Guido Mista only learns that someone else has joined the fold when he's suddenly there, sitting across from Buccellati and watching him through narrowed eyes. He's squirming in the restaurant seat like he's not used to sitting still, fingers drumming on his knees underneath the table and staring back with the distinct knowledge all eyes are on him. Fugo and Buccellati sit as though his presence is natural.
Judging from Abbacchio's expression—the raised brow, pursed lips, and muttering under his breath too low for him to hear—he's just as confused. They'd been told about Fugo's shocking act of mercy for a kid a while back, sometime at the beginning of the year. A strange day for all, but nothing they'd thought twice of.
That was months ago. A week or so, Mista and Abbacchio had orders and left.
And in that time, Mista guesses, four became five.
He's not complaining.
Mista doesn't think too long and hard about the hows of his peers. One day, he made a decision. One day, Buccellati was at his side, a shadow cast between iron bars and a hand outstretched for him. Cliche as it sounds, it was an offer he couldn't refuse, but he hasn't looked back since.
He guesses everyone else is much the same way. Call it fate, call it a stroke of luck— it really doesn't matter. They are all under the same man now. No regrets, only moving forward.
"This is Narancia." Buccellati speaks in the same measured tone he always has when giving orders, hands folded and chin resting on them. He's calm, but there's a split-second betrayal in his gaze- shifting from this Narancia to Fugo then to Mista and Abbacchio as they sit down across from them- that has the trace of a man unsure about just how well this impromptu introduction will really go down.
There's a wordless grunt as Abbacchio sinks into his chair; in the same breath, Mista shrugs, rolls his shoulders back and lets a casual yo! slip out before a yawn. Long day, clearly a longer night ahead of them.
Narancia doesn't look nervous, per se, not in the same way someone interested in making a good first impression ought to be. More suspicious, hunched shoulders and careful posture and still wiggling around in his chair like some guilty child. He's reminded of awkward family dinners where he knows he's getting chewed out immediately afterwards for something careless or stupid he did-not a good look, but it makes Mista chuckle a little.
It doesn't go unnoticed, but the split-second Narancia looks as though he's about to rise out of his chair- and what, leap for his throat? Could he reach it?- he hears the boy curse and hears the tell-tale thump of what he assumes is Fugo stomping on his foot underneath the table.
Bruno's eyebrows furrow but there may be a shadow of a smile on his lips.
There's gotta be something to him if he's here, almost half a year later.
Guess he'll find out.
Buccellati stops him before he can duck out, mind solely on his bed and completely crashing into it.
"Take Narancia out of town tomorrow," he starts, a hand on his shoulder and speaking low. "Fugo informed me that he could see Purple Haze even before meeting Polpo-but that means very little. His Stand is… different than his or mine. He'd benefit the most from seeing you work."
That is enough to jolt him awake. It'd been an unspoken rule he'd followed because it made some amount of sense, not revealing your Stand to newcomers, dancing around the true extent of your powers until you were sure they had your back- or that they'd last. Buccellati trusted Narancia, and that alone was more than enough for him in most instances.
Most. But he hadn't asked Fugo or Abbacchio to do the same when he'd been the rookie, and he figures their stories are fairly close to the same.
Which, as far as he was concerned, meant one of two things: either Narancia held a very powerful Stand and had no clue how to use it, or a Stand so utterly useless that knowing about it was hardly a danger to anyone.
(Or, the wild third possibility: his Stand was the same, or similar, like- like a gun. But what are the chances of ever encountering that?)
He's got half a mind to contest his leader's orders on the sheer madness of it all, but Buccellati never said things without a good reason, and it's never been his place to argue too hard or think too much.
"Aw," Mista groans anyway. It's still a pain in the ass and he's not too keen on the idea on principle, but he definitely had way more patience than Abbacchio or Fugo, so he was probably the best teacher Narancia was going to get.
