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Mista awoke with a groan and a pounding headache. His eyelids felt heavy as he groped at the bedside table, fumbling for the lamp switch. There was a sharp clatter as his hand catapulted something off the bedside table and he swore under his breath. God, he felt really bad, he thought, finally grasping the switch with clumsy fingers and turning it on.
The light seemed to barely illuminate his bedroom, and, judging by the lack of morning sun, he assumed it was sometime early in the morning. “Gotta get a clock for this place,” he muttered, the same thing he’d said for the last four years, slowly sitting up to get out of bed.
As soon as he stood up, he felt his head swim and his body lurch to the nearest wall. He clumsily grabbed onto the bedside table, face heating up. Something else clattered to the floor as the table shook. His brain felt like it was rolling as he looked at the door to the attached bathroom. Just splash some water on his face, he’d feel better, and then he could be first at the kitchen table, smugly asking Fugo why he’d slept in so late.
The bathroom seemed way farther than usual, Mista thought, as he fumbled at the knob and stumbled to the sink. He reached over and flicked the light switch, finally getting a good look at his face.
Mista narrowed his eyes as his reflection came into focus. Yeah, he looked about as bad as he felt. His eyes were red and puffy, and despite his tan skin his face showed a strong flush. His sinuses felt like they were about to pop out of his skull, and his throat had started to ache. “Fuck,” he said, the Mista-in-the-Mirror reflecting him. Cold water wasn’t fixing this.
That thing is, he hadn’t been sick in years . Probably not since he first joined Passione. He lumbered back toward his bed and remembered when he and Narancia had once been out of commission with some cold for a week, and Abbachio had been pissed he’d had to pick up the slack. He’d considered himself lucky, blessed even, to have lived his life illness free this far. And Lady Luck has finally turned her back on Guido Mista, he thought to himself, curling back up under the blanket and closing his eyes. It was probably long overdue.
Mista awoke a second time to an obnoxious pounding on the bedroom door. He debated sending one of the Pistols over to shout at the other person, because he highly doubted Giorno would have knocked more than once, and he was perfectly fine communicating stand-only with anyone else. In the end, he decided to get it himself, his back making a loud crack. The whole routine of getting up, groaning, and marveling over how awful he felt was going to get really old, Mista thought, as he slowly walked towards the entrance.
He opened the door a crack and peeked out. Annoyed green eyes met his. “Wh—Trish? What are you doing here at—”
“Noon?” She finished for him. “Because it’s noon, and even Giorno was starting to look a bit worried. So I came over here to drag you out of bed, but…” She looked him over, frowning. “Mista, you look awful. Worse than you usually do.”
“Gee, thanks,” he responded. “I was planning to let Giorno know, but—” he cut himself off with an ugh as a sudden wave of nausea swept through him. Were colds always this bad? Had he just forgotten that particular brand of suffering?
“I can tell Giorno for you.” Mista felt Trish’s hand steady his shoulder. “Just try and sleep this off, OK?” Mista glanced up at Trish and—was that an actual look of concern on her face? “Hey, look, it’s just a cold,” he croaked out, “it’s not like I’m suffering from scarlet fever.” He attempted to wave off her concern. “By tomorrow, I’ll be rid of whatever this is. So don’t look so worried, jeez.”
Trish’s concerned expression quickly evaporated as she huffed at him and shooed him back to his bed. “Just don’t leave your room. The last thing we need is you spreading ‘whatever this is’ all over the mansion.”
Turns out, Mista didn’t need to worry about leaving his room to spread his plague. They were coming straight to him.
Not even a few hours later, Fugo entered the room, practically barging in. What were they, animals ? At his surprised expression, Fugo snorted and said, “Sorry I wasn’t the blond you were hoping to see.” And Mista chose to ignore that .
Mista motioned to Fugo to sit at the chair that had been shoved to the side of his bed. “Take a seat, visitor hours are still open.” He often forgot how much Fugo had changed when he suddenly reappeared a year ago. Gone was the easily embarrassed and quick to anger kid he’d been close to when they were together in Passione, replaced with whoever he’d become in his three-year absence. It was a topic Mista had never pried into, not wanting to revisit the feelings of.. everything that had happened.
Fugo immediately flipped the chair around and leaned his arms on top, striking what Mista could only assume Fugo thought was a ‘cool gangster pose’, and maybe there were some parts of him that had stayed the same after all.
“You look like crap,” Fugo started, after fully taking Mista in. “Incredible observation,” Mista responded, “anything else you want to diagnose me with, Dr. Pannacotta?”
Fugo laughed. “Man, it’s been forever since you’ve been sick. The last time was that cold like five years ago with Narancia, right?” Mista nodded, leaning his head back on his pillow.
“Yeah, Abbachio was pissed about it.”
“Abbachio was always pissed about something.”
“Yeah..” And then there was an uncomfortable silence, as Mista knew they were both dancing around the boundaries of a forbidden topic. Conversations about their old friends usually went that way.
