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There's an argument one could make -- if they were so inclined -- that if Abbacchio didn't want anyone in his room he should learn to lock the fucking door.
It's not that there are any possessions inside to protect. There's little more than clothing, makeup, and a collection of CDs. What he did own that warranted privacy simply wasn't kept in this safe house shared with the rest of the escort team, but inside his own isolated apartment. It's just the principle of the thing that the others should know better. An attempt at privacy among criminals that's shattered when he opens the door to let the harsh lighting of the hallway spill across his mattress to reveal he has a guest.
Abbacchio does little more than growl at the inconvenience and watches with muted annoyance as Mista pops out of the blankets in an uncoordinated rush, reaching for a nightstand that simply isn't there -- probably an attempt to go for his gun -- and settles for looking into the light with a squinting scowl.
"'Bacchio?" Mista manages, hoarse and confused as he props himself up on one elbow.
"What are you doing in here?" Mista just frowns and scratches through his hair where the short curls had flattened against his head in his sleep.
"Uh," he answers elegantly. There's an obvious struggle going on as he tries to sit up in a way that lets Abbacchio know the idiot is injured, reflexively having him take a hasty half-step towards the bed. The covers slip down from Mista's shoulders as he makes some progress in becoming vertical only to reveal his torso was plastered in mummy-like bandages and gauze.
This seems to shock him more than it does Abbacchio. Mista touches cautiously along his chest before he simply stares into his palms for several seconds too long.
"This 's your room," Mista says slowly.
"No shit." Abbacchio turns and closes the door to the bedroom. Not that it was going to keep anyone out, apparently. "How'd you end up in here?" Mista hums as he thinks, petting the duvet and watching Abbacchio make his way across the room with less-than-stellar eye tracking.
"Morphine." It's obvious once he says it; words slurred and movements wrong in a way that is only slightly off. "Where's my gun?" Mista mumbles fretfully as Abbacchio kicks off his shoes.
"Did you accidentally shoot yourself?" The again is heavily implied, because even if Mista had only managed the feat once, and against an enemy Stand, Abbacchio was never going to let it go.
"Heh. No." Mista sounds unreasonably pleased by that fact, making Abbacchio snort and head towards his closet to get undressed. "I got stabbed a couple 'f times, officer."
"Don't call me that," Abbacchio says sharply. "Check under the pillow for your stupid gun."
He steps into his comfortably sized closet to start undressing at speed, tossing each article of clothing into his hamper until he gets to his pants. He stands for a moment with them in his hand, running his thumb over the dried blood and weighs his fatigue against the knowledge the stain will set if it's not soaked.
"Well. When one does interrogating…the shoe fits," Mista states happily. Abbacchio decides set-in stains are a problem for future him and drops them onto the floor. He pulls on a pair of sleeping pants, worn soft from use, before padding back out into his room.
"Sorry 'm here," Mista says quietly into the silence. He hasn't moved from where he'd propped himself against the headboard, gun held limply in his lap. Must have been under the pillow after all. "Didn't mean to. Honest."
Abbacchio watches with a carefully blank expression as Mista is beaten by the simple task of getting out from under the blankets. Whoever doped him couldn't have been certified, Mista seemed high enough it's outside his ability to move his arms and legs with any kind of coordination. He refuses to put his gun down, but obviously needs the hand freed up to get out. He shoots Abbacchio a mortified sort of look as his struggles grow more obvious as they drag out.
Abbacchio doesn't need Moody Blues to help him see the messy state Mista must have been in coming down the hall, gait uneven and stumbling, too out of it on drugs to do more than push his way into the first bedroom he came across in a bid for rest. It's not the first time it's happened, at any rate. Not with such a merry band of violent young men who get their asses handed to them almost as often as they dish it out.
Won't be the last time, either, if Abbacchio doesn't invest in using his lock.
"Stop moving," Abbacchio finally snaps. It's funny to see how fast Mista obeys. Freezing without thinking just because he was told to.
"I get to stay?" He asks uncertainly. Abbacchio is methodical as he pulls the covers back into order. It's not what he meant to imply. He just wanted Mista to get out without hurting himself further, but he guesses in his current condition he'd need Abbacchio to all but carry him back to his own room, and he's just--
He's fucking tired. It's not like it would be the first time Mista spent the night in this room.
"If you shut the fuck up, fine. I'm exhausted." And he sounds it, the commonplace commanding sneer and tailored annoyance drained away, leaving his tone brittle and hollow. He doesn't want to think about the puppy eyes Mista is giving him or any emotional implications of letting Mista stay.
Abbacchio finally pulls the covers back to get into bed, easing himself down, knee dipping the mattress under his weight and watches Mista watch him. His brain takes the opportunity to remind him the last time he'd done this neither of them had been at all tired, and how Mista had been uninjured, but left with a limp and bruising skin.
"Are you wearing pants?" Abbacchio asks suddenly. Mista shrugs, lifting the covers to take a peek beneath them.
"Underwear is pants?"
"I guess," Abbacchio mutters, slipping under the covers and letting out a weary sigh. He had barely kept his exhaustion at bay until this point. Now that he's safe in his own space it crowds heavy into his mind and bones.
Mista fidgets, something Abbacchio more feels than hears, to his credit. He can tell Mista has shuffled closer despite the bed being more than big enough the two could sleep without even accidentally touching.
"Hey. Is it okay--"
"Yes," Abbacchio interrupts in a quietly subdued state, too close to sleep to muster any bite. He rolls onto his back, carefully unfolding his arm so Mista can press in close and lay his head on Abbacchio's shoulder. It's probably an awful position to lay in when you're covered in knife holes, but that's not Abbacchio's problem. It's a warm and comforting weight; even the tentative hand that comes up to rest over his heart.