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Mista has a habit of getting hurt every other week. Most of the time itās Fugo who patches him up with staplers, tape or thread. But Mistaās favorite time is when itās Bruno who fixes him up, who drags Mista to the nearest safehouse or his apartment.
Bruno always scolds him for getting hurt and Mista just smiles through it, despite the gaping wound on his side and the blood staining his clothes. Because despite his stern words, Brunoās hands are gentle on his as he guided Mista through the streets.
"You can just zip it up, you know. You donāt have to fuss over me,ā Mista always says. Bruno glares up at him from where heās bent over the couch, inspecting the gunshot wound on his stomach.
And Bruno always replies, āIām you capo. Itās my job to fuss over you.ā
Being patched up is always a good excuse to look at Bruno. While heās too busy fussing over Mistaās wound, Mista would stare at the focused frown on the manās face, the concern in his blue eyes, sometimes Mista would see him hesitate with motion, like he doesnāt quite know what heās doing, but Bruno pushes forward with the coolness of a hardened combat medic.
Moments like these give him a glimpse of the man behind the suit. Bruno whoās so scared for all them, who cares for them so much, who would do everything he can to make sure theyāre safe even if he doesnāt know what heās doing.
By the time Bruno is done, Mista is wrapped up in bandages and thereās a cup of tea by his side. Bruno warns him not to do it again. He stands up, but Mista reaches out and grabs his wrist.
People are quick to write Mista of as an airhead, but they donāt know that heās always observing. He just chooses to keep most of it to himself if it wasnāt his business.
He tilts Brunoās wrist and thereās a dark red line climbing up from his wrist towards his arm. Mista distinctly remembers Bruno shoving him away from an attack and feeling him wince.
āYouāre hurt.ā
āItās fine. I can fix it.ā
āLet me see it.ā
āMista, I can take care of myself.ā
āIām your soldato. Itās my job to fuss over you.ā
And that one makes Bruno smile. He sighs, tugging his sleeve up and letting Mista see the long scratch running up his arm.
Mista doesnāt have the same first aid experience as Fugo or Bruno, but heās careful as he disinfects the wound. His hands smooth over Brunoās arms, feeling muscle and warm skin. Luckily, itās not too deep, just needs a bit of cleaning and wrapping. Bruno keeps biting back a wince at each touch and Mista wonders when heāll get a chance to see that cool mask drop for once.
Mista wraps it up in a bandage, before letting go of Bruno and falling back against the couch. Bruno stares at his bandaged arm for moment, a conflicted look on his face.
āWhatās with that look?ā
āIām not usually the one receiving first aid.ā And aināt that the saddest sentence Mista has heard from him. Brunoās looking out for everyone, but whoās looking out for Bruno?
āHey, cāmere for a while.ā Mista pats the empty space on the sofa. āRest with me.ā
āI have to report to Polpo.ā
āThat can wait. Weāre injured. Iām sure heāll understand. You gotta let loose once in a while Bucciarati.ā For a moment, Mista thinks heāll get rejected.
But then Bruno stands and sits next to him on the sofa. He lets out a long, weary sigh. Mista throws an arm over the sofa, and Bruno leans closer, resting his head over his chest. Mista closes his eyes, takes in the scent of Brunoās perfume and the steady thrum of his breathing. Theyāre both safe, banged up, but safe and thatās the most important thing in Mistaās mind right now.
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Summary: Truth be told, Bucciarati doesnāt think that he has much left in him. Heās at his limit; hit the wall nearly two hours ago, in fact, but heās forced himself forward through sheer willpower. Itās not as though he hasnāt pushed past worse (blood pouring from his shoulder at an alarming rate, lungs burning with a need for air--). A bit of exhaustion isnāt going to stop him, not when the wellbeing of his Team depends so heavily on him.
Notes: Btw, I'm doing a writing giveaway! Check out this post to see how to enter.
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Truth be told, Bucciarati doesnāt think that he has much left in him. Heās at his limit; hit the wall nearly two hours ago, in fact, but heās forced himself forward through sheer willpower. Itās not as though he hasnāt pushed past worse (blood pouring from his shoulder at an alarming rate, lungs burning with a need for air--). A bit of exhaustion isnāt going to stop him, not when the wellbeing of his Team depends so heavily on him.
So he pushes onward, with one foot in front of the other and eyes that cross from the effort that it takes to keep them open. Sticky Fingers catches him no less than three times in the span of thirty minutes. Their hands hold to his hips until heās steady enough on his feet again, and he has to ignore the look he gets from his own Stand. That harsh, unseeing gaze that must look so similar to the unimpressed looks he shoots his Team when theyāve pushed themselves too far.
