral here, then? It’s such a specific place to have entirely rented out the day before Easter..”
Mista and Giorno shared a glance, and the two beckoned her to come to the cemetery in the back. The third stone statue, positioned in a relaxed pose above a certain grave, was waiting for them when they arrived.
“It’s beautiful,” Trish gasped, tearful. And it was.
It was as if Narancia himself was looking right at them, doe-eyed, friendly, and smiling- in a good mood as if he’d had two tall glasses of orange juice for breakfast. His back was dotted with two small wings. The grave he appeared to be leaning on read “Mela Ghirga- living angel, gone too soon.” His mom.
The three stared at it silently for a while before Giorno cut the tension. “It needs just one more thing,” he said, more to himself than others, and called out Requiem.
Large, white flowers sprung forth all over the statue, holding on tight with vine-like stems and dark leaves. They formed at first open with a distinct trumpet shape before the petals transformed into pointier forms- and abruptly shut again. These looked very familiar.
“ Datura flowers. I protected Narancia’s body in Rome with the same kind. Beautiful, but extremely poisonous. They open at night. Datura of all kinds are usually controlled by law, but if it doesn’t look like one, it won’t be removed. I changed the form, but most know them by smell. Most will leave them be if they’re smart, anyways. In short- if anyone tries to touch him without us, through graverobbing, vandalism, or otherwise, they will run into the poisons. Terrible hallucinations are common.” There was a grim pause. “Overdose is fatal.”
“That’s brutal,” Mista muttered, “but if anyone tries to hurt him, I guess they deserve it.”
There was a flash of anger in Trish’s eyes against some potential future aggressor. “Agreed.”
She and Giorno turned to finally enter the church, but Mista’s eyes lingered on the statue, on the pretty white flowers, on Narancia’s forever-open eyes and soft, stone hands for just a little longer. In this form, he looked so.. alive.
He instinctively checked for the cocktail napkin in his pocket, and finally went inside.
A few months prior, Mista had interrupted one of Fugo’s tutoring sessions on an off day just to have something to do. When no one paid him any mind, however, he knew he needed to pull out the big guns. Narancia’s attention could never resist an interesting hypothetical.
“Hey, when you guys finally kick it, what’s the funeral gonna be like?”
Fugo looked up in annoyance. “Seriously, Mista, we’re trying to-”
“I was thinking when I die in some valiant battle, I’ll have a fireworks show, a solid gold coffin, and Clint Eastwood will give the eulogy. Every hot girl I’ve been with for miles. I’ll bet on it, too.”
“You kiddin’ me, man? That’s ridiculous!” a voice shot out. There’s Narancia. The bait worked perfectly. “Funerals are scams, bro. Rougher than any shit we do on the daily. Listen, I may hate my sperm-donor shitass of a dad, but when my mom died, they wringed him dry.”
“ Wrung him dry,” Fugo cut in.
“Yeah, whatever. What I mean’s that when I die in some blaze of glory, I ain’t having anyone spend a bit more than they gotta. I don’t care how. Hell, burn me up! I hate it when people are all like ‘God won’t like ya if you’re ashes’, but it’s cheap and I don’t care much if God likes me or not! And I don’t care if I’m loaded when I pass, yeah? I don’t care if I’m a member of the Beatle Boys or I’m ‘Stone Cold Steve Jobs’ or any of ‘em. Put me in some fuckin’ wood and leave it. All I care about is that ya don’t eat the ashes or nothing, it’s a shit seasoning. Just use salt.”
He was fully on his soapbox now, wild as it may be. “Oi, Mista!”
“Yeah, man?”
Narancia had already been up for a bit, but he’d rushed over to the side of the table with the nearest cocktail napkin his eyes locked on to. “Here. Get this down for me ‘case I don’t get to it.”
“Just so you know,” Fugo added, “I don’t think a napkin can legally count as-”
“Shut your face, college boy,” Nara snapped. “I’ll do the fancy law shit later.”
Mista brought it on, what was he gonna do, say no? He clicked the pen at Fugo’s side before he could protest and took down Nara’s rant.
He enjoyed listening to him anyways.
Mista had finished his reading of the makeshift “will” at the front of the church, next to a simple wooden coffin. Narancia laid inside of it, and if close attention wasn’t paid, it would seem all he was doing was having a restful night’s sleep. Mista took a lot of care to not pay close attention.
He came to after a few minutes, seemingly missing the gap of time in which he gave a eulogy. He worried for a moment that King Crimson had somehow returned for him, but he was safe, and so were his friends. The expressions on the funeral audience of two gave away how much they weren’t expecting the reading of a napkin-based will, but the suddenness of everything meant there wasn’t really anything else.
After a moment of blank staring, Mista finally noticed- Trish and Giorno’s eyes were both newly red, as if they’d cried openly during this gap. He felt something roll down his cheek. He’d been crying too.
“That was.. actually pretty sweet,” Trish admitted after a moment. “I didn’t know you had that in you.” She wiped away a stray tear with the palm of her hand while Giorno nodded solemnly in agreement.
What’s sweet? What happened?
