Senza Fine, parts V-VII
Mar. 12th, 2007 10:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
petronia[ Parts I-IV. ]
V.
That was Giorno too. It wasn't even the first time. Sometimes it seemed like he meant something by it, sometimes it didn't. There wasn't always rhyme or reason to him that Mista could follow, but he did. Follow, anyway.
The first time—
***
He'd hit Giorno. He didn't remember doing it, per se; when he forced himself to think about that day his mind flinched away from those few, brief seconds, as if skirting the edge of an open wound. But he had been angry, and afterward there had been a bruise on Giorno's cheekbone that Diavolo hadn't put there.
It was a sound that brought him back to himself, though he couldn't have said afterward what it was. When he turned he saw Trish kneeling by Buccellati's side. She was as white as a sheet, and he saw she was crying, or rather that tears were running down her face. But her eyes were wide open, and she made no move to wipe them away.
Buccellati's eyes were closed, his expression peaceful. As Mista watched Trish reached out, shakily – to touch his face, his hair – but her hand shrank back before it made contact, as if she were afraid of waking him. Finally she lifted his hand from where it lay on the ground and held it between her own.
All the time the tears, unnoticed.
The anger drained out of Mista. He released his grip on the front of Giorno's jacket, feeling a stab of shame as he did so. His fingers were clenched stiff. Giorno took a step backward, stopped, and said nothing.
Trish hadn't moved. Mista bent down and took her by the shoulders. "It's okay," he said, not believing it. "It's okay. He did what he had to."
She shook her head. In protest, Mista assumed, then realised she was gazing up at Giorno.
"We have to go," Giorno said.
"Don't leave him here," said Trish. "Please."
Giorno was silent, looking down at them. His clothes were in disarray from the fighting, and his hair had come loose, aureoling his face and shoulders. Mista had the sudden wild thought that here was an angel, a visitation, come to take Buccellati and the others to Heaven – perhaps himself and Trish as well.
In the distance sirens began to sound.
"All right," said Giorno, finally. He knelt beside them and took Buccellati's hand. Mista put his arms around Trish, half expecting to be pushed away, but she allowed the awkward gesture of comfort. After a few seconds she began to shake.
For what seemed like an eternity Giorno did nothing, only gazed at Buccellati's face as if memorizing his features. Then he bowed his head.
It happened all at once: a soundless explosion. Trish gave a cry of surprise and threw up her arms, but there was no impact. Only the weightless beating of a hundred, a thousand silken wings filling the air, brushing Mista's skin in passage, obscuring sight: disjunctive ether, breath itself made visible. White and black on white. Then they were gone, and there was nothing left.
***
When he blinked back to wakefulness Trish was still asleep, tipped sideways on the sofa with her feet up on the cushions and her head propped against his shoulder. His arm was asleep as well. In fact it had attained the point where numb shaded into excruciating. He winced and tried to shift it from under Trish's weight.
The lighting was dialed low. It was difficult to tell from inside the turtle, but he thought night had fallen.
"How are you feeling?" said a voice that was pitched not to startle. Mista turned his head and saw Polnareff sitting near the sideboard, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. The chair was an armless, fluted Louis XVI number that looked as if it might tip under his weight, though Mista supposed that much was illusion.
"It's been better," he said, and pondered the nuances of said statement as he continued to wiggle his deadened arm out from under Trish. "...It's been worse."
Polnareff smiled at that, briefly. The lamp was right by his head, and when he shifted Mista could see the outline of the chair through his torso and legs.
And legs...?
Mista wondered vaguely why he wasn't more freaked out. Probably the preceding twenty-four hours had exceeded his quota. He maneuvred Trish into a more comfortable sleeping position on the sofa, got up, and went to get a blanket from the sideboard.
"Giorno said to tell you he took care of things," said Polnareff. "With regard to Narancia and... Abbacchio, was it? He found where they brought him, with the laptop. We'll rest up for a day or two and go on from there."
"Yeah, okay," said Mista. Then, "Fuck. Fuck, I guess I'm the lucky one. Isn't that hilarious. Guess this is what it's like to win the fucking lottery."
"I hear you," said Polnareff. Mista turned around.
"You look a lot younger," he said. "...Sir. If you don't mind me saying."
"Appearances are fluid in my condition," Polnareff said, drily. "You remind me of what it's like, to be young. There was a time I stared unimaginable evil in the face and knew what the task was... You don't ask for it to find you, but you do what's right and pay the price. Then you watch others pay. I have old friends I wouldn't mind catching up with once I'm done here."
Mista thought about it. "So what comes after?"
"The work is never done," said Polnareff. "He's going to need your help."
***
Mista stepped out of the turtle into a darkened, pristinely empty hotel room. It took him a few seconds to realise the bedroom was part of an entire suite.
The lights were off in the sitting room as well, but the illumination from the Piazza Barberini afforded more than enough visibility. They were only on the fifth floor, but nightfall and intervening glass decreased the traffic noise to an ambient murmur, like that of a calm sea.
The view was something out of fairytale.
Giorno was standing near the window, gazing out. He'd bathed, Mista noted: his hair hung loose and shining down the back of his hotel-issue bathrobe, still too damp to do more than curl at the ends. His feet were bare. He looked even younger than his chronological age – in itself a matter of little relevance to Mista, outside of moments like these.
He didn't move when Mista padded up behind him, though he must have been aware of the approach.
"Hey," Mista said, "you should go to bed. Get some sleep."
"I don't think I'd be able," said Giorno.
They spoke in low voices, as if conversation were liable to create a disturbance.
Mista didn't bother to press the point. He leant against the window frame and watched Giorno watch Rome. The city where all roads led, nexus of fates...