Fugo broke the silence by immediately leaning over and shoving the back of his hand against Mista’s forehead. “Jesus!” he shouted, startled. Two things became immediately clear: first, despite telling him to use lotion on his chappy-ass hands as soon as he’d joined Passione, Fugo had clearly never taken his advice, and second, they felt like they had been dunked in ice.
“Do you just shove your hands in the freezer every morning? And just assault sick people too?” Mista complained, as Fugo pulled his hand away. “I think it’s a side effect of Purple Haze,” he replied, which Mista didn’t believe, but OK, “And I was checking for a fever. Giorno was asking about it, so I told him I’d report back.”
Mista’s thoughts briefly flitted to Giorno, and a small pang of disappointment that he hadn’t come to check himself, but that was dumb so he was moving on. “Well Doctor, I think you’ve got your diagnosis. I sure am sick. Now get out, “ He shooed Fugo away with a casual wave of his hand, “I’ve got like three Fast and Furious movies to rewatch.”
Fugo shrugged and gave an irritating grin back at him. “Feel better, poor helpless Guido. I’ll tell Giorno you miss him.”
Mista closed his eyes as Fugo shut the door, a pulsing headache behind his eyes threatening to return.
The worst thing about being sick was that it was boring . Less than a day into his quarantine, and Mista was beginning to feel stir crazy. He leaned against the pillow, fingers tapping on the blanket, wishing he could do anything but lay in bed. And yet it never failed that when he felt good enough to stand, he’d be overcome with a coughing fit, or another wave of nausea, or dizziness so bad his knees wobbled and gave out. It was like the illness, perhaps even God Himself, was testing him.
He looked up as he heard a creak, and saw Trish’s pale arm slide the door open to allow something through. Mista watched as a red balloon bobbed past, and the door gently shut behind it. Guess Trish was still avoiding ‘whatever this is.’
The red balloon bobbed towards Mista’s bed and stopped near the chair that was set up beside it. Mista looked down and couldn’t help but crack a smile at the sight of Mr. President. It had been his idea to tie a balloon around him, after nearly running the turtle over on some urgent errand. Frankly, it looked cute, and it didn’t seem to bother the turtle any, so they’d kept it.
“ Bonsoir , Mista,” Polnareff said, his ghostly torso appearing above Mr. President, “I heard through the grapevine you were ill.” He grinned. “You seem a little antsy.”
“Yeah, you wouldn’t believe how exciting it’s been,” Mista complained back, “I’m pretty sure Trish thinks I’ve got the plague, and Fugo assaulted me, and I haven’t even seen Giorno, so this has been a real winner of a day.”
Polnareff nodded sagely. “I understand. When I was your age, being cooped up in a room like this would have killed me too.” If he hadn’t been incorporeal, Mista felt like he would’ve patted his shoulder in a show of sympathy. He glanced down at Mr. President briefly, before a thought occurred to him.
“Hey, is Mr. President gonna be OK with all the, uh, germs?” Could turtles get sick? Fugo was an acceptable casualty, but Mr. President falling ill would be unforgivable.
Polnareff blinked back in surprise. “He should be? I don’t think human diseases affect turtles. Plus, he has a stand to protect him.”
“Stands don’t get sick?”
Polnareff hemmed over that for a minute. “Well, Silver Chariot never showed symptoms when I fell ill, though he was weaker.” Polnareff shrugged. “It would probably depend on the person. Have you checked on Sex Pistols?”
Mista was suddenly struck with the thought that no, he hadn’t. And it was strange that they hadn’t shown up once, yelling about eating or something equally annoying. Was that something to be worried about? What had happened the last time he was sick? Though at the time he’d had Sex Pistols for less than a year, so maybe it would be different now?
“Sorry,” he said, shaking himself out of his reverie, “I hadn’t thought about it.”
Polnareff gave him a sympathetic smile. “You seem tired, and I’m sure you’re sick of visitors. I’ll head out, I have plenty of things to do that I’m ignoring already.” Polnareff’s ghostly figure disappeared back into Mr. President, and the turtle seemed to look up at Mista for a moment before turning back to the room’s entrance. Mista hopped out of bed, and after a little bit of dizziness as the blood rushed from his head, hurried to the door to open it. He watched the balloon bob down the hallway, lost in thought.
Closing the door behind him, Mista decided it was time to check in on the Sex Pistols. He held out his hand, and No. 5 materialized above it. “What is it, Mista?”
Mista considered the bullet. It did seem a bit paler than normal, but maybe that was a trick of the light? Awkwardly, he asked “How, uh, are you feeling?”
No. 5 looked quizzically back at him. Mista cleared his throat to try again. He’d never really had a conversation with the bullets that wasn’t scolding or telling them to stop fighting and share goddamnit, so this felt a bit..weird.
“Do you feel.. bad? Hurt?”
“I am uninjured, Mista!” No. 5 started to tear up. “Are you hurt? Should I get Giorno?”