But before he could open his mouth to ask, the moment was gone, and the three of them were surrounding Narancia’s resting body. Trish was mournfully petting his hair. There was a 500 lire piece placed lovingly on each of his eyes.
That’s not right, Mista caught himself thinking. Two’s half of four. He deserves better.
He reached his hand in his pocket ( was this where the coins came from? ) and placed a third, identical piece on the forehead. In case the ferryman’s stingy today. Dead kids deserve good luck too.
“D’you think the River Styx still takes lire, or have they switched to the euro by now?” a voice to his right seemingly joked. Giorno.
Mista felt himself reply. “They better, it’s all I got on me. If they don’t , though, he’ll at least have something to play with. Win-win.”
There was a tense pause, as if Giorno wanted to give some word of sympathy, but couldn’t say it.
“It’s up to you when you want to go ahead with the proceedings, Mista. Take whatever time you need, you are the closest thing we have to ‘next of kin’ in this situation,” he added, clasping a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. The recipient quietly shrugged it off. “I’ll be alright with what I have, Boss. Do whatever you want.”
The gesture was not lost on Giorno. He put his hand back at his side.
“I’ll give you the ashes when we go to the house,” he added, and headed towards the doors.
Giorno’s voice appeared behind Mista again, further and further away, into the end of a small cell phone. “Sorry to interrupt. Yes, it’s me. We’re ready to go ahead with the cremation, we’re at- yes, I can hold.” Trish led him by the arm as he conducted business, ensuring he wouldn’t trip on the way out. Only Mista remained in the church.
He lingered around the casket, and finally paid close attention.
Good god, that’s him in there. That’s really him! Not sleeping, not dreaming. Dead brain. Empty lungs. Just like Bucciarati. Just like Abbacchio.
The stained glass spun around him. He hated every bit of it.
Just like Bucciarati. Just like Abbacchio. He saw all three of them in pools of blood. Full of holes. Dead Dead Dead Dead .
This can’t be real. There’s no way this could be real. Nara’s gonna pop up from behind a pew or something and tell me this was all just a joke! He has to! This can’t be all there is. Can’t be.
It’s not all there is, a voice in his head lied, and for a second he lived in that fantasy. He took Narancia’s cold hand limp in the casket and gave it a tight squeeze.
“Have a safe flight,” he whispered.
There was a long stretch of silence before he got a response.
“ Seriously? A lame airplane pun for your dead buddy? That really the best you got?”
Mista let himself pretend to see Narancia standing there, beside him. He shrugged. “Hey now. The real you woulda liked it. The imaginary you is sort of a dick, though.”
“Maybe you need someone to give you shit. Who d’ya got now? Trish? She’s leaving you. You got your new boss, but admit it- after the Bucciarati thing, you don’t trust him.”
“So what if you’re right?” Mista scoffed. “Still rude.”
The image cut him a dark look, one he’d only seen on the real thing once. “Do you honestly think you don’t deserve it?”
The vision grabbed his hands forcibly before dissolving, leaving viscous red liquid running down his fingers. Despite his best efforts, it refused to come off.
Mista suddenly felt ill. In a daze, he staggered out the church’s front doors and collapsed on the nearest stair as sunlight glinted off of his brass nails. It shone in his eyes.
He blinked a few times. He took a few deep breaths. It was just him alone, hands clean and dry.
He swore to himself he’d talk to someone about this later.
The sun was setting on the three of them by the time they reconvened.
“So, this is your place now, huh?”
“Legally, at least,” Giorno confirmed. The place in question was the former home of Bruno Bucciarati- a modest house hidden outside of town, built to hold a handful of occupants. At this moment, however, it only held stagnant air.
“It’s definitely Bucciarati’s. I’ve only visited, though. Didn’t live here like damn near everybody else,” Mista commented, sizing up the building.
“I’ve heard,” Trish replied, “All belongings should be here. Thank whatever god is real for public auctions and Passione’s influence.”
Though none of them mentioned names, they all knew the reality of the group’s former living situation. Fugo was merely thirteen when he joined and had nowhere to live, so he ended up staying in a guestroom of Bucciarati’s. When days turned into months, Bucciarati didn’t mention it as long as bills got paid. Despite claims that he “wouldn’t do that again”, Narancia ended up being similar. Abbacchio, though hesitant and prickly about “needing help” despite staying in motels on and off, was convinced to join the household before his pay came in- and eventually stayed too. Mista couldn’t fathom how well that could possibly go, having all of them under the same roof, but he’d heard talk of them having dinner and watching talk shows together, and wondered if it was all to feel like some kind of a weird, fucked-up family. Despite everything, he couldn’t blame them for that.
After some time, the living trio came together around the downstairs dinner table to reveal what they’d found so far. Mista had been instinctively protecting a little wooden box despite the lack of obvious danger, and if he couldn’t relax here, he could at least set it down.
“I think I found Fugo’s room,” Giorno started. “There’s one that’s been picked entirely clean, almost as if no living soul ever entered. I can only assume that’s his.”
Trish averted her eyes. Mista muttered something rude under his breath.
