Chapter Text
Fugo knew Giorno should’ve been with them on this mission. He knew in his bones something was bound to go wrong. Something always did when Mista was tasked with a mission such as this. Fugo was burdened to come along and he had argued at first, but quickly gave in with seeing Mista’s bright smile and feeling a hand wrap around his shoulder comfortingly. He was happy he did, because if he had stayed home doing the mindless paperwork with calculus and math, his boyfriend would be bleeding out in the streets of Italy, and Fugo would be blissfully unaware.
Fugo didn’t have healing powers. He wasn’t Giorno. Giorno was like an angel sent by the heavens, to eradicate the scum of Italy and the drug trade. His ability to heal wounds, cure broken bones, cuts, anything, was something that was unparalleled. But he couldn’t come on every single small mission of unimportance; he was the Don now, and that would be risking his life and identity. Fugo wished he was like Giorno, whose stand was a godsend, but alas, Fugo was cursed with his stand which only knew how to destroy, how to infect without care, hurting everyone around him including loved ones. His virus was deadly, just as his temper.
In these scenarios, Fugo was wishing for a miracle. He was no doctor. His knowledge of medical attention all came from various books and even then, it was rusty and definitely outdated. Fugo wasn’t quite sure how his team was still alive each time he tended to their wounds in a crude and desperate manner.
Like now.
Mista had been shot.
Many times.
Predictable as it was, this was no laughing matter. He was bleeding. So much.
Crimson leaked from his gunshot wounds at a steady pace, showing no signs of stopping anytime soon. His skin was clammy, pale. Mista’s face was twisted with pain. He looked up at Fugo with his big brown eyes, almost seeming to be pleading for the pain to evaporate into thin air. They both knew Fugo wasn’t capable of such things.
It just had to be now, Fugo’s panicked mind supplied unhelpfully. Their relationship was going great so far. Not even a month in after pining for years, and his boyfriend was at his deathbed with Fugo being the only one who could help him. Poetic in a sense.
“Fuck,” Fugo swore, his body trembling. He tried not to outwardly show his fear so as to not scare Mista, but he couldn’t help but let his demeanor slip. This was serious. Grave, even.
Two bullet wounds. One in his thigh, no doubt nicking, if not piercing, an artery. The bullet went cleanly through, however. The second one did not carry much luck in that regard. It was embedded in his shoulder. The bullet was still inside, unfortunately not carrying enough ferocity to tear all the way through. And oh boy, did they bleed. Fugo wasn’t quite sure how much blood Mista had lost, but it was so much that it puddled in the concrete ground of the alleyway they were hidden in.
“Fugo,” Mista groaned out. He sat upright against the brick wall behind him. Slouching, he raised his head to meet Fugo’s gaze. Those red eyes were vacant, dazed, shocked. There was a hand raised to his mouth, as if he was too taken aback to even process anything. That wasn’t good. Mista could die here if Fugo didn’t spring into action soon. It wasn’t like Mista was much good to help; he couldn't move his shoulder nor his thigh.
“Panna,” he said again, his tone deeper, harsher. Fugo snapped to awareness. Good. That was good. “You gotta stop the bleeding until we get back home, okay? I’ll be fine. You’ve patched me up dozens of times.”
It was true. Fugo had treated more than a dozen gunshot wounds, maybe even more, just from Mista alone. He knew how to tend to them.
But this was different.
Mista was no longer his teammate, no longer just his friend that he was tending to. Mista was his boyfriend now, and that changed everything. The pressure was piling on him so hard he felt as if his lungs were crushing beneath it.
But he had to do something. If Mista d—
“Pannacotta,” Mista hissed again, a wave of pain washing through him. “Focus.”
That’s right. He had to focus. His boyfriend had been shot and Fugo was the only one who could help him and Fugo—well, Fugo wasn’t sure if he could handle this.
“Okay,” he said, shakily. “The bullet in your thigh went clean through. I need to patch it,” he watched as Mista cringed at the mere thought, but he continued on, trying not to stall for time. “Your shoulder—the-the bullet is still inside. I need to get it out.”
“Shit,” Mista shivered. “I banged myself up real good, huh, Panna?”
Fugo didn’t respond. His movements came naturally to him, despite the static building in his brain as he continued to stare at the bullet wounds and the blood quickly pouring out. Fugo tore off a piece of his suit. It was a decent chunk of the side, now exposing part of his midriff. If Mista was in better health, he’d have made a joke. But he wasn’t, instead opting to stay silent.
