Silvered blues

Bruno & Mista

Fanfic of Vento Aureo, JoJo part 5

English entry

(Spanish)

1. Lookin' back on how it was in years gone by

    Gangsters didn’t like their territories being disputed, thus Buccellati only had faint ideas about where his most recent recruit could be. He remembered, before giving up, hearing the name of a certain bar one night, a good place, unfortunately located right outside the limits of their zone.

The waiter at the entrance of the bar received him with a beaming smile, offering to save his cloak, but it was late and Bruno couldn’t figure if other members of Passione were observing his trail from the darkness, so he declined. It was odd to be welcomed so openly, though it could point that the ones in charge of the zone weren’t doing a remarkable job.

He loosened the scarf when the heat inside the building got to him, then saw a hand raised and merrily waving in front of him. A salute, requesting his approach.

“Goodnight, boss” Guido Mista held a half-empty glass of liquor and his skin blushed even under the dim lights of the place.

“Mista” Buccellati took the seat to his left, “Ghirga said you left him alone to finish the round. You could at least leave a word about where you were going” Guido’s expression said he found something fun in his words. “What is it?”

“You are not here to drag me back?”

Buccellati denied with his head and raised a hand for the bartender’s attention.

“You’re an adult, so you can do whatever pleases you” Bruno decided it was safe to take off his cloak and asked for a shot of rum before resuming their conversation. “But, as my underling, you must remember that I am directly responsible for your actions.”

“Huh?”

“Narancia also said that you reunited with a group of strangers” when Guido attempted to look away, Bruno held his chin and forced him to stay put as he spoke, “although, for what I see, you’re alone.”

Mista then rubbed his hair, lightly pulling off his cap and drank a bit more before replying.

“Ah, those guys… Yes… They are, about, back there” he lazily pointed to a door which, if Buccellati guessed correctly, led to the dumpster passageway. “A lucky bunch, you know? As Narancia didn’t follow me.”

“What do you mean?” the bartender passed in front of Bruno to leave his drink and only took a few steps away to clean a jug. Mista put an elbow on the bar and held his chin with his fist as he looked at Bruno; contrary to his previous attitude, there were no traces of joy or awkwardness caused by alcohol on his face.

“They were insulting you, all the way until we got here" it took the older man a moment to understand.

“Ah” it made sense to say that they were lucky, since Narancia held his leader in very high esteem and every time he heard someone speak ill of him, he instantly went into rampage. It usually happened with civilians upset by one thing or another over which Bruno had no real control, so Narancia knew he had to restrain himself, but, with other mafiosos the story was different. “Should I talk to Polpo about this?” he questioned, frowning, not because he was bothered by the position that Mista was suggesting he had taken (it was almost flattering that he was fighting on his behalf), but because of the territory, since if Bruno was there, inside that bar, and was being well received, that could only mean...

“Don't bother, they'll do it” he emptied his glass of liquor. “We agreed on everything before we faced each other, and I have witnesses” he added, looking at the bartender, who smiled in their direction, without the slightest hint of fear on his features.

“They really did a terrible job around here, didn't they?” Buccellati couldn’t contain that doubt.

“The worst” the employee responded sadly, looking away to the other end of the room where a boy, who could barely be considered an adult, was cleaning the remains of food on a table; he had bandages on one arm and a noticeable bruise on his face but, despite everything, he looked happy and in no mood to complain. The gangsters watched him too, then they saw each other.

“Congratulations, Mista. You've earned yourself a raise” the older man said, smiling.

“Really?”

“Of course. Now you have triple the work, considering you will be the main manager of this area after all.” Buccellati downed his rum in one gulp before getting up. “Go for a walk before you return. I don't want trash getting in the way of my territory, okay?”

Guido no longer looked as cheerful as he did a few seconds ago, but he knew that he had to be consequent with his actions. Buccellati dressed up once more, hiding the white suit from sight almost completely.

“If I find it, should I go to the river or the fields? Or maybe throw it to the crows?” Bruno put one hand on his waist and another under his chin, thinking, or pretending that he did.