They meet again at the front of the restaurant the next day, just before noon. Narancia's loitering with his hands in his pockets and partially perched on the armrest of the bench just outside. The weather's mild enough to mull around outside without much complaint, but it'd taken all Mista's will not to roll over as soon as the sun hit his eyes. He'd thought enough ahead to sling a backpack over his shoulder with what little food he'd had still lying around that hadn't gone stale in his weeklong absence. He may not have had any teaching experience, but he knew Sex Pistols worked best with a little food as incentive, and honestly, he didn't know anyone that wasn't much the same.
He'd expected the trolley ride to be in- well, not comfortable silence, but more of dinner and Narancia sizing him up- but he seemed to have had enough sizing up and plopped down next to the window (without asking) with his legs swinging, opening with a, "Mista, huh?"
"The one and only," he replies, arms tucked behind his head to lean back, one foot comfortably resting on his knee.
"Where were you and the tall guy all week?"
"None of your business, that's where."
"Kill anyone?"
"Dude-" Less than five minutes of actual conversation and it's crystal clear to Mista that Narancia has no concept of a filter on his mouth- probably a really damn bad quality to have as a gangster, and he's quick to elbow the smaller boy in the ribs as hard as possible. Fugo's told him time and time again that he has no inside voice, but c'mon, a public trolley? He's not stupid.
Narancia recoils immediately, a harder shove back than he was expecting. Physically, the boy's as scrawny as they come, hardly anything but skin and bones and a wild mop of black hair. But he's got fighting instinct, rough as it is, and Mista knows enough to see a hand twitch and almost reach for something concealed in a pocket. He grabs the boy's wrist roughly until he whines and threatens to kick him, pitch even louder than before.
Making a scene was definitely not in Buccellati's instructions and internally, he's sweating a little and bemoaning the rest of his peaceful day a lot. People are staring but at least Narancia shuts up, nursing his wrist and wounded pride and glaring up at him in silence.
It's a long trolley ride to San Giorgio, and an even longer, more cramped taxi ride farther out. Squished between the door and the newcomer is hardly his idea of a good afternoon. Between the seat and the backpack his legs cramped something awful, and somehow, Narancia's idea of a silent treatment (which, by the way, hardly worked if the boy kept breaking it with occasional are we there yets and where the hell are you taking mes) was even worse than his loud-mouth blabbering before.
Truly, the call of his bed that was more and more like a distant dream with every passing minute.
They stopped at a street corner, and from there, it was only walking. Narancia seemed keen on bolting ahead until he realized he had hardly any idea of where Mista was leading him. A split-second hesitation before he came scurrying back, hovering between walking in step and too close for comfort to keeping a wide berth, glaring daggers at his back.
Finally, streets and apartment complexes cutting the skyline gave way to sparse trees and foliage, and that's where their feet finally landed. Backpack falls to the ground with a thud, Narancia trailing a few feet behind and plopping down under the shade of a tree.
"We're in the middle of nowhere- what the hell? Did you get us lost or something?" he whines, but shuts up as soon the backpack opens, and he sits up slightly to try and sneak a peek inside.
Of course, he recoils almost immediately, almost falling backwards and cursing when, like clockwork, his Stand's six-bullet team takes it upon themselves to beat him to the punch.
"This is it?!" Due whines, and one cracker is flung towards his face, but Sette is quick to snatch it from the rest before it ever crumbles or makes contact with his cheek.
"C'mooon, I just got back. We ate like all the salami before we left, and the bread I left out was stale 'n shit. Who wants a mouthful of mold?"
Une is already helping itself to working the cap on one of the bottles of water stuck at the bottom open, and it's when Mista's trying to stop all of them from either falling in or completely soaking the snack crackers and the bottom of his pack that Narancia decides to crawl over on his knees and ask, "What the fuck are those?"
"'S my Stand. Call them the Sex Pistols, 'cause it sounds cool as hell. They're gonna help me help you today. But they get whiny if they don't eat, and you'll probably be a lot more pleasant if ya eat something too, right?"