It occurred to him that he still didn't understand what had happened. Blows had landed before his eyes but the unveiled nature of that power had been beyond mortal comprehension, beyond his ability even to bear witness. As such he didn't know how he remained among the living, or to what he was now companion. In the eyes of a fellow god or demon the form that stood there would surely have encompassed more than the slender body, the pale skin and golden hair. They would have averted their gaze, or fallen on their face in awe.
There was still a bruise on Giorno's cheekbone. Mista reached out and ran his thumb over it, lightly.
"Sorry about that," he said.
Giorno looked at him. Then he turned his head a little, so his lips brushed against Mista's fingers. That was enough.
When their mouths met Mista stopped thinking. It was like the release of a tightly wound spring, the tension of which he had barely been cognizant. He reached for the belt of Giorno's robe, and Giorno didn't shy away. He backed Mista up against the window and wound his arms around Mista's neck, fingers digging into the muscles of Mista's shoulders with a strength approaching desperation. As if he, too, were glad to be alive.
Sensation was heightened, dreamlike. They ended up on the floor, fumbling in haste, only half undressed – staccato breathing and sweat, the robe pooling around Giorno's forearms and under his thighs. Too abrupt for elegance or even practicality. Then Giorno pushed Mista away and got to his knees in front of the sofa. His hair spread like silk over the cushions when he laid his head down; he arched his back and held Mista's gaze, running the tip of his tongue over his lips. Mista slid a hand between his legs and he sighed, his eyes sliding closed.
When he came he made a sound like a breath caught in his throat – he'd been quiet the entire time, eerily so. It sounded so lost that Mista put his hand over Giorno's and locked their fingers together, and let Giorno leave nail marks on his skin that were still visible the next day.
VI.
"No wonder you wear turtlenecks all the time," said Trish. "You look like a vampire attacked you in a dark alley. ...Do I hear Duran Duran?"
Nothing within reach would have preserved his modesty, short of snatching the sheets off the bed, so Mista didn't bother. He figured she was lucky he had clean boxers on. "Do you have to barge in like this?"
"It's 11AM, I thought you'd be up already. And dressed."
"Yeah, well, it's been a—"
"I gathered," said Trish primly. Having inspected the CD player she crossed Mista's room to the window and drew the curtains back with a clatter. Late-morning sunlight flooded in. "You have the day off, don't you?"
Mista nodded warily. Trish turned, hands clasped behind her back like a child reciting from memory. Her expression was disturbingly cheerful.
"Let's go out for lunch," she said. "I have matinée tickets to Bridget Jones' Diary."
***
He drove Trish into town; they had lunch and caught the movie. Mista sensed she was working up to tell him something, which was worrisome. In the usual order of things Trish didn't need working up to speak her piece, least of all to him.
They were having coffee afterward when Trish took a call. She said "Pronto," into the handset, then "Yes, it's me," then there was a minute or so during which the other person on the line talked volubly and Trish listened. At length she rummaged in her purse, retrieved a small notebook and pen and took down an address.
"Yes, I understand," she said. "I'll be there. Eight o' clock sharp, yes. Thank you." She closed the phone, placed it on the table before her, and looked at Mista expectantly.
Mista gave his coffee a final stir and dropped the spoon.
"Okay, I bite," he said. "Who was that?"
"My agency," said Trish. "I have a job tomorrow morning. But don't worry, I'll get the regular driver to take me."
"Doing what?"
"Modelling."
"...What?"
"Photo shoots, mostly," Trish said in patient tones. "For ad campaigns. I've done some casting for magazines, and I'm signed up for a small runway show that's happening in—"
"No, whoa, back up. How long have you been doing this?"
"About a month and a half. Since we moved here." Trish took a sip of coffee. "It started out as a coincidence, really. I was trying on an outfit in the D&G flagship store and this photographer came up to me, he said he was doing a feature on—"
"And you went along with it? What if he'd drugged and kidnapped you and sold you off to some brothel or white slavery ring or something?"
Trish rolled her eyes. "Run by whom? Giorno Giovanna's subordinates' subordinates?"
Mista leant back in his chair and rubbed the back of his neck.
"Did you tell Giorno?"
"No." Trish looked down at her hands, then back up. "But I assume he knows."
"Sheesh," said Mista. "Well. Okay, then. Congratulations, I hear the money is super. ...No?"
Trish had that wry look. "I'll have to get my own place," she said.
Mista sat up.
"Or at least I won't be around. I'll be travelling a lot... I think. If things go the way they have." She steepled her fingertips and tapped them against her lips.
There was a pause.
"Look," Mista said finally, "what are you worried about? Giorno won't have a problem with it. He's not that kind of person."
"I know," said Trish. "But that's why you'll have to take care of him."
She was perfectly serious. Mista opened his mouth and closed it again.
"Between you and me," he said, "He doesn't need the extra protection. That's not why I'm there. It's more that he's too important to go around alone all the time."
"That's what I said," said Trish.
"Um, that's not what I heard you—"
"Think about it," said Trish. "He has all his friends living with him in the same house now, doesn't he? Just like a real family, only without any parents. He has a mom and stepdad but they sound like pieces of work. I don't think they'd care enough to attend his funeral."
Mista had been in and out of foster homes and orphanages since the age of three; he hoped his mother was in Heaven, God rest her poor soul, but going by hearsay the chances were slim. "He told you this?"
"Some of it." Another sip of coffee. "He found out about his real father, he said. Apparently Polnareff used to know him."
"He never tells me these things," said Mista.
But the pieces were beginning to fit together at the edges.
"I asked Polnareff and he said it was too complicated and anyway it wasn't for him to talk about, it was for Giorno when he felt like it. So he might have real family after all. But it's not the same thing, it can't be." Trish set her cup down. "He doesn't know them. And home isn't a house, you know. Home is people. Everyone needs a home."
