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Whenever Guido Mista had a cold, he always did the same thing; lock himself in his room, turn the lights off, and pass out for roughly 3 days straight. Nobody would see him the whole time, until he got up, perfectly healthy, well rested, and really hungry. Turns out that strategy didn't work quite as well for cyanide poisoning.
It had started out like it usually did. A sore throat. Mista, of course, could tell where this was going and planned out his schedule to allow for at least half a week of crashing on his bed and being completely out for as long as he needed to be.
Mista started feeling kinda dizzy, but he didn’t have a fever. As in, he very nearly vomited at one point, his mouth tastes coppery whenever he coughed, and when he looked in the mirror his skin had a weird tint to it, but the thermometer told him that his body temperature had actually gone down like five whole degrees, so he was fine!
Of course, he had started to gather some suspicions about the last meeting over dinner with the Capos of the other gangs in the area- some friendly toward Passione, and others the tiniest bit pissed with Giorno’s recent actions. Pissed enough, apparently, to possibly poison one of the Don’s team members.
But it was probably nothing.
Then, at roughly 5pm, he suddenly felt really really sick while he was in the dining room, wondered why the world felt kinda sideways-
-and then he woke up on the floor.
Trish was shaking his shoulders, his mouth tasted awfully acidic for whatever reason, and Abbacchio was standing over him, brow furrowed. Not great. And after explaining some more things about the dinner he had been to and some more apparently concerning symptoms, he was now sitting in the back seat of the car, nauseous and feeling like his insides were ripping themselves apart, as Fugo drove them all to the hospital.
___
Trish was trying very hard to not show how annoyed she was. Only Guido Mista would forget to be concerned when he started coughing up blood, and not even passing out in the dining room and waking up with blood and vomit on the ground in front of him could make him wonder if he was okay.
Everyone else in the house, who happened to be herself, Abbacchio, and Fugo at the time, thankfully shared a shred of a braincell between them and had decided to get him to the emergency room immediately. Fugo was the best driver, so he was up front, expression stony as he floored it toward the hospital. Abbacchio was in the backseat with Mista himself, whose skin was off-colored and eyes glazed over as he remained slumped against the window.
“Trish, tell Fugo to stop being so fuckin’ serious ‘bout everything,” he complained, though the slur in his words really didn’t do him any favors.
Trish glared back at him from the passenger seat. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“Yeah, tha’s no excuse though,” Mista replied, words cut off by another wheeze. He wiped the blood from his lips, sighing. The coughing was so violent, a harsh sound revolting against his stubbornness. Trish hated it. “We at the hospital yet?” he croaked.
“Here,” Fugo called from the front seat, turning into a parking lot and screeching to a halt in the closest space. He turned the key and threw the door open with a force giving away how tense he was. Trish internally applauded him from keeping all of them from flying off the road with all of that extra muscle tension, before getting out herself and hurrying around Mista’s side of the car.
He apparently wasn’t strong enough to push himself off the door when they stopped, as when they opened it his head slipped from the window he immediately started to crumple, caught only by Fugo, who gripped his shoulders with a frustrated huff and helped him out of the car.
Mista was just about being dragged by the time they got to the sliding doors, slumped against Fugo with a weight that the blonde was clearly struggling to carry. Once Mista had gotten the chance to flop down in one of the chairs in the waiting room, Fugo shook his arm out and strode up to the front desk.
Trish could practically see his patience running shorter and shorter as the conversation between him and the receptionist continued, walking up behind him and clearing her throat. “Fugo-”
Fugo pressed his lips together, uncurling his fists with a sharp exhale and turning to walk back and sit beside Mista’s slumped form.
Trish managed to navigate her way through a conversation with the receptionist that was slightly less tense than Fugo’s appeared to be, until she eventually got a ‘we’ll get him inside as soon as we can.’ That was good, because if describing all of his symptoms didn’t tip them off that he needed immediate attention, Trish probably would have snapped.
And they kept their word, as a few minutes later, someone stepped through the door and called Mista’s name, but the gunslinger was already too out of it to hear it. Trish leaned over and took his shoulder, to which he blinked blearily and stared around the room like he hadn’t even realized he had been brought inside.
