Golden Days

Chapter One

Its a fight to the end. A battle to hold the winners aloft- bathe them in glory and immortality.

That's right, Bill. Only the best will come out of this at the top- a fight of the ages. Yesterday we saw our first twelve bands get cut from the competition, and today's shaping up with a whole new batch.

Have you placed any bets on the final two, yet?

Bill- you know that's illegal. But, I've gotta say, Golden Wind and La Squadra are both standing out amongst the others. If I were to bet, not saying that I would, I would put good money on those two.

The slow tapping of a drumstick echoed through the room, drowning out the sound of the radio. Tension was tangible in the air, silence pushing down on them. A soft grunt, followed by a pained whine.

The tempo of the drumstick increased, tension growing higher as the sound of thrumming bass echoed behind the stage.

It broke with a pained exclamation.

"Shit, man! Not again!"

Mista dropped his phone, letting out a long moan as he fisted his hands in his hat, dismay evident in his voice. Abbacchio sat back with a smug smile as Narancia cackled like a mad witch. Fugo, hunched in the corner, remained resolutely unimpressed. Buccellati shook his head, raven hair slipping against olive-toned cheeks as his lips quirked into a smile.

"How do you do it?" Mista moaned, casting another forlorn glance at the red flashing across his screen. Abbacchio leaned back against the couch, smirk only widening.

"I wouldn't share my secrets with a brat like you," he drawled, though there was no real venom in his voice.

Mista let out a long breath as Narancia swung an arm over his shoulders, drumstick tapping Mista's forearm as he laughed.

"He got you goooood," he sang between bursts of laughter.

With a long groan, Mista coughed up the money into Abbacchio's waiting palm. Buccellati shook his head, though didn't say anything else.

"Twenty minutes," a timid voice said from the doorway. Abbacchio's face instantly reverted to his signature scowl at the sight of the blond-haired boy. Buccellati straightened, glancing at him with a small smile.

"Thank you, Giorno."

The teenager stepped away as the rest of them stood, finishing up the last of their preparations. Mista clapped the youngest on the shoulder, shaking his thin frame with a wink.

"Wish us luck," he said brightly before pulling his hat over his hair. Buccellati stopped him, tipping his chip up to the light. Mista let out an aggravated sigh as Bruno fixed a smudge of his makeup. With an eyeroll and shake of tiger-print jeans, he disappeared into the hallway. The rest of them followed suit, Abbacchio the last to leave, a dark scowl lingering behind him, resting on the last occupant of the room.

...Three Months Earlier...

The restaurant seemed to suck in a collective breath as the rowdy group of teenagers stepped in.

The waitstaff drew straws for the unlucky person to serve them before heading over to their table. Rowdy laughter echoed through their small room, the leader of the group offered a quiet, apologetic smile. The unlucky waiter returned the smile, strained, before serving them their drinks. Shortly after that, straw wrappers went flying through the air.

All in all, it was a normal Friday evening for the small band.

Buccellati was sitting at the table, watching the younger boys chatter, their conversation broken by squeals of too-loud laughter from Narancia and empathetic gestures from Mista.