PSEUMINO, VENTO AUREO.

✦.⁺ lopside.

═ ☆. THE NEXT DAY TOOK PITY you and decided to make itself mild and peaceful.

After waking up too early, you had gone on a whim and strung up lengths of White Satin as a makeshift hammock. You managed to finish the majority of your classwork hanging from the ceiling.

Being doubly rare, you didn't have any tests or assignments due. You left your class at lunch, determined not to think about anything Stand-related today. You just wanted to have a mindlessly good day without meeting anyone bizarre or getting attacked.

Walking with the crush of students in the hall, you spied a familiar black beanie. You were bold enough to dodge a few students and catch up to the beanie's owner.

"Risotto."

He grunted.

"Where are you headed?"

"Lunch."

"In the corner by yourself?" Poking fun at Risotto was like popping bubble wrap. You just couldn't help yourself.

"Speaking from experience?"

You continued to follow Risotto, waiting for the inevitable moment when he would tell you to quit it.

"If I said a few of my friends wanted to meet for lunch, would you go?"

"Ah, this is your way of paying me back for nearly slitting my throat, right?"

"No, because your throat is fine."

You grinned crookedly. "I'll go to lunch. If you pay for it."

"Forget I asked," Risotto huffed, quickening his pace.

"Hey, I'm serious. I want to meet these friends of yours. And I want you to pay for my lunch. It's the least you can do after I saved your ass from Zucchero. Not to mention—"

Risotto let out the sigh of long-suffering people everywhere.

"As if I didn't waste enough money on the pawnbroker."

You patted Risotto's arm. "I'm a growing college student. It's not a waste."

‣ ♡. ⁀

At the café, you felt a surge of dread, realizing you might run into Fugo on his shift. Thankfully, a quick glance showed he wasn't around. You felt a little guilty at your relief, but after his outburst in his car? You still needed some time.

Formaggio and Prosciutto would've been here too, but Formaggio was off chasing some girl, and Prosciutto had mysteriously declined to come. Not that you minded. You'd be lying if you said you weren't still salty about the lighter.

You only vaguely knew all of Risotto's friends. From the twenty minutes that followed, the table's conversations usually started with Ghiaccio pushing up his red-rimmed glasses and complaining about something obscure. Illuso would immediately shoot Ghiaccio down. Risotto would grumble, Melone would smirk, and Pesci would ask a stupid follow-up question to whatever Ghiaccio had been complaining about. That would just wind Ghiaccio up all over again until either Risotto or Melone told him to shut up. It was like a formula the table followed every time.

Ghiaccio: But why don't foreign languages respect Italian words?

You: What do you mean?

Risotto: Don't encourage him.

Ghiaccio: No, I'm happy to elaborate. Take Venezia, for instance. Lovely city, lovely people. The name's not that hard to say or spell, either. But what do English speakers call it? Venice. Freaking Venice! Why do they do that? Because they don't respect Italian words.