“Surprise me” he concluded before turning around and leaving via the same way he came, without waiting for a response.

    Guido did not take his eyes off of his capo until the light from the streets stopped showing his silhouette; probably his boss had turned around at some intersection.

Then, he sighed.

“Did he really come just for that? He didn't even stay five minutes” he complained aloud.

“Would you like another drink, mister?” the bartender offered. Mista shook his head.

“No thanks, you heard him, we have work to do” as he had gone out on rounds in the afternoon, and the temperature was still warm, he was simply wearing his usual top, which would leave his stomach freezing from the cold once he went out. But there should be no problem if he hurried to finish.

“Of course, mister, have a good eve.”

“Uh, sure” it felt strange for someone to refer to him with respect without Buccellati being around, and even so, the one others used to respect was the leader of his group. He couldn't say that the feeling of gratitude toward his persona displeased him, but it wasn't something he wanted to get used to. Not yet, at least. “You know, chief?” he stood up and followed Bruno's trail. “That boss of mine is gonna become Don someday. And I wanna be there by his side when that happens” before opening the door, he turned around and waved his hand with a smile.

Once outside, he was surprised not to feel the chill of the nighttime, until he remembered  having a good amount of drinks within him.

He seriously had to hurry.

2. When they played I’d sing alone

    “Hey, isn’t it about time you take a break?”

Buccellati opened his eyes.

Mista stood before him with a strange smile and a hand on his right shoulder. Bruno guessed that his partner had just returned to the house, to his house, which everyone shared.

“What time is it?” he pushed the other hand away from his shoulder. Mista looked away.

“Past three o'clock.”

“Truly?” Buccellati sighed. He had fallen asleep on the couch whilst reading some reports Polpo had requested, and was not even sure if he had finished them all before closing his eyes. “I’ll go take a shower.”

“And then you will go to sleep?”

“I must be in the prison at six o'clock” he stood up, but Mista stood in front of him. Then he noticed, his smile was a pity smile. “I will sleep once I return” Guido eyebrows’ raised, and his expression soon changed to one of joy.

“I’ll go with you.”

“It is not necessary” Bruno evaded him with a pat on the arm and headed towards the stairs.

“I know that” could still be heard from above.

“Do as you wish” it wasn’t like he was going to stop the other. “But first, get rid of that alcohol stench.”

He could feel his partner’s smile behind his back. He was always like that. With his talent, with his stand, Buccellati was sure that Guido could have become a great bodyguard if he had taken different decisions in his life.

‘Think about your own life a little too, will ya?’ was all the response Bruno got when he told him such. Buccellati already knew that his life was a prison in which he himself stepped in, following the comforting sound of the capo’s promises that his father would be safe. 

Now, his father was dead and he was bound to continue working with a bunch of drug dealers and murderers.

He didn’t like to think too much about his own life.

“Narancia?” the boy was found sleeping on Bruno’s bed. He hadn’t been able to keep that child out of his world either, but it was his choice to get involved. He approached him “... You really are an idiot” he took the sheets scattered over the mattress and covered the boy appropriately.

‘At least he remembered taking off his shoes this time’ he observed Narancia sleep peacefully for a while before going to his wardrobe. With his suit and a towel in his arms, he returned to the lower floor. He saw no sign of Mista, even as he crossed the kitchen.

‘He must have left’ Bruno knew that his friend liked to take liberties from time to time, especially when work was scarce, but sometimes he grew worried that the other would walk from bar to bar carelessly; not that they had latent enemies lurking around, and it would be stupid for anyone to decide to mess with them in their territory but, inside Passione, Buccellati, knew more than one fool who could act irrationally without warning. Even starting a fight for no reason could get them off on the wrong foot in front of the Boss, and that wasn’t exactly an idea which excited Bruno.

He turned the tap and let the water run to adjust; once the temperature seemed appropriate, he took off his shirt. Then he was startled to feel the cold, not from the room, but from what landed on his waist. A pair of hands. And the smell of good beer, although that aspect was not important, because to Bruno all beers were disgusting.