“No!” At No. 5’s shocked expression, Mista calmed down. “I mean, no, I’m not hurt or anything. Just sick, no need to get anyone.” Satisfied with the bullet’s condition, Mista started to wave No. 5 away. As the bullet faded out, Mista thought he saw a glint of silver, but it disappeared as soon as he looked. Weird, but at least he could be confident his stand was unaffected.
He glanced up at the small TV in the corner of the room, stuck on the DVD menu of 2 Fast 2 Furious. He sighed, preparing to lose his thoughts in a story that only a haggard ex-cop playing by his own rules could provide.
The gentle orange light of the evening had faded by the time 2 Fast 2 Furious ended. Mista yawned and stretched as the credits began rolling, debating whether he wanted to pop in the third or just call it a night. He was flipping the DVD case back and forth in his hand (could he somehow get Sex Pistols to put it in? Would they just kick it around?) when there was a gentle, single knock on the door.
Mista felt his stomach drop. There were only so many permanent residents in the mansion, and unless Trish had a change of heart, through the process of elimination there was only one person it could be. He tried to calm himself down as he called out “It’s open!” It was just Giorno, Christ, no need to lose his mind over it.
Easier said than done as the door quietly opened, and Giorno all but strode into the room. He briefly glanced around before settling his eyes on Mista, practically piercing through him. Mista felt his face heat up in.. embarrassment? Shame? Probably fever, but he felt pathetic appearing before Giorno like this, sick and sad. He tried to shove the anxiety back into the pit where it belonged, as he nervously coughed and motioned to the chair next to the bed. “Feel free to take a seat, Boss.”
“You don’t need to call me that when it’s just us,” Giorno responded softly before perching on the chair. Mista felt his pulse quicken and swallowed thickly. He was hoping it was just the cold. “What uh, brings you in here, Bo-- GioGio?”
Giorno briefly ran his fingers over the bedside table before responding. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier. There was a lot to get done today.”
“What? Nah, it’s fine. You’ve got big mafia things to do, it’s really whatever.” And it was really whatever, because Giorno had actual important things to do that couldn’t be put off just because his bodyguard was sick. It’s whatever, forget about it.
So Mista forgot about it, continuing, “I think I’m getting better, anyway. I’ll be completely fine tomorrow.” He gave Giorno what he’s pretty sure was a stupid grin, but hoped it came off as genuine. He was feeling better, although that might’ve been the sheer power of car chases and explosions.
Giorno nodded. “That’s good to hear. It felt quiet today, with your absence.” Mista felt a heat creep up on the back of his neck, but he could pass that off as fever. He wished he had his hat, it usually hid this kind of thing. But that was tucked safely in his drawer—he wasn’t about to risk real Gucci with sick sweat.
Giorno coughed lightly, which brought Mista back to their conversation. “Have you eaten yet today? Polnareff said he wasn’t sure.” Disregarding that Polnareff was apparently reporting his condition to Giorno, Mista realized that he hadn’t. Without the Pistols’ constant nagging, he hadn’t even thought about it.
“Guess I haven’t,” he responded a bit sheepishly. Giorno nodded, and Mista jumped a little as he laid his arm on the nightstand and a snake slithered out from his sleeve. Mista hid a wince as the snake began to change back into a bread roll. He’d never understood Giorno’s apparent fascination with transforming things into snakes and/or bugs. They creeped him out and seemed so mismatched against Giorno’s otherwise elegant appearance.
“I brought this, just in case you hadn’t eaten. Have you been drinking water?”
“Uh..No.” Giorno narrowed his eyes slightly, and Mista felt unfairly judged. He was sick! Who had time to constantly refill a water glass? “I’ll get you one, so drink it.”
“Didn’t realize you were such a good nurse, Boss .” Mista grinned as Giorno shot him a look.
There was a brief sound of running water from the bathroom, before Giorno returned and handed him the glass. “Just drink it, and keep it refilled.” He gave Mista a rare smile. “Otherwise you’ll end up sorrier than you are now.”
“Yeah yeah.” He took a sip from the glass, surprised at how dry his throat was. “So, did you just come in here to judge me, or..?”
Giorno snorted as he sat back on the chair. “I just wanted to visit a sick friend. Actually..” And suddenly Giorno was leaning forward and his hand was on Mista’s face . He felt himself freeze up, glad he didn’t drop the glass. Giorno withdrew his hand before Mista could react, frowning. “When Fugo said you had a fever, I was hoping it had gone down by now.”
“Oh?” Mista croaked.
“Your fever feels serious Mista.” Giorno frowned, worry etching into his eyebrows. “Are you sure you’re feeling better?” Now that whatever ridiculous embarrassment he felt was fading, Giorno’s serious tone settled on him. He was feeling better..right?
“Uh, yeah. S’probably just because it’s so stuffy in here. It’s just a cold, y’know, not scarlet fever.” Giorno seemed unconvinced, but held back whatever more he might have said.
“If you’re sure..” His eyes slide to the right, something Mista knew Giorno always did when he was distracted.
“You’re busy, right? You don’t have to stay and babysit me.”
“Then who’s going to make sure you’re actually drinking water, and not just spacing out to,” he glanced at the screen, “which one was this? Four?”