When he attempted to get to his feet, the nurse strode over and helped him, realizing what kind of state he was in, swiftly bringing him out of the room and disappearing down the hall.
Trish exhaled as she sank back down in her seat. She was going to have to text Bucciarati, Giorno, and Narancia about this. God… Narancia. That was going to be bad, especially since it was probably best if he came to wait with them. But she forced herself to type up a text, sending it and immediately shutting off her phone.
Then so began the hours-long wait for an update.
Mista woke up feeling really weird. It took him a whole few minutes to figure out where the hell he even was, because it felt like someone had filled his head with cotton- but like, cotton soaked with water that was really heavy and disorienting. Because of that, it took him longer than he would’ve liked to admit to realize he was lying in a hospital room.
The walls were that same grossly sterile white, the lack of color making it even harder to distinguish what blurry object was what. God, everything he loved about the hospital. He hadn’t been here since before Giorno joined. It was kinda unsettling.
He felt like he was floating somewhere between reality and a total fever dream, completely unable to get his eyes to focus on anything and too weak to even lift a hand in front of his face. Damn, this was weird. He couldn’t say he was all that much of a fan.
Dizzily searching through his memory for how the hell he might have ended up here, he vaguely remembered talking to someone earlier, but it was blurry. As in, so blurry he would not have doubted it if he had imagined it.
Speaking of blurry, there was someone opening the door, and Mista could not figure out who it was for the life of him. Luckily they stood out plenty, as they were bright pink, but he was too drowsy to try to pick out an expression as they walked closer.
“...Mista?”
When they spoke, however, Mista was able to recognize who it was, and grinned the best he could through the haziness. “Ay, hi Trish-” He croaked.
Wow, his voice sounded pretty gross like this. All the words slurred into each other and he sounded like he smoked a pack a day the past ten years. Trish didn’t seem to mind, moving closer to him and sitting down in what was… probably a chair next to the bed? He didn’t know what else it would be, but god, it was hard to understand what was happening.
“Hey, good, are- are you feeling alright?” Her voice was swimming in his ears, oddly echoey and distant. It still kind of felt like everything was a dream, and hell, maybe it was. Mista really didn’t feel strong enough to fight it. Plus, all the fogginess was probably just what it cost to not be in excruciating pain right now, and he was definitely ok with that.
“...Mm. Dizzy as fuck,” he slurred, more focused on trying to recall the voices and things he had heard after leaving the emergency room. In a moment, a handful of them flooded back, like someone had airdropped his brain a bunch of pictures of needles and latex gloves and a plastic tube down his throat. He tried not to shudder.
Trish exhaled. “They said everything went well, but… poison? That must’ve been awful.”
“Yeah, dude, with those symptoms m’surprised I didn’t get diagnosed with like- fuckin’ everything.” Mista held up his hand, pressing his eyes shut and opening them again. The room wasn’t any less blurry. “I’m on so many painkillers I can’t even see right now. S- s’pretty wild. Least the damn feeding tube’s out.”
His voice was still hoarse and he ended the sentence on a wheeze, though from what he could see, there was no blood in it. That was probably good, right?
He could feel how Trish tensed up next to him. She shifted. “You don’t have to be okay right now.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it, it’s all chill.” He coughed again, voice weak again.
Trish sighed softly. “I don’t mean to overwhelm you, but Giorno and Bucciarati have been looking into everyone at the dinner as thoroughly as they can. They still don’t know for sure who could’ve been responsible for it, but they said they’d text if any leads showed up.”
“Aw, neat. Thank them for me. ”
“Mista-”
He blinked, trying his best to read Trish’s expression, but it was hard when the hospital room still felt like it was tilting sideways. She looked… bothered by something.
“You good?”
Trish took a breath, looking down into her lap for a moment. “Right there, Mista. You just- you just had cyanide pumped out of you for five hours, they couldn’t get you enough oxygen because it get getting contaminated, they had to get a tube directly into your trachea, you’ve been lying here like a rock for hours after the anesthetic was supposed to wear off, and you-” she swallowed, eyes glistening with tears. “-You ask if I’m okay?! Mista! You were going to die!”