He shoos the menagerie away and offers Narancia one of the bottles of water. There's hardly any hesitation before he takes it and opens it, gulping it down when it dawns on him how thirsty he is.
Surprisingly, Sex Pistols and Narancia's introduction doesn't go as disastrously as anticipated. Which is great, considering Mista's spent a resounding none of his total trip time trying to think of how best to explain Stands to an outsider. Thankfully, Buccellati may have done the hardest part for him, or Fugo, or maybe he just kinda figured things out as he went on.
(To be fair, the "initiation" is pretty good motivation for learning as fast as possible.)
"So, what's yours do?" Mista starts, when Narancia and the Sex Pistols have finished stuffing themselves.
"Shoot stuff, I guess." A shrug follows, and one of Mista's eyebrows raise. The third possibility suddenly doesn't sound as crazy, and admittedly it suddenly feels as though his pride is on the line. Narancia continues, though, head tilting upwards towards the sky. "It's a lot bigger than yours. Cooler, too. But I told Buccellati about how I totally won Mister Polpo's dumb trial and he looked pissed."
Both eyebrows raise at that. Not that it sounds unbelievable, but who the hell thought they won that trial?
"Come on, then! Stand up and show me." Mista wipes a hand off his pants and takes one more swig of water before he's up and ready to get down to business.
If Narancia has any hesitation at all about revealing his Stand, he doesn't show it, up on his feet in an instant. "'S a lot cooler than yours- bet you can't even handle it!"
"Put your money where your mouth is, man- hurry up! I'm not squatting here all afternoon!"
Something in his tone must have set Narancia off, and then there's an- an airplane, hovering over his shoulder.
He has three seconds to marvel before something in his gut tells him to duck.
The airplane comes for him, full-stop, and there's a rat-tat-tat he's all too familiar with, a shower of bullets in the air where he once was and behind him.
Every single goddamn one misses, partially because the Sex Pistols are damn good at their job and kicking them away, but mostly because Narancia's aim is piss poor.
Now it's apparent why Buccellati wanted him to have a mentor.
"What the fuck, man?!"
Mista wastes no time as soon as he stands up to march towards Narancia and draw himself to full height- which, really, is a tactic probably better suited to Abbacchio, but he's still taller than the younger boy and he has years of big brother cred under his belt when it comes to pushing his weight around.
"What, you want some more?!" Narancia bites back, digging his heels into the dirt, not scared of leaning in enough to get in his face. "Don't wanna fuck with me now, huh? I made it all the way here and I'm playing nice 'cause Buccellati told me to, but I'm not some kid! Got it, huh? Huh? Huuuh-?!"
His threats fizzle out into whines with a sharp tug on his ear, not that they phased the taller boy to begin with. "What, you wanna fuck around and then end up getting one of us killed? That what you want?"
"-No! Damn it-"
"Then get your head out of your ass and focus, yeah?! How the hell did you even make it past Polpo's Stand?"
"-Shot it!-"
"Bullshit."
"Did too! Cleared out an entire street, but I totally got it!"
That is enough to get Mista to relent, muttering to himself all the while.
The long afternoon seemed even longer still.
Narancia is hardly a model student, but for all his insisting, he still gets distracted as easily as a child. He acts jaded with all of Mista's instructions, but seems excited the second any of them bring about results. It's a little like pulling teeth, or trying to wrestle three younger sisters off him everytime he pops home, however brief it is. But it's- it's not fine, but he can play the waiting game.
When the younger boy finally calms down and concentrates, he can make a scope appear to hover over one eye. Through trial and error, they come to recognize the dots on the radar as living, breathing things, although how its tracking works is anyone's guess.
Several angry pigeons and a few dead ones, too, and Narancia's aim is hardly any better, but at least it's finally drilled into his skull that he's not gonna last long jumping the gun and littering everything in sight with bullets on every occasion. On a whim, he steps through the basic parts of his revolver when Narancia expresses that he'd never even held a gun- unloaded, of course, and he nips his dreams of actually letting him shoot a round in the bud. Like hell he deserves to work it right now.
