secretsickysideblog

[secretsickysideblog]

dropping like flies

'“You were supposed to be sleeping,” Mista rasps.

“I was,” Bucciarati reassures, “I woke up, and I was checking up on everyone when I heard you. You’re loud.”

“Fast n’ furious,” Mista laughs, flushing the toilet and deciding to sit on the bathroom floor. He rests his cheek against the toilet seat, careless about how unsanitary that is, because it’s cool and his face feels hot."'

giorno wakes up sick, and it all goes downhill from there.

(sicktember days 7, 8, and 9 were combined here -- sneaky temperature check (briefly), contagious, and 'i'm not sick')

read this one on ao3 because formatting 4k words on tumblr does not sound fun!

[secretsickysideblog]

holy wow

i came online to see i had 50 notifications from last night alone? that’s CRAZY! thank you all for your support and for reblogging my work with nice tags :]  in case anyone makes it onto this blog and wonders if i’ve quit sicktember because i won’t be posting as quickly, i have not! school has just started where i am, so i have no choice but to write a little slower than usual. looking to complete days 7, 8, and 9 over/by the weekend! 

[secretsickysideblog]

putting it lightly

'“m’not drunk,” abbacchio groans, rolling over.

bucciarati laughs, a bitter sound, and shakes his head in pure exasperation. “yes. alright. i am so glad you did not decide to pursue a career in acting.”'

after a day spent searching for his awol teammate, bucciarati comes home to find that abbacchio had been peacefully asleep on his sofa all along.

(sicktember day 6, alternate prompt: asleep on the couch)

read under the cut!

Bucciarati is, put lightly, seething.

There’s this rage he hasn’t felt in a long time bubbling in the pit of his stomach, and although it’s the type that stems purely from concern, his blood is undeniably boiling. Because upon stepping into the front door of his apartment, Bucciarati is greeted with the sight of a familiar someone asleep on his couch--the same someone who has been AWOL all day, refusing to pick up the phone.

Bucciarati considers himself to be a rather patient man on the best of days and relatively tolerant even on those days that are not so great. And he is--he tries to be--as understanding as possible. So normally, if this were any other day, if he had gotten so much as a text confirming that Abbacchio was alive, Bucciarati would be fine with this. Mildly annoyed, but mostly in the sense of preferring to know when things were wrong with the people he holds dear before the problem rears its ugly head and less from the standpoint of work.

But Leone Abbacchio has been dead on air all day long. Bucciarati had gone through the other man’s apartment twice, and, accompanied by Fugo himself, they’d checked the youngest’s apartment all the same as if Abbacchio would have any reason at all to be there. Internally, Bucciarati slaps himself in the face for not considering that Abbacchio would have wandered here--but really, what reason would Abbacchio have to be here while vehemently ignoring any attempts to get into contact with him?

Bucciarati sucks a long inhale in through his teeth. It won’t do him any good to yell right now; for all he knows, the man passed out before him might be too far gone to comprehend a word he says, and Bucciarati would rather not strain his vocal chords for a reason so pointless as yelling to what may as well be a wall.

“Leone,” he calls, and the man doesn’t stir. He tries again with a little more fervor. No response.

A cold feeling manifests in Bucciarati’s veins as the consideration that, maybe, Abbacchio had trudged his way here to die pops up in his head. Maybe Abbacchio came all the way here because he knew it was the end, or because he had opted for the end, and maybe Bucciarati should be calling an ambulance right about now and he looks awfully similar to--

Bucciarati squeezes his eyes shut and shakes that train of thought away. The only way to know whether or not any of that was true would be to approach him, and if it were, Bucciarati would just have to deal with it. He’s come to be an expert at just dealing with things over the course of his eighteen years and change. With a tumultuous mix of rage and fear turning his stomach, Bucciarati approaches the couch, and he watches for a moment until he spots Abbacchio’s chest rise and fall once.

Good. He’s alive.

And with absolutely no sympathy, Bucciarati gives Abbacchio a firm shake by the shoulder to jostle him out of what Bucciarati assumes to be an alcohol-induced stupor--the flush across his defined cheekbones says all he needs to know. Except when Abbacchio blinks his eyes open with a groan, they’re glazed over and hazy in an unfamiliar way; when that golden gaze locks onto Bucciarati, it appears to lock onto something behind him. Within him, even. Through him.