Guilt swirled in Mista’s gut, shrinking slightly at how distressed Trish sounded. He grimaced. “Uh- In my defense, I didn’t know that-” Trish glared at him. “But… yeah. You’re right, I just- didn’t really get why it needed to be all that messy, y’know?” he shrugged. “Didn’t really seem like something to panic over all that much, cause like- I’ve had shit happen to me, and s’all fine. Haven’t died yet. Figured, uh… I wasn’t really worth worrying about. And it’s not like- a self esteem thing, or whatever. Just- didn’t think it was gonna get this bad.”
Trish’s expression softened, worried eyes remaining fixed on Mista for a moment. “I mean- still, I don’t know how many people have told you, but you’re… really important to our team. It wouldn’t be the same without you, and we were all really worried while you were in here. You can call it no problem as much as you want, it doesn’t change that we… really care about you.”
Mista tried to thank her, to give a thumbs up to where he assumed she was sitting. It was kinda hard to tell. But he still felt like he was spinning, and that made it pretty damn hard to react to something that he didn’t really know how to react to in the first place.
Then suddenly there were tears falling into his lap.
“Augh- fuck. Stupid meds,” Mista muttered under his breath, trying to wipe the tears away. He really didn’t want to stress himself out over this, and crying tended to make a big deal out of things. “Sorry,” he huffed, as the tears were only making his headache worse.
“It’s alright,” Trish replied quietly from beside him. “How nonchalant you were was kind of freaking me out anyway, it’s nice to see you- you know, being able to express it.”
“Yeah-” Mista choked back, another wave of dizziness overcoming him. His head felt like it was about to topple off his shoulders. “Don’t worry about that kinda stuff, just makes it easier on me. To- y’know, not make it a big deal.”
Trish, who was now almost in focus, looked… sad. Not in a disappointed way or anything, just a little pained. “It’s allowed to be a big deal, Mista. You don’t have to worry about being… high maintenance or anything.”
“Nah, it’s not really about that.” He squinted at the ceiling, trying to find a good way to say it. “Jus’ when I care too much about stuff it can… kinda freak me out. It’s easier to not care about things, especially when thinking about them too much fucks you up.”
“Maybe it would be good to care about something, though.” Trish replied, leaning forward. “Not even accept it or deal with everything else that comes with it, but acknowledge that it matters in some way.”
Mista grunted with mild amusement, still trying to get the remaining tears off his face. “Sounds tough. Like what?”
“Could be anything, but I think yourself is a good place to start.”
Mista rubbed one of his eyes. Well, he was crying about that already, so maybe Trish was right. Sure, he didn’t like acknowledging how shitty the situation was, but there was some comfort in feeling bad for himself.
Yeah, he had been poisoned. Yeah, it was really bad and he could’ve died. He didn’t do anything to deserve it, and basically having all of his insides pumped out of him felt awful. What a fucking disaster of an experience.
He let his hand fall, looking back to Trish through the tears in his eyes. “I’m- yeah. Thanks, Trish.”
She smiled again, finding his hand beneath the thin sheets and squeezing it. “And if you start coughing up blood again, please tell somebody,” she added. “Because that tends to be a problem.”
Mista scoffed, though his throat still hurt. “Tell me about it. I guess taking a bullet to the chest is different, because people can tell that you’re fucked. Hiding a weird cough or lightheadedness is easier than hiding a gunshot wound.”
Trish hummed in agreement. “And yet both have to be fixed. Promise you’ll let people know if something’s wrong next time?”
“Yeah-” He replied, half-laughing. “Anyway, doubt they’ll let me outta this place anytime soon, but when I get home, I’m gonna sleep for fifty fucking hours straight.”
Trish snickered. “I’ll try to keep Narancia from bothering you, but no promises. I told him everything went well, but he’s… really worried about you.” The amusement slipped from her voice, and Mista’s heart sank at the image of Narancia sitting anxiously in the waiting room. The kid already hated hospitals, he couldn’t imagine how freaked out he must’ve been.
“Tell him that I said hi, and that I’m vibing just fine in here. Then if you can, get him in here once I’ve woken up a bit more. I wanna see him, but he probably wouldn’t wanna see me so…” He frowned down at himself, limbs weak and shaking and voice still sounding like he had swallowed a couple dozen frogs. “...bad. Kinda hard to convince people you’re fine when you can’t see straight.”
