Mista couldn't believe his eyes.
He'd wondered about it, as he followed behind Fugo and Giorno while the group made their way back into the Colosseum, when he noticed that Narancia's body was not in the hallway they'd left it in. There was no way he could've just mistook which entryway it was; not unless someone else decided to go and bleed all over the national monument.
Fugo must've moved the corpse at some point, and it stung to think about it like that, but Mista wasn't about to hope for anything that seemed impossible, despite the many impossibilities that happened around them everyday. Besides, Fugo had insisted they be careful and quiet while returning so they didn't draw the attention of anyone. The longer they could get away with being unnoticed, the better. A corpse in the middle of an entrance to the atrium certainly wouldn't be subtle.
Except then they'd turned the corner and there was one, two people where he'd shot Bucciarati down and that messy black hair and uglyass skirt-thing, well, that could really only belong to one person.
Mista momentarily forgoed subtlety to yell, "Nara!" and bolt towards the smaller boy as fast as he could.
As the brunet barreled into him, knocking Mista right off his feet and onto the ground, he couldn't even feel mad that now his head hurt from where it cracked against the stone. Mista was far too busy crying unabashedly as he squeezed Narancia as hard as he could.
Narancia, to his credit, was crying as well even as he laughed against Mista's neck from where his head had buried into the crook of it.
"You smell, Mista," Narancia said, giggling as he nuzzled Mista's tan skin.
"Oh shut up," Mista managed to get out as a grin spread across his face. Narancia was still lying on top of him but neither of them made any motions to move. It was warm where the boy's chest was pressed to Mista's, the thump of a heart beating against his right ribs, and it made Mista cry even harder.
"Don't cryyyy," Narancia whined from where he'd pressed his cheek to Mista's neck. "That's not very manly of you, Mista."
"Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do," Mista muttered, turning his head to press a quick peck to Narancia's cheek that made the boy shriek. "And if it's crying 'cuz my fratellino is okay, well fuck, guess I'm not a man then."
"It's okay," Narancia replied, reaching one hand up to rub at his cheek in mock disgust. "I'm not a man either then."
"I'm so fucking glad," Mista breathed as he squeezed the brunet just a little tighter, still finding it hard to believe Narancia was truly alive, "So glad."
"Me too," Narancia whispered quietly and that almost made Mista start crying all over again.
"Really, you two?" came a voice from above them, and Mista opened his eyes to see Trish staring down at them. Her hands rested on her knees as she bent over them, a soft smile on her pink lips and the hint of tears in her green eyes. "Nothing you do is quiet, is it? Honestly. Boys."
Narancia finally sat back, allowing Mista to sit up as well so that the brunet was just sitting in his lap. They exchanged a look with each other, grinned, and both reached out and grabbed one of Trish's wrists and jerked her forwards. She let out a yelp of surprise as she stumbled off balance and was pulled into the embrace.
"Group hug!" Narancia cried happily as he wrapped one arm around Trish's shoulders and the other came to rest against Mista's waist. Mista watched as Trish's cheeks flushed and she tried to stammer out some form of retort before she apparently gave up. He didn't expect her to reach out and hug them both as well, but then again, when you almost died together way too many times, well, maybe they were closer than Mista had thought after all.
That was how Abbacchio found them, Narancia sitting on Mista's legs with his arms still around them, Trish having finally weaselled her way into a cross legged position to Mista's left, and Mista sitting there snivelling like a wimp.
"You're such a fucking asshole," Mista muttered, elbowing Narancia lightly as he rubbed at the teartracks on his cheeks. "Don't you ever pull that shit again, got that? I'll fucking kill you, I swear I'll do it."
"You can't kill me if I'm dead, that doesn't make sense."
"Then I'll burn your CD collection."
"You wouldn't dare!" Narancia shrieked and they both burst into laughter.
"Back for less than an hour and you two idiots are already fucking around," Abbacchio said with his arms crossed over his chest. "Fuck, maybe I shoulda gone with Ghepardo after all. Get some damn peace and quiet."
Mista frowned as he recognized the name; "You don't mean that."
Abbacchio met his scrutinizing stare with an unreadable expression for a few seconds before breaking into a grin.
"Not in the slightest," the man agreed as he bent down and pulled Narancia into a tight grip, his other hand a tight fist as he noogied the brunet.
"Ow, ow, I give, I give!" Narancia wailed but his voice was light with laughter and when Abbacchio finally let go, he turned to look up at the older man with a wide smile. "Yeah, you wouldn't wanna leave after you gave Bucciarati that‒"
"Looks like a noogie wasn't enough, maybe it's time to switch to wet willies."
