don't look back into the sun

Looking up, all the way up, and Risotto stared down at him, eyes inscrutable; the weight of Risotto’s arm around his shoulders, chest like a brick wall, and a sense of low-key intimidation crept through Mista like a shiver; knowing that the other man could snap him like a twig if he wanted to, trusting that he would not. Not yet. There was still much to discuss. (and if he displeased Risotto, well, perhaps he’d have the presence of mind to step away first. He couldn’t overpower him; he’d have to rely on his speed and his wits and he’s not certain that either would be enough, but you only live once, and something in those depthless black eyes suggests that he’s not quite ready to shred Mista to pieces from the inside.)

Grinning up at Risotto, audacious as always. Goths are his specialty. God knows he’s had enough practice with Abbacchio. You just wind them up and watch them go.

“You want the long or the short story?” Abbacchio smiled unkindly, fists up and the front row of his teeth bared beneath black-matte lipstick, “Well, it doesn’t matter. I don’t feel like going into details, so I’ll give you the short one: we’re both fucking idiots.”

The mission was still on the go, but they’d failed in their original means of infiltration. Disguising as part of the attendees was a good start. But getting caught in a fight with men whose names they didn’t bother to learn before kicking their teeth in was a miscalculation. Blame it all on the alcohol, Abbacchio wanted to say, but he knew better than to lie to himself that badly. It was one hundred percent temper. Abbacchio nearly bit his own tongue while holding back curses at his own stupidity.

Mista, however, could only say so much for himself. 

Leaving two men like them alone in no-man’s land like this, and this was the result. Now they had to fight each other to keep the farse, or lift up the veil and blow their cover in front of everyone. It didn’t help that they were still locked in enemy territory. Abbacchio flexed his fingers, felt the knots of his muscles burn as the promise of violence drew closer. He’d hate to have to break Mista’s nose for the act. And his cheekbones framed his face nicely, so those were a no, too. I’ll go for the jaw. That’s on you for talking shit about Ayrton Senna.

“Let’s see if your fists can run as fast as your mouth does, asshole.”

of course it had been Abbacchio’s fault. He never could keep his mouth to himself. And, fine, perhaps Mista hadn’t helped matters; perhaps hauling that no-neck motherfucker up against the wall and feeding him his own teeth had made the situation worse rather than better, but there was nothing they could do about it now.

“Don’t worry about me, big guy.” Smirking. “You’ll never see me coming.”

He’d stripped off his shirt before the fight, not out of any sense of theatre or vanity but because he knew Abbacchio would make him bleed, and he’d paid a lot of fucking money for that shirt. The hat stayed on. Knuckles wrapped in tape, wrists loose. This scenario was new, but he’d fought before. He’d spent most of his teenage years scrapping on Napolitano streets. He knew how to throw a punch. That wasn’t in question.

The question was Abbacchio. Ex-cop. Taller than him by a good few inches, and heavier, broader. Of all his teammates Abbacchio was the one he’d want to fight least. Mista is quick; his instincts are sharp, and he can move, he can weave, but one solid hit from Abbacchio and he’d crumple like a paper bag. And the look in Abbacchio’s eyes (narrowed, eyeliner artfully applied, and his teeth gleam between black-painted lips like a predator’s) suggests that his whole body is in the game; that if they’re going to do this, they’re going to do it for real.

Got to make the act look good or they’ll be screwed.

(He could split those lips. He could smear that lipstick all over his knuckles, all over Abbacchio’s jaw. How would he look then? Chin wet with blood, the gleam of it on his teeth. The thought sends a not-unpleasant shiver down his spine.)

I’m going to take you out and get you shitfaced, he’d said, and he is a man of his word; first the martinis, because they’re a classy cocktail and Bruno is a classy man. He looks like he belongs here; suit still pristine after an entire day at his desk, the black gloss of his hair, shoes sharp enough to take a man’s eye out. Mista, for his part, is amazed they let him in at all; black jeans and cherry-red Doc Martens laced to the knee; purple bomber jacket and pink beanie pulled tight over his ears, because it’s January and it’s fucking cold outside, and he knows he looks like an explosion at the magic marker factory but that’s just his aesthetic. If he weren’t mafioso they’d have barred him for life by now. First the martinis, and then, as Bruno had loosened up - cheeks flushed bright, blue eyes glazed and glossy, and that easy smile, the one Mista would gladly pay a million Euro just to glimpse - he’d grown bold, ordered a tray of sambuca shots; goaded Mista into setting them on fire with the tip of his cigarette, and he’d almost lost his eyebrows but it had been worth it just to hear him laugh. To see his eyes light up with sheer joy.

(and more shots, and more shots, because the drunker Bruno gets, the more competitive he becomes, and Mista has always been a sucker for a challenge)

He holds his drink better than Bruno can, but after the fourth shot he can no longer pretend that he isn’t drunk as fuck; by the sixth shot it’s all he can do to put one foot in front of the other, and it’s closing time, and somehow, they have to get home.