Bucciarati shakes it off like he does the burning ache in his limbs. Just a bit longer. He can rest soon.
Even as he thinks the words, his feet drag underneath him, and his toes catch, pitching him forward. Sticky Fingers snatches him up under his arms and refuses to let go. Bucciarati meets their helmeted gaze with tired, bloodshot eyes, but his Stand doesnāt let go, which means Bucciarati isnāt doing anything until heās satisfied his Standās protective nature. Damn reflections of the soul.
āFine,ā he nearly spits, because it feels like a sore topic. To rest when he doesnāt think heās earned it yet, but he knows a losing battle when he sees it. Besides, he doesnāt want to be caught in the middle of the hall having a (mostly) non-verbal argument with his own Stand. That would be a touch more humiliating than he can handle when his nerves are already overworked and fried.
Without intending to, Bucciarati gravitates toward the one person he trusts above all else when heās in this state. Thankfully, Mista isnāt hard to find. Heās been on the couch for the last three days, thanks to a sprained ankle and an away Giorno.
Bucciarati says nothing as he drops his weight onto the couch unceremoniously. He collapses against Mista, suddenly feeling empty. Devoid of-- anything, really. He has nothing left to give now that his momentum has been stripped away, and heās feeling oddly on edge. With emotions that are threatening to teeter wildly if he thinks too hard. Instead, he curls his arms around himself and presses closer to Mista.
Five, having watched everything unfold, panics-- shrieks, āThe Boss doesnāt look so good!ā
āI know,ā Mista says after a moment. He doesnāt need anyone to point that out. He can see it in the way that Bucciarati only curls tighter. āItās okay,ā he adds, or it will be. He moves to hook an arm around Bucciarati, and his fingers graze along Bucciaratiās arm. A slow, barely there gesture thatās meant to ease Bucciarati into the concept of physical comfort. Mista knows better than to bombard him all at once, particularly when heās like this.
Several minutes pass before Mista can feel some of the tension ease from Bucciaratiās shoulders, and he moves on to petting the length of Bucciaratiās bicep until that, too, has an effect.
Itās a slow affair, working over fatigued muscles and frayed nerves, but itās a task that Mistaās more than happy to take up. Itās rare that he gets a chance to take care of Bucciarati; the man so rarely lets his guard down.
Eventually, Mista is able to shift them so Bucciarati is resting against him. Chest pressed to chest and the length of Bucciaratiās body settled between Mistaās legs. Mista has his back against the arm of the sofa. He canāt see Bucciaratiās face, considering where itās currently buried against his neck, but he can see the way Bucciaratiās body sags gradually as he finally stops fighting his bodyās needs and begins to doze off.
Mista runs his fingers through Bucciaratiās hair a few times, testing the waters. When Bucciarati doesnāt pull back, he sets to work on unclipping the barrettes and undoing the braid. His fingers smooth through the length of Bucciaratiās hair until they no longer snag, and heās left looking down at half-wavy, half-straight hair.
The temptation to continue playing with it is too strong for him to resist. Besides, it doesnāt seem to be bothering Bucciarati, so he cards his calloused fingers through again and again, as if he might be able to straighten out the previously plated pieces to match the rest of Bucciaratiās hair.
Heās completely unsuccessful, but Bucciarati lets out a sleepy, contented sigh against his neck that only encourages Mista to keep going. He scratches his short nails against Bucciaratiās scalp every time he brings his hands back up, and gently works the length of the long, black strands until he finds the ends once more. Itās soothing, in a way. The TV has long since been tuned out with Mista no longer recognizing the program thatās on, and he doesnāt care. Thereās not a sight better in this world then the one heās been blessed with now.
Soft snores break him out of his thoughts, and Mista has to bite back a laugh. Not because he thinks itās funny, but because Bucciaratiās snores are about as endearing as the rest of him. Quiet, gentle things that reaffirm that heās asleep without being obnoxious, which is more than Mista can say about his own, but thatās beside the point.
āYou gotta learn how to come to me sooner,ā Mista murmurs, quiet enough to not disturb Bucciarati, but he hopes the man might get it through his thick skull anyways. Itās fine if he doesnāt; Mistaās more than happy to care for the man when he gets like this. He just hates seeing Bucciarati suffering. Needlessly. He canāt bear the weight of the world on his shoulders, no matter how hard he tries. Heās done it long enough, yet he still canāt let go.
Itās fear, Mista knows. Fear that if Bucciarati stops, if he looks away for even a moment, something will happen. His Team will be gone. Mista gets that, and heās not sure how to help someone with a problem he hasnāt figured out himself. He can only hope that these little sessions are enough to keep Bucciarati going until they figure it out.