Narancia paled and firmly shook his head. Mista wondered what they were talking about but one look at Abbacchio's face and he quickly decided that no curiosity was worth certain death at the hands of an alcoholic with anger management issues.
"How is he?" Trish asked softly. Mista followed her gaze to where Fugo and Giorno were together, talking quietly enough that he couldn't quite make out what was being said.
The angle they were at made it so that Fugo's body blocked most of Bucciarati from sight, but the long legs in that telltale white suit were still obviously bent at the same angle they were when Mista had shot him. He'd had a feeling, of course; Giorno had all but confirmed it, but it hit differently to see it now, to stare at what was most likely the corpse of arguably the most important man to ever walk into Mista's life. Mista loved Giorno but it just wasn't on the same level as the man who'd saved his entire future.
"…Don't expect anything," Abbacchio replied and it was clear by his clenched fists that he was battling those thoughts already. "And don't look. Not until they're done trying."
Trish's eyes widened almost imperceptibly before her features schooled into that emotionless mask she'd worn for nearly all of their journey and she gave a sharp nod. Not for the first time, Mista marvelled at her strength. For all that Trish had been through, she'd remained calm and collected pretty much the whole time even though her life had been totally upended. She must've gotten that strength from her mother, Mista thought, because Diavolo had only ever been weak. Mista could see that now.
He turned his gaze back to Fugo and Giorno, unable to tell what either blond was doing but both of their Stands were out now. Mista swallowed thickly, watching them with mixed emotions before finally deciding that it would be better if he just stayed there with the others. He wanted to go offer his support, just be there, but he knew that neither Fugo nor Giorno needed that. Not anymore.
"I guess we just wait," Narancia said quietly, wringing his hands together as he turned a nervous smile up towards the others. Abbacchio nodded and stepped around them, surprising all of them by sitting down on the stones on Mista's right. This time, when he pulled Narancia in, it was gently and with a soft sigh as his other hand came to rest on Mista's thigh.
"You just have to trust them," the older man said. "Surely you two, of all people, can manage that."
Mista let out a nervous laugh; "Never thought I'd hear you tellin' me to trust Giorno."
Abbacchio's glare was harsh but it didn't hold hardly any of the animosity it normally did. He raised a hand to Mista's head and before the gunman even knew what he was doing, Abbacchio had flicked him hard enough for it to surely leave a mark. Mista let out a yelp of pain as it began to throb right beneath the skin.
"Kinda feels pointless now," Abbacchio mumbled as he rested an elbow on his knee so he could put his chin in his hand, "Holding that kinda grudge. Promised I wouldn't. 'Sides, Giorno's… well, he ain't that bad, I guess."
"Wish I had a video camera," Narancia bemoaned with a smirk. "I'd love to show your face to Giorno right now; he ain't gonna believe us otherwise!"
"Brat," Abbacchio muttered goodnaturedly as he attempted to glower at Narancia but failed to do anything but smile.
"Why did you not like him?" Trish asked, and right, Mista had nearly forgotten that she hadn't been with them when Giorno first joined. It just felt like such a long time ago now.
"That's for me to know and you to never ask about again," was Abbacchio's firm response and Mista chuckled. Hell, Bucciarati probably didn't even know why the guy hated Giorno so much. The sky was blue, cats went meow, and Abbacchio hated Giorno. They were just facts of life.
"Y'know," Mista said as he lifted his head to stare up at the clear sky shining above them, "I didn't even think about it but… what now? Whadda we do?"
"You're just now wondering about that?" Narancia teased.
Mista shot him a smile that probably looked more like a grimace; "Well, I guess I didn't think we'd make it through this. I mean, we betrayed the Boss… who really expects to survive that?"
"You sounded more than confident at the time," Abbacchio scoffed but he refused to meet Mista's gaze. "Besides, what else could you expect? We're part of the mafia for fucks sake."
"I dunno, guess it never really felt all that real til now…"
"Until you met Giorno, you mean."
"That has nothing to‒"
"All'a you listen up, 'cuz I'm only gonna say it once," Abbacchio cut him off, holding his palm up to silence Mista's protests. "It not feeling real? That's something all of us go through at some point. And you know what makes that happen, what makes you realize 'oh fuck, this is the fucking mafia, I could die at any point in time'? It's when you find someone that makes you wanna live."
Abbacchio chuckled to himself as he sat back, propped up on his hands as he shifted his eyes over to where Fugo and Giorno were still working on Bucciarati. "What a group we all make, not having someone like that until you're already in too deep to swim outta it."