“You didn’t wait for me. How mean” it was too late (or too early) to bother with him, so Buccellati turned around in his friend’s arms and, having him face to face, pulled his ears. “Hey! No, wait!”

As it was not in Bruno's plans to wake Abbacchio or Fugo, he let go of Mista’s ears as soon as the hands were removed from his back. He held a laugh at his friend’s hurt expression.

“Is this what you meant by coming with me?” then the black-eyed youngster, who only wore a towel on his hip to cover himself, smiled, showing his teeth.

“No, but I thought it would be better to shower together, you know, to save water.”

“We do not need to save on bills.”

“I want to save.”

Buccellati shook his head and pointed at the sink.

“I go ahead, and first wash your mouth, capisci?” Bruno turned to the water that kept running and took a couple of steps before remembering that before entering he had to take off his pants.

“Bene, bene” he heard behind his back.

He hesitated for a moment before putting down his underwear but it was said that Mista was like that, dissolute; or so Fugo mentioned someday. Bruno knew many types of womanizers in his area, who day by day were seen walking next to a different girl, and usually those women ended in bad terms with them; but Guido had his charm, the times when he saw him involved with women, they always ended up happy for the simple fact of being with him.

He soon found out the difference: Mista did not make promises that he would not fulfill. Unlike the other guys who swore to give their all for a girl they were just looking to have a good time with.

Bruno sighed as he felt the warm water on his muscles. He put his head under the water and it didn’t take long to feel the heat all over his skin, until then he hadn’t noticed how cold the night was. He removed the water from his face and opened his eyes, Mista was watching him, a few steps in front. For a second he felt startled, the next he turned his head to the right and walked away from the water.

“Enter” Mista obeyed, meanwhile Bruno looked for the bottle of shampoo. He rubbed the cream against his head. Then hesitated once more but, before the smile and assent of the youngest, took another load of product and approached him. “You act like a child” he mentioned while scratching the other’s hair, forming small pyramids here and there.

Upon hearing him, Guido straightened and the water began to remove the cream from his head; he grimaced as he waited for it to be washed so he could open his eyes. Bruno felt a trembling smile on his lips, sure that the other tried to boast about the only centimeter of height by which he surpassed him, but failed miserably.

“And why is that?” he questioned as he stepped out of the shower.

“I wouldn’t know. Maybe it was the face you made” Bruno took the place under the water.

“Oh? What face did I make?”

“... As if you were having fun” he replied after thinking.

“Well, that’s because I do” his friend admitted. “You always shower with Narancia or take a bath next to Fugo. It’s weird, but it feels good to get some of the boss’ attention from time to time. I envy them” still washing his own hair, Buccellati wondered if that might have something to do with the two mentioned and Guido himself being younger, a generational matter, because Abbacchio had never asked to share the bathroom with him.

“Is that so?” Mista nodded and handed him the bar of soap.

Once cleaned, Bruno went to the sink to sweep the humidity from the mirror while his friend moped the floor, whistling a little song that Buccellati thought sounded familiar even though he was unable to locate it.

At some point, Mista put on his boxers and trousers, and went out promising to come right back. Bruno did not pay much attention and finished drying so he could get dressed too. He had just zipped up his pants when something fell on his head, a pair of hands soon moved over the fabric, rubbing his hair.

“I owed you” he barely heard.

“Sure, grazie” he finally smiled. When Bruno was little, his mother, and later on his father, always took the trouble of drying his hair when he had just bathed, and then they talked about how their days had gone. “You came back early today” when Mista was going out ‘partying’ he didn’t usually return home until the sun came up at least.

“Yeah, I took a girl to her house because she was drunk, red-haired and very beautiful. I thought I’d get her laid” he chuckled, “but she fell asleep as soon as I put her on the bed. So I came back.”

“Oh.”

Guido moved to face him before removing the towel from his head and placing it on his own shoulders.

