Chapter Text
It’s been a long summer, maybe the longest one in Mista’s life. Maybe. No, wait, cancel that. Now that he was properly thinking about it, the worst was when he was eleven. That summer was bad.
He had no cash or family vacations lined up, hadn’t gotten a phone yet, not a single available friend, and read through all his magazines at least ten times (speeding through the fourth in record time); now that summer was three months of total boredom delivered straight from hell.
But this one’s also been pretty bad as far as Mista’s concerned.
There’s a week left before senior year starts and he’s gotten to the point of just waiting outside the local cinema for somebody to talk smack about Clint Eastwood, so he can beat them up and take their money for dinner. Mista used to do it once a month for some extra spending cash during the school year, but it’s become a daily thing over the course of the summer.
“You didn’t like the movie?”
“Mmmm, the plot was fine, you know? It’s just that Clint’s acting was so bad there, I couldn’t get immers- “
Smack. Then another smack immediately after the first. The man tries to fight back, but Mista has the element of surprise and knocks him out cold by the seventh punch. His (probably) girlfriend runs back into the cinema while Mista takes the cash from his wallet. Two ten-dollar bills and two twenties pop out.
Four bills total.
Well, Mista thinks, this isn’t gonna cut it. Throwing the wallet onto the unconscious man, one ten-dollar bill messily put back inside, Mista decides it’s time to take his leave and head for dinner before security comes. He checks his watch.
6:21pm, not bad. Shouldn’t be too busy.
Mista’s nicest friend, Bucciarati, had told him of a restaurant that he ‘should definitely try’ before he’d started on an entire-summer-devoted vacation touring Europe with his dad; citing it as a much-needed break and bonding time for them.
Mista had definitely been listening to everything, but had forgot the restaurant’s address within a day or so of their parting. Yesterday, however, he finally bit the bullet and texted Bucciarati, who quickly replied to give him the restaurant name and address with a simple ‘I hope you enjoy it! :)’
A casual fifteen-minute walk later, enjoying the warm sun and slight breeze, Mista finds himself outside the doors of ‘Trattoria Trussardi.’ While the location’s environment itself isn’t too inviting, a horribly tanned and cracked sidewalk with weeds taking root, the building itself looks clean enough to not deter Mista from strolling in.
The only guests consist of an older couple already sitting at a booth and eating, while a man in a chef’s uniform pauses from wiping another booth to greet him,
“Welcome, signore, please sit anywhere you’d like.”
“Sure.” Mista replies while giving a slight nod as he finds a table a few spots away from the couple, facing the kitchen. He takes note of the pleasantly dim light and cool temperature as the chef approaches him, water pitcher in hand.
Mista allows the man to turn over his cup and fill it in silence while he glances at his nametag,
“Hello, I’m Tonio, and this is my restaurant. It’ll be a pleasure to serve you today.” As Tonio speaks, he just looks at Mista, intensely eyeballing his entire form.
His face reminds Mista of a person suffering from severe constipation.
“Hey, uh-” Mista begins after a few awkward seconds, pausing when Tonio’s face returns to calm normalcy with a quiet sigh.
“Okay.”
“…Okay?”
“I’ll be back with your order shortly, signore.” Tonio calmly deadpans, and begins walking to the kitchen.
“But I didn’t get a menu, much less even order yet!” Mista shouts back in utter confusion.
“Oh, no, no, there aren’t any menus here. I know exactly what you need and pick it out just for you.” With that, Tonio takes advantage of Mista’s stunned silence and retreats to begin cooking.
What the fuck? Mista is now convinced that Bucciarati is pulling some kind of prank on him. It doesn’t sound like him, but this is too bizarre. There are no cameras to be found when Mista’s eyes scan the ceiling; but he does note that lack of music. Maybe on purpose, to hear his reactions better?
After a few minutes of annoyed confusion, Mista decides that it doesn’t really matter; as long as he can eat something decent, whatever it is that comes out. If he doesn’t like it, he can just get angry and leave without paying.
With that settled, Mista does send out a quick, and slightly cryptic, text to Bucciarati (‘hey this place is kinda weird n I hope im not getting poisoned??? Btw hope ur having fun on the vacay u deserve it’) while he waits, and takes a sip of his water and-
Oh. Oh wow. That’s some… that’s some really good water? Mista instantly decides it’s the best damn water he’s ever had. Not a minute passes and his water is now in dire need of a refill. He vaguely notices the couple giggling (as quietly as they can manage) while they watch him, but it doesn’t bother him too much because he’s too preoccupied with the happy tears spilling down his tan cheeks.
Is water suppose to do that? Whatever. It’s fine. His eyes feel so much clearer. Maybe he should cry more often.
Mista begins thinking about the possible benefits and restrictions of having a daily cry (which he would definitely be asking his friends about once they all meet up again), and a short while later the chef returns with a bowl of… ribollita? He rarely eats that but, hey, if the water’s already making him cry, it’s worth trying the rest.
Tonio speaks as he refills his cup, “Enjoy, I believe it will be perfect for you.”
Mista can only let out a gurgling hum in reply as he drinks the water anew. Tonio smiles warmly and promptly disappears, Mista presumes to chat with the elder couple, he can’t really hear anything over the lovely seashore symphony playing in his brain.
A few minutes pass and it’s time to try that ribollita. Mista attempts to get at least a little bit of every ingredient he can onto the spoon, the combined fresh and inviting smell is overloading his nose, and he’s drooling already inside his mouth. He swallows to make room and takes his first bite and the flavor hits him.
