men like us (Bosselot/Giomis oneshot)

men like us

The paper target had been shot to pieces. With the slightest flutters, more scraps fell from the paper body until it was unrecognizable. How easily this thing in the shape of a person had come undone.

Guido Mista stared with some surprise at the man next to him, whose handiwork this had been. In truth, he thought he'd been some arrogant tryhard. That self-assured walk into the range, and that ridiculous gun-spinning just to shoot at a target. But this man clearly had skill. With a cool turn of his gaze, he briefly returned the look. Mista could still feel himself in the corner of his eyes.

Averting his own eyes, Mista returned them to the target in front of him. Adopting his typical shooting calmness, he reloaded his revolver, making a show of slowly and carefully aiming it. The first shot had barely reached the target's gun-pointing hand before the next reached its head—then its heart, its stomach, and the rest of its vital points. Shots so easy for Mista to make that he didn't need to put any effort into aiming at all.

An approving, somewhat impressed, grunt drew his attention back to that man. "I've gotta say, I don't see many other people using revolvers nowadays. Name's Ocelot, by the way."

"Mista," he returned.

Ocelot nodded. "Why do you use a revolver? You get only six shots, and there's a lot of recoil—most can't handle that."

Mista shrugged. "It was the first type of gun I ever used. I ended up in a fight with some... unsavory characters, and ended up having to shoot them with one of their own guns. I never really felt the need for any other type of gun. The revolver suited me just fine." He thought for a bit, eyeing Ocelot. "You look like you've been using those guns for a while. Do you stick to them out of habit?"

Ocelot shook his head. "Someone I admire suggested that I use a revolver. Said it suited my technique best. He was right." He took a breath, looking at Mista as if trying to search him for something. "Have you ever known someone you can't help but respect? Well... respect's not quite the word. Too impersonal... I mean, someone you'd go anywhere, do anything for?"

"Someone whose dream becomes your dream?" Mista was curious about this Ocelot now, wondering about the man he might be thinking of.

"Yeah. The type of person you live for."

"Or would die for."

Ocelot nodded solemnly. "That can happen far too easily." Mista could tell from the tremble—well-contained, but still there—in his voice that this was something he knew all too well.

"Yeah." Mista sighed, remembering the friends he'd lost all too soon. He loaded his revolver again, taking another few shots just to take his mind off of things. If he lost Giorno... his hand trembled, nearly dropping the gun. Goddamn still targets. They weren't even a challenge for him.

There was an unexpected softness in Ocelot's voice when he spoke again. "Hey. You want to go through that challenge course together? The one with the moving targets. I'd like to really see your skill."

Mista smiled. That certainly sounded better for him than just standing there. "Let's do it." They moved through the course, shooting everything that moved, one shooting while the other reloaded. No matter how fast the targets rushed by, they didn't survive. They were wood here, sturdier than the flimsy paper of the straight range, but still nothing against the men's bullets. How easily, how quickly, how thoroughly they were blown apart, turned to nothing more than splinters. Gone in a moment, no longer useful to this range.

At least wood could be replaced.

A target sprung out behind them. Giorno turned his head, shooting over his shoulder. The bullet went true, as always. Catching it in his periphery, Ocelot smiled approvingly, continuing to shoot the targets in front.