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Mista is in a lot of pain when he opens his eyes to a too-bright light. The first face he sees is a man with a pompadour, so he’s definitely not died and gone to heaven, unless humanity has been gravely mistaken about what angels look like all this time. That, or he’s somehow been hit so hard that he’s transported back into the 80s.
“Hey, buddy,” the maybe-not-an-angel says pleasantly, leaning over him, pulling out something from his pocket. “Glad to see you up. We got you outta that nasty crash, but we’re heading to the hospital now, okay?”
Mista gains marginally more focus while the not-angel was talking. Not an angel—a paramedic, in a dark blue jumpsuit. There are flecks of blood on his face. The ground sways and rumbles—they’re in an ambulance. “Cool,” he manages, voice raspy.
“Could you tell me your name?” the paramedic asks, bringing up a flashlight to flick between his eyes.
“Guido Mista,” he answers, trying not to wince at the light. When the spots of brightness disappear from his vision, his paramedic’s pompadour dominates it instead. It’s so distracting. “I like your hair,” he mumbles, before he passes out again.
Higashikata Josuke laughs.
--
When Mista opens his eyes next, he is immediately sure that he’s in heaven. Everything is white, nothing really hurts anymore, and the first thing he can focus on is a fair-skinned man, with blonde, flaxen hair, and curls on his fringe that he’s seen on, like, Renaissance sculptures.
Maybe humanity was very right about what angels look like after all.
The angel’s meadow-green eyes flick over to him, sparkling when he sees Mista looking back at him. “Hey there. You’re doing a lot better now, aren’t you?”
The man, as it turns out, is wearing scrubs. Mista has a sense of déjà vu as he gains his bearings. The white room he’s in smells strongly of antiseptic—as is typical of hospitals. He looks around; there’s an IV going into his arm, and he’s heavily bandaged up in a few areas, but he’s not on a catheter or anything, so he’s probably okay.
It’s only after a few seconds of staring as the nurse finishes checking his IV drip, writes on a clipboard, and walks around his bed that Mista remembers he was being talked to. “Uh,” he says smartly, immediately regretting it. The nurse glances down at him, then goes back to fiddling with something by his headboard.
“Could you tell me your name?” the nurse says. His voice is calm, commanding. Mista wants to hear him say more words.
“Guido Mista,” he mutters, conscious of the repeat in conversation. He was probably concussed in the ambulance; this nurse also has nice hair, but he would never say that to a stranger in his right mind. “How—how long was I out?”
The nurse looks at a watch on his wrist. “A few hours?” He tucks his hands into the pockets of his scrubs, smiling pleasantly. “You were briefly under for minor corrective surgery for your arm—” he gestures at Mista’s right arm in a cast, “—but aside from that, you got out of that crash fairly easy. Just some stitches, bruises, and a mild concussion.”
“Ugh, knew it,” Mista mutters, blushing. If he ever sees that paramedic again, he’s either apologizing, or booking it in the opposite direction.
The nurse looks at him with those striking blue-green eyes. Mista has never understood eye color comparisons to gemstones, but now, he might. “What was that?”
“Oh, um,” Mista blinks, looking away. “I just—hope I didn’t offend the paramedic.”
To his surprise, the nurse laughs a little bell-laugh. “You’re fine. He’s—uh.” The nurse’s pager goes off; he takes it out of his pocket and glances at it. “Well. Another nurse will be around to answer more of your questions.” He looks expectantly at Mista; he’s clearly in a hurry, but is still politely waiting for Mista’s acknowledgement. Mista manages to nod numbly; the nurse smiles, and turns around to briskly walk back out of the room.
Mista lies in bed thinking about how it sounded like the blonde angel nurse knew the pompadoured paramedic.
Giorno Giovanna closes the door behind him, allowing himself a moment to catch his breath.
--
Fugo is the one to pick him up when he’s discharged, because Abbachio still doesn’t trust Narancia with any sort of errand after fucking up grocery shopping once. As they get into the car, Mista stares openly at Fugo. Something about him feels off kilter, somehow. It is a testament to their history together that Fugo doesn’t question this behavior, or even flinch at it, just takes it with a long-suffering stare out the windshield.