The music’s definitely back and better than before. The taste of the holy mixture can only be described in a long, drawn out metaphor that Mista’s lost on trying to explain. It’s hearty, nutty, slightly sweet, and-- wait, is that a piano?
Mista pauses when the realization hits him that the music isn’t coming from his foodgasm, there’s an honest to god piano playing in the restaurant. When the fuck did that start? He looks around and sees that, yup, there’s a whole ass grand piano on an elevated section of the restaurant.
How the ever-loving fuck did he miss that?
The piano faces away from Mista, so he can’t really see who’s playing it, only their back, but they’re good.
The notes being hit are soft, calming, and bring on a sense of melancholy. It’s perfect for a stress-free sit-down dinner like this. Mista notices that the elderly couple has long finished their meals but haven’t made a move to leave yet, instead opting to turn their bodies to watch the performance with quiet whispers.
“Oh honey, I’m so glad that kid’s back, I was scared he was just a visitor.”
“Me too, his music is always nice and he’s always so polite. I hope Tonio’s paying him at least.”
Their conversation fades out as Mista looks, really looks, at the pianist’s relaxed back. Apparently, he’s a guy, and he does look young; with shiny blond hair in a braid, wearing some kind of a blue suit with dark triangles on the shirt’s back. His pale hands coming in and out of Mista’s view as he gracefully moves along the keys.
The guy, as far as Mista can tell, makes no mistakes and keeps up a steady pace. He doesn't really listen to piano music often- but it's actually very peaceful.
Maybe Mista should take up an instrument? He won’t be this good immediately, but when he hears some good music being played, he always feels inspired to pick something up. After one song ends and another begins, Tonio coming to refill his water, Mista realizes that he’s spaced out and needs to finish that ribollita before it gets cold and sad.
The mixture of a wonderful live piano and delicious meal rolled into one has Mista slowing down his chewing akin a sloth’s level to enjoy it all.
Roughly twenty minutes pass in this fashion before the fourth (or fifth? Hopefully.) song ends, with nothing coming after it. Mista’s practically done, hoping what money he does have is enough- does Tonio charge for the live music? How much was the food? Good questions. He has no idea. It was definitely good enough to pay, but the price better be reasonable.
As Mista thinks, the pianist passes by his table, shoes elegantly clicking on the hardwood floor, to stop at the kitchen door just as Tonio comes out, a to-go bag in hand.
“Giorno! That was lovely, thank you again for coming by, I love how your playing brightens the place… are you sure you don’t want to eat here?”
The boy, Giorno, shakes his head and a soft, smooth voice replies, “Thank you very much, but I have to say no. My father doesn’t like me staying out too long and gets worried, and I also prefer to eat dinner while I study.”
“Ahhh,” Tonio nods while handing Giorno the bag, “I understand. My mother also worried about me staying out late when I was young. At the time I honestly thought it was an annoyance, but with the way the streets are looking after dark, I can’t blame her now.”
Mista sees Giorno’s free hand move to cradle his own waist before answering, quieter, where Mista needs to strain his ears to hear, “You’re right. It’s just despicable, something definitely needs to be done.”
“We can only hope... I’ve already told most of my regulars, but I’m actually going to move and relocate my restaurant about half a year from now. Maybe when things get better I can visit home often.”
“Ah, where are you planning on moving to, Mr. Tonio?”
“It’s a small town in Japan, Morioh. After doing some research, I found myself drawn there. I’ve been practicing Japanese for almost a year now, and I think it’s about time.”
“Your restaurant and presence will be missed here for sure, this is the best food I’ve eaten since I moved here.”
A genuine smile crosses Tonio’s face, “Thank you so much, be safe getting home.”
Mista quickly looks down to his empty bowl before the blond can turn to catch him staring creepily at them, and Tonio cashes out the elderly couple. Mista chances a glance at the boy as he passes, and instantly notes that Giorno is just as pretty as his piano playing.
Big, blue eyes that seductively curl upwards at the edges, long eyelashes, proportional lips, and cheeks sculpted by the Greek gods. Calm, self-assured expression painting his face. His most notable feature, however, is three large curls above his forehead. They remind Mista of a pinup model, and pastries, and he’s internally grateful there’s only three.
In a trance, Mista quickly pays (only 15 dollars- score!) and hurries outside into the dark to look for the pretty blond. He’s not sure what he will, or wants to, say, but he knows it’ll bother him for awhile if he doesn’t try to do something.
He finds Giorno standing at a bus stop just down the street with said bus approaching the stop in, what Mista feels like is, slow motion. He can also feel his face heat up like a furnace at whatever he’s about to do, and it’s not even cold out.
Mista briskly heads over and stops next to Giorno, at what he hopes is a safe distance, breath uneven from how much he wants to puke. Giorno only moves his light blue eyes to glance at Mista, quickly, then returns to staring ahead as the bus pulls closer. Mista takes a deep breath to steady his nerves,
“Hey, you. You were playing the piano at Tonio’s right?” Mista hoped that came out at least half as confident as he heard it. He doubts it.
Giorno had slightly jumped in surprise from the words, which has Mista ready to just die, but mercifully turns to him with a, “Yes?”
The bus lets out a creak and ‘shhhhhhh’ as the doors open. Before Mista can stop himself,
“It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”
They both still in surprise, Giorno’s mouth parting, before he hurriedly replies, “Thanks.” And gets on the bus without another word. Mista feels like his heart’s going to pop out as he watches the doors close, bus driving away.
Ten seconds later, Mista realizes, ‘That was my bus, too.’ and begins his walk home.