Mista thought of Buccellati, and Giorno, and the one-room apartment he hadn't seen for months but that still held half of his stuff, and Narancia and Abbacchio and Fugo, and his faceless mother, and Buccellati again. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I guess."
"If I wanted to leave," said Trish, "Giorno would let me. He wouldn't mind as long as it made me happy. But not you. He wouldn't let you go."
VII.
The next morning Trish left before breakfast. Giorno thoughtfully let Mista put away two cappuccinos and a chocolate croissant before he said, "I found Fugo."
Mista had just grabbed another pastry and was about to take a bite. He paused and set it back down carefully on his plate. "...How's he doing?"
"Fine," said Giorno. "Or at least I assume."
Mista waited, but Giorno did not volunteer further information. Mista sighed and dropped his napkin on the table. "All in good time, huh, Boss? Give me warning when you actually need me to do something."
Giorno smiled at that; a small, secretive smile. "I need you here this afternoon," he said. "We're receiving visitors."
"Oh yeah? Who is it this time, Venti's crew? Cacciatore again?"
"Representatives from Speedwagon Corporation," said Giorno, "of New York, Dallas and Tokyo. From one of the company's affiliated philanthropic foundations, to be precise."
"Big oil," said Mista. "Oh boy."
"Mista," Giorno began, then paused. He looked Mista down and – very slowly and deliberately – up, gaze sweeping over Mista's body like an airport x-ray machine. When he met Mista's eyes again he was biting his lower lip in a thoughtful manner.
Mista's ears felt hot. He was glad his hat hid them from view.
"...Boss?"
"Go put on a suit," said Giorno.
***
Mista owned three suits: an ill-fitting, second-hand one that had seen service on rarissime occasions in Buccellati's day, and two – far more expensive – that had been picked out by Trish, in accordance with her usual exalted standards. She had assured him the next step would be bespoke tailoring, but this was the first time post-Giorno he'd actually been required to step up his wardrobe.
He didn't want to admit it, but he wished Trish were around. He could have used her help with the tie.
There was no quantifiable difference to Giorno's behaviour for the rest of the morning, but the air practically hummed every time he passed by Mista's general vicinity. It was enough to make Mista jumpy in his stead. He ran a finger around the inside of his collar and wondered if there were a discreet way to curb Giorno's sugar intake. Crème brûlée was all very well and good, but for breakfast and lunch...?
At 2PM on the dot the butler poked his head around the door and announced, "The representatives from Speedwagon Foundation, sir."
"Show them in," said Giorno. He straightened, shoulders going back – and all the suppressed nervous energy suddenly fell away, leaving him poised and perfect again. Mista moved to stand by his side and a step behind, mentally shaking his head.
The door opened:
In walked the biggest guy Mista had ever seen. He was so big a mild but pleasant breeze arose in the salon as air rushed to fill the vacuum left by his passage – unless that was an illusion, a function of the way his trenchcoat flared behind him with every step. Mista had witnessed this technique in comics and movies but never in a real, three-dimensional human being. He was immediately preceded by a tiny Asian kid in a suit and tie who bore a striking resemblance to Yuichi Wesley out of Pink Dark Boy. The effect was that of a brick warehouse taking a stroll with... with something considerably smaller than a brick warehouse. It accentuated the outstanding qualities of each.
Giorno took a step forward. "Good afternoon, Hirose-san," he said. The Asian kid – Japanese? – stopped a few feet away and bowed smartly, then advanced again with hand extended and a genuine smile on his face.
"Giorno Giovanna," he said. "It's good to see you again."
His Italian was quite good. "Likewise," Giorno said, shook his hand, then pulled him in, air-kissed him on both cheeks and let him go. The kid turned, looking a bit stunned.
"This is Mr. Jotaro Kujo," he said.
The brick warehouse looked down at Giorno. Giorno looked up at the brick warehouse and extended his hand. "Sir," he said.
After a second the brick warehouse took it. He said nothing.
At that precise moment, Mista realised that the meeting he was in had nothing to do with the sort of spreadsheet data that may or may not hypothetically link an Italian crime syndicate with a non-profit organization funded entirely by an American energy corporation (not that there would have been anything wrong with that). He didn't get much further with the revelation, because right then Giorno turned around and said, "And this is my associate, Guido Mista. Mista, Koichi Hirose, a good friend of mine—" and Mista found he had to shake hands with both Yuichi Wesley and the brick warehouse. Whose name was Jotaro something.
It was like shaking hands with a hydraulic grapple. One whose operator had a deft touch and was very careful not to crush anything unwonted. It was... unnerving.
A peculiar silence fell at the conclusion of the social niceties. It was the point at which Giorno would normally have offered a seat and refreshments to the visitors, but he said nothing – just looked at Jotaro Something, who gazed back steadily from under the brim of his cap.
"He's in the library," Giorno said finally, apropos of Mista had no idea what. Jotaro Something nodded and pulled his cap a little lower. Barely audible metallic clinks accompanied his movement, as of ornaments colliding with each other.
Giorno gave Mista a look that said Stay here, turned and preceded Jotaro into the library. The door closed behind them, and Mista found himself alone with Yui—the Japanese kid. Who looked unaccountably relieved, as if the past few minutes had gone rather better than he'd hoped.
"Have a seat," Mista said. "You want a drink? Water? Juice—"
"Just water, please," the kid said. As if on cue the butler reappeared, carrying a bottle of Trish's San Benedetto on a tray. He poured two glasses, placed them on the table with the bottle and left in the same unobstrusive manner.
The kid took one of the glasses and sipped, smiling rather shyly at nothing in particular – even the expression was the same as the one that emerged under Kishibe Rohan's pen. Mista found suddenly that he couldn't take it anymore.
"Anybody ever told you you look like Yuichi Wesley out of Pink Dark Boy?"
The kid blinked. Something indefinable crept into his smile: embarrassment, perhaps, or resignation.