It takes Mista maybe two minutes before he realizes it’s because Fugo is blond. Not as pretty, though.
Mista slouches in his seat, hoping he’s not going to be like this for every blond he sees from now on.
Fugo glances at him, then says blandly, “First I thought you were grateful that I picked you up, and now I think you’re disappointed.”
“S’not you,” Mista mumbles. “How’s Trish?”
“Safely relocated,” Fugo says. “You managed to delay them just enough for us to get away.”
“Good,” Mista closes his eyes, tipping his head back to the headrest.
--
Mista all but forgets the entire thing until two months later, when his cast is freshly removed and the skin under it has just stopped being itchy. He’s walking along in the slightly chilly downtown, when he spots a blonde head of hair ahead of him on the sidewalk.
It’s dark out, which makes it easy for him to slide behind a tree to get a better look. The nurse’s cherubic hair and build are unmistakable, and that’s not accounting for the fact that an even more distinct man with a pompadour is right next to him, looking even more 80s in a studded leather jacket. The nurse is leaning against the wall of a bar, the paramedic chatting animatedly at him; so they do know each other.
Mista weighs his options for a full five seconds, biting his lip. He wants to just, casually pass by, and maybe catch the blonde’s eye? If nothing happens, he swears to himself that he’s just going to walk away. Yeah, that sounds reasonable and not creepy.
He tries to be casual and sneaky, he really does, but the moment he’s within ten feet, the paramedic’s head whips around and snaps right to him. It’s honestly a little scary, and Mista stops dead in his tracks.
The paramedic all but yells “It’s you! ” at him, delighted and unfazed.
“Um—?”
“Josuke, you’re freaking him out,” the nurse says quietly, his voice carrying in the night. Blue-green eyes move from the paramedic to Mista, even as the paramedic waves for him to come closer. “Sorry about him, sir.”
Mista looks surreptitiously at the nurse as he walks toward them, trying to see if there’s a flash of recognition anywhere in his eyes. “No, it’s cool. I—I remember him too.“ He glances at the paramedic—Josuke? “Hi, paramedic from the ambulance,” he greets awkwardly.
“None of that formality with me,” Josuke says, tapping his chest. “Higashikata Josuke, at your service. And you are—?”
“Guido Mista,” he replies. “I’m surprised you remember me.”
“What? Of course!” Josuke tucks his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. “You complimented my rockin’ pompadour while you were concussed and could barely respond. Clearly we are star-crossed best friends.”
“Maybe he complimented your rockin’ pompadour because he was concussed, did you ever consider that, Josuke?” a girl quips at him.
Mista turns with Josuke to face the newcomer; a girl with green dip-dyed hair, wearing fishnet stockings and a crop top with little spider motifs. She’s looking back at him, openly scrutinizing. “Who’s this?”
“Don’t change the subject, little Jolyne, you just insulted my rockin’ pompadour,” Josuke says loudly, cracking his knuckles. “You seem to have forgotten the consequences of insulting me in person instead of over the groupchat—”
“I absolutely have not! ” Jolyne raises her fists. Mista steps back, bewildered. “Come at me, Grunkle!”
Mista sees the two of them move forward almost simultaneously, but before they can touch each other, a flash of blonde hair darts past Mista. The next thing he knows, both Josuke and Jolyne are on their backsides on the asphalt.
“One night,” the nurse says mildly, standing between them, letting go of their arms. “I would like to have one night out where you two don’t go at each other.”
“But Giorno, he’s so easy to make fun of,” Jolyne whines, at the same time that Josuke goes “But Giorno, she’s so fun to fight with!”
“Might I remind you that we have company,” the nurse—Giorno—reminds them both evenly, catching Mista’s eye, who at this point is trying to hold back laughter. “Who you were in the middle of saying was your star-crossed best friend, Josuke.”
