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When Mista regained consciousness his body was heavy and unresponsive. He groaned, his voice hoarse and his throat too dry for comfort. Slowly, he became more aware of his surroundings, fingers twitching, he opened his bleary eyes. The air was fresher than he remembered and the mossy clouds above him seemed to be fading away into the night.
Clouds weren’t supposed to be green, he thought with a sheepish grin. There was definitely something strange going on. Could it be the work of an enemy stand user? That was probably the best explanation, but if Rome’s shrub population had sprouted wings and taken to the sky, Mista would say he’s seen stranger things.
The fog in his brain started to dissipate and he saw a flash of Cioccolata’s eerie smile.
They were fighting. He remembered pushing his final bullet into the eager arms of number five right before losing consciousness. His final order was for his remaining stand to protect Giorno. Mista shot up from the ground— his vision spun but he was surprised to find his wounds were completely healed.
“G-Giorno…!” He coughed. The compression he felt in his lungs was definitely due to inhaling Green Day’s spores.
Giorno was to his right, leaning against the short wall that lined the perimeter of the roof. His hair was matted with blood, his braid was loose, and the curls at the front of his head were unraveled, blowing softly in the wind. He looked serene, or perhaps just less put together. In any other situation, Mista would have adored the carefreeness of Giorno’s hair fluttering about, but the crimson lathered into the golden strands only filled him with worry.
Mista moved with purpose, closing the distance between the two of them as quickly as possible. His heart pounded in his tightening chest as he scanned Giorno, taking in his disheveled and bloodied appearance.
“What happened? Did you finish off the moldy guy?” Mista put a hand on Giorno’s shoulder with urgency, but he flinched hard and grimaced. “Hey… are you alright?”
“I defeated Cioccolata but I sustained a few injuries in the process,” he quickly followed up with, “It’s nothing to worry about, I’m just glad you’re alright Mista.”
Injuries? Mista looked him up and down again, his gaze settling on the way he held his right arm just above his elbow. His sleeve hid most of the damage, but Mista still caught the dark bruising that crept up the back of his hand from his swollen wrist. The joint looked stiff, and with the way Giorno cradled it to his chest, he could only hope it wasn’t broken.
Mista felt wetness prickling behind his eyes; this wasn’t right. Giorno could heal any injury, couldn’t he? What was he waiting for?
“But that’s okay, you can just fix yourself up good as new, right?” He didn’t mean to raise his voice or move even further into Giorno’s personal space, but he was becoming increasingly worried.
“I can’t, ” Giorno shook his head, hiding behind his long bangs. “I thought I already explained that my stand doesn’t heal per se. I can replace damaged or missing tissue, but I can’t fix something that’s broken.”
Mista took a moment to process what he was saying. This entire time, he never thought to ask about Gold Experience’s limits. He was a fool, blissfully living under the impression that Giorno could never truly be hurt— that as long as Giorno got there in time, none of them could be. Even when they fought Notorious B.I.G. Trish’s quick thinking and courage allowed him to heal everyone’s grievous injuries. Was it a coincidence that no one sustained blunt force injuries until now or was Mista at fault for never noticing? He thought Giorno’s stand was nearly invincible, that all Mista had to do was stay alive, and he would wipe away all the consequences of his failures in battle.
That was far from the truth. When their eyes met briefly and Giorno’s were glazed with unmistakable agony, Mista cursed himself for his foolishness. He thought of the countless times he lay riddled with bullet wounds, longing for Giorno’s gentle touch followed by his stand’s life imbuing ability. It always lit his nerve-endings on fire, leaving him to shriek and buck his hips beneath Giorno until he was left brandishing new flesh in the place of his fatal wounds.
Mista’s Sex Pistols weren’t meant for healing– they were brash and far too loud for their own good– much like their user. Mista would describe himself as impulsively clumsy at times. He doubted anyone would want him tending to their injuries, and yet there he was, about to finally return the favour to the person who saved his life so many times.
“Let’s get you into the turtle, you need to rest.” The words felt foreign and far too serious; they would make much more sense coming from Bucciarati.