“What in the hell are you doing here, Abbacchio?”

Abbacchio’s expression turns confused and quickly contorts into something that looks rather pained. Bucciarati keeps himself firm, even though something in him wants to ask ‘what hurts?’ Perhaps it’s a selfish act, to be angry, but Abbacchio has been sober for nearly a month now and Bucciarati sees no good reason to be ruining that. Abbacchio is guilty until proven innocent.

When he speaks, much to Bucciarati’s surprise, his breath smells like mint-- shockingly, mint and a hint of sleep and not at all alcohol. Not even coffee, which has served as Abbacchio’s replacement vice, in a sense. (It gives him something to refine taste in. Something to be picky about, a type of fill-in high.)

“Your door...it was unlocked,” is what Abbacchio says, and it’s slurred, but not in the way that he slurs when he’s wasted. It’s slurred in a manner that’s groggier than anything else.

“It’s always unlocked,” Bucciarati snaps. That was not the answer he was looking for, because that’s common sense. His door is always unlocked for the two subordinates he’s recruited that might need something at an ungodly hour, Abbacchio being a frequent visitor just after midnight.

Abbacchio hums, and his eyes close again as if he’s struggling to keep them open.

“Abbacchio,” Bucciarati gives him a quick pat on the cheek to get his attention back. “Don’t pass out on me again. I want an explanation.”

Dual-colored eyes reappear. Abbacchio says nothing more.

“Leone Abbacchio, why the hell did you decide to fuck up now? It’s been nearly a month and you haven’t come close to a relapse since three weeks ago! Not to mention, you have avoided me all day, only to end up here? What if you had been dying? I thought you had crawled your sorry ass over here to die on my couch,” Bucciarati growls, tone undoubtedly dripping with poison, and yet some aftertaste of it is sweet. Vaguely sweet. Because he isn’t really angry. He’s worried, as is often the case.

“M’not drunk,” Abbacchio groans, rolling over.

Bucciarati laughs, a bitter sound, and shakes his head in pure exasperation. “Yes. Alright. I am so glad you did not decide to pursue a career in acting.”

“I mean it,” Abbacchio’s voice comes out muffled by the navy throw pillow he has his face buried in, and yet there’s a distinctive whining quality to it. He doesn’t sound drunk--he sounds off. It’s disconcerting, because Bucciarati’s only assumption is that he’s more inebriated than he’s ever had the displeasure of seeing him before, and yet that wouldn’t make sense because the first night they met Abbacchio had a foot and a half well in the grave and a heel slipping downward.

Flushed cheeks, glazed-over eyes, and this slurring, whining tone. A clear dislike for the light in his eyes, as shown by the way he’s burying his face in a pillow, and he’d managed to get out of bed and brush his teeth but he’d opted against coffee. Bucciarati looks over his clues, looks over the sight before him, and tries to connect the pictures with a piece of logical twine. All at once, it comes together, and that burning rage within him is ignited by a cold wash of guilt.

He must be sick.

Bucciarati presses the back of his hand to Abbacchio’s cheek, and then to his forehead, and the heat radiating off of his pale face (paler than usual, somehow, and devoid of makeup) confirms it. For the second time in the past ten minutes, Bucciarati mentally slaps himself, and then again for good measure. As ample punishment, he decides to give himself an internal kick to the shin, too.

He exhales a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding, the high-strung tension in his body melting into a puddle at his feet. Sick, he can handle. He can handle sickness just fine, actually. He crouches down beside the sofa and nudges Abbacchio’s shoulder with more care this time, gently prodding for his attention for just a moment longer. Bucciarati knows from experience that sleeping on this couch is comfortable, but not nearly as pleasant as a bed, especially not on lead-limbs and fever pains.

“Come on,” all of the venom has drained away from his voice, and so has a good half of the volume, “let’s get you to bed, alright? This couch is cheap. It won’t do any good for your back.”

Abbacchio takes a long while to respond to the suggestion, but eventually, he sits himself upright and manages to force himself up onto his feet. He sways a bit, and Bucciarati prepares himself to catch him if he goes down even if he has more muscle in his left bicep than Bucciarati has in his entire body. Maybe it’s the sentiment--if he goes down, at least he wouldn’t go down alone.