Mista practically gagged. “God, no, I don’t own that one.” Four was arguably the worst one anyway, regardless of the cursed number in its title.
“Well, I can at least change the DVD for you.” He held out his hand expectantly, and Mista dropped the case in his palm.
Giorno tapped the TV when he was done and turned to face Mista. “Drink water. And get some sleep, too.”
Mista snorted and closed his eyes, settling back against the pillow. “Wait’ll Passione hears their don wastes his time ordering his subordinates to stay hydrated.” He opened his eyes to meet Giorno’s piercing blue ones. Even from across the room it felt too close, too personal. Mista quickly glanced away and mumbled a “You got it, GioGio,” which seemed to satisfy him.
Giorno closed the door softly behind him, flicking off the light as he did so. In the pale lamplight of the darkened bedroom, Mista found his mind turning back to Giorno’s soft hand pressed against his forehead. He felt his ears heat up again, and that was dumb. The whole, dwelling on it, that was dumb. He downed the glass of water and forced himself to tune in to the personal problems of Sean Boswell.
Mista woke up with a start, covered in a thick layer of sweat. His eyes darted around the room, panicked, and his hand shot to his nightstand drawer, frantically grasping for his gun and bullets. He was short of summoning the Pistols before he realized the room was empty, and his panic began to subside.
He ran a hand through his damp hair. What had he been so worked up over? What had he even been dreaming about? He shut his eyes and tried to piece it together, but whatever it had been slipped through his fingers.
A cool breeze drafted into the room, and Mista turned to see the window had been opened. Judging by the full glass of water on the nightstand that he miraculously hadn’t knocked over in his earlier panic, he could take a guess as to who it might have been. He gulped the water down, his throat feeling like sandpaper.
He set the glass down and shakily laid back into bed. He felt unbearably hot, even with the cool night breeze, and his head was swimming. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the dizziness barely subsided, and he felt another wave of nausea roll over him. “What the hell did I even catch…,” he muttered as the nausea passed and his head finally fell still.
Mista woke again with a pounding headache and heavy eyes. He groaned and tried to roll over, and winced when he felt the pain in his sides. He mentally added aching muscles to his mile-long list of symptoms this illness had decided to pop out next.
Hazy images of dreams flashed through his mind. Someone had shaken him, said something…what was it? He grunted as he sat up, blearily glancing around the room. Bright morning sunshine poured in—another beautiful day in southern Italy, and Mista was stuck miserable in bed. Buongiorno, bitch .
He picked up the bedside glass of water, annoyed it was empty. And yet, he felt too drained to even drag himself to the bathroom. No reason I can’t summon the Pistols for this , Mista thought, and waved his hand to summon three of them.
Expecting to hear a familiar cacophony of shrill voices, Mista was surprised when the room stayed quiet. Frowning, he called out to the Pistols again. It took another minute, but, slowly, one of the Bullets appeared in front of him.
“No. 2..?” Mista called out, as the bullet appeared in front of him.
“Mista..” Squeaked out the Pistol, “w-what do you need?” Mista nearly recoiled as the bullet’s form took shape. Its shiny gold color had dulled, turning nearly a pale white. His eyes caught movement on the bullet’s arm, and he immediately narrowed in on it. “No. 2—what the hell?” He brought the Bullet closer to his eyes to pry—whatever was stuck on it off.
Under close inspection, the silver substance seemed almost organic. As Mista brought his finger closer, it wriggled and shook like a maggot, and seemed to spread before his eyes. “W-what is this? When did this happen?”
“I… don’t know…,” replied the Pistol, its voice shrunken and weak. “What did… you need? I can…get it !” The sludge made a sickening squelch and spread further up the Bullet’s arm. Mista swallowed thickly.
“No, No.2, it’s, it’s OK. Just, take it easy. Don’t worry about it.” Shaken, he quickly disappeared the Bullet. The image of the silver liquid writhing on No. 2 burned in his mind, and he felt an oily pool of unease settle in his stomach. Mista hadn’t been sick in years, but there was no way that what he had seen was normal. Regular sickness, regular colds, didn’t do that to stands.
He shivered slightly, suddenly wide awake.
He wasn’t dumb, it was easy enough to put three and three together and link this to some kind of Stand attack. It was the when part that worried him. The previous mission hadn’t involved any Stand users, at least as far as Passione’s intel went, and things had been quiet after they’d returned.
Which left…
Mista’s eyes darted to the open window. He couldn’t think of anyone brazen enough to attack the Don’s headquarters so openly but, Hell, they took down Diavolo when they were teenagers. Stupider things could happen.
He was slowly moving off the bed to shuffle towards the open window when the door swung open.
“Christ, Panacotta, where’d you spend the last three years? A barn?”
Fugo gave him an odd look. “I knocked three times since you bitched last time. You didn’t hear it?” He replied, pulling up the chair and striking his ridiculous cool gangster pose. “Anyway, I’m here to check in on your condition. Which,” he looked Mista up and down, “seems to be getting worse by the second. What kind of supervirus did you even catch?”