"…Yeah, but," Mista said with a soft grin, "it also means we all get to sink together, right?"
"Fucking optimist," Abbacchio grunted with a roll of his eyes but he was smiling again.
"I don't get it," Narancia muttered, looking confused and pissed off, probably because he was confused. "What does swimming have to do with anything?"
"You'll understand when you're older," Trish replied, ruffling Narancia's hair with a smirk as the brunet predictably barked out a cry of indignance.
"I'm older than you!"
"No you aren't," she said with a shrug of her shoulders. "Don't you know boys mature slower than girls? That makes me the big sister here, since I'm clearly more adult than you. It's all about hormones in the brain, Narancia."
"Really…?"
"Of course," Trish nodded. "But don't worry, you're still older than Fugo and Giorno."
"Good! Wait'll I tell Fugo about this, he'll be so impressed I know this!" Narancia was grinning widely and turned to Trish to add, "Oh, but you can't tell him you told me, Trish! I wanna surprise him myself!"
"My lips are sealed," Trish agreed. Narancia looked so convinced that Mista had to stifle a laugh behind his fist. He'd let Fugo deal with this one later; it was too funny to not let Narancia keep thinking it was true.
"Never change, little dude," Mista said fondly as he reached out to pull Narancia in for a hug. Fuck, he would've missed this. Thank whatever was looking out for them, whether it was God or just Giorno's insane luck; the source didn't matter to Mista.
"You'll mess up my hair," Narancia bemoaned but he hugged Mista back anyway.
Only a few more minutes passed within the group before Fugo approached them. They had continued to talk about just superficial, happy things but the tension that had always been there grew with each passing second, each moment that there wasn't any change or any news from the blonds. By the time Fugo finally came to talk to them, the conversation had fizzled out into an uneasy silence with everyone in their own heads.
Abbacchio was the one to notice, getting to his feet so suddenly he nearly stepped on Mista's hand as he did so. Mista followed his gaze to see Fugo hurrying towards them with a stressed look on his face but the slight smile there had Mista's heart racing.
"Well?!" Abbacchio practically yelled as the others stood up as well to face whatever the final verdict was.
"He‒" Fugo broke off, as if not knowing what to say, "He's alive‒"
Fugo was interrupted by Narancia's whoop of joy, Mista barely managing to grab the boy's arm and hold him back from racing over to where Giorno was still with Bucciarati. There was some sort of catch, or Fugo wouldn't look this conflicted.
"Thanks, Mista," Fugo flashed him a grateful smile before looking at Narancia. "Just let me explain things first before we go over there. It's nothing bad per say, I promise, just… not the ideal result."
"So get to it, then," Abbacchio growled and his face was so murderous that Mista noticed Fugo actually flinch beneath his glower.
"He's alive," Fugo said carefully. "His heart is beating, he's breathing, his skin is regaining color, all the visual signs are there. He just… hasn't woken up."
"So? Let's shake him or something," Narancia piped up and he looked so hopeful that Mista had to look away.
"It's not that simple," Fugo answered, "Giorno and I want to believe it's just because his body is exhausted‒"
"Just spit it out already." Abbacchio's voice was soft, quiet even, but the underlying tone that was there was clear as day. He didn't want Fugo beating around the bush any longer or he'd glow a gasket.
"Right. We think he's in a coma."
Mista heard Abbacchio's sharp intake of breath from beside him, even as Narancia seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. It was surprising, thinking that Abbacchio had been expecting good news while Narancia had thought the opposite. Or maybe Narancia just didn't quite understand. Mista himself wasn't sure what to think; surely just the fact alone that Bucciarati was alive was more than enough? It was more than he'd dared to hope, but he still had the feeling that Fugo was withholding something from them.
"When you consider the trauma his body went through," Fugo continued, his gaze fixed on Abbacchio, "as well as the overall decay and the shock, it's not that unusual. However, Giorno and I… well, we can't treat that. It's not something Giorno can 'fix' or we can repair, it's just something that needs time."
"Can we go see him?" Narancia asked hopefully.
"Sure," Fugo replied, eyes softening around the edges as he turned to look at Narancia, and huh, something had happened between those two but Mista would have to wait until later to get it out of them. "Just try not to move him, alright? Be careful."
Narancia nodded eagerly, holding out his hand to Trish as he cried, "Come on, Trish!"
The pink-haired girl shot a quick look at the other three before sighing and taking Narancia's hand. She was nearly yanked off her feet when Narancia bolted off towards Bucciarati and Mista could hear her complaining loudly as the pair hurried away, Narancia's laughter at her anger hanging in the air.
"So is he gonna wake up?"