"I get that a lot, actually," he said.
His tone was equable enough. "Ah," said Mista. "Ahaha. I guess you would, huh."
He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. The kid looked at him, at length appearing to grasp the implications of the exchange.
"You read Pink Dark Boy?" he asked. "In Italian?"
"Oh yeah, for sure!" Mista gave him a thumb up. "It's a great series. I'm only halfway through though."
The kid – Koichi – beamed tentatively at that. "Well, you must be pretty far ahead," he said, "if you've gotten to the Japan arc already. That's... twenty-three? Twenty-four?"
"Twenty-three. It's after the bit with the Abwehr Enigma and the egg—"
"Oh, geez, the egg. I remember that—"
"The official translation's up to thirty-three," said Mista. "Probably more by now, come to think of it. I just... I got the set off a friend."
"Wow," said Koichi. "thirty-three... you're not there yet, I mean, but that's really one of my favorite cases. Chanticleer. It gives you something to look forward to."
"My favorite's the Weeping Geisha so far," Mista offered.
"Really? Most people say it's the Istanbul Incident."
"Well, yeah, but Weeping Geisha is where you actually get to find out what happens, right? I mean, before that you kind of think Pomdorf is this total tool, and then you realise he's playing everyone."
"Yes, in retrospect, I suppose," said Koichi. "All I remember is reading it in Jump and having the rug pulled out from under me week after week and not having the foggiest idea what was going on. I mean. I still don't know some of this stuff, apart from the fights. Like is Beatrix actually Fulhaber from the very beginning or is she his twin sister or some nonsense like that? Even whe she showed up again Sensei didn't—"
"She what?" said Mista.
"What?" said Koichi, then his eyes widened and he clapped a hand over his mouth. There was a shocked silence.
"You're not serious," said Mista.
Koichi removed his hand slowly, as if afraid of further atrocities emerging against his conscious will. "Sorry," he said weakly.
"Oh, Holy Mother of—"
"I forgot it was a flashback! I thought you knew!"
Mista glared. The Pistols shot into the air like tiny, outrage-fueled rockets. "Spoilers are evil!" #6 howled, pinwheeled and divebombed, passing an inch above Koichi's head.
Mista was looking directly at Koichi when it happened, so there was no mistake: Koichi flinched, and his gaze flickered sideways to trace #6's return path before returning to Mista's face. Mista's eyebrows rose.
"Hey," he said, "you're a—"
Time stopped.
Time started again.
Afterward Mista was unable to pinpoint how he knew something had happened. Perhaps close encounters of the King Crimson kind had taken a psychic toll, or perhaps the roundels of Gold Experience-transmogrified tissue that studded his vital organs like currants in panettone had responded in kind. It wasn't physical, in any case, more like a metaphysical jolt. He stared at Koichi, the sentence dying on his lips. Koichi stared back, and after a second looked quite serious.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
Mista spun on his heel, strode up to the library door and opened it.
The library was an octogonal, domed chamber with inset windows on four sides, lined with bookshelves from floor to frescoed ceiling. Giorno was standing in the sunlit octant to the immediate right, hugging his arms close to his chest. Jotaro had his back to the shelves along the far wall. He was slouched deceptively, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat.
As the door opened they turned to stare at Mista.
The fact was they looked nothing alike. Giorno was blond and gracile and very much a teenager, and if Mista hadn't known he was part Japanese he'd never have guessed. Jotaro was brunet and closing in on two metres with the hat included. He could have been Japanese, or American, or half a dozen things, and Mista frankly couldn't tell if he was eighteen or thirty-eight. An active effort couldn't have picked two more dissimilar specimens of young male adult off the street.
But now they were both looking straight at him (ink-green of night seas, verdant blue of midday), and the identical light in their eyes obliterated superficial disparities the way a magnesium flare eliminated shadow. Mista's mouth fell open a little. He thought, Oh.
"I, uh," he said, "I just wanted to make sure everything is okay. Like, um. You don't need anything, do you? A drink?"
"No," said Giorno, in a voice that was very slightly breathless. "No, we're fine."
Despite the defensive posture he didn't seem like he was in trouble. What he seemed like was a kid with his nose pressed against a toy store's display window as the model trains went by.
"Yeah, we're good," echoed Polnareff, whom Mista hadn't noticed before – he was projecting head and shoulders from the turtle, retracted into its shell at the centre of the atlas table. He wore the look of a man who'd just ducked an unexpected projectile and was now assuming it was part of the plan. "It's all under control. ...Right, Jotaro?"
Jotaro tugged at the brim of his cap with more force than necessary, and muttered something under his breath. It wasn't Italian, but the idea was clear enough.
"Right," said Mista. "Right, okay, I just. Wanted to check. Okay, carry on."
He closed the door carefully and made for the sideboard, circling Koichi's chair.
"All right," he said, "do you need a drink? Because I could do with one."
"I'm fine with water," Koichi said. "Are we going to die?"
"What? No, we're not going to die. I think." Mista poured himself a finger of brandy, tossed it down and went for a second.
"That's good," said Koichi. "I can't believe you did that, by the way. It was very brave of you."
"Ahaha," said Mista. "Can I ask you a question? What does he do?"
"I'm sorry?"
"What does he do. Like Giorno, I hope this doesn't come as a surprise by the way, Giorno is fifteen years old and he controls the largest Mafia gang in Italy. What does he do."
"Oh," said Koichi, "Jotaro-san. Jotaro-san is a marine biologist."
Mista looked at him. "A marine—"
"Yes."
Mista sat down on the opposite side of the table and nursed his drink. There was a protracted silence.
At length Koichi drained his glass of water and set it down, looking as if a thought had just occurred. "Listen," he said, "if you're interested in Pink Dark Boy, Kishibe-sensei's going to be in Italy – he's having a one-man exhibition in Rome next month. I could give you the address of the gallery if you like."