Trish set a hand on his shoulder. Wow, that was warm. It was way nicer than the boring thin bed sheets sitting in his lap, and he felt some of the tension slip from his shoulders at the touch.
“I understand. Is it okay if I leave you here to update everyone? I’m not supposed to be in here for too long.”
Mista shrugged. “Sure, if you’re good with it. I know you’d hate to stand another minute away from someone as cool as me.”
Trish sighed. Right, the ‘caring about himself first’ thing. Mista sat up. “I’ll be okay, too.” He glanced down at his lap for a moment. “...Could I have a hug before you go, though? This place is hella lonely.”
Smiling weakly, he held out his arms and Trish complied, looking pretty relieved to be able to. Though gentle around all the annoying ass wires and tubes on him, Mista could tell that she had been wanting to hug him, too.
And he was glad he asked, because it was even more comforting than he could’ve hoped, finally some damn relief after what had honestly been a really, really long night. He blinked away the tears in his eyes as Trish pulled away, turning his attention back down to fiddle with the messy wires across chest.
“Oh yeah, and if you get the chance, get Abbacchio in here too. He’ll probably be pissed at me for getting myself poisoned, but I wanna talk to him.”
Trish squeezed his shoulder again, nodding. “Got it. I’ll be back when I can, Mista.”
He smiled, sinking back into his pillows. At least those were comfortable. “Thanks, Trish. Don’t know what I’d do without my dumb overprotective sister.”
Trish scoffed at him, doing a pretty bad job at hiding the fact that she was flattered as she left the room. Mista sank down against the hospital bed, already feeling how close he was to passing out again. Hm. He had wanted the chance to wake up, but really, sleep sounded so much better right now. So he drew the blankets up over his shoulders, made himself as comfortable as he could, and almost immediately drifted off.
Abbacchio had just gotten back from his talk with Narancia outside for the fourth time that night. Every once in a while the teen would get so anxious and stressed the sound of his feet kicking the chair would start to drive Abbacchio insane, forcing him to get up and drag the teen outside for a conversation.
It was mostly going through all the scenarios Narancia was imagining at the time and explaining why they weren’t going to happen. After a while out there and plenty of deep breaths of the night air, Abbacchio was usually able to convince Narancia that Mista would be okay.
Then they would go back inside, be silent, and then a while later, the kicking would start back up again. Every minute that passed without any news from Trish was a tense one, though if she was staying for so long it probably meant Mista was awake.
It gave Abbacchio some comfort, as he couldn’t say he wasn’t also stressed as hell, but the lack of information was killing him. He figured he had about ten more minutes until another talk with Narancia would be necessary, and though they seemed to help, he knew it would never be as reassuring as news from Trish.
Then, finally, after what felt like hours, the door opened and Trish stepped into the waiting room. Narancia shot to his feet, violet eyes wide and brimming with tears like he was already expecting the worst.
Trish walked up to them, lifting a hand from the pocket of her skirt to ruffle Narancia’s hair.
“It all went well. He was awake when I was in there, but he was pretty tired and kind of hard to understand.” She smiled gently at the terror that crossed Narancia’s face at the last part, shaking her head. “But that’s just because of the medicine. He says once it’s worn off a bit and he gets a chance to wake up he wants to see you.”
Narancia gasped shakily. “Really?”
Trish nodded, pulling him into a hug. “He said to tell you hi and that he’s ‘vibing just fine.’”
Sniffling, Narancia gripped the back of the t-shirt Trish had thrown on when they had driven Mista there. The following sob might have masked a teary laugh, but Abbacchio couldn’t really tell.
“That’s Mista, alright.” He took a deep breath. “He’s okay- he’s okay,” The teen muttered, as if desperate to reassure himself.
Arms still securely around Narancia, Trish looked over to Abbacchio. “He said when Nara comes in, you should come too,” she told him.
Abbacchio frowned. “Why?”
He didn’t get why Mista would want to see him, of all people. He wasn’t at the dinner when all this supposedly happened, so he wouldn’t have been able to tell who might have done it. And Abbacchio would rather die than have Mista think of him the same way as he did of Narancia.
“He didn’t say,” Trish frowned, still running a hand through Narancia’s hair in an attempt to console him. Abbacchio couldn’t blame her, considering how scared he looked.