Abbacchio's question hung heavily between them and Fugo's lack of initial response had Mista's hopes quickly dropping. He didn't know much about comas, but he was pretty sure they were a bad thing, especially if you're throwing around words like 'shock' and 'trauma.'
"…I believe so," Fugo said finally, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, "But I can't say for sure. Giorno and I think it was caused by the extreme form of anoxia his entire body dealt with, an anoxic brain injury leading to a coma. It's the most common type among people who undergo medical cardiopulmonary resuscitation. Of course, that's not really the same thing that's happened here, but it at least gives you a frame of reference."
"I only understood like half of what you said," Mista stated, feeling kind of dumb but hey, maybe Abbacchio didn't get it either? He couldn't really read the guy's facial expression but the man also wasn't rolling his eyes or clicking his tongue at Mista, so that was a good sign.
"Bucciarati wasn't breathing, so no oxygen went anywhere in his body and his brain is now finally reacting to that," Fugo explained, "And once it adjusts and begins to receive adequate oxygen at normal intervals again, his condition should improve and eventually he'll wake up."
"That's just what you two are hoping for," Abbacchio interrupted, his voice low and laced with either anger or frustration, Mista couldn't quite tell which. "It doesn't mean that's what'll happen. Who's to say he's not a fucking vegetable? Or worse, brain dead?"
Mista couldn't hold back from wincing at the older man's words; he hadn't wanted to consider that possibility. That would be worse than death, in Mista's opinion. Going through all of that, Fugo and Giorno trying so hard to bring him back, getting all of their hopes up, only for Bucciarati to just be a shell of the man he was? No, that would just make this hurt more. From their expressions, Mista figured that both Fugo and Abbacchio were thinking the same thing.
"…It's possible," Fugo murmured, shooting a furtive glance to where the others had gathered.
Giorno must have moved Bucciarati at some point because the man's legs were straightened out now. Narancia was kneeling on one side of him grasping the man's hand while he talked animatedly about something likely mundane and stupid, judging by Trish's unimpressed frown crossing over her pretty features. Giorno was seated as well next to Bucciarati's head, his face pale but expression soft.
"However," Fugo said as he turned back to Mista and Abbacchio, "I don't believe that will be the case. And unless you want me to go into the details on my theoretical analysis of the connections between the brain, the soul, and the body now, then I suggest you simply take my word for it."
Fugo looked straight at Abbacchio as he added, "And try to trust me."
It only took Abbacchio a few seconds before he said, "Of course I do."
Fugo looked like he was trying to fight back a smile when Mista slung one arm around Fugo's shoulders and the other around Abbacchio's and yanked them both in towards him. "I'm so proud of you guys," he said in what he hoped was a mocking motherly tone. So this was how Bucciarati felt when they worked out their differences.
"Fuck off," Abbacchio muttered, shoving Mista's arm off of him but his voice had none of its usual bite to it.
"So whadda we do?" Mista asked as Fugo wiggled out of his grasp as well, looking a little flustered.
"Well, ideally," Fugo said, "We'd take him to a hospital. There's nothing more Giorno and I can do for Bucciarati, but the same can't be said for their medical facilities. We could monitor his oxygen levels and heart rate to be sure nothing begins to fail, but even more that, we could monitor his brain activity. It could give us insight to his comatose state."
"Yeah but how the fuck are we supposed to do that?!" Mista cursed.
In Mista's entire fourteen-month stint with Passione, not a single one of them had been to a hospital. There had been a close call back when they'd had to raid a rival gang's gambling den that had been infringing on Passione territory. Abbacchio had been shot in the stomach and lost so much blood that Mista had gone with Fugo to sneak into a hospital in the middle of the night to steal transfusion equipment. Luckily Bucciarati was the same blood type so they didn't have to take any blood bags too, but it had definitely been too close for comfort. That equipment wound up getting a lot more use than Mista had expected it to.
"I'm not sure," Fugo said with a sigh, "Even if we could get him admitted anonymously, there's too much we can't explain to them. More than creating a fuss, if anyone got word that Bucciarati was in the hospital… he just became capo, it would be less than ideal."
"About that," Abbacchio cut in, his hand on his chin, "I think we can make it work. I know a guy."
"You 'know a guy'?" Fuck echoed skeptically.
Abbacchio smirked; "Specifically the capo here in Roma. He owes me. Big time."
"How the hell did you manage to get a capo to owe you one?" Mista asked in disbelief. The only capo he'd ever properly met was Polpo and then Fillippo from Piombino. Rigatoni had introduced him to the guy in Campobasso but the old man had made it clear that Mista wasn't to talk at all during that job debriefing, so he didn't even remember the capo's name.