[ Part VIII. ]
V.
That was Giorno too. It wasn't even the first time. Sometimes it seemed like he meant something by it, sometimes it didn't. There wasn't always rhyme or reason to him that Mista could follow, but he did. Follow, anyway.
The first time—
He'd hit Giorno. He didn't remember doing it, per se; when he forced himself to think about that day his mind flinched away from those few, brief seconds, as if skirting the edge of an open wound. But he had been angry, and afterward there had been a bruise on Giorno's cheekbone that Diavolo hadn't put there.
It was a sound that brought him back to himself, though he couldn't have said afterward what it was. When he turned he saw Trish kneeling by Buccellati's side. She was as white as a sheet, and he saw she was crying, or rather that tears were running down her face. But her eyes were wide open, and she made no move to wipe them away.
Buccellati's eyes were closed, his expression peaceful. As Mista watched Trish reached out, shakily – to touch his face, his hair – but her hand shrank back before it made contact, as if she were afraid of waking him. Finally she lifted his hand from where it lay on the ground and held it between her own.
All the time the tears, unnoticed.
The anger drained out of Mista. He released his grip on the front of Giorno's jacket, feeling a stab of shame as he did so. His fingers were clenched stiff. Giorno took a step backward, stopped, and said nothing.
Trish hadn't moved. Mista bent down and took her by the shoulders. "It's okay," he said, not believing it. "It's okay. He did what he had to."
She shook her head. In protest, Mista assumed, then realised she was gazing up at Giorno.
"We have to go," Giorno said.
"Don't leave him here," said Trish. "Please."
Giorno was silent, looking down at them. His clothes were in disarray from the fighting, and his hair had come loose, aureoling his face and shoulders. Mista had the sudden wild thought that here was an angel, a visitation, come to take Buccellati and the others to Heaven – perhaps himself and Trish as well.
In the distance sirens began to sound.
"All right," said Giorno, finally. He knelt beside them and took Buccellati's hand. Mista put his arms around Trish, half expecting to be pushed away, but she allowed the awkward gesture of comfort. After a few seconds she began to shake.
For what seemed like an eternity Giorno did nothing, only gazed at Buccellati's face as if memorizing his features. Then he bowed his head.
It happened all at once: a soundless explosion. Trish gave a cry of surprise and threw up her arms, but there was no impact. Only the weightless beating of a hundred, a thousand silken wings filling the air, brushing Mista's skin in passage, obscuring sight: disjunctive ether, breath itself made visible. White and black on white. Then they were gone, and there was nothing left.
When he blinked back to wakefulness Trish was still asleep, tipped sideways on the sofa with her feet up on the cushions and her head propped against his shoulder. His arm was asleep as well. In fact it had attained the point where numb shaded into excruciating. He winced and tried to shift it from under Trish's weight.
The lighting was dialed low. It was difficult to tell from inside the turtle, but he thought night had fallen.
"How are you feeling?" said a voice that was pitched not to startle. Mista turned his head and saw Polnareff sitting near the sideboard, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. The chair was an armless, fluted Louis XVI number that looked as if it might tip under his weight, though Mista supposed that much was illusion.
"It's been better," he said, and pondered the nuances of said statement as he continued to wiggle his deadened arm out from under Trish. "...It's been worse."
Polnareff smiled at that, briefly. The lamp was right by his head, and when he shifted Mista could see the outline of the chair through his torso and legs.
And legs...?
Mista wondered vaguely why he wasn't more freaked out. Probably the preceding twenty-four hours had exceeded his quota. He maneuvred Trish into a more comfortable sleeping position on the sofa, got up, and went to get a blanket from the sideboard.
"Giorno said to tell you he took care of things," said Polnareff. "With regard to Narancia and... Abbacchio, was it? He found where they brought him, with the laptop. We'll rest up for a day or two and go on from there."
"Yeah, okay," said Mista. Then, "Fuck. Fuck, I guess I'm the lucky one. Isn't that hilarious. Guess this is what it's like to win the fucking lottery."
"I hear you," said Polnareff. Mista turned around.
"You look a lot younger," he said. "...Sir. If you don't mind me saying."
"Appearances are fluid in my condition," Polnareff said, drily. "You remind me of what it's like, to be young. There was a time I stared unimaginable evil in the face and knew what the task was... You don't ask for it to find you, but you do what's right and pay the price. Then you watch others pay. I have old friends I wouldn't mind catching up with once I'm done here."
Mista thought about it. "So what comes after?"
"The work is never done," said Polnareff. "He's going to need your help."
Mista stepped out of the turtle into a darkened, pristinely empty hotel room. It took him a few seconds to realise the bedroom was part of an entire suite.
The lights were off in the sitting room as well, but the illumination from the Piazza Barberini afforded more than enough visibility. They were only on the fifth floor, but nightfall and intervening glass decreased the traffic noise to an ambient murmur, like that of a calm sea.
The view was something out of fairytale.
Giorno was standing near the window, gazing out. He'd bathed, Mista noted: his hair hung loose and shining down the back of his hotel-issue bathrobe, still too damp to do more than curl at the ends. His feet were bare. He looked even younger than his chronological age – in itself a matter of little relevance to Mista, outside of moments like these.
He didn't move when Mista padded up behind him, though he must have been aware of the approach.
"Hey," Mista said, "you should go to bed. Get some sleep."
"I don't think I'd be able," said Giorno.
They spoke in low voices, as if conversation were liable to create a disturbance.
Mista didn't bother to press the point. He leant against the window frame and watched Giorno watch Rome. The city where all roads led, nexus of fates...