Overfilled with fear of failure, Fugo took a deep breath in. It wasn’t exactly that deep—he was on the verge hyperventilating. It was stupid, he chastised himself. He wasn’t the one bleeding out, in horrific agony. He was the one who had to help, to heal, to fix.
“I’m sorry,” Fugo whispered, eyes filled with guilt. Mista nodded at him and bit down on the junction between his thumb and wrist. In an instant, Fugo balled up the fabric, shoving it into the wound in Mista’s thigh.
The reaction was instant.
Mista jerked. Hard. His body twisted and contorted as he muffled a groan. Agony spread through his thigh. Tears gathered at his eyes but he didn’t dare let them fall.
“I’m sorry,” Fugo repeated. It was all he could say. He wished he could be angry at Mista right now for throwing himself in the line of fire, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t be his smug, angry self. All he was resigned to being was a ball of guilt and vulnerability.
Fugo wasn't Giorno. He wished Giorno was here, he wished he didn’t have to treat Mista like this, cause him pain. Giorno would heal him without much pain. He’d turn the bullet wound in Mista’s shoulder into flesh and muscle and stop any potential of fishing the bullet out. He was not looking forward to that.
“Holy fuck,” Mista sighed, his hands hovered over his thigh, going to grope and hold his wound, now with a piece of fabric shoved inside, staunching the bleeding. Fugo smacked away his hand before he could touch his thigh.“Fuck.”
“Don’t get comfortable,” Fugo said. “I gotta get the bullet out of your shoulder.”
Mista threw his head back against the brick. “Oh my god, I think I’d rather die.”
“Don’t say shit like that,” he responded in a scared tone. He didn’t like Mista joking around like that—not now.
Despite the pain, Mista gave a weak smile. “Sorry, Panna.”
“God, I should’ve brought the med kit. This is gonna hurt. A lot.”
Fugo would’ve preferred the shitty med kit they had over nothing. The bottle of whiskey, quarter of antiseptic, a stapler, tweezers, gauze, bandaids, and neosporin. He really needed the tweezers—they had precision that Fugo’s fingers alone did not.
“Lay it on me, babe,” Mista’s body continued to shake, the aftershocks of pain still shooting up his thigh and down his leg.
Mista’s skin was growing more clammy. His usual tan complexion was now light and his eyes glassy. A look of dread spread across his features as Fugo slowly placed his hand on the uninjured shoulder.
“Scooch forward and lay on your back,” Fugo commanded.
Mista followed him without question, blindly trusting, as always. Fugo moved to straddle him, laying on Mista’s midriff. A smug look overtook Mista’s expression.
“Wow, progressing fast are we?” His lewd joke was not taken well. “I’m still a little injured, how about later?”
“No,” Fugo snarled, a little angry Mista had the audacity to joke at a time like this. “I’m sitting on you so you don’t squirm too much while I shove my fingers into your open wound and fish the bullet out. You’re lucky I don’t have my lighter on me or I’d cauterize both of your bullet holes.”
Fugo’s tone was venomous, dangerous. But Mista had known Fugo for long enough to know that his tone was half pissed and the other half was fear.
“Kinky,” Mista chittered.
Joking now, it made Mista take his mind off the pain, the fear. Fugo didn’t seem to find his jokes very funny, though.
A loud huff escaped Fugo; he chose to ignore Mista this time. He repositioned himself so he put more weight on Mista. His other hand held down the opposite shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” Fugo said again, his fingers approaching the oozing wound.
“Stop—stop saying you're sorry. I’m the one who got into this mess, you’re just patching me up. It’s okay. I can handle it. I’ve had worse.”
“Okay,” Fugo announced, and then plunged his fingers deep in the wound, fishing for lead and metal.
It was good he decided to sit on Mista, because it would’ve been much, much harder to have him violently convulsing while Fugo had stuck his fingers and stretched the wound. He was squirming, his body convulsing and trembling violently. Mista’s hands gripped one of Fugo’s hips and another at the fabric of his pants. Fugo could tell he was trying to restrain his movements. Tears finally fell from his eyes as a scream was muffled.
Fugo cringed. More blood surfaced, making his fingers sticky and warm. The inside of Mista’s wound felt like it was burning. The texture made Fugo want to spend the next eternity washing his hands.
He hated this—seeing Mista’s face contort in pain because of him. Fugo only dug harder, deeper. His fingers finally touched something cold, hard. And Fugo pulled.