It takes a couple of pauses for Abbacchio to lean against the wall and take a breather (and there’s a moment where even more color drains from his face, and Bucciarati just about unzips a hole in the floor to avoid having to clean vomit off of the hardwood). Ultimately, though, they make it to the bedroom. Bucciarati makes sure Abbacchio is settled. He slips off the other’s shoes, which must have been unpleasant to fall asleep in, and sets them by the bedroom door.

“Do you need anything?” Bucciarati asks, and Abbacchio shakes his head. “Another blanket? I’m getting you water, and that isn’t up for debate.”

His answer comes in the form of complete stillness. Quiet. And Abbacchio, for someone that must have a rather high fever, seems to be at peace. Bucciarati sighs, looks over his form. Now that he’s certain the other is sleeping and not dead, he wonders if he should address the fear he felt at the notion of losing Abbacchio with himself, because it was a different kind of fear. As though losing him would leave not only a gap in his life, in his heart, but in his being entirely.

He slips off to fill a glass of water, sets it on the bedside table. And he settles into bed on the other side of Abbacchio’s sleeping form, carding fingers through his silky hair as though it’s the most natural gesture in the world. He’s gotten far too used to Abbacchio’s presence in the handful of months they’ve known each other. And maybe it could be chalked up to the closeness they’ve been forced into, or up to the reliance Abbacchio has on him and the feeling of being relied on. Maybe it’s the way Abbacchio looks at him when he’s wasted. Maybe it’s the grateful way he looks at him when he starts sobering up later in the night.

Or perhaps, Bucciarati muses, he might be, lightly put, falling in love.

[secretsickysideblog]

vision swimmy with the fishies

"'you can use my fish, if you’d like,” is bucciarati’s only explanation. narancia blinks, looking over the absolutely massive stuffed animal. It’s at least three times the size of all of the ones he has, and he’s quite honestly amazed. he takes it with the same care with which it was handed to him, and it’s surprisingly soft and pleasant to hug.”

confined to the van after collapsing during a mission, narancia struggles to get comfortable. bucciarati thinks of an unexpected solution.

(sicktember day 5: comfort item)

read under the cut!

Napping in the back of a van is a lot more uncomfortable than Narancia remembers.

Then again, he’s usually not confined to the van. Often, he falls asleep against Fugo’s shoulder or across Mista’s lap without really trying--on away missions that require the usage of their getaway van, they all end up exhausted. But this time, it’s different, because he awoke outside the van upon feeling freezing hands against his face only to find that he’d collapsed from a fever he had no idea about.

Bucciarati had ordered him to stay in the van after that, much to his chagrin. So now he’s here, alone, achy with fever and the scrapes on him from falling on asphalt as he waits for the rest of his team to return. It’s an awfully unpleasant experience; he has no way to entertain himself, and no matter which way he turns he can’t seem to get any shuteye. Not to mention the way his vision swims and how he’s uncomfortably hot for a spring day, skin sticky with a thin sheen of sweat.

If it were a couple years ago, he’d be able to fall asleep anywhere without a problem. But he’s gotten used to the comfort of a bed and the company of his team. It’s safe to say that Narancia’s been much more privileged these past few years than he was for the many years prior, and while he’s incredibly grateful, he misses the ability to pass out at will on any surface regardless of comfort. He blows out a long and frustrated exhale and forces himself upright, casting his gaze out the window.

Narancia hears the car door behind him unlock and nearly jumps out of his skin, head whipping around to see who’s there. It makes his vision blur and his head pulse for a moment. He groans lowly, rubbing at his eyes. Luckily, the person responsible isn’t an enemy; it’s just Bucciarati.

“Ah, you’re up,” Bucciarati smiles, slipping into the seat in front of Narancia and placing a plastic bag in the seat adjacent. “How are you feeling?”

“Cruddy,” Narancia admits. “I can’t sleep for nothin.’”

Bucciarati makes an expression of concern, humming his sympathy. “The others should wrap up soon, and then we’ll be able to go home.”

“I thought you were with them.”

Bucciarati shakes his head. “And left you completely alone? No, absolutely not.” He gestures down the road, “I told them to go on ahead and stopped by a convenience store on the corner to pick some things up for you.” Bucciarati reaches into the bag and pulls out a cold water bottle, holding it out to Narancia, who gratefully accepts it.