It occurred to him that he still didn't understand what had happened. Blows had landed before his eyes but the unveiled nature of that power had been beyond mortal comprehension, beyond his ability even to bear witness. As such he didn't know how he remained among the living, or to what he was now companion. In the eyes of a fellow god or demon the form that stood there would surely have encompassed more than the slender body, the pale skin and golden hair. They would have averted their gaze, or fallen on their face in awe.
There was still a bruise on Giorno's cheekbone. Mista reached out and ran his thumb over it, lightly.
"Sorry about that," he said.
Giorno looked at him. Then he turned his head a little, so his lips brushed against Mista's fingers. That was enough.
When their mouths met Mista stopped thinking. It was like the release of a tightly wound spring, the tension of which he had barely been cognizant. He reached for the belt of Giorno's robe, and Giorno didn't shy away. He backed Mista up against the window and wound his arms around Mista's neck, fingers digging into the muscles of Mista's shoulders with a strength approaching desperation. As if he, too, were glad to be alive.
Sensation was heightened, dreamlike. They ended up on the floor, fumbling in haste, only half undressed – staccato breathing and sweat, the robe pooling around Giorno's forearms and under his thighs. Too abrupt for elegance or even practicality. Then Giorno pushed Mista away and got to his knees in front of the sofa. His hair spread like silk over the cushions when he laid his head down; he arched his back and held Mista's gaze, running the tip of his tongue over his lips. Mista slid a hand between his legs and he sighed, his eyes sliding closed.
When he came he made a sound like a breath caught in his throat – he'd been quiet the entire time, eerily so. It sounded so lost that Mista put his hand over Giorno's and locked their fingers together, and let Giorno leave nail marks on his skin that were still visible the next day.
VI.
"No wonder you wear turtlenecks all the time," said Trish. "You look like a vampire attacked you in a dark alley. ...Do I hear Duran Duran?"
Nothing within reach would have preserved his modesty, short of snatching the sheets off the bed, so Mista didn't bother. He figured she was lucky he had clean boxers on. "Do you have to barge in like this?"
"It's 11AM, I thought you'd be up already. And dressed."
"Yeah, well, it's been a—"
"I gathered," said Trish primly. Having inspected the CD player she crossed Mista's room to the window and drew the curtains back with a clatter. Late-morning sunlight flooded in. "You have the day off, don't you?"
Mista nodded warily. Trish turned, hands clasped behind her back like a child reciting from memory. Her expression was disturbingly cheerful.
"Let's go out for lunch," she said. "I have matinée tickets to Bridget Jones' Diary."
He drove Trish into town; they had lunch and caught the movie. Mista sensed she was working up to tell him something, which was worrisome. In the usual order of things Trish didn't need working up to speak her piece, least of all to him.
They were having coffee afterward when Trish took a call. She said "Pronto," into the handset, then "Yes, it's me," then there was a minute or so during which the other person on the line talked volubly and Trish listened. At length she rummaged in her purse, retrieved a small notebook and pen and took down an address.
"Yes, I understand," she said. "I'll be there. Eight o' clock sharp, yes. Thank you." She closed the phone, placed it on the table before her, and looked at Mista expectantly.
Mista gave his coffee a final stir and dropped the spoon.
"Okay, I bite," he said. "Who was that?"
"My agency," said Trish. "I have a job tomorrow morning. But don't worry, I'll get the regular driver to take me."
"Doing what?"
"Modelling."
"...What?"
"Photo shoots, mostly," Trish said in patient tones. "For ad campaigns. I've done some casting for magazines, and I'm signed up for a small runway show that's happening in—"
"No, whoa, back up. How long have you been doing this?"
"About a month and a half. Since we moved here." Trish took a sip of coffee. "It started out as a coincidence, really. I was trying on an outfit in the D&G flagship store and this photographer came up to me, he said he was doing a feature on—"
"And you went along with it? What if he'd drugged and kidnapped you and sold you off to some brothel or white slavery ring or something?"
Trish rolled her eyes. "Run by whom? Giorno Giovanna's subordinates' subordinates?"
Mista leant back in his chair and rubbed the back of his neck.
"Did you tell Giorno?"
"No." Trish looked down at her hands, then back up. "But I assume he knows."
"Sheesh," said Mista. "Well. Okay, then. Congratulations, I hear the money is super. ...No?"
Trish had that wry look. "I'll have to get my own place," she said.
Mista sat up.
"Or at least I won't be around. I'll be travelling a lot... I think. If things go the way they have." She steepled her fingertips and tapped them against her lips.
There was a pause.
"Look," Mista said finally, "what are you worried about? Giorno won't have a problem with it. He's not that kind of person."
"I know," said Trish. "But that's why you'll have to take care of him."
She was perfectly serious. Mista opened his mouth and closed it again.
"Between you and me," he said, "He doesn't need the extra protection. That's not why I'm there. It's more that he's too important to go around alone all the time."
"That's what I said," said Trish.
"Um, that's not what I heard you—"
"Think about it," said Trish. "He has all his friends living with him in the same house now, doesn't he? Just like a real family, only without any parents. He has a mom and stepdad but they sound like pieces of work. I don't think they'd care enough to attend his funeral."
Mista had been in and out of foster homes and orphanages since the age of three; he hoped his mother was in Heaven, God rest her poor soul, but going by hearsay the chances were slim. "He told you this?"
"Some of it." Another sip of coffee. "He found out about his real father, he said. Apparently Polnareff used to know him."
"He never tells me these things," said Mista.
But the pieces were beginning to fit together at the edges.
"I asked Polnareff and he said it was too complicated and anyway it wasn't for him to talk about, it was for Giorno when he felt like it. So he might have real family after all. But it's not the same thing, it can't be." Trish set her cup down. "He doesn't know them. And home isn't a house, you know. Home is people. Everyone needs a home."
Mista thought of Buccellati, and Giorno, and the one-room apartment he hadn't seen for months but that still held half of his stuff, and Narancia and Abbacchio and Fugo, and his faceless mother, and Buccellati again. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I guess."
