Chapter Text
At barely eighteen years old, Guido Mista can hardly be considered an adult. By legal standards, of course, he is actually an adult. Sure, he carries himself proudly amongst his group of friends, and forevermore finds ways to make them all laugh or want to strangle him, depending on who is being asked. And yeah, somewhere along the lines of high school, his relaxed attitude landed him with best friends from all walks of life - several of which are much younger than him. Furthermore, he might take it upon himself to be protective of those younger members of his little circle, but... when things come down to the wire, Mista is immature beyond measure. Hardly an adult.
Take today, for example.
Giorno is in the school's courtyard with Buccellati and Abbacchio, two college students Mista befriended back during his own first years as a high school student. Abbacchio is a part-time member of the campus police group that patrols the area to ensure that no students are causing trouble, and Buccellati often spends his time helping office staff for work-study. Narancia, another senior comrade of Mista's, is listening to music. Fugo is... doing whatever it is that Fugo does, and Mista is sitting with Trish, drinking coffee while she occasionally sips at her mineral water. She can easily be considered a less-than-ideal conversational partner thanks to the stuck up aura she exhibits here and there, but Mista is never one to turn down conversation. Besides, somewhere in his heart, there seems to be a soft spot for the orphaned girl.
Mista can relate in his own ways, after all.
He cares for the pink haired girl's well-being as much as he cares for the rest of his comrades, but there are certain times that he wishes he spent time with a different circle of friends. Trish, it seems, plans to make right now one of those particular instances. A long ended conversation - ended weeks ago, actually - resurfaces before Mista can put an end to it.
"So..." Trish begins, putting her mineral water on the table before them. Her hands come to rest in her lap, and a perfectly manicured eyebrow archs in Mista's direction. He knows that look all too well for comfort. For a sophomore in high school, she can certainly fix him with an expression that reminds him of a mother readying herself to scold her child... "When are you planning on telling Giorno that you like him?"
Her inquiry catches Mista off guard so much that instead of spitting out his coffee, he chokes on it. The styrofoam cup is nearly dropped onto the lunch table, but Mista holds onto it for dear life in an attempt to ground himself. The coffee burns even more this way, stinging his throat and nose while his eyes water and his other hand comes up to smudge the liquid away. He must look the picture of distraught, he thinks somewhere in the back of his mind. With his hat crooked, eyes blurred, and a rattling cough preventing him from speaking, Mista feels as agonized as he knows he looks. His face is crimson, if not for nearly choking to death, then from embarrassment. Thankfully, other students in the vicinity pay him no mind aside from a few stray glances.
Dear God, why now? Could this conversation not be dead and left in the past, already?
Evidently not.
Trish wordlessly slides several napkins in his direction. The senior takes a well deserved moment to collect himself, using the back of his sleeve instead of the napkins to wipe his eyes, as well as the coffee from his mouth and chin. "As far as I'm concerned? Never. He's a good friend to me, nothin' more." He mutters. Another sip of coffee to clear the catch in his throat, and he slams the styrofoam coffee cup on the lunch table with enough force to slosh the remaining contents out. Mista makes a mental note to get a lid next time. He uses the napkins now, mopping up stray droplets with a scowl. "Plus, Jesus Christ, he's fifteen!" Mista adds the words with a scandalized hiss, reaching a hand up to scratch nervously at the dark tresses hidden mostly beneath his beanie. "I'm an adult now - I can get in major shit for that kinda stuff, y'know! And I don't need any more trouble with the law."
She knows all too well, if the glimmer in her eyes is anything to go by.
Trish's lips curve into a wry smile at Mista's expense and she leans forward, expression bright in such a way that causes Mista's brain to raise more than one red flag in panic. "If I remember correctly, he'll be turning sixteen on the same day that we have prom, which is only a few days away," she notes, her tone almost sing-song by now. He groans back at her, both hands reaching up to rub at his face in exhaustion. She laughs, a silent declaration of her victory on the matter. Mista allows her that much, albeit grudgingly. "Besides, I see plenty of seniors dating kids younger than Giorno and I nowadays. Thirteen year olds, fourteen year olds, you name it. Plus, it's not like you just started liking him or anything. You've liked him for over a year now, and pretty soon, you're going to be done with high school and you won't see him as much anymore! Get it over with now and save the heartbreak for some other time."
Mista knows that he looks panic stricken when he realizes that Trish is right, but he can barely help it. His senior year is almost over - there are six weeks left to the entire semester, and then he will graduate. After that, Trish and Giorno will become juniors, and Mista will... do whatever it is that he plans to do with his life after college. There is little hope of him getting a decent job, since during the start of this year, campus police caught him trying to trade narcotics for a pack of cigarettes off another kid. That made a permanent mark on his record outside of school thanks to the brief trip to jail - being an adult is fun - and his barely passing grades made a mark on his plans for college, too. All this shit for a pack of smokes he never actually got his hands on in the end.
At least it made him look a little more cool to Giorno. Hopefully.
"Trish," the brunette whines, dropping his head down onto the lunch table hard enough to make a loud "thunk" noise. "Trish, I've got it so damn bad..." He avoids looking at her, but he knows without a doubt that her brows are furrowed and she is about to tell him that it could be worse.
"It could be a lot worse, you know. You could have never met Giorno in the first place." He hit the nail on the head.
"Knew you'd say that. I think that'd be better than this."
"Well, maybe take my advice for once, in the name of love." She chides, bopping him on his head with the water bottle. He grunts in response, folding both arms in front of himself miserably; only then does he look up to her, mustering the most pitiful look possible. It gets him nowhere - Trish's stern expression refuses to budge.
The senior chooses his words carefully. "What's your advice?"
"Easy!" she chirps, shifting a little in her seat. True to her nature, she looks down her nose at him, as if the answer is truly that obvious. It is. "Ask Giorno to go to your prom with you. The worst that can happen is, he turns you down. Or he'll accept, you two go to prom together, you realize you're hopelessly, madly in love with him, and you'll tell him. And then he'll tell you he doesn't feel the same."
"Are you speakin' from experience?"
She squints at him. Bad move.
"No, but at least my experiences aren't so bad that I need to ask an underclassman for romantic advice." Blue eyes are piercing right through him. She speaks with enough acidity to melt the table that separates them, and Mista inwardly cringes. Very bad move.
He leans back in his seat, breathing through his nose. His stomach feels sick, like he might throw up at any given moment; on top of it all, Mista's heart is pounding so hard that it might hammer out of his chest. Giorno is nowhere near him, and just discussing him is enough to make the eighteen year old nervous.
"Okay," he says on a shaky exhale, reaching to take a sip of the now room temperature coffee that he pushed aside earlier. "Okay, I can do that... I think."
"Do it soon. The clock is ticking."