At first, he just presses his cheek to it, relieved by the cooling sensation. It’s been a while since he last got a fever, and back then, it was a lot rougher. The first few times he got sick after his near-death experience felt like equally near-death experiences, and he was terrified. Slowly, though, Narancia’s gotten more acquainted with the fact that humans get sick and survive without needing a hospital.

“Drinking it would help more than cuddling with it, Narancia,” Bucciarati chides, and Narancia huffs before uncapping the bottle and sipping slowly from it.

After taking a good few sips, the bottle is handed back to Bucciarati who places it beside the bag.

“Are you gonna stay here til’ the others get back?”

Bucciarati nods. “Is that an issue?”

“No,” Narancia shakes his head, as if that were a serious question. “I was gonna ask you to stay.”

“Why don’t you lay down and try and get some more rest? Maybe it will come easier if you aren’t alone.”

Narancia shakes his head, curling up against the side of the door. “I wanna lay on Mista. I cuddle with his thigh, usually.” He rests his cheek against the cool glass of the window with a sigh. “I miss my stuffed animals. They make being sick better.”

Bucciarati doesn’t answer right away, thinking for a moment. And then there’s the familiar sound of a zipper being unzipped, and Narancia turns to see Bucciarati reaching into the side of his thigh. His eyes widen; no matter how often he’s seen this happen, it always takes him by surprise when this happens without warning.

“What are you doin’?” He asks, watching as Bucciarati digs around in... the void.

Bucciarati puts up a finger, and the pinch in his brow recedes as he gets a hold of what he’s looking for. From the side of his thigh, he pulls out a large blue marlin that must be at least 4 feet long--every time Narancia thinks he’s done pulling at it, more of it emerges from the void in his leg. Once he finally gets the fish out of him, he hands it to Narancia with such care that one would think he was holding a human baby.

“You can use my fish, if you’d like,” is Bucciarati’s only explanation.

Narancia blinks, looking over the absolutely massive stuffed animal. It’s at least three times the size of all of the ones he has, and he’s quite honestly amazed. He takes it with the same care with which it was handed to him, and it’s surprisingly soft and pleasant to hug.

“Where did you get him? Does he have a name?!” Narancia looks up to Bucciarati, who smiles fondly at him.

“He was a gift when I was young. Be cautious with him for the ride home, alright? He’s old and fragile,” Bucciarati explains, and Narancia nods eagerly. “He’s unnamed. I haven’t found one that suits him.”

Narancia pets the marlin kindly and grins down at it. It’s honestly pretty cute for a giant semi-realistic fish plush. Meanwhile, Bucciarati hears the clamor of footsteps coming towards them through his open window, seeing the rest of the gang returning from the mission. They all look to be unharmed, if not a bit disheveled, so he assumes the mission went well. He slips out of the van to meet them, likely deciding who will be doing the driving back, and meanwhile, Narancia lays back down more comfortably with the fish in his arms, letting his eyes flutter closed.

When he opens them again, it’s in response to being tapped on the shoulder, and the first thing he sees is a familiar pattern of black and red. Mista must’ve picked him up to rest his head on his lap at some point while he was asleep.

“C’mon, buddy,” Mista ruffles Narancia’s hair, “we’re home. You can take your frickin'...giant fish inside with you.”

Narancia yawns and sits up, noticing that the rest of the squad is already out of the van. Mista opens his door and slides out, Narancia following suit with the marlin clutched in his hands with the caution Bucciarati had instructed him to have. He trudges inside, limbs feeling like lead, and despite the unpleasantness of having to walk upstairs Narancia is eager to get to his bed.

But first, he has to return the marlin, even though he doesn’t really want to. It’s velvety and it smells like Bucciarati’s cologne, plus it’s the perfect size for cuddling with. In the back of his mind, Narancia imagines his Capo cuddling with a stuffed animal; it’s equally hilarious as it is hard to imagine. Bucciarati is taking the things he’d picked up from the store earlier out of the bag when Narancia manages to make it to the kitchen to, sadly, surrender the fish.

The taller man looks down, spotting Narancia’s overt reluctance, and seems to consider something. “You can hold onto him if you promise to take good care of him.”

“Really?!”