"If I wanted to leave," said Trish, "Giorno would let me. He wouldn't mind as long as it made me happy. But not you. He wouldn't let you go."
VII.
The next morning Trish left before breakfast. Giorno thoughtfully let Mista put away two cappuccinos and a chocolate croissant before he said, "I found Fugo."
Mista had just grabbed another pastry and was about to take a bite. He paused and set it back down carefully on his plate. "...How's he doing?"
"Fine," said Giorno. "Or at least I assume."
Mista waited, but Giorno did not volunteer further information. Mista sighed and dropped his napkin on the table. "All in good time, huh, Boss? Give me warning when you actually need me to do something."
Giorno smiled at that; a small, secretive smile. "I need you here this afternoon," he said. "We're receiving visitors."
"Oh yeah? Who is it this time, Venti's crew? Cacciatore again?"
"Representatives from Speedwagon Corporation," said Giorno, "of New York, Dallas and Tokyo. From one of the company's affiliated philanthropic foundations, to be precise."
"Big oil," said Mista. "Oh boy."
"Mista," Giorno began, then paused. He looked Mista down and – very slowly and deliberately – up, gaze sweeping over Mista's body like an airport x-ray machine. When he met Mista's eyes again he was biting his lower lip in a thoughtful manner.
Mista's ears felt hot. He was glad his hat hid them from view.
"...Boss?"
"Go put on a suit," said Giorno.
Mista owned three suits: an ill-fitting, second-hand one that had seen service on rarissime occasions in Buccellati's day, and two – far more expensive – that had been picked out by Trish, in accordance with her usual exalted standards. She had assured him the next step would be bespoke tailoring, but this was the first time post-Giorno he'd actually been required to step up his wardrobe.
He didn't want to admit it, but he wished Trish were around. He could have used her help with the tie.
There was no quantifiable difference to Giorno's behaviour for the rest of the morning, but the air practically hummed every time he passed by Mista's general vicinity. It was enough to make Mista jumpy in his stead. He ran a finger around the inside of his collar and wondered if there were a discreet way to curb Giorno's sugar intake. Crème brûlée was all very well and good, but for breakfast and lunch...?
At 2PM on the dot the butler poked his head around the door and announced, "The representatives from Speedwagon Foundation, sir."
"Show them in," said Giorno. He straightened, shoulders going back – and all the suppressed nervous energy suddenly fell away, leaving him poised and perfect again. Mista moved to stand by his side and a step behind, mentally shaking his head.
The door opened:
In walked the biggest guy Mista had ever seen. He was so big a mild but pleasant breeze arose in the salon as air rushed to fill the vacuum left by his passage – unless that was an illusion, a function of the way his trenchcoat flared behind him with every step. Mista had witnessed this technique in comics and movies but never in a real, three-dimensional human being. He was immediately preceded by a tiny Asian kid in a suit and tie who bore a striking resemblance to Yuichi Wesley out of Pink Dark Boy. The effect was that of a brick warehouse taking a stroll with... with something considerably smaller than a brick warehouse. It accentuated the outstanding qualities of each.
Giorno took a step forward. "Good afternoon, Hirose-san," he said. The Asian kid – Japanese? – stopped a few feet away and bowed smartly, then advanced again with hand extended and a genuine smile on his face.
"Giorno Giovanna," he said. "It's good to see you again."
His Italian was quite good. "Likewise," Giorno said, shook his hand, then pulled him in, air-kissed him on both cheeks and let him go. The kid turned, looking a bit stunned.
"This is Mr. Jotaro Kujo," he said.
The brick warehouse looked down at Giorno. Giorno looked up at the brick warehouse and extended his hand. "Sir," he said.
After a second the brick warehouse took it. He said nothing.
At that precise moment, Mista realised that the meeting he was in had nothing to do with the sort of spreadsheet data that may or may not hypothetically link an Italian crime syndicate with a non-profit organization funded entirely by an American energy corporation (not that there would have been anything wrong with that). He didn't get much further with the revelation, because right then Giorno turned around and said, "And this is my associate, Guido Mista. Mista, Koichi Hirose, a good friend of mine—" and Mista found he had to shake hands with both Yuichi Wesley and the brick warehouse. Whose name was Jotaro something.
It was like shaking hands with a hydraulic grapple. One whose operator had a deft touch and was very careful not to crush anything unwonted. It was... unnerving.
A peculiar silence fell at the conclusion of the social niceties. It was the point at which Giorno would normally have offered a seat and refreshments to the visitors, but he said nothing – just looked at Jotaro Something, who gazed back steadily from under the brim of his cap.
"He's in the library," Giorno said finally, apropos of Mista had no idea what. Jotaro Something nodded and pulled his cap a little lower. Barely audible metallic clinks accompanied his movement, as of ornaments colliding with each other.
Giorno gave Mista a look that said Stay here, turned and preceded Jotaro into the library. The door closed behind them, and Mista found himself alone with Yui—the Japanese kid. Who looked unaccountably relieved, as if the past few minutes had gone rather better than he'd hoped.
"Have a seat," Mista said. "You want a drink? Water? Juice—"
"Just water, please," the kid said. As if on cue the butler reappeared, carrying a bottle of Trish's San Benedetto on a tray. He poured two glasses, placed them on the table with the bottle and left in the same unobstrusive manner.
The kid took one of the glasses and sipped, smiling rather shyly at nothing in particular – even the expression was the same as the one that emerged under Kishibe Rohan's pen. Mista found suddenly that he couldn't take it anymore.
"Anybody ever told you you look like Yuichi Wesley out of Pink Dark Boy?"
The kid blinked. Something indefinable crept into his smile: embarrassment, perhaps, or resignation.
"I get that a lot, actually," he said.