“Does this happen often?” Mista says, genuinely curious.
“Yes,” Giorno says, subtly long-suffering in a way that reminds Mista of Fugo. Maybe they’ll get along. “I apologize for them, but I promise you we’re good people.” He pauses, then holds up a hand to his chest. “Giorno Giovanna, by the way. It’s nice to see you’re doing better.”
“You haven’t even introduced yourselves to each other?” Jolyne says, back to scrutinizing Mista from her place on the asphalt. She looks him an obvious up-down, then offers, “Jolyne Kujo. Who’re you?”
“Guido Mista—”
“Now that the formalities are out of the way,” Josuke says, dusting himself off and holding out a hand for Jolyne, “come drink with us, Mista! Unless you had other plans?”
Mista shrugs, hoping he looks nonchalant. “Nah, not really, a beer or two sounds cool.”
“Great!” Josuke says, much too loud. Mista starts to regret his decision to go drinking with literal strangers, but then he sees Giorno hiding a smile behind Josuke.
--
They end up in a little hole-in-the-wall bar that Mista’s only vaguely heard of from Narancia. Judging from their familiarity with the bartender, it seems to be a regular haunt for the ragtag bunch of weirdos he’s been kidnapped by. Or so he thinks they’re a ragtag bunch of weirdos, until the silver-haired bartender greets them with “Ah, my favorite Joestars!”
“Don’t let my father hear you say that,” Jolyne quips back. She places their orders as Josuke ushers Mista to a booth near the back. Mista expects Josuke to follow him into the booth, but he swears he sees Josuke wink at him, before Josuke moves to the other side of the booth to slap at the cushions, saying, “Man, Pol never dusts off these rear booths.”
“We’re the only ones who ever sit here,” Giorno replies, having been pushed back by Josuke moving suddenly. He shoves the paramedic face first into the opposite cushions, and Josuke yelps in protest.
“The bartender a friend of yours?” Mista asks, mostly to distract himself as Giorno slides into the booth next to him.
“He’s more like a family friend,” Giorno says. “He’s worked with Jolyne’s dad and Josuke’s dad before.”
“Pol’s also worked with your dad, technically,” Josuke reminds him, with a snicker that tells Mista he’s missing a joke.
“Let’s not go there,” Giorno warns, although Josuke seems to just wave it off. Jolyne arrives with their drinks, and slams down a truly horrendous-looking neon-colored shot in front of Mista.
“Courtesy of Uncle Pol,” she explains. Over her shoulder, the bartender waves cheekily.
“That’s nice of him,” Mista says, surprised, but taking the shot anyway. He raises it to the bartender in thanks, before downing it.
“Any friend of ours is a friend of his,” Giorno says, picking up a beer.
“Hmm,” Mista remembers something. “Wait, what was it he called you guys? His favorite Joestars? Is that a… band name? Is there… more of you?”
Jolyne snorts into her drink; Josuke laughs. Giorno hides a grin into his hand, and recovers first. “No, it’s our, ah, family name.”
“Could you imagine, my dad, in a band?” Jolyne says, derisive.
“My dad would be great in a band,” Josuke adds, amused.
Mista’s mouth is agape. “You guys are related?” Looking at the three of them now, he can see the similarities in their faces, kind of.
“Regrettably,” Josuke says, with a put-upon sigh. Jolyne shoves him.
“But… your surnames were different, weren’t they?”
“Varying circumstances,” Giorno says concisely, reaching for a napkin.
Josuke smirks into his pint. “Are you drawing him the family tree?”
“I’m drawing him the family tree,” Giorno confirms, pulling out a pen from a pocket. “It’s the easiest way to explain things.”
Being next to him, Mista’s able to watch as Giorno writes Jolyne in elegant handwriting, then draws lines indicating her parents, her grandparents, her great-grandparents, and a line that branches off to the side, and then, Josuke.
“Wait,” Mista says, immediately confused. Giorno looks up at him, amused, and Mista strains to think. “Jolyne’s dad… is Josuke’s nephew? How the fuck does that work? You’re like, ten years apart, max.”
