PSEUMINO, VENTO AUREO.

✦.⁺ unreadable.

═ ☆. GUIDO MISTA AND BRUNO BUCCIARATI—junior and senior year of college, respectively.

You picked out the arrow cap that was Mista's signature. He was wearing an oversized tank top over red zebra-patterned board shorts. Uneven letters ran across his top reading Sex Pistols. That was a band, wasn't it? Mista was known to be a playboy and wildcard. He wasn't unkind, but he was impulsive and hotheaded.

Bruno, on the other hand, was easier to get along with. He was a little more low-key than the others and had always seemed friendly to you. Bruno wore a patterned white tee with golden zippers running down the sleeves. His chin-length hair was so black it was nearly blue. A braid was arranged along the top of his head, held in by hairclips. Gifts from an ex if the rumours were to be believed.

Mista served, slamming the ball so hard it soared over the opposing side's heads. The two guys apologized and turned to chase the ball down the beach. Mista caught you looking at him. He smirked at you, his dark eyes gleaming. You quickly looked away.

"I'm back," Giorno said, appearing suddenly beside you. He lifted his sunglasses into his hair, appraising the volleyball net. "What's going on?"

Mista waved him over. "Get on the court, Giorno. These guys can't serve for shit."

"Mista," Giorno chided, casting an apologetic look at the returning players. "Do you mind if I take one of your spots?"

They nodded eagerly. Giorno took the ball from one of you, and he left, looking relieved. Giorno shrugged off his windbreaker, throwing it to you. "Would you mind holding that for me? Oh, and this too." Giorno held out his Chanel sunglasses.

You took the glasses and bundled his windbreaker into your hands, swallowing your complaints. Despite yourself, you were excited to see him play.

"Kick their asses, Giorno," Trish called.

Giorno took his place at the serving line, spinning the ball in his hands as he eyed the court. In a fluid motion, he tossed the ball into the air. Keeping his eyes on it, GIorno took a few steps forward before leaping up and delivering an explosive jump-serve. Your eyes widened, and Trish whooped beside you.

The ball was on the opposite side in a flash. Mista just managed to get his arms under it. He swore when the receive went wide.

"Bruno, cover!"

Bruno ran backwards to catch up with the ball, jumping up and setting it. Mista was already at the net. He reared back, slamming the ball past the other side's attempted block. Instantly, Giorno dove on his stomach, an arm outstretched. The ball hit his hand, barely skimming the net. Mista lunged for it but missed.

"Out!" Bruno yelled.

"Let's gooo!" Mista pumped a fist in the air. He and Bucciarati high-fived. "Kiss my ass, Giorno! Stick to the textbooks, yeah?"

Giorno got to his feet, brushing the sand from his shirt. "Mi spiace," he apologized to the guy he'd been playing with. "I could've gotten that."

The guy waved his hands. "Ah, no, don't apologize. Totally my fault. I should've blocked."

Giorno smiled at him, and the guy's face flushed. Mista made a faintly disappointed noise.

"You can go now, my guy. Go get a drink or something." He watched the guy scurry off. "Freshmen are so weird. I'm not gonna bite, damn."

"Could've fooled me," Bruno mumbled under his breath.

Trish introduced you to Bruno and Mista. "And I'm pretty sure you already know these two?"