Giorno seemed reluctant at first, but as the excitement of the battle died down, Mista assumed the gravity of his injuries was becoming more apparent.
“Alright, just for a moment though.”
Once they were inside Coco Jumbo’s stand, Giorno nearly collapsed against him. It seemed that the only thing keeping him going was the threat of danger and the adrenaline coursing through him. Mista fumbled an arm around his back and lead him to the large couch. All the while, Narancia and Trish’s eyes followed them the entire way.
“What happened?” Narancia made his way over, eyeing Giorno in a suspicious manner. “Dude, you look awful! Hurry up and heal yourself, you’ve still got some work to do on me!” His voice was pitchy and far too carefree for Mista’s liking. He couldn’t blame him though, he was thinking nearly the same thing only moments ago.
Giorno seemed to flinch at the comment. He didn’t respond at first but then beckoned to Narancia. “You’re right, let me finish treating your wounds.”
“But you’re–”
“Narancia come here. Once I’ve taken care of your remaining injuries, I’d like for you to take the turtle and meet up with Bucciarati.” Giorno didn’t let Mista get a word in.
Was he really going to overexert himself with another impromptu healing session and pretend that everything was alright? Mista narrowed his eyes but watched him materialize Gold Experience. The stand moved stiffly, juxtaposing his usual swift acrobatics. He mirrored Giorno, pressing his left hand to Narancia’s shoulder, and with a soft trill, the bandages became new flesh.
Narancia didn’t seem to mind Gold Experience’s painful healing. In fact, he didn’t even react to it. Instead, a wide smile spread across his face, and he bounded towards the chair in the center of the room. “Thanks, Gio, I feel all better! I’ll get us to Bucciarati and wait for his orders. Seems like we’re on the right track!”
With that, he disappeared into the skylight.
The room was too quiet. Mista could hear Giorno’s laboured breaths as he all but deflated on the couch. He wanted to say something– maybe scold or question him for healing Narancia’s wounds when he was so battered himself. He opened his mouth, but Trish beat him to it.
“What’s wrong with you?” She pointed an accusing finger. “Narancia may have fallen for your little act but I see right through you.”
Mista looked from Trish to Giorno then chimed in, “yeah ‘the hell man? Someone’s got to say it and Bucciarati isn’t here to scold you for being too selfless for your own good!”
“Didn’t want him to worry, it s’okay– I’m okay.” Giorno’s eyes were heavy-lidded and his shoulders were wracked with weak tremors.
“Hey hey…” Mista sat down beside Giorno, hands hovering over his chest before he dropped them to his sides in defeat. He was really out of his element.
With no warning, Trish pushed a large medical kit into his arms. She swung the chair around so it was positioned in front of Giorno, and shot Mista a telling look. It seemed to translate to, ‘I’ll take things from here, your attempt at comforting Giorno was painful to watch.’ Mista wouldn’t claim to be good at reading expressions– he wouldn’t even say he could do it most of the time, and yet Trish’s spoke loud and clear. He switched places with her, sitting down on the edge of the chair with the medical kit tucked between his chest and lap.
“Giorno, will you let us help you?” Mista tried, reaching out a hand but not daring to touch him while he was quivering against the couch. “Can you please tell me where you’re hurt?”
He didn’t respond at first, but when Trish placed a gentle hand on his knee, he seemed a little more grounded. “My right arm and wrist, my left collarbone… a-and my ribs… on both sides,” he got out through gritted teeth. “…was able to heal most of the lacerations at least.”
Mista schooled his expression into something neutral. He couldn’t let his feelings get the better of him when Giorno needed his help. He wished he hadn’t sent his stand into the chopper. If only he had thought things through just a little more, he could have actually been useful during that fight, and maybe Giorno wouldn’t have sustained so much damage. He opened the kit and rummaged through it, pulling out a pair of medical scissors. Wordlessly, he positioned the scissors by Giorno’s sleeve, ready to cut open his jacket to reveal the injured limb as painlessly as possible.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Giorno’s left hand caught his wrist and he narrowed his eyes.