Mista stifled a groan and bit back whatever comeback he had about Fugo being a virus. Catching a virus. Whatever, there were more worrying things now.
“Fugo,” he started, and Fugo actually looked off guard that Mista hadn’t delivered a killer one liner, “Have you noticed anything suspicious? Like, around here.”
Mista could practically see the cogs turning in Fugo’s head as he mulled on Mista’s question. “You think this is Stand-related?”
He grasped at the blanket, palms sweaty. “Yeah, I kinda do. Look at this.” He felt bad summoning the Pistols again, but he couldn’t communicate it any better. There was a beat after he tugged on the link with the Pistols before No.1 slowly appeared, sluggishly hovering above his hand.
“Jesus,” Fugo breathed, eyes wide. He reached his hand out to the Bullet on instinct, before quickly taking it back. “What is—when did all this happen?”
Mista could only shrug in response. “I noticed it this morning…they can’t even move anymore.” He quickly disappeared No.1 as the Bullet turned to look at him, letting out a low gurgle before fading away. Fugo’s eyebrows knit together as he looked at the space where No.1 had been. “Do you remember the Reggiano’s? From the last mission?”
Mista clicked his jaw on instinct. “Yeah I do. That fucker Parmesano had a real mean right hook.” Said right hook had taken out two of his teeth, and it had been a hell of a time having Giorno shove shrapnel in his mouth to recreate them. His face ached with the memory, or that might’ve been the fever. Either way, fuck the Reggiano’s.
Fugo nodded, eyes distant and looking towards the open window. “That was another thing I came here for. The intel team got back to me with some suspicious activity in the Reggiano’s old territory. There were sightings matching Parmesano’s description.” He sighed, “Sounds like he escaped.”
Fuck, now Mista couldn’t even do his job right? He’s bedridden now with some Stand virus and he couldn’t correctly kill some asshole? His literal job was putting bullets through brains, and the one stooge he forgot to double tap is running around, mocking him??
“That sucks,” was all his dry mouth could produce. Fugo nodded. “Giorno and I are heading there to confirm if the information is true and tie up any loose ends.” Mista tried not to flinch when Fugo mentioned loose ends. Might as well leave his gun and bullets on Giorno’s desk right now.
If Fugo saw, he didn’t mention it, continuing on. “Did Parmesano strike you as a stand user?”
Yeah, he struck Mista as the kind’ve guy who never misses . Absolute killer, good one Guido. He shuffled it into the pit of insecurity forming in his stomach. “He seemed normal. If he had a stand, he never pulled it out.” Fugo shrugged, standing up and pushing the chair back against the wall.
“Well, I can go out and confirm my theories myself. I’ll tell Trish to keep an eye on you and check the villa.” Mista felt a pang of guilt.
“Aren’t you worried like, this virus has spread? If you have it? Shouldn’t I be, I don’t know, quarantined?” Or possibly taken out back and shot for his Parmesano-related fuckup, either way.
Fugo grinned. “Purple Haze is its own virus; I think it’d fight off anything else. And you couldn’t pay Trish to step foot in here.” He stopped at Mista’s concerned expression. “You’re worried about Giorno?”
He was very much worried about Giorno but Fugo didn’t need to know that. “Just, concerned about this stuff.”
Fugo rocked on his heels for a moment, considering something. Before reaching out and punching Mista in the shoulder. Mista brought his hand to his arm in mostly mock pain.
“Again! Are you taking revenge? Here to assault poor bedridden Mista?”
“I wanted to tell you not to worry about it.” Mista shut up at that, as Fugo looked away in embarrassment. “Things aren’t the same, I know, but. You’re still my friend, I don’t want you to worry about it.”
A small smile made its way to Mista’s face. For a minute, it felt like the haze of the fever had lifted. “Thanks, I-“
“I’ll tell Giorno you’ll be here, pining for his safe return too.” Fucker. Fugo turned to leave, presumably to ruin his reputation further. Mista quickly called out to him.
“Wait, wait, Fugo,” Fugo turned around. Mista cracked a grin, “I guess you can’t get sick because the real virus is you !” Fugo gave him a look that was going to carry Mista for weeks.
The day passed slowly. He didn’t have a clock in his room to check the time and couldn’t work up the energy to switch movies once Pretty Woman had ended. He just clicked play again, eyes drifting towards the ceiling as the movie started.
“Broke in right on the two of them. Caught them.”
Had Giorno already left? Did he care that Mista had screwed up and let Parmesano go?
He didn’t know why he was dwelling on it. He didn’t care, he took his mistakes in stride and moved forward. That’s Guido Mista, never looking back.
“So let's imagine, ladies, that you're a Savings and Loan officer. Watch. One, two, three. See ?”
The ceiling blurred above him. Hot pricks of sweat dripped down his neck. His thoughts floated, aimless.
“You've got it all, and we've got nothing. And you have all four. Just take a look.”
