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Narancia woke up to the distinct smell of something burning.
Sharp gravel scraped against his bare arms and his cheek was pressed against something hard and warm - concrete? Other smells bombarded his nose. Ozone. Metal.
And then he felt pain.
Gasping, Narancia’s eyes flew open, only to immediately shut. He curled his hands into fists and stayed where he was, tense and immobile, as agony ripped through him in waves.
He vomited. His stomach roiled up against him and before he knew it, his stomach contents were coming up. A sad little puddle made itself in front of his forearms on the ground.
Narancia tried to tell himself that it’ll go away, it’ll pass, but it didn’t. In fact, the pain only seemed to worsen. Faintly, he realized that his cheeks were wet and his palms were slippery from the blood his nails had dug up.
Finally, finally, the edge of the pain let up. Not by much, but enough for him to get his senses in order to figure out what was going on.
He opened his eyes and was immediately hit with a bout of dizziness. After a desperate fight with his gag reflex, Narancia decided to try again, slowly this time.
He was lying… on a sidewalk? Or more accurately, a piece of sidewalk. His vision was blurry, so he couldn’t exactly pinpoint where he was, but he could make out charred chunks of a - building? Crumbled in front of him. Something dark and pungent was billowing out of the rubble. Smoke.
Had he been caught in an explosion? What happened?
There was a weird, sort of pressure on his back through all the pain. It restricted his breathing, his lungs heaving but reluctant to fill. Narancia strained to look behind him, and immediately blanched.
A slab of concrete was very nearly on top of him, only being held up by some kind of metal beam that had luckily found purchase on the ground. By ‘very nearly,’ he meant a few inches, because if it weren’t for that beam, Narancia was positive the slab would’ve crushed his legs and back.
And said metal beam impaled him straight through his side. Blood dribbled onto the ground, the entirety of his left side soaked a deep red.
Narancia turned away before he could look at it anymore. His head spun.
Fuck.
He was impaled. That was bad. Really, really, bad.
He didn’t remember anything. Did he cause this building to blow up? Where was everyone else? Was this a mission? If so, was the enemy still around?
Narancia snapped up. He had to get out of here. Mission or not, enemy presence or not, he was going to die here if he didn’t do anything. His mobile phone had been in his back pocket, effectively shattered now even if he could move to reach it. So calling someone wasn’t an option. But...
“A-Aerosmith.” he called out, coughing a little at the dust that filled his throat.
The little red fighter plane phased into existence in front of him and the familiar feeling of the radar weighed on his head. The radar wouldn’t do much because of the smoke, but Narancia hoped that he could pinpoint his friends’ locations at least.
The plane shot off into the darkening sky. Narancia couldn’t see anybody yet, but somebody was bound to have seen the explosion, right? Help was coming.
Summoning his stand took a lot of energy out of him it seemed, because Narancia suddenly felt drained. Like he hadn’t slept in weeks, or a damn Pokemon had used Giga Drain on him. His eyes drooped.
No. He couldn’t sleep yet. Someone had told… someone had told him that falling asleep while bleeding was bad. Yeah. It was probably Fugo. Maybe Bucciarati. Narancia couldn’t remember.
The pain had receded now, only occupying a tiny space in the back of his mind. A thousand thoughts swirled in his head instead, going in and out of focus like a lens, and Narancia couldn’t keep up.
He felt lightheaded again. And nauseous. Oh yeah, he’d forgotten that he was basically lying in his own blood and vomit. He must be an adorning sight.
His radar beeped. It was as if Aerosmith was trying to keep him awake too.
Narancia groaned.
His radar beeped again, insistent.
This time, Narancia peeled open his eyes (when had he closed them?), to look at whatever his Stand was trying to tell him. A blip had entered the radar. It was just on the outskirts enough for it to not be engulfed by the huge blip that was the smoking bits of the building.
It was approaching. And Aerosmith was leading it.
So it must be help then?
Like hell he was going to be seen like this. Exhaustion gone for the moment, Narancia struggled to make himself look more presentable. He wiped the soot, tear tracks, and vomit from his face with his tattered shirt, and even tried to smoothen out his hair with what little mobility he had. He ended up just smearing blood in his hair from his still-bleeding palms.
The movement left him gasping for breath, his lungs protesting at the overuse. Narancia tried his best to breathe through the pain that had resurfaced as well, sort of regretting his actions.
The familiar sound of his Stand could be heard in the distance.
“Holy shit, Narancia!”
Horribly-striped, tiger pants slid into his vision and uncaringly into the puddle of vomit. Hands were on his shoulders and head and Narancia batted them away weakly, still riding the aftershocks.
“St-stop… ngh…”
“Fuck, man, you look awful. Can you breathe? Here, let me-”
“Don’t-!” He cried as Mista grabbed at the slab on top of him, intent to push it off. But it was too late. Mista threw his shoulder against the slab, and fire seared across his side. Narancia shrieked as the metal beam moved inside him, making a disgusting squelching noise as it did and coated in blood and gore.
Surprised, Mista dropped the slab, and stars burst across Narancia’s vision. He dropped his head to the ground, hands tearing for something, anything, to make it stop, make it stop-
The next thing Narancia knew, he was shuddering on the ground with his face hidden in his arms. His side still throbbed, every shaky inhale a battle. Tiny things - the Pistols - were in his hair, their high voices worried as they muttered soft reassurances in his ears. He could hear Mista too, voice raw and scratchy as he muttered apology after apology to him and begged him to wake up.
He was also holding his hand. It would’ve been embarrassing to be treated like a child, but Narancia found it comforting, almost grounding.