“What does it look like?” Mista repositioned the scissors. “We have to get you out of your jacket.”
“No, I’m fine,” Giorno nearly snapped. “I just need a minute.”
Mista wasn’t sure how to respond to this hostility, nor did he know where it was coming from. Trish seemed to be taken aback as well. As she became more comfortable with the team, she was much less timid and spoke her mind without hesitation. For that, Mista was thankful. He didn’t know if he had it in him to contradict Giorno when he was like this.
“Giorno, why are you being so stubborn?” She asked bluntly. “We’re trying to help you, but we can’t do that if you won’t show us your injuries.”
“Why?” His head was lowered and Mista couldn’t see much of his face. “I shouldn’t have let myself get this badly injured in the first place. I can deal with the consequences of my mistakes on my own.”
This time it was Mista’s turn to speak up because there was no way he would let Giorno be so down on himself. “Everyone makes mistakes. Hell, if I hadn’t shot most of my stand into that helicopter, maybe I could have actually helped you with that fight and you wouldn’t be…” he looked for the right words but just settled for, “…hurt so bad.”
“Just because you think you can deal with it on your own, doesn’t mean you have to,” Trish added. “What are you so scared of?”
Mista waited for Giorno’s answer because Trish was rather perceptive. There was something stopping him from openly accepting their help. He was hiding from them, even though Mista thought they were past that. Giorno tended to his injuries over and over again, so why was he so resistant when it was the other way around?
“I don’t want you to see me like this,” he admitted after a few moments of silence, “and… no one has ever… this is the first time anyone’s offered to help me.”
“Like ever ever?” Mista accidentally let slip, earning a glare and an elbow to the ribs from Trish.
Giorno’s eyes were on him. They were narrowed and watery and nothing like what Mista pictured when he conjured up an image of him. “Yes, ever ever.” When Giorno repeated his words back to him he realized how stupid he must have sounded.
“I’m sorry,” Mista began, not completely sure where his sentence was headed. “Me and Trish… we just want to help you feel better… if you’ll let us. It’s okay to be vulnerable with us! I know we haven’t known each other that long but we’ve been through shit and– and that’s gotta mean something. We have your back when we’re beating the shit out of enemies and when we’re dealing with the aftermath.”
Giorno took a moment to absorb his words, then slowly nodded. “I know, it’s just hard… just always had to hide this kind of thing if I didn’t want it used against me,” he mumbled, “…old habits.”
Mista had the sudden urge to engulf Giorno in a soul-crushing hug, but with his current state, he knew something like that might just be the end of him. He settled for taking Giorno’s uninjured hand into his and looking at him with sincerity. “Please, let us take care of you,” Mista offered a small smile, “besides, It’s only fair after all those times you saved our asses.”
“Okay,” Giorno seemed to relax a bit, “but don’t cut my jacket.”
Mista put the scissors back into the medical kit with a sheepish grin, then watched as Giorno began unzipping the front of his jacket. He kept his right arm wrapped around his stomach as he carefully pulled the fabric near his shoulder down to his elbow. Mista’s eyes immediately went to the deep bruising that marred his pale flesh. The upper part of Giorno’s arm was a mess of dark purple, fading out into a sickly yellow around his shoulder, elbow, and the inside of his arm. Around the center of the bruising, his flesh was torn and weeping sluggishly. The impact was powerful enough to draw blood, Mista cringed.
Giorno continued to remove the stubborn article of clothing. He was having trouble keeping his arm still, wincing and stifling cries that cut through Mista like bullets. He was trying so hard to hide his pain, only letting small whimpers escape, but somehow they were so much worse than the alternative.
“Here let me help you with the other side.”
Mista gently pulled the jacket around Giorno’s back and slid it off his left arm. Without the layer in the way, Mista and Trish were able to see the heavy bruising that was beaten into Giorno’s ribcage. He must have known it was bad because as soon as the jacket was off he was curling in on himself with his arms hiding his middle.