“It’s done” he announced proudly. Bruno raised one eyebrow.

“Thanks” he took the cloth that was next to his suit and began to look for the clip. “I still have to look at those papers one last time, so we’ll be out after five. You can take a nap if you want.”

“No, thanks” noting that Bruno had difficulties with the embedding of the fabric on his back, Mista went to help. “You won’t wake me up if I fall asleep” he added. Bruno couldn’t say he was wrong. “Plus I think Number Five is hungry, Number Three didn’t leave him alone during dinner… As you continue with those papers, I will prepare something to munch” a pat on the back indicated that the fabric was clipped tight.

“Do as you wish” Bruno  repeated before taking his jacket and leaving the room.

    As he went through the reports, Buccellati could hear Mista humming the same song he whistled before. It was a love song, the kind he liked.

3. How I wondered where they'd gone

    Guido Mista got into the room without warning.

It was his Boss’ quarters.

This didn’t truly matter. Primarily, because Giorno Giovanna wasn’t inside but in the garden, just as the mobs told him on the way up. Secondly, because Giorno wouldn’t have been bothered by the intrusion, he’d have remained unfazed by his poor manners, calmly seated on his throne. The current Head of Passione always knew when someone got into or outta his palace, regardless of how smooth they may be.

There was a third reason, probably the only relevant one, and it was that Giorno gave him instructions to direct to him first thing after finishing his mission.

‘He must be back soon’ Guido told himself as he took a seat close to a window, leaving his pistol atop a side table. He looked out, to the mansion’s inner garden, expecting to locate a young blonde taking care of the verdure.

Yet, there was not a soul outside.

“Is your case resolved?”

Mista turned around to the seat Giorno always occupied when receiving guests. This act repeated with such regularity that he stopped caring the eighth time it happened (the fourth, he almost suffered a cardiac arrest). He didn’t even hear him open the door, if that ever happened.

“We could say that” he scratched his nape. “That is, of course, in what exactly you consider solving this situation” there was no way Giovanna could have predicted the way everything went, of that Mista was sure. Yet the blond boy didn’t seem conflicted in looking for an answer, he merely offered that smile which managed to give goosebumps to both, friends and foes.

“I hope contacting Cannolo Murolo was not in vain.”

‘Of course’ such a reply didn’t clear Mista’s doubts, but it did help him understand that the expectations Giorno had put on Fugo were way higher than his own could ever dream to be.

“Then, yes, it is solved” Guido held no grudge against Pannacotta anymore, for he had spent his good weeks thinking and debating with Giorno about the decision the other took; the way he had pictured him during the year they both shared under Buccellati’s command; why he decided what he decided and what they should do about it facing onwards. “If you want the details, the Speedwagon guys must be able to give a better report. I am not even sure to remember it all clearly” in other words, a subjective report was probably not for the best at the moment; he wasn’t even sure how he managed not to shoot, and was very sure he was cruel towards his former brother. “Is this all you wished for?”

Giorno gave a single nod.

“I wanted to hear it from you first. I shall follow your advice and ask them, so you may go and rest now.”

“Thank you, Boss” he rose from his seat and took back his pistol. “Ah, I almost forgot. Buona giornata, Giogio.”

“Grazie” so went the last salute before the office door closed.

Once in the hallway, he halted to breathe in. With a free afternoon he could do anything he wished to. Stop by a nice risto, maybe visit the music shop, or just take a walk… But first things first, he had to get away from that mansion. The mission was over and if his decision, Giorno’s decision, proved to be correct or else, he still couldn’t do a thing about it; even if he sometimes wished to be more proactive, in the end he kept believing in his Boss.

“So many options!” he exclaimed once outside, taking out his pistol and unlocking the bullet drum. “Ya hungry, guys?” he waited for his Pistols to appear from the metallic slits, to no result. “Oi. I know that what happened before wasn’t nice, but I would never have gotten you close to that thing… Y’all know that, right?”

“Mi-Mista” Number Five’s voice came trembling out of the charger and soon it came out. “I… They… Do you feel alright?”