He missed Narancia. He missed Abbachio. He missed Bruno. Cooped up in this little chamber, he was useless. He really, really missed Giorno. He didn’t want to disappoint Giorno. He disappointed Giorno, God, what was wrong with him. He can see Bruno from Oh Yonder Above, judgement heavy in his eyes.
“And if you wonder where the other one went, watch…”
He’s Guido Mista, world’s bestworst Underboss Gunman maybe Giorno’s someday hopefully please look at me lover. He’s Julia Roberts loving guntoting reads 10cent romance novels Mista. He’s desperately holding on to the memories of his friends all alone no good stuck in here Guido Mista.
He’s…
He’s…
“Well, if I know this fellow, he's probably off in a corner somewhere charming a very pretty…”
He’s woken up by someone roughly shaking him. “Mista, you need to wake up. This is critical.”
Mista blinks open his weary eyes to look at his visitor. Bruno Bucciarati is staring down at him, a grimace set in his face.
“Mista, I need you to come with me. I’ve called an urgent meeting.”
Mista could ask a lot of questions. Like Shouldn’t you be dead? Why are you here? How did you find me?
Instead, all his dumb, tired mouth can spill out is, “Why’re we meetin’ so late?”
Bruno doesn’t give him an answer, already turning to leave the room. “This is urgent, Mista.” Mista clumsily throws off the covers and hurls himself off the bed, nearly falling when the blood rushes to his feet.
Clearly the meeting is critical, Mista thinks. Bruno’s stride is quick and decisive, and he’s far down the hallway as Mista struggles to keep up. His head is foggy and swimming, but Bruno Bucciarati called a meeting and only a fool would disobey his capo.
Bruno stops in front of a junction in the hallway, and did they always have a table here? He follows Bruno’s grim gaze to Abbachio and Narancia, who are both seated and look similarly sour, though Narancia shoots him a small grin.
“We have almost everyone. Mista, where are the others?”
His brain is at a crawl. “Trish is, uh, around, somewhere. Fugo is out, and Giorno,” Giorno had left, too disappointed in Mista to even grace him with a goodbye. He swallowed. “He’s uh, also out.”
Bruno nods, though his expression shows the situation is less than ideal. “I understand. Find Trish, so we can start this meeting as quickly as possible.”
Mista wills his head to nod. “No problem, I’ll look for her immediately.”
“Mista? What are you doing?”
Mista turned slowly to see Trish’s surprised—no, wait, horrified face. “Trish! You’re here just in time. Look, Bruno called this meeting we all have to attend, and,” he turns to show Trish the guys and
They’re not there. Of course they’re not there. They’re all dead. Mista knew this. He helped bury them, gave the eulogy at Bruno’s funeral for Christ’s sake. Bruno Buccarati wasn’t going to appear at his bedside and ask him for help. None of them would.
Trish’s concern is mapped all over her face. Mista gives a weak grin. “I uh, I don’t know if I feel so good. Maybe I’ll,” his lips are parched, drier than a desert with no Giorno to give him water, “go uh, go back to bed.”
Trish bites her lip, but only nods. She gently grabs his shoulder (wow he must’ve fucked up real bad if she’s touching him) and says, “OK, let’s just go back to your room. No more midnight walks.”
Mista nods dumbly and lets Trish lead him back to bed. She steps in the room, even, to watch and make sure he gets back under the sheets. He gives her a thumbs up and a dumb grin when he’s all tucked in, but she doesn’t even crack a smile. Tough crowd.
He listens to her as she shuts the door and walks back down the hallway. He waits a safe five, six minutes before pushing the sheets off him and making his way back to the door. He cracks it open just a touch, only to catch sight of a familiar red balloon bobbing in front of him.
They got him a bodyguard huh? A bodyguard for the bodyguard. He thinks Fugo would describe it as “cosmic irony” (maybe but probably not).
He crawls back into bed and tries not to remember his friend’s faces.
He wakes up and sees the room is filled with dim morning light. Dim morning light, and a full glass of water, perched on his nightside table. His mouth has never felt drier.
He reaches for the glass, but his depth perception must be gone too because instead he just knocks it all over the nightstand. “Fuck,” he creaks out. There’s a shuffle somewhere behind him before a familiar black suit fills his vision, wiping the nightstand down with a towel. Light catches on a ladybug brooch as Giorno Giovanna grabs the empty glass to refill it.
“Wh-Giorno, you don’t have to.” He gets up and shakes his head to try and clear some of the haze. It doesn’t work but Giorno is here, “Y’don’t have to clean up.”
“I’d rather the antique nightstand you bought not suffer from too much damage,” Giorno responds, coming back to his bedside. He looks down at Mista as he hands him the cup, and Mista suddenly feels very small. Thankfully Mista does not spill the water all over himself, like some kind of idiot, and only a bit trickles down his chin as he gratefully chugs the entire glass.
He watches in amazement as Giorno hands the glass to thin air and it seems to float, before realizing that it’s GER, going back to the bathroom to refill it. “I can get that, y’know, just let me,” he starts to push the covers off his legs before Giorno stops him with a hand on his shoulder. A very warm hand, on his very gross shoulder. Oh god.