“Giorno, you… this is so much worse than what you made it out to be!” Trish’s eyes were wide, her voice wavering.
“Not true… it looks worse than it is…”
Mista wanted to believe that, but it wasn’t just the bruises. It was the uneven rise and fall of his chest, his laboured breathing, the way he didn’t dare move his right arm from where he had it pressed against his body, the limited motion he seemed to have on his other side due to the bruising by his shoulder and collarbone. The list went on, long enough to convince Mista that Giorno was a liar.
“You need to lie down, I’m going to get some ice from the cooler. The best we can do is splint your arm and ice the bruising.” Trish sounded almost frantic, but Mista couldn’t blame her because he was at that point too.
The reality of the situation was starting to really set in. Giorno would most likely be out of commission for the meeting with their contact at the colosseum and for the inevitable battle with Diavolo. He was incredibly stubborn though, and selfless to the point where he lacked basic self-preservation. Mista worried about what would happen if he tried to fight in his condition, especially with someone as high caliber as the boss of Passione.
“I need to… be out there, Bucciarati.” Giorno’s sentences were getting more and more garbled. “The other stand user… Bucciarati might need– need me.”
“Giorno stop!” Mista could not understand how his mind worked. “Trish is getting some ice, please just let yourself rest.”
He remembered reading somewhere that a person with damaged ribs should lie propped up, but as he looked around the room there was nothing that could help with that. Mista had no idea how Coco Jumbo’s stand worked, but at the very least he needed to add pillows. There were a couple of throws lying around, so he doubted pillows were inconceivable.
He sighed, then took another quick glance at Giorno. He was, for once, trying to do as he was told, but he seemed to be struggling. Repositioning himself on the couch was taking more out of him than he’d probably like to admit, and his face was contorted in a pained grimace. Mista guided Giorno back so he could lie outstretched. As he helped him change positions, he was struck with a somewhat embarrassing but practical idea.
“Hey Giorno, would you be okay lying against me?” He suggested, before quickly jumping to clarify. “I mean– because your ribs look pretty bad, you should probably sit up against something and there’s no pillows around or anything so–”
Surprisingly, he needed no deliberation before agreeing. “The incline of the couch… is steeper than I would like.” Giorno reasoned. “I think if you could… a 115-degree angle would suffice.”
So he still had some wittiness left in him, that was a good sign at least. Mista slid in behind Giorno, nestled in the middle of the sectional couch. He was very careful with where he put his hands as he helped Giorno lean back against his chest. He didn’t want to bring him more pain and he definitely didn’t want to overstep any boundaries.
Giorno’s lower back was bare, pressed against the skin of Mista’s midriff. It felt weird at first, but after a moment or so he adjusted to their close proximity and skin-on-skin contact. A wave of catharsis washed over him as he held Giorno in his arms. It was a strange kind of relief, that budded from seeing him gravely wounded and unable to heal himself. Mista couldn’t take away the physical pain, but this felt grounding, and with the way Giorno sunk against him, he must be at least tolerating it.
“Feels good to hold you, cause you really scared me you know?” Mista didn’t need to say anything, but striking up a conversation was in his nature– even when the context called for silence. “You being hurt and all, it scares me to see you like this because…” he trailed off, trying to articulate his rapid-fire thoughts, “I care about you Gio, like a lot.”
A short silence followed, then Mista felt Giorno’s shoulders shake as his body was wracked with sobs. Alarms were going off in his head so he ripped his hands away from Giorno’s waist. “Does that hurt? Where I was touching you?” He asked quickly. “I’m sorry I’ll uh…” he didn’t know whether he should just lie flat with his arms behind his back or maybe move his hands lower to Giorno’s thighs— no that was weird, Mista was just a bumbling mess.
“No… you’re fine, I was just…” Giorno trailed off. He caught one of Mista’s fleeing hands and guided it back to his waist. “You said you… it just means a lot to me.”