“Mhm,” Bucciarati hands Narancia the water bottle from earlier. “Take this with you, too. You have to stay hydrated and sweat out that fever. I’ll be checking up on you intermittently.”

Narancia agrees and takes the bottle, turning to make the treacherous journey upstairs and a few more feet down the hall.

“Wait, Narancia,” Bucciarati calls. Narancia looks towards him over his shoulder.

“Think about a name for him, alright? It’s about time he has one.”

Narancia, if he had the energy, would be bouncing off the walls with excitement--he gets to name Bucciarati’s fish? That’s such an honor! And with a little more pep in his step, Narancia makes his way upstairs, collapsing onto the bed with--Jimmy, no, Michael? Or maybe... Frank beside him. Okay, maybe he needs to work on his naming skills, but he will come up with a worthy name for the marlin-- Marley, maybe!

Narancia takes a determined swig of the water, committed to getting better as soon as possible so he can put all of his energy into thinking of a good name. And when he drifts off to sleep, he dreams of the sea.

[secretsickysideblog]

repentance & rest-oration

“I didn’t know you got migraines,” is what he decides on. “I didn’t either,” Fugo scoffs. “Started after... well .”

“Yeah,” Mista nods, “after, well. Yeah.”

while struck with the misfortune of a migraine, fugo receives a visitor. (post-purple haze feedback)

(sicktember day 4 - headaches/migraines)

  The first time Fugo had developed a migraine, only days after parting ways from the rest of his gang and Passione entirely, he had decided it was some form of karma. He’d laughed, bitterly, before realizing that only worsened the pulsing in his head. And then he’d managed to fall into a fitful rest in an alleyway between a bar and a restaurant.

Now, six months and change later and waking up in a bed with a familiar pounding in his head, Fugo would like to say the pain is lessened by the comfort of an actual apartment. But it isn’t. It’s always just about as bad as he remembers, and even though he’s repented for his poor choices as evidenced by the scars permanently brandished on his cheeks, the poor luck of regular migraines hasn’t seemed to leave him.

 Fugo groans softly, rolling over and shoving his face as far into his pillow as he can manage. Even with the curtains drawn shut, the light only serves to worsen the pounding in his head. He takes a deep breath to quell the roiling nausea in the pit of his gut. It does little to help, and Fugo tangles his fingers in his hair as he fights the urge to crawl under his bed and die there. 

 There’s a knock, distantly, and at first Fugo thinks he’s started hallucinating; when it comes louder, he pieces together that somebody is knocking on his front door. Which means that he is, unfortunately, obligated to haul ass out of bed and answer. He huffs and slowly, carefully rolls out of bed, and he takes his time in standing to avoid having the world spin too much. 

 A third series of knocks, and if there’s a fourth, Fugo’s certain he might go berserk and stab something. (Or himself. He’s survived it once, what’s another knife to the gut going to do?) 

 With as much aggravation as he can manage through how disgustingly weak he feels, Fugo throws open the front door. And standing there is none other than Guido Mista, dressed formally in his new-and-improved business garb; it’s been about two weeks since he swore fealty to Giorno, and he still isn’t used to the new colors on the two of them. 

 Fugo blinks, confused. The last time he saw Mista approach him in-person on his own volition was when he was getting a revolver aimed at his head in point-blank range. 

 “If you’re here to kill me, do it quickly. Quietly, please,” Fugo croaks, stepping away from the front door to allow Mista entry. He leans against his table, squeezing his eyes shut and gingerly massaging his temples with the pads of his fingertips. “Oh, death sounds great.” 

 “Woah,” Mista puts his hands up in mock surrender, gun tucked safely in the crotch of his pants, as usual. “I come in peace. I just came ‘cause it’s almost three and Giorno and I haven’t heard from you all day.”

 “Wasn’t aware you were anticipating hearing from me,” Fugo snarks, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It’s true; usually, he hears from Giorno over Mista and it’s about a lead to follow. He works alone now, for the most part, with the exception of Sheila E. If Fugo ever contacts Giorno or Mista outside of seeing them personally, it’s brief.

 “Well, no, but you didn’t come by or bother to call.”

“Usually, if I’m needed, you call for me,” Fugo takes a couple of shaky breaths before standing up straight and opting to curl up on the couch instead with a quiet, “I need to sit down,” mumbled beneath his breath. 