“I’d really rather you stay. GER can get it,” Giorno says softly, and all Mista can do is obey.
Giorno takes a seat in the chair next to his bedside, and his face is weary. He looks like the world is on his shoulders as his gaze flickers to the floor. Mista is suddenly slammed with the memory of why Giorno left in the first place. Because of his fuckup. Uh oh.
Mista tries to prolong the inevitable. “Didn’t think you’d be back so soon.” Real good Guido, keep ‘em coming.
Giorno nods, his gaze still floor-bound. “We managed to finish up sooner than we thought. Parmesano certainly didn’t try very hard to hide. More importantly,” oh god here it is, Mista is getting demoted to some lowly grunt, if Giorno doesn’t decide to beat him down instead, “Parmesano was a stand user.”
Mista blinks. “Oh?”
Giorno continues, hands clasped in his lap. “He cracked very quickly when we caught him. His stand was similar to Purple Haze-- an infection-like virus.” He looked at Mista expectantly. Mista’s brain was still catching up to the fact that he was undemoted and unbeaten. He’s still Giorno’s right hand man, his maybe someday hopefully lover.
He realizes Giorno is still looking at him. “That’s um, that’s good, Boss.”
“Giorno.”
“That’s Giorno, Boss.” Giorno gives him a small smile, and Mista grins. Finally, he’s found his audience.
“Do you remember the fight with him?” Mista nods, lifting his lips to show his shiny new teeth. “Good. Parmesano’s stand could only be transmitted through his right hand. That was why he relied on it during the fight.” Mista wonders if the stand made Parmesano favor the right hook or if it had manifested after. A real chicken or egg headscratcher, that one.
“Fuckin’ Parmesano.” He responds, and then something, a small niggling something, tickles his brain. The entire reason he’d been swiped by that right hook in the first place. Parmesano had separated from his brother, Asiago. Mista had been thrown off guard and gone after one, and Parmesano had rounded on Giorno. When he’d dropped Asiago, he’d had just enough time to see Giorno knocked to the ground, nose broken and bloodied. He’d yelled and charged and got absolutely wrecked because Parmesano was built like he ate steak for breakfast, but more importantly-
“You got hit by him too, didn’t you?” It’s just a simple question, but Giorno suddenly looks very nervous.
“Yes.” Giorno doesn’t follow that up. Mista prods further. “Then, you’ve got it too?” Giorno shakes his head. “Oh. That’s good.” It’s very good, Mista thinks, because he’s not sure what’d he’d do if Giorno was in his place instead, wracked with fever and chills, small and weak.
Mista figures out the follow up question he should be asking is ‘why’, right as Giorno begins, “You know GER’s power. It’s not just the ability to create life, but,” Mista watches as small vines curl up from the chair Giorno is sitting on, “the essence of life itself. Parmesano’s stand was the opposite. Its purpose is at ends with Gold Experience, and when the two met, I was simply able to overpower it.”
There’s a lot of words there for Mista’s sick sleepy brain to catch, but he thinks he gets the gist of it. “You’re immune?”
Giorno nods. And then he looks very nervous again, as though he’d rather be anywhere else but sitting next to Mista. “This immunity extends partially to you, too. I saw Parmesano use his stand on someone when I fought him. The stand killed them within a few minutes. But with this side effect of GER, yours has only manifested as an illness.”
That sounded like great news to Mista. “Then in a couple days this’ll be done, yeah?” He was so ready to not be sick, he was going to burn these sheets and buy new ones, he was—Giorno was shaking his head solemnly. Why was he solemn?
“You have some of the effects, but not the full ability of GER. At the current rate, it can only slow the stand, not destroy it completely. It will continue to get worse until…”
That sounded like bad news to Mista. “So, I’m just doomed?” Figures, the best worst Underboss Guido Mista would get taken out by some super-flu. Lady Luck had truly abandoned him.
“No, there is… There is a way to combat it,” Giorno says, and even through fever haze Mista is sure he’s never seen him so on edge. “I control GER’s full abilities, and thus the strongest concentration of its immunity giving properties. And like I can turn bullets into skin, I can counter the virus and turn it into an extension of GER.”
Mista makes an understanding noise, like he gets any of this at all. “So you’ve just gotta heal me like always? Easy!” He thinks back to the tooth incident and represses a shudder. Maybe not so easy.
“It’s…it’s a bit different than usual healing. We would have to…,” he trails off, and suddenly looks directly at Mista. For a brief second he panics and thinks Giorno may have gotten sick after all, GER’s abilities be damned, and then realizes… Giorno’s blushing. His cheeks are pink and his ears are red, and Giorno’s looking at him and blushing.
“Th-the method is?” Mista stutters out, and he can’t look away from Giorno’s face when he asks.
“We would have to kiss. The switch would take place through saliva.” Giorno delivers these words with an admirable level of calm, Mista thinks, as they reverberate in his skull.
“Like,” his dumb idiot brain finally catches up and the weight of those words slam into him. “ Kiss , kiss?”