“I know which room is Narancia’s,” Mista confessed, “But I couldn’t get through the door.” He paused awkwardly. “Everything’s set up like he never left, and it creeps me out.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll look at it later,” Giorno assured him, but it didn’t seem to help. He turned his attention elsewhere. “Find anything, Trish?”
“I got to Bucciarati and Abbacchio’s room for a few minutes. Found some important papers we should look through later. I’d probably hire legal help for that one, though.”
“Room.. singular? Did Bucciarati not have enough rooms?” Mista asked.
“Guess not,” Trish muttered. “Didn’t have enough beds either.”
“Strange. They must’ve gotten along pretty well, then,” Giorno thought out loud. “Think they were friends off the job?”
Trish pressed a hand to her temple and held her tongue. “It.. really doesn’t matter. Either way, I hope the two of them are doing well together, wherever they are.”
“I can drink to that,” Mista affirmed. He hoisted up a half-empty bottle of red wine. “Found this in the kitchen. Do you kids wanna do a toast?”
They agreed, but Mista was already pouring three small glasses before anyone said anything. Each took one, and all stared at each other silently waiting for someone to speak first.
Trish broke the silence. “I’m sorry you had to save me.”
Giorno went next. “I’m sorry I let this happen.”
“I’m sorry it turned out this way,” Mista finished.
“To Bruno.”
“To Leone.”
“To Narancia.”
They all took a drink, but Trish and Giorno stopped midway, sputtering all the while.
“People drink this for fun? You have to be kidding me,” Trish whined, sticking her tongue out. Giorno looked highly dissatisfied but not surprised. “I wish it weren’t true, but it is.”
“Y’all are babies,” Mista taunted, drinking the rest of the glass. The others offered what they had left to him, and he drank those too. “It’s not that bad when you get used to it, you know.”
Not long after, they’d ordered a takeout dinner to get the bitter taste out of their mouths. While the three of them sat around the table taking pieces of the appetizer bread loaf, Trish made her request.
“Today’s been a lot harder than I want to say,” she admitted, nervously turning her piece around in her hands. “Is it alright for everyone to stay over tonight and leave in the morning?”
Giorno and Mista glanced at each other, waiting for their own response. What harm would it cause to be there for a friend? They’d all been through a lot, sticking around for a night was the least they could do.
Through mouthfuls of fresh bread, they agreed .
It was the dead quiet, inky black middle of the night when Giorno was woken up. Trish and Mista remained sleeping soundly on a living room couch, having talked each other to sleep over favorite romance tropes and general Passione gossip. Even now, they remained undisturbed.
Gold Experience Requiem was leering over Giorno’s sleeping form.
“Sorry to wake you,” it said, with a calm quiet voice similar to Giorno’s own. It was eerie. “I’ve detected human life in the house.”
Giorno blinked. “Us?”
“I’m afraid not. There’s a signature coming from one of the rooms.”
“Potential intruder, then?”
It had just then occurred to Giorno that intruders would be a possibility. Bucciarati’s house would be vulnerable and well-known now to petty thieves, considering the overwhelming crowd who now knew he was dead. Word got around quickly. He kicked himself for being negligent about that, and hoped as earnestly as possible that whoever was here to take valuables at least didn’t have a stand.
Requiem was silent for a moment. “I think it’s best if you come with me.”
Giorno wasn’t going to say no to himself. He followed quietly and cautiously where his stand led, finally cracking open a door he hadn’t been through yet. The groan of the hinges was much too loud for comfort.
Requiem was right. In the messy, well-lived-in bedroom on the other side, there was someone there.
It had just neglected to tell him who .
“Giorno..? Is that you?”
Oh shit it speaks. He speaks. The ghastly pale visage looked up from the foot of the bed with wide, shocked eyes. Moonlight glinted off of what was once messy black hair. They stared in shock at each other.
The figure rushed up, placing nonexistent hands on Giorno’s shoulders, and pulled him into something resembling a hug. “It is you,” the specter laughed. “Really, really you! I hoped I’d run into you eventually, it’s been too long since I got to see anyone living..”
Giorno finally found himself able to make sounds again. “N- Narancia?”
“Of course, idiot; You were in my own body and you can’t even recognize me?” Narancia smiled, once again holding him by the shoulders the best that a spirit could. He took a deep, unnecessary breath, his expression turning serious.
“Giorno, it’s a weird time to ask, I know, but.. I need your help.”
Mista awoke in the inky black middle of the night by Giorno shambling into the living room. Trish snored away on his shoulder. His boss was obviously shaken by something, but he figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask about it.
“Feeling alright, Giorno?”
Giorno jumped at the sudden mention of his name in the dark. He blinked a few times.
“Oh. It’s just you, Mista. Yeah, it’s nothing. I went out for some fresh air.”
“Thought I heard voices a bit ago, know anything about that?”
Giorno shook his head a little too quickly, his voice tinged with an unnerving calmness. “Don’t worry about it, you must’ve been dreaming. The night’s been hard on all of us.”
Mista was much too tired to think about that response, and let himself fall back asleep. As soon as his eyes were shut, though, Giorno dropped down on the nearest chair and buried his face in his hands.
For once in his life, he may have promised something he couldn’t give.