“C’mon, Boss.” Peeling Bruno from his chair, and he’s slumped in his seat, cheek pressed against the bar; eyes half-closed, but his lips are moving, and Mista can’t decipher a word of it. He slips an arm around Bruno’s waist, hauling him up, and he’s so much heavier than he looks; narrowboned and slender but strong, and dangerous. “Time to go.”

“Go where?” Bruno mumbles. His hair is all dishevelled; sleepy eyes and crumpled mouth and still he is beautiful.

“You?” Quirking a smile. “Straight to bed. You’re gonna feel this tomorrow.”

They stumble-walk to the taxi rank, half-carrying one another. It’s mid-January; a chill wind is rolling in off the Mediterranean (ink-black on this moonless night) and their breath plumes white in the dark. They stand beneath the stark glow of a solitary street light, waiting for their cab. Bruno isn’t wearing a coat even though it’s like two degrees out, and he’s shivering compulsively even as he giggles at something Mista can’t even remember saying; it feels like the very bones of him are rattling against one another.

“Jesus, you’re freezing,” Mista murmurs.

narancia’s head lifts up to the sound of the familiar voice across the table. his attention is redirected to mista from the small handheld console in his hands ⎯ setting the volume the 8-bit sounds lower as if to focus better on the other. the suggestion instantly sets a grin on narancia’s face; mista you genius motherfucker.

it isn’t like the trip would be anything new or special, considering the two visit it sometimes; on their free days just to hang out together … or whenever fugo decides he’s had enough of their shenanigans and needs his time alone. but narancia didn’t mind going there. he liked the place. liked spending time with mista. liked watching naples as the lights that illuminated the shore reminded him of the dots on aerosmith’s radar.

and besides ⎯ abbacchio’s car was cool as shit and if they got to “borrow” it that would surely be an added plus.

“yeah?”, narancia starts with excitement already clear in his voice. “are we going right now?” patience had never been his strongest point and with a great idea such as this, it just couldn’t wait for long.

Okay, so he already knew it was a cool idea, but he knows it’s a really cool idea the moment Narancia’s attention diverts instantly from his game; the way his eyes light up, like a pinball machine, and his grin is worth the ass-kicking Abbacchio will hand them both if he finds out what they’re up to.

“You wanna go now?” Not that there’s any reason not to; Mista’s been bored as hell all evening, and he enjoys driving with Narancia, because Narancia talks a lot, and he likes it when Nara talks; he’s funny as hell when you let him speak without interruption.

(Of course, they’ve not agreed on who’s driving yet, but since Narancia hates Mista’s taste in music, and the rules dictate that he who rides shotgun controls the tunes, he’s pretty sure he can convince Nara to let him take the wheel this time.)

rules: think carefully about your character and their development through their journey (canon or oc) within their story. fill out the chart and tag whoever you want! multi-muses, feel free to pick any of your characters—just a few, or all of them. repost, don’t reblog.

titles: the path through the darkness, the resolute, lucky star

god of: good fortune, endurance, loyalty, emotional strength, justice against the odds, resolve. he is sometimes worshipped as a god of hedonism

associated with: good health and swift recovery, self-sufficiency, protection from harm, simplicity, the righting of wrongs, heart over mind, justice for the scorned, earth, rocks and minerals, natural structures, the intersection of sea and land, earth coexisting with ocean, archipelagos and small islands, enduring storms, the first light of morning. sometimes, he is associated with reckless hedonism and wilful self-destruction

sacred plants: plants which break through rock and concrete, plants which grow on the rocky shore; saxifrage, forget-me-nots, dandelions, sea campion, samphire, viola, lithodora, trilliums

sacred stones / gems: diamond, aventurine, black onyx, obsidian

sacred animals: fox, eagle, ibex

colours: black, red, gold

food: wine, bread, cheese, salt: the simple ingredients which can be eaten alone or shared, which can form a simple meal or the foundations of a feast

scents: dry summer earth, petrichor, the salt tang of the shore

accepted offerings: dried herbs, handwritten votives, coins, cloth imbued with blood, sweat, tears or a combination thereof, words carved in stone

Doppio had actually been staring at something past the male, but apparently it had come off as him staring at him! Which was not good. Especially when he recognized Mista, from the boss’ description he recognized Mista pretty well, especially that pistol.. wait.

He squeaks, seeing the pistol in the other’s pants, and he holds his hands out in front of him with a fearful expression. “Ah, hey! I wasn’t staring at you! P-Please don’t hurt me!” He whines, lips trembling in fear.

His instinct is to apologise profusely. Working for Passione makes you suspicious; you start to see potential enemies in the shadows, and nine times out of ten they’re just ordinary civilians going about their business, but experience has taught him that you can’t be too careful.

Really though, Mista being fiercely protective of/affectionate towards his friends is a very important headcanon and a hill I will die on.