Jolyne and Josuke exchange a look, then burst out laughing, loud and boisterous enough that a few other patrons turn to look at them. Mista blinks, and looks at Giorno for any semblance of normalcy. To his eternal bewilderment, Giorno looks like he’s holding back laughter of his own, continuing to draw the family tree.
“If you think that’s confusing—” Jolyne begins, wiping tears from her eyes.
“—Josuke’s dad is technically my nephew,” Giorno says evenly, with the air of a long-standing joke, sliding the napkin over.
“Now I know you’re bullshitting me,” Mista grumbles, looking down at the napkin, where more lines have been added. The elaborately-written Giorno is too far up this family tree to make any sense.
Josuke howls with renewed laughter, as Jolyne, still chuckling a little herself, nudges him to settle down. “Yeah, Giorno, stop bullshitting this nice man,” Josuke gasps.
“That’s no way to talk to your great uncle, Higashikata,” Giorno says mildly. He must kick Josuke under the table, because Josuke jolts and looks under the table, going hey!
“I gotchu, Grunkle Josuke,” Jolyne says, promptly blindly throwing out her feet under the table and catching Mista’s shin.
"Your family is so violent," Mista groans, putting his ankle up on the couch.
"You don't know the half of it," Jolyne grins, baring her teeth in the way Josuke did earlier, and okay, now Mista can see the undeniable family resemblance.
“Wild,” Mista mutters to himself, glancing between them, trying not to stare too intrusively. “I mean, sorry, I know I just met you guys, but. Wild.”
“It’s no problem,” Giorno assures him, still tickled from laughter. “It is funny.”
The apples of Giorno’s cheeks are a pleasant, flushed pink. Mista only catches himself grinning like a dope when he catches Josuke’s eyes, mischievous and amused and much too blue.
“So, what about you, Guido Mista?” Josuke says, still looking smug. “What about you? Any fun facts you’d like to volunteer?”
“Yeah, why were you at the hospital? And needed Josuke to come get you? I’m the only one who doesn’t know,” Jolyne pouts.
“Uh, I was working,” Mista answers. “I work for a small security company, and we got into a crash. I’m part of a team, so they carried on without me.”
“Yeah, I met that tall scary guy with the purple lipstick, he was the one who handed you off to us,” Josuke says. Mista snorts into his drink, vowing never to tell Abbacchio this description of him. He’ll tell Narancia, though.
“Ohh, so you’re a bodyguard,” Jolyne’s respect for him visibly increases. “That’s cool.”
“Do you like your job?” Giorno asks politely.
Mista shrugs. “It pays the bills. The guys I work with are also— uh, we’re really close, so that helps. I can’t imagine doing anything else.”
“That sounds nice,” Josuke says. “All I got at the hospital’s Giorno and he’s always busy.”
“We can’t all be paramedics,” Giorno sighs, with put-upon wistfulness.
Giorno excuses himself for the restroom not long after that, and as soon as Giorno is out of earshot, Josuke puts both elbows up on the table and levels Mista with eyes that are, like, illegally blue. “So, Guido Mista, here’s the quick lowdown—yes, he’s single, yes, he’s interested in men, and you know what, I think he might like you too. Also, he really needs to get laid, so I’m rooting for you. Also also, you seem cool, so as his great nephew, I approve.”
Mista feels his cheeks heat up at a record speed, squirming under Josuke’s gaze. “Uh—”
“Oh, okay, I see,” says Jolyne, eyes lighting up in understanding. “Yeah, I believe in you, weird man we literally picked up off the street. Go get him.”
Josuke laughs at whatever face Mista makes at that. “Don’t be like that, Jolyne, he was our patient at the hospital too!”
“Am I that obvious?” Mista mutters, glancing in the direction Giorno went.
“Jolyne couldn’t tell, so no,” Josuke says, amused. Mista realizes he had the option to deny it; not anymore, though. Damn.