He barely even noticed how Mista fell limp for a moment. The bullet yanked out, Fugo finally dropped it. It clanked against the concrete, a tinny noise as it fell.
“...Guido?”
No response. And then, a groan. Fugo sighed, tears gathering in his own eyes. He really thought for a minute that he’d failed Mista, that he died. It was his worst fear ever since they’d gotten close, and gotten in a relationship.
“Holy shit,” Mista cried, his chest heaving.
“Are you okay? You blacked out. Maybe for the best.”
“No,” he said. “I think I’m dying.”
Fugo shook his head. His silver bangs shifted at the movement. “Not anymore, at least.”
“When’s Gio getting here?”
Fugo took his phone out of his pocket and checked his messages. Giorno was thirty minutes away, but those had passed while getting Mista to safety and tending to his wounds.
“Any minute now.”
Fugo suddenly noticed he was still straddling Mista. His face flushed red and he quickly climbed off with an embarrassed apology.
They sat it in silence, Fugo listening to Mista’s labored breathing as he peered up at the sky.
“Do I get sympathy cuddles when I get home?” Mista asked. “Think some are in order.”
“No,” Fugo hissed. “You’re stupid. I hate you. So much.”
“C’mon, Panna, we both know you’re lying.”
“Maybe I am. But you still are stupid. I mean, letting yourself take those shots? Don’t you have half a mind to get behind cover when he took his gun out?”
Mista shook his head. He tried to sit himself back up. He was moving painfully slow, cringing in pain. Fugo helped him get back on his ass.
“Nah. Had a clear shot, so I took it. Didn’t exactly think I’d get shot twice, though. But hey, I killed that bitch, didn’t I?”
“You’re too reckless. You-you need to learn when to pull back.”
“Lucks always on my side with you’re around, Pannacotta,” said Mista in a light hearted tone. He was expecting more of a reaction from Fugo, but the boy kept his gaze forward, teeth digging into his bottom lip in thought.
Mista toned down his volume. His voice became soft, gentle. “Hey...what’s up?”
Fugo pulled his thighs to his chest. He sat his chin on the tops of his knees. “I thought I was going to lose you. I thought you were going to die because I couldn’t handle the pressure of patching you up because you’re my boyfriend now and not just my friend and that changes things and shit that guilt would kill me. I thought I wouldn’t be able to ever kiss you for the first time and—“
“Then kiss me now. I’m fine now, and you might regret not having the chance later.”
Red painted at the boy's cheeks and slowly ran to the tips of his ears and to his neck. “What?”
“Kiss me, Panna.”
Fugo fidgeted for a moment. This is clearly not how he imagined his first kiss with Mista to go. Mista knew boundaries and respected them greatly, and Fugo stated he wasn’t exactly comfortable with touch yet. Mista assumed that meant kissing, most likely, and it led them to now. Their first kiss.
He didn’t know what else to do but accept. With his heart thumping in his chest and stomach doing the weird-anticipation-swirly-thing, Fugo uttered, “okay.”
Fugo sure as hell didn’t know how to kiss, he’d never received or given kisses in his life, but as he leaned forward in tune with Mista, he felt as if he did know. Their lips met softly. It was a chaste kiss, short, sweet, and made Fugo jittery with love. Mista’s lips were plump and a little cracked, but it just made the kiss better.
Fugo pulled away first, feeling as if his face would catch on fire if he spent any more time lip locked with Mista. “Uh,” he said, stupidly.
Mista chuckled. He was covered in blood, and his pants and shirt were absolutely soaked through by laying in the blood puddle on the ground, but his smile was beaming and bright. “Well?”
“Perfect,” Fugo muttered.
“Perfect,” the other repeated.
The moment was broken by a vibration. It was Fugo’s phone, buzzing away in his shirt pocket. “That’s probably Giorno. He’s here.”
“Boy, am I ready to go home and sleep for twelve hours.”
Fugo scowled, reaching down to help pick up Mista. “That’s not healthy.”
“Eh, don’t matter much.”
Fugo wrapped his arm around Mista’s shoulder and started to halfway carry him from the alleyway. Mista couldn’t walk on the leg that was shot. He knew the healing would take months, but that’s why they had Giorno and his healing abilities.
“Pannacotta,” Mista hummed as they neared the car.
Fugo stared at him, head tilted skin to a puppy. “What?”
“Thank you, really.”
Another flush worked it’s way across his face and he could only nod wordlessly as he helped Mista in the backseat. Fugo climbed in the passenger seat and replayed the kiss in his head as they drove him in silence.