“Huh.” Abbacchio rested his chin in his hand. “When do you think he’ll be ready for us?”
Narancia looked up at her expectantly with the question. Trish frowned thoughtfully. “Probably only half an hour or so. He still might be a bit hazy from all this, but I don’t think he’ll mind.”
Wiping his nose with his wrist, Narancia nodded. “Okay- okay.” He released himself from Trish’s hold, and Abbacchio nodded to the space beside him.
“C’mon, Narancia, won’t be too long.”
Narancia obeyed, though his breaths were still awfully unsteady. They seemed to smooth out as he no doubt let the news sink in, anticipation replacing the fear as he, as expected, grew more jittery with time.
Finally, after reaching over to stare at Abbacchio’s wristwatch for the fortieth time, he gasped and turned to elbow Trish. “You think he’s ready now? C’mon-”
Trish glanced over to Abbacchio for approval, who sighed and nodded. Hopefully seeing Mista would be able to console Narancia at least some, then he would be able to leave the room and update Bucciarati without freaking the kid out. He had been wanting to call the Capo and better explain what was going on, but he knew describing what he had been told: about what they had to do to their teammate to keep him from dying- it would only serve to make Narancia more panicked.
Walking outside wasn’t really an option either, because Narancia had been clinging to Abbacchio like he was the last steady thing in the world the whole time, and even with Trish here, he wasn’t going to be leaving him there anytime soon.
Trish bit her lip nervously and nodded. “Abbacchio, can you ask again?”
Abbacchio exhaled as he got to his feet, feeling Narancia tense as he walked over to one of the nurses and pulled him aside.
“Guido Mista. Can we see him?” he asked bluntly, exhaustion setting in and any remaining politeness running thin.
The nurse straightened, glancing across the waiting room to Narancia, who was watching the exchange intently. “Yes, sir. He should be in room 880, and I’ll let you know if there’s anything else we need to give him before he can head home.”
Abbacchio thanked him under his breath and looked over to Narancia, jutting his chin toward the hall. The teen got out of his chair so fast he almost tripped, hurrying over and following Abbacchio down to the room.
Narancia’s heart was pounding frantically as he followed Abbacchio’s long strides down the hall, mind racing with all the things that could have happened. God, he felt like he had been waiting for so long. Just hearing Trish describing Mista- tired, hard to understand, needed time to wake up- left room for his imagination, and that wasn’t good. His imagination was telling him that Mista could die in those thirty minutes, that the tiredness was from trying to escape the clutches of the same forces that had taken people away from Narancia before.
He was breathing heavily as he counted the numbers on the hospital rooms, anxiety gripping his chest. He skidded to a halt in front of number 880, fearful to the point where he almost felt sick as well.
The door felt like it took forever to open when Abbacchio shouldered it out of the way, stepping aside to let Narancia in first.
There he was. Mista’s eyes were shut and head rolled over in what looked like a really uncomfortable position, but that was just how Mista slept, all contorted and weird and taking up the most space he could. He wasn’t snoring like he usually did, which made Narancia’s heart skip a beat with panic, but that probably had something to do with all the wires hooked up to him.
His skin was not all that great a color, a terrifying ashiness to it, and they had replaced his usual sweater with a boring hospital gown. It looked wrong, almost sickeningly so, but the heart monitor was beeping and his chest was rising and falling just fine.
He realized just how hoarse and shaky his voice was when he tried to speak, taking an unsteady step toward the bed. “M- Mista? You in there?”
Relief washed over Narancia as his teammate stirred, stretching beneath all the wires and yawning before his eyes cracked open.
“...Wha…” Recognition flooded into his expression and he grinned, blinking the sleep out of his eyes and sitting up. “Ay, Nara!”
Narancia couldn’t move for a second, forgetting how to talk or do anything as he nearly melted with relief. He had been so, so scared, but here Mista was, alive and awake and talking to him and okay . Everything Abbacchio had been telling him didn’t feel like a lie anymore, and he felt hot tears building in his eyes. He hurriedly wiped them away with the back of his wrist, inhaling shakily and throwing himself forward to wrap his arms around Mista.