“He’s a pretty boy, lots of people like that,” Jolyne adds. “We’re used to it, honestly.”
“You guys are pretty too,” Mista blurts out, before he can stop himself. Jolyne cackles. “I—I mean, you look alike, so—”
“Don’t sweat, we get it,” Josuke waves him off, and adds with a maybe-drunken glint in his eye: “We Joestars are definitely lookers.”
Of course, Giorno chooses that moment to step back into earshot. “Do I want to know?”
“No,” Mista says, in unison with Josuke and Jolyne.
Giorno raises his eyebrows, but accepts it.
--
Josuke and Jolyne break off to walk in a separate direction than him and Giorno when they're walking home, and Mista glares at Josuke, thinking: traitor.
“See you tomorrow,” Giorno says to Josuke, as Mista sticks his tongue out behind him. “Don’t forget to get that book I borrowed from Caesar.”
“Yes yes, glad to play go-between for your Italian book club,” Josuke laughs. “Ciao! ”
Giorno shakes his head, walking away from his—uh, relatives. Mista hurries to catch up.
“Thank you for going along with Josuke,” Giorno says once Mista falls into step beside him. “He’s always happy to make a friend, especially over his hair.”
Mista tries not to look at Giorno’s, in his opinion, equally ridiculous hair. He shrugs. “It’s cool. You guys are fun.”
“I’m flattered,” Giorno says, looking up at him, with an intensity and amusement that remind Mista of a deeper blue, “to know that someone ex-Passione finds us fun.”
The effect is immediate. Mista freezes up and wonders how much trouble he’s in. He’s not the brightest, he knows, but he’s considered himself good at hiding his previous mafia ties, and he doesn’t think he’s leaked anything. There was that bit about Josuke meeting Abbacchio, sure, but—
“Don’t worry, it wasn’t anything you did,” Giorno says, continuing to watch him with a smile. “I'm sorry to make fun of you. Buccellati’s a friend.”
Mista can’t help but huff, both out of petulance and relief. “Oh, thank god. I thought I fucked up. Abbacchio would’ve killed me.”
That gets a laugh out of Giorno. “No, no. They love you. You know how Abbacchio is— tough love.”
“You’ve heard of me?” Mista blurts, before he can help himself. He was already going to grill Buccellati for everything he knew about Giorno, but now he’s going to grill him.
“Only in passing,” Giorno says, looking at him. Mista would almost think Giorno was checking him out, but. It’s Giorno. Giorno Giovanna does not check people out. “I’m something of an insurance policy for you guys. Bruno had hoped he wouldn’t need a contact at the hospital, but here we are.”
“That does sound like our boss,” Mista says, awed as always by how much Buccellati cares for them. “So, uh, is it just you, then?”
“Hm? Oh,” Giorno says. “Yeah, it’s just me. Josuke just happened to be on shift.”
“Cool,” Mista says, unsure what else to say.
Giorno seems content to walk along in contemplative silence. A few minutes later, he stops at a major intersection, at a turn towards a more affluent part of town. “Well, this is me. It was nice to meet you, Guido Mista.”
It’s the way Giorno says it, so self-assured and formal, that reminds Mista of Buccellati’s days as capo; Mista’s first reaction is to bow, arching his spine, and keeping his hands at his sides. He only realizes what he’s done when he straightens back up and catches Giorno’s eye.
Mista scrambles to recover. “Uh, I mean—you too, Giorno—”
“Yes,” Giorno laughs. “I hope to see you again. Not, not at the hospital, I mean.” He clears his throat; it’s the first time tonight that Mista has seen him stumble over, well, anything.
“I getcha,” Mista says, a little dazed.
“Okay. Yes. See you around, Mista,” Giorno says, raising his hand in a small wave before turning away.
Mista watches him go, feeling like if anything, he’s the one who should’ve been walking away before embarrassing himself.
--
“Buccellati,” Mista says urgently, first thing in the morning the next day. “Buccellati, I have so many questions.”
Bruno Buccellati looks up at him from the morning paper, confused.