 “I guess I was just used to you taking initiative to interact and had a nagging feeling something was wrong, okay? Sue me,” Mista shakes his head. “I was right though, obviously. What’s up with you?”

 “Migraine,” Fugo buries his face in his hands. “I think I might vomit. Or pass out. Or both, and then subsequently choke on my vomit and die.” 

 “Nothin’ I haven’t seen before.” Mista rolls his eyes. The two lapse into silence, and usually, this wouldn’t matter, but usual for them is seven months ago before the fall of any normalcy they’d come to build up together. Mista, honestly, isn’t sure why he decided to check in on Fugo--the two of them have taken careful efforts to do the opposite of what they’re doing right now.

 Admittedly, Mista may have come to reconcile. It’s been two weeks. It’s about time the two have a conversation that isn’t about dead bodies, be it of friends or foes. But now is, obviously, not the time, and Mista’s not exactly sure what to do other than stand here and try and tuck away everything he’d intended on saying in favor of saying something more useful (which, in this case, might just be nothing at all.) 

 “I didn’t know you got migraines,” is what he decides on. “I didn’t either,” Fugo scoffs. “Started after... well.” 

“Yeah,” Mista nods, “after, well. Yeah.” 

 He considers leaving, which is probably what Fugo wants him to do. But briefly, he considers that maybe Fugo could use a friend. Ex-friend. Colleague. Whatever the hell they are now--some sort of company, some sort of support. Fugo had gotten his family ripped out from under him just like Mista had whether the latter enjoys admitting that fact to himself or not.

 So after a moment of hesitance and a long exhale, Mista approaches the couch and sits on the opposite end from Fugo. Not close to him, but closer than the doorway. 

 “Stress, probably,” Mista suggests. “I try not to be stressed, so I wouldn’t know. But Gio gets headaches sometimes when he’s overworked.”

 “I’m not overworked, ” Fugo snaps, but he immediately regrets it. He bites back the rest of his statement--’ I don’t do enough anymore’-- in part because he doesn’t have the energy to argue it, but equally because he fears Mista would agree. And although he knows, in his heart, that it’s true, he dislikes the idea of hearing someone else say it. With the severity of the throbbing pain bouncing along the walls of his skull, Fugo is about to cry for reasons entirely unrelated. He does not need a reason to cry tears of sadness. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.” 

 “You’re good,” Mista shrugs, “well, clearly not good, but. You know...what I mean.” 

 “Yeah.” Fugo would laugh if he had it in him to. “I know what you mean.”

 “Do you want me to, erm…” Mista scratches the back of his neck. “Do you want painkillers or something? A cup of tea?”

 Fugo picks his head up, eyes narrowing in Mista’s direction, and not in defense towards the light hitting them. “Am I hallucinating? Are you offering me help?” 

 “Oh, don’t be an assbag. I’m packin’ a gun, y’know.”

 “I am well aware, thank you,” Fugo chuckles breathily. And then he sighs. “Do you mean it?” “I wouldn’t offer it if I wasn’t serious. That’s a pretty lame joke, if you ask me.”

Fugo considers it--considers, mostly, saying no and shooing Mista out of his apartment to continue to keep him and all of the grief he reminds him of away. But he is freshly out of painkillers and if he were to stand long enough to make a cup of tea he might keel over. A harsh wave of pain nearly constricts the back of his throat into a gag, and Fugo decides that he really does not have a choice in the matter. 

 “...Alright,” he agrees, reluctance clear in his tone. “If you really don’t mind.”

 Mista makes a move to stand, but he lingers for a moment. He looks Fugo over with this odd seriousness to his expression, though this goes unnoticed by Fugo himself who has buried his face back into his hands. And gingerly, with the tender cautiousness of touching fragile old china, he cards his fingers through Fugo’s hair--just twice. 

 Fugo doesn’t want to admit the way it seemed to curb the intensity, for just a moment. He tells himself it’s a fluke. 

 “I’ll be back, okay?” Mista goes through the effort to whisper. 

 “Okay,” Fugo whispers back. 

 As he hears Mista's footsteps recede, mindfully quieted, Fugo dares to think that maybe karma isn’t so black-and-white.