His tone was equable enough. "Ah," said Mista. "Ahaha. I guess you would, huh."
He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. The kid looked at him, at length appearing to grasp the implications of the exchange.
"You read Pink Dark Boy?" he asked. "In Italian?"
"Oh yeah, for sure!" Mista gave him a thumb up. "It's a great series. I'm only halfway through though."
The kid – Koichi – beamed tentatively at that. "Well, you must be pretty far ahead," he said, "if you've gotten to the Japan arc already. That's... twenty-three? Twenty-four?"
"Twenty-three. It's after the bit with the Abwehr Enigma and the egg—"
"Oh, geez, the egg. I remember that—"
"The official translation's up to thirty-three," said Mista. "Probably more by now, come to think of it. I just... I got the set off a friend."
"Wow," said Koichi. "thirty-three... you're not there yet, I mean, but that's really one of my favorite cases. Chanticleer. It gives you something to look forward to."
"My favorite's the Weeping Geisha so far," Mista offered.
"Really? Most people say it's the Istanbul Incident."
"Well, yeah, but Weeping Geisha is where you actually get to find out what happens, right? I mean, before that you kind of think Pomdorf is this total tool, and then you realise he's playing everyone."
"Yes, in retrospect, I suppose," said Koichi. "All I remember is reading it in Jump and having the rug pulled out from under me week after week and not having the foggiest idea what was going on. I mean. I still don't know some of this stuff, apart from the fights. Like is Beatrix actually Fulhaber from the very beginning or is she his twin sister or some nonsense like that? Even whe she showed up again Sensei didn't—"
"She what?" said Mista.
"What?" said Koichi, then his eyes widened and he clapped a hand over his mouth. There was a shocked silence.
"You're not serious," said Mista.
Koichi removed his hand slowly, as if afraid of further atrocities emerging against his conscious will. "Sorry," he said weakly.
"Oh, Holy Mother of—"
"I forgot it was a flashback! I thought you knew!"
Mista glared. The Pistols shot into the air like tiny, outrage-fueled rockets. "Spoilers are evil!" #6 howled, pinwheeled and divebombed, passing an inch above Koichi's head.
Mista was looking directly at Koichi when it happened, so there was no mistake: Koichi flinched, and his gaze flickered sideways to trace #6's return path before returning to Mista's face. Mista's eyebrows rose.
"Hey," he said, "you're a—"
Time stopped.
Time started again.
Afterward Mista was unable to pinpoint how he knew something had happened. Perhaps close encounters of the King Crimson kind had taken a psychic toll, or perhaps the roundels of Gold Experience-transmogrified tissue that studded his vital organs like currants in panettone had responded in kind. It wasn't physical, in any case, more like a metaphysical jolt. He stared at Koichi, the sentence dying on his lips. Koichi stared back, and after a second looked quite serious.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
Mista spun on his heel, strode up to the library door and opened it.
The library was an octogonal, domed chamber with inset windows on four sides, lined with bookshelves from floor to frescoed ceiling. Giorno was standing in the sunlit octant to the immediate right, hugging his arms close to his chest. Jotaro had his back to the shelves along the far wall. He was slouched deceptively, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat.
As the door opened they turned to stare at Mista.
The fact was they looked nothing alike. Giorno was blond and gracile and very much a teenager, and if Mista hadn't known he was part Japanese he'd never have guessed. Jotaro was brunet and closing in on two metres with the hat included. He could have been Japanese, or American, or half a dozen things, and Mista frankly couldn't tell if he was eighteen or thirty-eight. An active effort couldn't have picked two more dissimilar specimens of young male adult off the street.
But now they were both looking straight at him (ink-green of night seas, verdant blue of midday), and the identical light in their eyes obliterated superficial disparities the way a magnesium flare eliminated shadow. Mista's mouth fell open a little. He thought, Oh.
"I, uh," he said, "I just wanted to make sure everything is okay. Like, um. You don't need anything, do you? A drink?"
"No," said Giorno, in a voice that was very slightly breathless. "No, we're fine."
Despite the defensive posture he didn't seem like he was in trouble. What he seemed like was a kid with his nose pressed against a toy store's display window as the model trains went by.
"Yeah, we're good," echoed Polnareff, whom Mista hadn't noticed before – he was projecting head and shoulders from the turtle, retracted into its shell at the centre of the atlas table. He wore the look of a man who'd just ducked an unexpected projectile and was now assuming it was part of the plan. "It's all under control. ...Right, Jotaro?"
Jotaro tugged at the brim of his cap with more force than necessary, and muttered something under his breath. It wasn't Italian, but the idea was clear enough.
"Right," said Mista. "Right, okay, I just. Wanted to check. Okay, carry on."
He closed the door carefully and made for the sideboard, circling Koichi's chair.
"All right," he said, "do you need a drink? Because I could do with one."
"I'm fine with water," Koichi said. "Are we going to die?"
"What? No, we're not going to die. I think." Mista poured himself a finger of brandy, tossed it down and went for a second.
"That's good," said Koichi. "I can't believe you did that, by the way. It was very brave of you."
"Ahaha," said Mista. "Can I ask you a question? What does he do?"
"I'm sorry?"
"What does he do. Like Giorno, I hope this doesn't come as a surprise by the way, Giorno is fifteen years old and he controls the largest Mafia gang in Italy. What does he do."
"Oh," said Koichi, "Jotaro-san. Jotaro-san is a marine biologist."
Mista looked at him. "A marine—"
"Yes."
Mista sat down on the opposite side of the table and nursed his drink. There was a protracted silence.
At length Koichi drained his glass of water and set it down, looking as if a thought had just occurred. "Listen," he said, "if you're interested in Pink Dark Boy, Kishibe-sensei's going to be in Italy – he's having a one-man exhibition in Rome next month. I could give you the address of the gallery if you like."
[ Part VIII. ]