Mista wrapped his arms around Giorno’s front, careful not to put too much pressure on him. “What did I say?” He paused for a moment. “That I care about you? Of course, I care about you.” He felt his face heat up as he repeated it.
Giorno sunk further into Mista with his head on his shoulder. He turned and spoke against Mista’s neck. “I care about you too… thank you for this.”
Mista was glad that Giorno couldn’t see his face, because with how hot his cheeks felt, he must be bright red. Their current position wasn’t helping either, but even while stricken with embarrassment, Mista would say he was happy that they could trust each other like this.
Not long after, Trish returned with several bags of ice and icepacks wrapped in thin towels. She shot Mista a knowing look, eying the way he held Giorno on the couch. “You two look cozy.”
Giorno just hummed in agreement, seemingly becoming less lucid as time passed.
Mista helped him sit up a bit straighter, as Trish rummaged through the medical kit. She pulled out some gauze and medical tape, a few rolls of elastic bandages, some splinting material, and a triangular bandage. She seemed to know what she was doing, probably more so than Mista because he wasn’t sure he’d even know where to start. He’d probably just lay some ice packs on Giorno and hope for the best.
“Is there anything you need me to do?” Mista asked, unsure if being pinned under Giorno was the most productive thing he could be doing right now.
“You’re good,” she replied, “it’s funny though because I thought I would be the one giving moral support,” she giggled.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mista glanced from Trish to Giorno. “I don’t really know first aid stuff!”
Trish smiled. “It looks like you’re doing a great job. Lucky for us, I’ve done a few first aid classes myself. I sorta know what to do.”
She ripped open a gauze package and poured some water over it. Unfortunately, they were inside a turtle and didn’t have access to the best wound cleaning supplies. Mista watched her wipe away the blood that leaked slowly from the point of impact at Giorno’s arm. He flinched, but stayed relatively still as Trish continued, now applying fresh gauze and securing it with medical tape.
“Okay, Mista can you help me with this?”
Trish folded the splint into an “L” shape and positioned it under Giorno’s arm so it was supporting his humerus and wrist. She guided Mista’s hand around his front, so he could support Giorno as she retrieved the elastic bandages and a roll of gauze. Mista was mesmerized by how calm and efficient she was, and he knew if he had to do this by himself, he would have been flustered and clumsier than usual.
He felt Giorno’s warm breath on his neck and glanced at him for a moment. He winced and trembled against Mista’s chest. This must have been the most pain he had ever seen him in, and for such a prolonged period of time too. Giorno’s jaw was clenched tight, but a few pained whimpers still escaped. Mista’s stomach dropped at the raw display, but he could only gently squeeze his waist in response. “You’re going to be okay,” he said, awkwardly.
Trish smirked but it quickly turned into a smile, as she positioned the roll of gauze under Giorno’s wrist, to help the splint follow the natural curve of his arm. “Alright, I’m going to wrap your arm with the elastic bandage now, let me know if it’s too tight okay?”
Giorno nodded, and Mista fumbled out of Trish’s away, supporting Giorno at the base of his elbow. He brought his other arm around his side to carefully hold the splint in place below his wrist as well. Trish began weaving the bandage around the upper part of Giorno’s arm, with precision. She was doing her best to be gentle, but her handiwork still elicited a few pained sounds from Giorno. Mista was nervous the entire time, praying that he wouldn’t mess up somehow.
“Can you move your hand back?” Trish repositioned one of Mista’s hands and continued wrapping the bandage around Giorno’s elbow and forearm.
When they got to Giorno’s wrist, Mista and Trish bumped hands a few times, but she managed to finish the job without too much protest from their patient.
“Not half bad,” Trish said with a small grin. She was doing a great job at keeping the atmosphere light-hearted, and Mista really appreciated it. He was a nervous wreck, and that sort of energy was never helpful in stressful situations.
Trish used the triangular bandage to create a sling. When she tied the knot behind Giorno’s neck, their faces were only inches apart. Mista noticed the furrow in her brow and the worry in her eyes. She never let it show, only focusing on tending to Giorno’s injuries. A bittersweet smile tugged at Mista’s lips.