[secretsickysideblog]

made with love

"giorno giovanna’s faced his more-than-fair share of hardships in life, and coming down with a particularly rough cold isn’t exactly one of the worst--far from it.

but these puppy dog eyes mista gives him whenever he asks if there’s anything he can do to help? giorno thinks they might just be the death of him."

mista decides that the best remedy for giorno’s stubborn cold is a bowl of homemade soup. (sicktember day 3, alternate prompt - warm soup)

Giorno Giovanna’s faced his more-than-fair share of hardships in life, and coming down with a particularly rough cold isn’t exactly one of the worst--far from it.

 But these puppy dog eyes Mista gives him whenever he asks if there’s anything he can do to help? Giorno thinks they might just be the death of him. 

 Mista has come into his room offering him assistance about six times today between Giorno’s frequent and fruitless naps in attempts to ease up the suffering.  (Well, maybe suffering is a bit of an exaggeration, but Giorno can’t breathe. Even if it’s not the worst thing he’s faced, it sure is annoying.) The thing is, it’s only about five o’clock in the evening, and Giorno’s spent most of the day asleep.

 Needless to say, Mista is being more than doting. 

 Giorno doesn’t at all blame him; Mista’s just a caring guy, and he probably hates to see Giorno confined to his bed and the few bathroom trips he’s worked up the energy to make just as much as Giorno hates to be in this state. But it’s saddening to see the distraught look in his eyes whenever his sick partner can’t think of any assistance for him to provide. Mista’s a bit too much like a lost puppy right now, and the only thing worse than the heaviness in Giorno’s limbs and persistent congestion is the dreary feeling in his heart at the sight. 

 There’s a sudden knock on the door, and yet somehow, Giorno had expected it fully. The blonde sighs softly, a fond smile tugging at his lips.

 “Yes, Mista?”

 There’s a moment of hesitance before Mista steps in. “How’d you know it would be me?” He jokes, leaning against the doorframe. His smirk turns downwards in a frown as he looks his boyfriend over. Though he, luckily, isn’t too feverish, his skin is ashen and he looks...dull. Disheveled. And while Mista feels privileged to see him at his worst, he hates to see him feeling any less than his best. 

 “Napping didn’t help much, did it?”

 Giorno shakes his head sadly, sniffles thickly. “I’m alright, Mista,” Giorno’s attempt at a reassuring smile is weak, as expected. “Thank you for checking in on me.”

 “Well, of course, I mean--” Mista comes in fully, closing the door behind him. He settles at the foot of the bed, resting a hand on Giorno’s ankle. “I love you, of course I’m gonna check on you. I just wish there was more I could do for you, y’know?”

  I know, Giorno wants to say, believe me, I know.  And beyond that, he wants to say, this is more care than I’ve ever received in my life. But he doesn’t want to sully the atmosphere any further, or make Mista think he’s annoyed by his doting, because he isn’t and he never could be. The man in question stares distantly at the wall for a long moment, seeming to be lost in thought. And then something lights up in his eyes as he faces Giorno again. 

 “I got it! You haven’t eaten yet, so you gotta eat something, and what do sick people like to eat more than soup?” Mista nods to himself, and it’s clear that even if Giorno wanted to protest, there would be no such option. “I’ll make you soup. What kinda soup did your mom make when you were a kid? There’s nothing better than a bowl of homemade soup.” 

 Giorno’s expression falls before he can really process it. He’s never had a bowl of homemade soup, especially not from his mother. How does he communicate that, though? This is the worst time for something like that, anyway. Mista seems so excited about the idea, and Giorno really doesn’t want to take that away from him.

 “--llo? Giorno? Gio, you in there?” 

 “Huh--oh, yes,” Giorno blinks, coming back to the realm of the living. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

 “I asked what kind of soup you usually have when you’re sick, and you went space cadet on me.” 

 “Ah, uhm…” Giorno clears his throat, shifting awkwardly, and suddenly he feels hot. “Well. When I was a child…” 

 Mista watches him expectantly, one eyebrow cocking upwards. 

 “I’ve never had soup when I was sick,” Giorno admits, and his voice is quiet. He reprimands himself internally for how it sounds like he’s gearing up to be punished for it. For feeling vaguely that maybe he will be, because this is Mista,  and Mista would never hurt him.

 Mista’s confusion melts into concern as gears turn in his mind. “You’ve never had soup when you were sick? Nobody made you soup?”