“Well, of course! Why wouldn’t I?” he replied a bit higher than intended. A girl that was passing by with her dog on the opposite street stopped to look at him, they exchanged stares for a while until the dog ran away and the girl had to follow it. “Great” luckily, it was just a child.

“Mista” Number Five attached to his right thumb. “The guys are tired, we’ve been awake since five” now that was odd, for Guido was sure he put them to rest right after his conversation with Fugo ended. “I-I want cantuccini, and I’m sure the others will be up for dinner.”

“Good” the man locked the gun and secured it back on his belt. “Stay here” he added, raising a hand to his neck so Number Five could rest on his shoulder.

He wasn’t able to understand it completely.

Thus he rarely thought about it, but, Sex Pistols was his Stand, his sole Stand. Multiple-Stand users, as the Speedwagon told them, were often vicious and traitorous people. Yet, they also said Guido’s case was unique, as unique as his Stand, for the Multiple rarely topped at such a limited amount (six); plus, the others seemed to have no trouble commanding their various Stands, whilst Sex Pistols required motivation or even bribing into obeying his orders. They called it ‘unique’ for being too ‘odd’.

With a bag of freshly baked biscuits on his arms, Mista continued his path. He parted one to give a piece to Number Five, who merrily accepted it, and took another bun for himself.

“Five” he mumbled while munching. “Do I look sick or something?”

“Mista?”

“Earlier you asked if I was alright, so tell me” he waited to swallow. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

His Stand kept eating his sweet bread, and only once it was finished, it dared present him with a reply.

“Do you want to go see him?”

It was stupid. The Stand were not friends with autonomous conscience, so any question they could muster already had an answer to display. Meeting with Pannacotta was a big emotional shock even if he wanted to deny it. Abbacchio, Narancia, Buccellati, his three best friends, were no longer by his side; Trish wished to cut ties with the mafia, Polnareff never got out of the mansion and Giorno was always busy. Having had parted on better terms, Mista was sure he would have jumped into hugging Fugo once he saw him again, instead of keeping his distance and throwing threats at him (regardless of how happy he initially was the moment he heard his friend was still alive, hiding as a pianist in a run-down bar).

He had no need to open his mouth for Number Five to know his answer was ‘yes’.

Guido was a merry guy who despised serious decisions, for which he always opted for the simple ones, unlike Fugo; yet he would define his limitations (numerical, mostly) and stick to them, unlike Narancia; that is why he wouldn’t dare say his reasons for taking such a decision were the same as Abbacchio’s.

That long despised morning, he was met with two identical dilemmas: staying with three friends at San Giorgio Maggiore (making them a group of four), or, getting into the boat with the friend he respect more than anyone else, along a pair of teenagers (one being a girl abandoned by fortune, and the other a boy who always seemed too sure about his next step ahead). The land group was filled with uncertainty and the one on the boat kept up the determination of fulfilling their task. Guido’s major problem was that he refused to get into a group of four and, if he stepped into the boat once Buccellati was done speaking, he would’ve been the fourth to do so. Abbacchio stepped ahead and was placed fourth. The decision came immediately to him and, to kill the back luck he saw lurking after them, he followed suit. They were five, the other were two, so they should’ve been fine.

‘I was an idiot’ he kept thinking. Not for changing sides, but for not keeping Abbacchio, the fourth, under his watch all the time. ‘Too naive’ because the late prediction of a sketchy sculptor finally came true.

Regardless of how lucky a man he was himself, he couldn’t trick fate itself.

He took another biscuit, ignoring Number Five’s sobbing on his shoulder.

“Do you wanna pay him a visit?” he questioned with a smile, already feeling the positive response on his own guts. “Then let us go take the next train.”

    Buccellati’s grave was located in the closest cemetery to his birth town, by Giorno’s decision. Guido couldn’t oppose it, for if the task had been on his hands, he probably would have chosen the same. After all, his old capo loved the seaside.

silvered blues

(Originally posted on Ao3)