(Maybe later, if he can trust in turning his back for more than a second without the newcomer running off or doing something dangerous.)
His Stand is ultimately different enough that Mista's not quite sure if he actually helped any, but at least the radar was a breakthrough. By the time the sun was starting to dip, they'd exhausted themselves, drinking the water bottles dry and breathing heavily enough that when the older boy drops to his knees and throws their stuff into his bag before hastily swinging it over his shoulder, Narancia says nothing and meanders behind him for the rest of the long way back.
Letting a stranger into his flat was probably a horrible idea, but honestly Mista's past the point of caring by the time they shuffle in. It's nothing fancy: a kitchenette and a living room in one, a tiny bathroom with a shower down the hall, and a bedroom with a wardrobe whose contents were mostly on the floor or anywhere but inside it. He didn't take company here often and prefers to keep it that way. After years of having to share just about everything, it's nice having a space that's just his.
But he's too tired to shoo Narancia away, even has he takes up most of his couch.
"What's with the dumb hat, anyway? It's July." When he finally breaks the silence it's a surprise; they'd both been close to nodding off, probably. But, of all the things to come out swinging with, he had to choose the one that went straight for his pride.
"Dumb?! 'S lucky, that's what it is!"
"Lucky? Yeah, right! Lose a bet?" Narancia seems emboldened for some reason or another and makes to try and pull it off with quick hands. Mista is quick, but not quick enough to slap them away before it's tugged, lopsided and falling half off his head. They're left in a bit of a wrestling match on the couch despite fatigue, and for the first time all afternoon Narancia starts to laugh.
"What the fuck, man?" Mista demands, in the same breath as the newcomer wheezes back, "Aw crap, you do have ears!"
"What, didja think I didn't?!" Now he's a little offended, but Narancia keeps laughing, hands crossed over his stomach and doubling over. It's not that funny, objectively, but there's something infectious about his laughter and grin that after a few beats he's laughing, too.
"Nah, but I kinda wondered if you wore a hat that dumb 'cause they got cut off, or something. Like the ninja turtle guy, except it's a battle scar."
"What?" Mista's still laughing, still calming down, but before he can press the absurdity of the statement any further, Narancia's stomach makes a horrible gurgling sound loud enough to snap both of them to attention.
To be fair, his stomach does much the same not a second later.
"Shit, I'm starving. Thanks for reminding me." And then there's the sinking feeling that there is quite literally nothing to eat in the house.
"...You want pizza?"
To put off going to the store another day, he gets two, one margherita and one with as much meat as he can possibly order to throw on top of it. They kick the television to life and find something cool-looking with a car chase and settle in the for the evening.
Narancia's not that bad of a guy, he decides. Kinda wild, kinda dumb, but fun now that he's finally stopped trying to kill him. They gorge themselves and then Narancia busies himself with flipping through a stack of CDs spilling over on top of an old speaker with renewed energy. It's all rock or something with a good current of energy to motivate him on the rare bouts of deep cleaning he has to do to keep himself afloat.
"How old are you, anyway?" Mista asks during a commercial break while the newbie's busy being nosy.
"Huh? Just turned sixteen."
"Liar."
"Nuh-uh! How old did you think I was, anyway?! Bet I'm older than you, even!"
"Seventeen, try again," he snorts. "You look, like… what, twelve? Thirteen? No way you're older than Fugo."
"I fuckin' am!" He almost makes to throw a CD at him, but pauses with his arm in mid-air to actually look at the cover.
"-Aerosmith? Hey, hey, you'd think that'd be a cool name?"
"For what?"
"My Stand! Since it's an aero-plane. That sounds like a sick name. I'm calling it that."
Mista nods after a moment, a hand scratching his chin. It is a pretty sick name.
After that, the night is a bit of a blur. At some point they both crashed half on the couch, half on the floor, despite it barely being big enough for the both of them sitting. When Mista wakes up, his legs are cramped and there's a line of drool slipping down from his mouth to the armrest, where the material of the couch has gone and left an imprint on his cheek. The clock on the wall says it's right after six in the morning, and Narancia is nowhere to be found.
