#misbru

Mista has a habit of getting hurt every other week. Most of the time it’s Fugo who patches him up with staplers, tape or thread. But Mista’s favorite time is when it’s 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, Bruno’s hands are gentle on his as he guided Mista through the streets.

"You can just zip it up, you know. You don’t have to fuss over me,” Mista always says. Bruno glares up at him from where he’s bent over the couch, inspecting the gunshot wound on his stomach.

And Bruno always replies, “I’m you capo. It’s my job to fuss over you.”

Being patched up is always a good excuse to look at Bruno. While he’s too busy fussing over Mista’s wound, Mista would stare at the focused frown on the man’s face, the concern in his blue eyes, sometimes Mista would see him hesitate with motion, like he doesn’t quite know what he’s 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 who’s so scared for all them, who cares for them so much, who would do everything he can to make sure they’re safe even if he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

By the time Bruno is done, Mista is wrapped up in bandages and there’s 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 don’t know that he’s always observing. He just chooses to keep most of it to himself if it wasn’t his business.

He tilts Bruno’s wrist and there’s 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.

“You’re hurt.”

“It’s fine. I can fix it.”

“Let me see it.”

“Mista, I can take care of myself.”

“I’m your soldato. It’s my job to fuss over you.”

And that one makes Bruno smile. He sighs, tugging his sleeve up and letting Mista see the long scratch running up his arm.

Mista doesn’t have the same first aid experience as Fugo or Bruno, but he’s careful as he disinfects the wound. His hands smooth over Bruno’s arms, feeling muscle and warm skin. Luckily, it’s not too deep, just needs a bit of cleaning and wrapping. Bruno keeps biting back a wince at each touch and Mista wonders when he’ll 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.

“What’s with that look?”

“I’m not usually the one receiving first aid.” And ain’t that the saddest sentence Mista has heard from him. Bruno’s looking out for everyone, but who’s looking out for Bruno?

“Hey, c’mere for a while.” Mista pats the empty space on the sofa. “Rest with me.”

“I have to report to Polpo.”

“That can wait. We’re injured. I’m sure he’ll understand. You gotta let loose once in a while Bucciarati.” For a moment, Mista thinks he’ll 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 Bruno’s perfume and the steady thrum of his breathing. They’re both safe, banged up, but safe and that’s the most important thing in Mista’s mind right now.

-

Truth be told, Bucciarati doesn’t think that he has much left in him. He’s at his limit; hit the wall nearly two hours ago, in fact, but he’s forced himself forward through sheer willpower. It’s not as though he hasn’t pushed past worse (blood pouring from his shoulder at an alarming rate, lungs burning with a need for air--). A bit of exhaustion isn’t 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 he’s 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 they’ve 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 doesn’t let go, which means Bucciarati isn’t doing anything until he’s satisfied his Stand’s protective nature. Damn reflections of the soul.

“Fine,” he nearly spits, because it feels like a sore topic. To rest when he doesn’t think he’s earned it yet, but he knows a losing battle when he sees it. Besides, he doesn’t 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 he’s in this state. Thankfully, Mista isn’t hard to find. He’s 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 he’s 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, “The Boss doesn’t look so good!”

“I know,” Mista says after a moment. He doesn’t need anyone to point that out. He can see it in the way that Bucciarati only curls tighter. “It’s okay,” he adds, or it will be. He moves to hook an arm around Bucciarati, and his fingers graze along Bucciarati’s arm. A slow, barely there gesture that’s meant to ease Bucciarati into the concept of physical comfort. Mista knows better than to bombard him all at once, particularly when he’s like this.

Several minutes pass before Mista can feel some of the tension ease from Bucciarati’s shoulders, and he moves on to petting the length of Bucciarati’s bicep until that, too, has an effect.

It’s a slow affair, working over fatigued muscles and frayed nerves, but it’s a task that Mista’s more than happy to take up. It’s 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 Bucciarati’s body settled between Mista’s legs. Mista has his back against the arm of the sofa. He can’t see Bucciarati’s face, considering where it’s currently buried against his neck, but he can see the way Bucciarati’s body sags gradually as he finally stops fighting his body’s needs and begins to doze off.

Mista runs his fingers through Bucciarati’s hair a few times, testing the waters. When Bucciarati doesn’t pull back, he sets to work on unclipping the barrettes and undoing the braid. His fingers smooth through the length of Bucciarati’s hair until they no longer snag, and he’s 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 doesn’t 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 Bucciarati’s hair.

He’s 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 Bucciarati’s 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. It’s soothing, in a way. The TV has long since been tuned out with Mista no longer recognizing the program that’s on, and he doesn’t care. There’s not a sight better in this world then the one he’s been blessed with now.

Soft snores break him out of his thoughts, and Mista has to bite back a laugh. Not because he thinks it’s funny, but because Bucciarati’s snores are about as endearing as the rest of him. Quiet, gentle things that reaffirm that he’s asleep without being obnoxious, which is more than Mista can say about his own, but that’s beside the point.

“You gotta learn how to come to me sooner,” Mista murmurs, quiet enough to not disturb Bucciarati, but he hopes the man might get it through his thick skull anyways. It’s fine if he doesn’t; Mista’s more than happy to care for the man when he gets like this. He just hates seeing Bucciarati suffering. Needlessly. He can’t bear the weight of the world on his shoulders, no matter how hard he tries. He’s done it long enough, yet he still can’t let go.