“M-Mista…” Narancia heaved out.
“Oh my God, Nara, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Mista said from above him. “I won’t move it, I promise.”
“Fuck…”
Mista squeezed his hand, almost encouragingly. “Can I ask the Pistols to take a look, at least? I didn’t get a good look and I think I saw…”
Narancia swallowed the taste of copper in his mouth and nodded. The Pistols moved from his head, except for the one at his right ear who he could only assume was Number 5, because of the little whimpers and dampness soaking into his hair.
“I already called the others while I was on my way here. I saw the explosion and Aerosmith was flying pretty erratically - I knew something was wrong. Bucciarati or Giorno will fix you right up when they get here.”
“Don’t even ‘member… what ‘appened…” Narancia offered sluggishly.
Mista laughed wetly. “I was hoping you’d be able to tell me. Oh well. Guess we’ll have to say, ‘shit fucking blew up’ on the report again. Giogio will be furious.”
Narancia made a noise. “Let ‘im be. He’s… gotta deal with it.”
“Mista!” The tentative light mood was broken as one of the Pistols flew out and hovered near Mista’s shoulder.
“Tell me.”
The little Pistol - Narancia couldn’t get a good view of the number - reported to Mista in a hushed tone right to his ear. The more the Stand talked, the more grave Mista’s expression became. The grip on Narancia’s hand tightened.
“Narancia,” Mista started, voice strange. “how heavy is the concrete on your back? Can you breathe okay?”
Come to think of it, it was a little bit more difficult to suck in enough air to keep himself conscious. The talking took more out of him than he’d like to admit, and the exhaustion was coming back full force.
“M’kay…”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“S’fine.”
Mista was silent for a moment, the Pistol floating uncertainty by his shoulder.
“The beam is the only thing holding the concrete up, but it’s becoming more unstable by the second. I guess when I moved it…” he shook his head. “It’s crushing you.”
“W-what a surprise…”
“This isn’t funny, Narancia! It’s going to suffocate you! Number 1 says it’s going to be a few minutes at most before it starts! We have to get you out! But… the pole...”
The grip on his hand was borderline bruising now.
“M’gonna… bleed out if we move it.” Narancia surprised even himself at the certainty of his voice.
“No.” Mista said vehemently, but the truth shined through. If they moved the concrete, they moved the beam. And Narancia would bleed out in minutes, maybe even seconds. It was an immediate death sentence, and they both knew it.
“W-we’ll wait a little longer.” Mista proposed. “Bucciarati and Giorno and the others will get here in time.”
Narancia nodded weakly, swallowing.
They waited.
The more time passed, the harder it was for Narancia to stay focused. He was growing queasy again now that most of the pain had subsided, heaviness easing into his muscles until he could barely keep his head up.
Mista kept trying to keep him awake - talking, snapping in front of his face, squeezing his hand - but it wasn’t doing much. Aerosmith hummed desperately underneath Narancia’s skin, but even his Stand couldn’t effectively rouse him. All Narancia wanted to do was sleep.
Oxygen was also getting harder and harder to get, the pressure on his back pressing down mercilessly. When he drowsily reported so to Mista as he drifted in and out of consciousness, Mista shifted.
“Asphyxiation. Damn it.” he muttered and Narancia wondered what that meant. Dark eyes leveled him with an intense stare, wet and worried but swirling with determination. “Can you give me your knife?”
It took a while for his tired, oxygen-deprived brain to register the words. Narancia had no idea what Mista was about to pull, but he reached a hand clumsily into his pocket anyways, producing the switchblade and dropping it into his waiting palm.
“Hope this works.” Mista muttered as his Pistols swarmed the weapon and began to carry it into the crevice of ground and concrete with Narancia wedged in between.
“Nara, I need you to stay awake. Keep breathing no matter what, okay?” He said seriously. He gave Narancia’s hand one last squeeze, before he let go and stood up.
Dust and dirt kicked up as rubble hit the ground beside Narancia. All he could do was grunt in indignation. The movement of retrieving his knife had winded him beyond belief.
“This is going to hurt.” Mista warned as he slid more rubble off the slab.
What didn’t at this point? Narancia wanted to fire back. He missed Mista’s hand.
“Can you move your legs? Move them for me.”
A beat. Mista waved a boot impatiently in front of his face.
“Narancia.”
“Yes… I did!”
“Good. When I tell you to move, you move, okay?”
“‘Kay.” Narancia murmured.
The slab groaned above him. The metal beam pulled and just like that, all the tiredness was gone. Narancia bit back a scream.
Repeated sounds of metal striking cement rang behind him, what he could only guess the Pistols were doing. Small, round pieces - pebbles? - drummed against his back as concrete broke and gave.
Then, the tension of the beam snapped, like a taunt cord had been cut.
“-cia, move!!”
Narancia poured every last ounce of energy into his limbs and threw himself forward. He hit the ground roughly and concrete shattered behind him.
Then, Mista was at his side, speaking too quickly for Narancia’s brain to comprehend. Pain flared from every inch of his body, unconsciousness threatening to resurge. Sticky warmth was rapidly spreading across his already-damp clothes at an alarming rate, but when Narancia brought shaking hands to his side - the beam was still there. Lodged in place.
Something clicked. The Pistols had hacked the beam off of its foundation in the cement, and Mista had held up the slab for the seconds Narancia used to pull himself out.
That was the last thought of Narancia’s awareness. He faded in and out as Mista practically began to cradle him, whispering desperate comforts that sounded more for himself than for him.
The warmth of human touch was inviting though. Narancia had no problem succumbing to it.