The bed smelled like hand sanitizer and the hug wasn’t all that soft, with the starchy hospital gown and all the electrodes on Mista’s chest, but Narancia couldn’t even begin to care. The gunslinger chuckled, and though it wasn’t as strong as usual, it was Mista and it was comforting. He ruffled Narancia’s hair affectionately, shifting to keep himself from getting tangled in the wires.
“Sorry for scaring you like that, dude.”
Narancia shuddered, keeping his face buried in Mista’s chest. “God-” He pulled away slightly and looked up, eyes still stinging with tears. “You stupid fuck, Mista.”
Abbacchio, standing with his arms folded behind Narancia, snorted. Mista laughed again, heartier this time. “Hey!”
Narancia wiped his nose, half-hearted frustration taking over now that the fear had melted. “You got your dumb ass poisoned?! You’ve gotten shot like more than a hundred times but you got owned by a fucking pizza?!”
Mista scratched the side of his face. “Pretty sure it was carpaccio, actually, but uh- Yeah. Oops,” he replied sheepishly.
Narancia shook his head, climbing up onto the bed next to him and sitting cross-legged at his side. He stared down at the bedsheets, brow furrowed. “I-” his breath picked up, chest aching. “I had to wait for you, Mista, it took fuckin’ hours and I didn’t know if you were gonna die or not-” he choked, shaking.
Mista sighed. Narancia had told him how he felt about hospitals before, but he felt terrible that his teammate had to actually see what all that panic and terror and desperation looked like. “You know I’d never just ditch you like that, Nara, c’mon. But I am sorry for not- y’know, tryna tell someone that I didn’t feel all that great. Trust me, I may only half remember it, but Trish lectured me a whole ton about uhh… not just assuming I’d ‘get over’ cyanide poisoning.”
Narancia laughed tearily, already able to imagine Trish sitting right there with her arms folded and that twitch of annoyance in her eye while Mista sat on the bed just awake enough to pretend he was listening. He sank against the gunslinger’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around him again. “So that’s what she was doing the whole time she was in here.”
As Narancia sat there, lying against his teammate and holding onto him like he would have been able to go anywhere, he realized just how grateful he was. The rest of the tension drained from him and it took everything he had not to just slump bonelessly over and cry out the rest of the tears that had been building up this whole time. Instead he just waited there, head in the crook of Mista’s arm and feeling the steady rise and fall of his breaths.
He was finally forced to pull away when Abbacchio spoke up. Narancia realized he hadn’t said anything about the fact that he had been clinging to Mista, and was suddenly grateful for the weird lack of annoyed remarks. “Oi, Narancia. Bucciarati’s calling, go talk to him. I’ll wait in here with Mista.”
Narancia’s eyes widened and he rolled off the bed, with a nervous glance back at Mista. He wasn’t all that sure of the idea of leaving Mista here, but he trusted Abbacchio to make sure he was okay. Plus, he was sitting up and talking just fine and was himself again now, right? They probably wouldn’t lose him now, and Bucciarati probably really wanted to hear what was going on.
“Hmm. Okay. Just because I know he’s gonna be worried.”
Abbacchio nodded and handed the phone over. “Yeah, there you go. The hall should be fine, you don’t have to go back to the waiting room.”
Narancia, even more grateful that he didn’t have to go any further away, hurried out into the hall and pressed the phone to his ear.
“Bucciarati?”
“Narancia? What are the updates, is Mista alright?” As he expected, Bucciarati’s voice was tight with worry, hurried and panicked.
“Yeah, yeah- it’s all okay now, promise. I’m- I’m outside his room right now and he’s talking to Abba. He’s-” Narancia voice shook with relief as he realized he really could say this with full certainty. “He’s okay.”
Bucciarati sighed gratefully on the other end as well. “Thank god. Did you go in there?”
“Y- yeah,” he replied, biting on his nail. “He was all covered in wires an’ shit and even a while after he woke up he still looked kind of half dead and I was scared, but- he let me hug him and it all feels a- a lot better now.”
“Okay. Thank you. Anything else?”
“Uhm, uh- don’t tell Trish or Fugo, but I saw him earlier, too. I asked to go to the bathroom and when I left they were wheeling him into the room and he looked so bad and so sick cause his lips were blue and the people kept talking about how they were low on anesthetic and his oxygen levels were falling and they were even talking about a coma??! And there was so much more that was in doctor talk and I didn’t understand, but- but they- they kept him alive and now it’s not so bad, y- y’know? He’s Mista again and not just a really really still thing on an operation table.”