He should probably panic a little, but when he stretches his joints crack and he has the worst crick in his neck. He's rolling his neck and rubbing the back of it, still wearing the same clothes from the day before and probably needing a shower.
His front door is open just a crack, and he hears a muffled voice on the other side of it. He saunters over to find Narancia crouched down, picking cold salami off of a leftover slice of pizza and feeding it to something at his feet.
Feral cats are nothing new around his neighborhood, infamous for picking through the trash and gathering around the backs of restaurants. Good for mice and little else, he's always given them a wide berth, and shooed them off when they used his steps as a napping spot.
This particular one is a new face to him, all mottled brown and gold fur that's short and patchy, with a crooked-looking tail like it snapped in half once and never quite healed right. It shows absolutely no fear when he steps outside, just like he's greedily biting at Narancia's hands and gobbling down every piece of meat offered to him, a hop away from practically sitting in his lap.
"The hell are you doing?" he yawns.
"Heard a bunch of 'em yelling outside. This one just sat here when I yelled. He's kinda ugly, right? And his breath stinks!"
Narancia doesn't even spare a glance up at him when he talks, eyes too entranced on the kitten in question. The kitten seems completely unphased by his appearance, anyway, close to batting the rest of the pizza out of the boy's hand to finish it himself.
It'd be cute, probably- if Mista liked cats at all.
It's practically a primal fear, leftover from childhood but so ingrained into his memories that the second it bats the food out of Narancia's hand, claws out, they're both cursing and he's almost falling over his damn feet like a loser backing away from the damned thing.
"Kick it off the stairs, geez! It's gonna go tattle to the rest of 'em and I'm gonna be swarmed with cats."
"I'm not gonna kick a baby, what the fuck!"
"It's a cat!"
"Same difference!"
"What the hell are ya still doing here, anyway? -And that was my leftover pizza, anyway, jackass!"
"What, you gonna kick me off the stoop, too?!"
It's a goddamn challenge, and if he thought yesterday was the extent of Narancia's anger, he'd been sorely mistaken.
Something flashes in his eyes, punctuated by the early morning light and the long shadows cast by street lamps dying out, and it actually startles him for a second.
Whatever Fugo saw in him the day they met- Mista can't pretend to guess at what it was. But what he sees now, before him, is a kid with nowhere else to go.
"Shit," he mutters. His hand again goes to scratch the back of his neck and the silence draws out between them while the kitten makes awful smacking sounds gobbling every last crumb of pizza at its paws.
"-Gonna shower. You can use it after, if ya want. Buccellati probably wants us to pop by at some point." It's not an apology at all, but it's enough to see the anger in Narancia's eyes fade and brow furrow in surprise. The cat licks at the boy's fingers, still probably reeking of day-old pizza, a welcome distraction.
Mista leaves the front door cracked behind him, and hears a tell-tale yelp when the kitten's teeth inevitably come out to play.
They spend the day together, and then some. When he finally gets around to grunting out an apology, Narancia looks confused, then shrugs as though he doesn't know what else to do.
He stays the next night, then the night after.
The cat comes back a few days later when he's taking the trash out, and watches the entire time. He doesn't miss the fact that Narancia finds an old ashtray from someone's pile of junk in the alley, and scrubs it clean and fills it with water from the tap for the kitten.
It's a furry little invader, and there's no way in hell Mista's getting close enough to let it have a swing at his eye.
But, like much like Narancia, he gets used to its presence.
One day, a year later, they've got orders to meet down by the harbor. Abbacchio tells them to plan for being gone all day. On a whim, Guido Mista leaves a plate of cold pizza behind on the front step, next to the water dish, and when Narancia isn't looking, drops a blue collar with a little tinkling bell, so their not-so-feral cat gets used to it.
They may be a while- might as well leave the door open for the future.