“There we go.” Trish’s hands were on her hips as she looked Giorno up and down. She seemed satisfied with her work and moved on to the ice packs and bags of ice. “Here Mista can you hold this against his arm?”
Mista took the bag of ice, and slowly pressed it to Giorno’s upper arm. He flinched hard but allowed it. The bandages were covering the bruising now, but Mista couldn’t forget how terrible they had looked. He didn’t want to put too much pressure there.
Trish had Mista lie back again so Giorno was at a more comfortable angle on top of him. She laid an icepack over Giorno’s wrist and snuck a couple of bags of ice by his sides.
“Thank you… Trish.”
“Of course, anytime Giorno,” Trish replied. “We’re going to leave the ice on for 20 minutes at a time. Once we meet up with Bucciarati, he should be able to help you replace your arm, but for now, please don’t try anything like that.”
Mista nodded. “Right with the zippers and stuff. Does it hurt to have stuff zipped off by Sticky Fingers?” He wondered aloud.
Giorno shuddered, probably from the cold. “Yes it does,” he replied. “If Bucciarati could— I can continue to fight.”
Trish laid one of the throws over them, then dragged the chair to the middle of the room. “Just focus on getting some rest for now. You have Mista to keep you warm,” she said playfully. “I’m going to check on Narancia, and see if I can help with anything out there.”
Trish disappeared into the skylight, leaving Mista and Giorno alone. Mista wasn’t sure how to break the silence that fell over them, but surprisingly he wasn’t the one who did.
“Thank you Mista,” Giorno spoke softly against his neck.
“Who m-me?” Mista laughed, a little too loudly. “That was all Trish! Maybe she should be the team healer instead of you.” He teased, but when Giorno didn’t react, he quickly tried to save himself, “Sorry was that too soon?”
Giorno sighed, but he sensed a bit of amusement in his tone. “It’s alright.” He tensed above Mista, who could feel it from how intimately close they were.
“Are you cold?” He rubbed his hand over Giorno’s thigh. He didn’t have much reach from the way they were lying and he didn’t want to risk touching anywhere on his torso.
“Kind of.”
“Is the ice helping with the pain at least?” Mista felt Giorno nuzzle against his neck, probably in search of more of his heat. If he continued to do that, Mista would probably combust and engulf the entire turtle in flames.
“A bit…” Giorno mumbled. “…can I ask you something?”
“Yeah, anything man.” He wasn’t sure what Giorno had to ask him while he was in a mildly delirious state, body wracked with shivers and agony.
“Why do you… care for me?”
Mista’s face was hot with embarrassment. “W-what do you mean why?” He asked, not completely sure how to articulate his reasoning for something that came so naturally. “You’re just, you’re so cool and brave and stuff.” Maybe that wasn’t the best start, but Mista continued anyway, “you always have my back, and you just, you’re a good listener, you’re smart and supportive, you make me want to be better and you give me hope… man this isn’t an easy question to answer!”
He took a deep breath, then tentatively moved his arms a little higher so he was gently hugging Giorno around his middle. “You showed me your resolve over and over again, and it made me believe in you. When you and Bucciarati said you were gonna fight the boss, I barely had to even think because I knew already I’d follow you just about anywhere.”
Giorno’s eyes were closed and he moved his hand to cover Mista’s. His body was more relaxed, and he seemed to finally be resting. Mista couldn’t tell if he was awake or not, but his lips were upturned in a small smile, and despite his injuries, he seemed content.
Mista pressed a chaste kiss to his temple. He hoped he’d be able to lie like this with Giorno even when he wasn’t hurt. It was nice and comforting, and he enjoyed their closeness. This probably wasn’t the time to think about the budding feelings that treaded softly through his chest, but with Giorno curled up against him, it was difficult to ignore them. He knew he loved Giorno through and through, whether those feelings were platonic or something more, Mista had yet to discover. For now, he was just happy to hold Giorno in his arms, as they anxiously awaited their fateful meeting at the colosseum.