There was a pause on the other end, a tense silence hanging from across the phone that was broken by Bucciarati’s slow, consoling breath. He sounded like he was trying not to cry. “I’m proud of you, Narancia. For getting through all of that. I know it’s not easy, and how scary it can be, but you were brave. I’m really glad to hear Mista’s alright.”
Narancia sniffled, nodding and anxiously bouncing on his heels as he gripped the phone tighter. “Yeah- yeah, you’re right, uhm, I- I did it, and he’s fine, I’m fine, it’s gonna be allll okay, all okay,” he replied, mostly to himself, as a way to keep him from sobbing again.
“Stay strong, okay? Giorno and I are headed home. It won’t be anything like Mista’s cooking, but I’ll make dinner for when you all get back. Sound good?”
Narancia nodded, more for the need to move than for Bucciarati to know, obviously, cause he was on the phone. “Mhm. Th- thanks, Mom, an’ I think Abba’s gonna text you when we get Mista to the car anyway.”
“Good. See you soon.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too. Take good care of Mista for me.”
While Narancia had hurried out into the hall, Abbacchio walked over to sit on the edge of Mista’s bed, arms folded. Mista could tell by the look in his eyes that he not only was tired, but incredibly stressed. Mista really didn’t blame him.
Abbacchio glanced back at the door, exhaling. “Hopefully that’ll keep the kid busy for a bit. Are you actually feeling okay?”
Mista chuckled, nodding. “Yeah. My head hurts a little and I still feel like I could sleep for another three days, but I wasn’t gonna tell Nara that. He’s so freaked already.”
“Tell me about it,” Abbacchio replied, rubbing one of his eyes. “That’s good, though, painkillers are probably still working, and we’ll be able to get you more at home. Anyway, whole reason I got Narancia out of here: Trish said when you woke up earlier, you wanted me to come in here with Narancia so you could talk about something. What was it?”
Mista blinked. “When… Trish came in? Uhh, I don’t remember it all that well… Oh! Wait, yeah-” he laughed, sinking back down against his pillows as it came back to him. “I just wanted Nara to have someone with him in case I threw up or wasn’t awake or he needed to get a doctor or something. Thought Trish was gonna send him in here alone to ‘give me space’ or whatever. I don’t actually have shit to say to you.”
Abbacchio raised an eyebrow, staring at him for a moment before exhaling through his nose, folding his arms over his coat. “Hm. Good. I’m going to go bother and probably bribe a nurse until we’re allowed to take you home. Trust that Narancia will be back in here in a minute to sit with you and cry.”
Mista rolled his eyes. “Abbacchio, be nice to him. He’s been through some shit.”
Abbacchio’s expression didn’t falter. “No, you be nice to him. Like he said, you got your dumbass poisoned and he’s been panicked the whole night. I’ve been plenty nice to him, and now it’s your turn.”
Mista raised an eyebrow at the mention of Abbacchio being nice to Narancia, but grinned nonetheless. “Deal. Thanks for helping him out, though. No clue how much worse he’d be without you here.”
Abbacchio scoffed. “He’d be better with Bucciarati here. But anyway, glad there wasn’t anything too worrying you needed to talk about. I’m gonna go scout out a way to break you out of here.”
Apparently Abbacchio kept his promise to bribe a nurse, because after Narancia had been sitting by Mista’s side, if only to say things and have the reassurance of Mista respond, for another half hour, Abbacchio shouldered the door to the hospital room open. Mista’s sweater and pants were slung over his arm as he walked inside, jaw set, and did find that Mista looked significantly better. The honestly eerie blue tint to his lips and nails had faded completely, his skin was noticeably less greyish, and even the heart monitor told him that his pulse had finally sped up to a normal level. Really, the slightly delayed beeping of it had definitely been a cause for unease when had walked in earlier, but he kept his mouth shut.
“We’re leaving.” He narrowed his eyes at the mess of wires Mista was still surrounded by, frowning. “Need help getting those off?”
“Ope- yeah, please.”