“I presume by kiss kiss, you mean using tongue. And yes, that is what it would entail.” Mista feels like he’s white water rafting without a paddle. He’s drowning up to his ears and Giorno’s looking helplessly as he hits the rocks.
“I understand if this is uncomfortable for you. It will only be this time, please rest assured.” Mista doesn’t want to be rest assured(-ed?), he wants to kiss Giorno a lot, all the time, but also not like this, sweaty and gross and hallucinating his dead friends.
“S’fine,” he responds, though it’s actually not s’fine, he’s clutching the sheets so hard his fingers ache.
“Great. Then I’m just going to. Sit on the bed next to you. It should be easier, that way.” Giorno stiffly stands up and deposits himself next to Mista. Mista wants to shoo him off because the entire bed is caked with sick sweat and fever and perfect beautiful Giorno should not be sitting here, in some stifling disgusting room, kissing him. He should be kissing Giorno in a beautiful garden surrounded by the sweet scent of flowers covered in sunset, not out of obligation to keep him from dying. Fuck, he’s messing it all up. Good job Guido Mista.
Giorno is looking at him nervously. Oh no, he needs to lighten the mood, Giorno can’t feel bad.
“It’s like, y’know when you’re a kid and you do thumb wars? Like that but, tongue war, you know. One two three more, I declare a tongue war,” Mista’s pathetic attempt at a joke falls completely flat. Boy he’s really bungled this one, he sure has made an A+ effort to make sure Giorno never wants to look at him again, never mind kiss him.
“In any case… I’m going to start now. Are you ready?” Mista is absolutely not ready, but he’s pretty sure he just saw Narancia peek his head through the crack in his bathroom door, so he steels himself and nods.
Giorno leans forward and Mista begins to panic. Should he close his eyes, open his mouth in advance, no he’d just look ridiculous, but he already looks ridiculous so—
Giorno is kissing him. Their lips have met and it’s really happening.
Mista practically melts into it (it’s the fever) and nearly forgets the entire purpose of this until Giorno prods his lip with his tongue. Oh right, the healing thing.
He opens his mouth, and he’s not really sure what to do here, but it’s fine, Giorno does and they sit like that locked together for a bit until Mista needs to breathe and Giorno pulls away and—
“Do you feel any different?” Giorno asks softly, after they’ve separated. His cheeks are still pink, Mista realizes. And then another realization that the aches in his legs are gone. He doesn’t feel as hot or dizzy, though his face is on fire so maybe it’s still there.
“I think, a little bit. Yeah.” Giorno nods, but presses his hand to Mista’s forehead anyway. “You still feel a bit warm… since the stand has had a long time to incubate, it may take a few tries.”
“Well, I mean, that’s a sacrifice I can make.”
Mista decides to actually meet him halfway the next time, so Giorno doesn’t have to lean so far to reach him. They kiss for a while, and it’s just an obligation I don’t want you to die kiss, but it makes Mista’s heart pound even harder. He can feel the fog receding from his mind when Giorno pulls back again.
“One more time?” Giorno asks.
“Uh, absolutely. One more time, yeah.”
They kiss a third time, and Giorno doesn’t even say anything before bringing their lips together after that, and then one more time, because you can’t end it on four kisses. That would be as good as leaving Mista to die, and he’s grateful Giorno’s so considerate.
But it’s on the fifth kiss when Giorno pulls back, and looks away, and suddenly the magic is broken. Mista feels better than he has in ages, and he almost hates it.
He gives Giorno a strained grin. “It really worked! Thought you were just making things up to get a chance at this,” he motions to himself, “but no! That’s amazing, GioGio.”
Giorno looks at him, and quietly replies, “I wouldn’t take advantage of you like that, Guido.” Mista swallows thickly. “Since you seem to be healed though, we can stop. I’m glad it worked.” He gets up to leave and Mista’s brain practically short circuits with one pulsing, resounding thought.
He grabs Giorno’s wrist (maybe too hard, he relaxes his grip a bit). “You don’t. Don’t go.”
Giorno stays. Mista knows it’s only temporary, so he needs to spit it out right now. Get on with it Guido, you nearly died ten minutes ago.
“I know, it was just an obligation. I’m sorry, I just wanted to say, before we both forget about it, it was nice. It was really nice,” speed it up Guido, “and I just wanted you to know. That I really liked it. It was good—great. Thanks.”
It’s about the most pathetic confession Mista has heard in his life, but Giorno’s looking at him like he just crawled back on the raft from the rapids.
“If I said, that I felt the same,” Giorno bites his lower lip, “You’d be OK to do it again?”
Diavolo himself could not have torn Mista’s eyes from Giorno in that moment. “Y-yeah. If you want to, of course.”
“Of course.” Giorno’s back on the bed.
“And if you don’t…”
“I couldn’t lie. I want to.”
They’re close now. Giorno’s eyes are more beautiful up close than Mista ever knew. Like a clear sky shining above a sunlit meadow.
“Then…”
Giorno closes the gap. It’s the best Mista has felt in months.