"More than that, you got Augustus to owe you? He never wants any favors," Fugo added, "Hell, when I was sent up here to help out with a smuggling deal, the guy told me to fuck off. I had to just go back home. Polpo was pissed as hell."
"Well, you remember when one of the soldados here went rogue and stole nearly half a billion lyre from Roma's gambling rings?"
"No."
"Exactly," Abbacchio said, "Can't tell you anything more about it but like I said, Augustus owes me; he should be able to get Bucciarati admitted to a hospital without too many questions asked. I'll call him and get back to you guys. Where's the turtle?"
"I think Narancia has him," Fugo replied, "We'd better go join them."
Mista nodded and followed after them as they headed over to where the others were still clustered around Bucciarati. It was his first time seeing the capo after… well, after. As they neared, Mista would've sworn Bucciarati was just sleeping if he didn't know any better, but even so, the man's cheeks were sunken and dark bruises marred his closed eyes. He'd never seen Bucciarati so pale before but at least he was breathing.
As Abbacchio and Fugo stopped by Narancia, Mista headed towards Giorno instead, coming to rest right next to the blond as he plopped down beside him. As soon as he was settled, Mista felt a gentle pressure on his right arm and looked over to see that Giorno had pressed up against him.
The blond looked pale, his skin closer to white than its normal peach color. Giorno's green eyes were clouded with emotions that didn't quite reach the rest of his face. He looked utterly exhausted.
Mista shifted to pull his right arm out from where it was pressed into Giorno's side, rearranging them so he could put his arm around the blond and settle his hand snugly against Giorno's waist. Giorno shifted as well so he leaned into Mista, resting his head on the gunman's shoulder as his eyes fluttered shut momentarily.
"You're fucking amazing," Mista murmured, watching the steady rise and fall of Bucciarati's chest.
Giorno sighed as his features hardened into a frown; "If I was amazing, this wouldn't have happened in the first place."
"You can't change everything," Mista stated, his mind drifting back to a man with violet hair and a large stone with an x carved into it. His voice softened as he said, "Especially not fate."
"What do you mean?" Giorno asked, but Mista just shook his head.
"I'll tell ya another time, okay? For now, you should try to get some rest. Don't think I haven't noticed Gold Experience's fingers over your own."
Giorno glanced up to look at him in surprise. Mista's gaze shifted to where Giorno's fingers rested atop Bucciarati's shoulder, the faintest hint of golden fingers and orange knuckles shimmering over them.
"I didn't think anyone would notice," Giorno said and at least he sounded a little guilty. "I just‒ if I can fix enough of him, if I can give enough of his cells life then he might recover faster, he might wake up. I know it's working, Mista, I can feel it."
"Y'know, Fugo once told me the human body has like thirty trillion cells in it. You can't possibly fix every single one of them."
"I can try."
"Giorno, it'd probably kill you. Just stop, okay?" Mista reached out and placed his hand over Giorno's, gently pulling it off of Bucciarati and entwining their fingers together instead. "Stop. If not for yourself, then do it for me."
Giorno seemed to debate internally for a few seconds before he sighed and squeezed Mista's hand, settling back against the gunman.
"I suppose I could use a break," he murmured quietly.
"Perfect," Mista said, satisfaction and relief welling up in his chest, "Because I wanna take a nap, and if I remember correctly, you were a pretty fuckin' great pillow."
"Just a pillow?" Giorno teased back, smirking up at Mista.
Mista grinned; "Well, ya fit pretty good into my arms too."
"Get a room," he heard Narancia mutter from where the brunet was sitting half a meter away from them.
"Y'know what? That sounds perfect," Mista said, "Hey Nara, gimme the turtle!"
The boy passed Coco Jumbo with an overly exaggerated roll of his eyes, making retching noises all the while which Mista pointedly ignored.
"Your carriage awaits," Mista said, doing the best bow he could manage while simultaneously holding out the turtle to Giorno and also holding Giorno. The blond's face settled into a teasing smile, his green eyes twinkling as he leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to Mista's cheek.
Mista's shock must have been evident because Giorno began to laugh when he met Mista's gaze, winking before disappearing into Coco Jumbo.
His right arm now free, Mista's hand immediately flew up to his cheek in an attempt to savor the lingering feeling of soft lips against smooth skin. Holy shit. Holy shit.
"Don't you have somewhere to be?" he heard Fugo say pointedly with a gesture towards the turtle. Mista stared at him dumbly for a few seconds and then‒
Then Mista couldn't follow Giorno into the turtle fast enough.