Narancia shifted out of the way just enough for Abbacchio to reach over him and begin peeling off the electrodes one by one, the adhesive sticking to his fingers. Mista suddenly breaking out into a peal of muffled laughter didn’t help much either.
Abbacchio stared at him. “What?”
Mista gasped shakily, snickering. “It tickles.”
“Then the numbing agent’s worn off,” Abbacchio replied, pulling the IV out of his arm. He didn’t give any warning, of course, and made Mista yelp with surprise at the sharp twinge of pain.
Abbacchio rolled his eyes, pulling the sticker of the last electrode off his hand and instead pressing it onto the plastic of the bedside table. The heart monitor let out a long, high-pitched beep and Narancia tensed, wide violet eyes darting over to see the green line falling flat.
Abbacchio nudged him. “It’s watching the sticker things. Just means the plastic table doesn’t have a pulse.”
Narancia relaxed at that, nodding quickly and catching his breath as Abbacchio finished pulling all of the wires and needles out of his teammate.
Again, without him giving him any warning, Abbacchio tossed Mista’s clothes onto his lap, a familiar heap of blue and red cashmere. “It’s so bright it might get us caught when we try to leave, but there’s no way you’re ditching your ridiculous outfit. Get dressed, we’ll meet you in the waiting room and book it to the car.” His lips twitched up in what might have been the beginning of a smile for the first time that whole night.
Mista grinned, unfolding his sweater as Abbacchio took Narancia’s shoulder and guided him away. God, it would feel good to be out of here.
And it did, as Mista found himself feeling a lot better now that he was out of the hospital and instead sitting in the backseat of the car with Narancia beside him, kicking his legs against the seat in front of him.
The radio was on for white noise, as everywhere in the hospital had been way, way too quiet, but they didn’t really need it. Abbacchio was on the phone to Bucciarati in the front seat, Fugo swearing under his breath whether someone cut him off (both in the conversation and on the road), and Narancia was chattering away about well, who knew what. What mattered was that he wasn’t shaking and wide-eyed from fear anymore.
The panic had absolutely melted from his face when they had pulled out of the hospital parking lot with Mista with them, like the stop sign at the edge of the road marked a portal into a world where he was the same upbeat teen Mista was such close friends with.
He had let out a cheer of excitement when Fugo turned into the driveway of the house, hopping out and running around to Mista’s side to help him out. Mista let him, the routine feeling like nothing more than coming home from a regular, if only particularly tiring mission and being led up to the front door by Narancia.
Bucciarati immediately got to his feet and they heard quick footsteps up to the front door before it was thrown open, the Capo’s concerned eyes roaming the group and landing on Mista. He smiled with relief, opening his arms and pulling Mista into a tight hug.
“Oh, Mista,” he sighed, shaking his head slightly. “Thank god.”
“...Wild night, huh?” Mista joked. “Trust me, am I glad to be out of there.”
Bucciarati pulled away and straightened himself, eyes misty. “I’m sure. If you’re up for it, there’s dinner for you here.”
Mista did, in fact, have just enough energy to flop down at the dinner table and join the team for a 3:30am dinner made by Bucciarati (it wasn’t as good as his own cooking, of course, but he could be sure it wasn’t poisoned), and even managed to contribute to the conversation.
But the remaining burst of stamina couldn’t last forever, and he felt his eyes drooping as he set down his fork.
He rubbed one of his eyes. “Shit, dude, I really don’t feel like passing out in the dining room a second time so uh, I’m gonna head upstairs.”
Though nobody really seemed to be amused by his throwback to earlier in the day, even earning a horrified glare from Trish, Abbacchio did pinch the bridge of his nose.
“Great. We’ll see you in two days, then. I’ll bring water and food,” the goth replied sarcastically.
Mista snorted. Really though, he couldn’t wait to be allowed to crash without people sticking needles in his skin or tubes down his throat. Just like usually did, shutting off the lights and grabbing the heaviest blanket to disappear under until he felt like a human being again. Except this time around, he’d probably have to accommodate for Narancia showing up every so often to make sure he was okay. That was okay. Mista could definitely spare some time not spent asleep if it was for the sake of reassuring his team that he was alive.
“More like five days.” He smirked. “After all, it did turn out to be a bit more than a cold.”