 Giorno shakes his head, looking down at his lap. “No. My mom wasn’t really... home when I was young.” 

 “Aw, Gio,” Mista runs his hand up and down his shin now, almost in an absent gesture. “Y’know what? That’s okay.”

 He stands, and for a moment, Giorno thinks he’s going to walk out with the slight droop to his shoulders that showed up yesterday and hasn’t left since. But then Mista comes around to approach the side of the bed Giorno’s laying on and bends down to slide one arm beneath his knees and the other behind his back, pulling him up into a princess carry. Giorno’s eyes widen as he yelps quietly in surprise, wrapping an arm around Mista’s neck. His other hand grips the fabric of his shirt in fear that he may fall, but he feels much more supported in Mista’s hold than he thought he would, so he ends up letting go. 

 “We’ll make our own recipe. Okay? ‘Cause you gotta eat, and I don’t wanna make something you don’t like.” 

 Before Giorno can say anything about it, Mista’s already out the door and starting down the stairs. He’s slow and careful in his movements, taking each step with both feet to make sure he doesn’t end up dropping Giorno and giving him a concussion on top of a cold--or worse, killing him on impact. Thankfully, they both make it to the bottom safe and sound.

 Mista sets him down in a stool by the kitchen island, disappearing for a moment into the living room and returning with a soft throw blanket from the couch. He drapes it over Giorno’s shoulders; the blonde gratefully wraps it around himself, pulling a knee to his chest. 

 “Alright, what kind of broth do you wanna use?”

 And after a series of questions and taste-tests, a bowl and spoon are set down in front of Giorno. The heat swirls up into steamy mist, and Giorno leans over it, letting the warm air alone bring him a momentary relief. He wraps the blanket around his shoulders tighter, picking up the spoon with his other hand. Mista sits across the island, watching him with this dreamy look in his eyes. They glimmer with excitement and anticipation and pure, utter adoration. Giorno thinks he might melt into soup himself. 

 With a shaky hand, Giorno brings a spoonful of soup to his lips and sips at it. And he’s pleasantly unsurprised, having been here for the entire concocting process, that it tastes amazing. Even beyond taste, oddly enough, he feels this soup is warmer than any dish he’s had before--perhaps, cliché as it is, it’s because it was made with love. 

 “So?”

 “It’s fantastic,” Giorno takes another spoonful, taking his time to savor the heat of it against the sore, rough feeling in his throat. “Thank you, Mista.”

 “Hell yeah, of course! I’m glad I finally did something helpful, doing nothing was frickin’ stressful.” 

 Whether the warmth blooming in his chest is from the soup or from the sparkling satisfaction in Mista’s eyes, Giorno isn’t sure. Quite frankly, he doesn’t care. 

 Because whatever it is, it’s love. And suddenly, Giorno’s certain that the saying of love being the best medicine is true.

[secretsickysideblog]

i like to move-it, move-it

“yeah, yeah, i know how much you hate sitting still. you just like to move-it, move-it like...what’s that one raccoon?”

narancia shakes his head with frustration, though the movement is minimal by virtue of his position. “raccoon? dude, king julien is not just some raccoon!”

or, narancia and mista are knocked on their asses by a bad cold and suddenly everything's funny.

(sicktember day 2 - persistent coughing)

read under the cut!

“Maaan, this sucks.” Narancia’s voice is raspy, audibly hoarse as he complains, and yet the childish tone of his grouching isn’t at all dimmed.  He and Mista had taken a mission in the rain, and usually, this would be fine--falling ill from the rain is just an old wives’ tale, after all. But it’s only the very cusp of spring and the air outside still bites with a stinging chill, especially on days as clouded and windy as that one had been. So it was more like running around in the rain for hours in the cold through crowds of people (who were, as Fugo had put it, likely “festering with influenza,”) had led to their...demise.

Although they’d only come down with what Mista not-so-affectionately dubbed a “horny cold” and thankfully not the flu, it’s had them both knocked on their asses for about two days now. And Bucciarati, nurturing in nature, has insisted they stay back from any strenuous missions such as the one half the remaining gang members are just about to leave for. 

“Yeah, it does,” Mista sniffles, shifting in bed beside Narancia. A door opens and closes downstairs. Must be the others going out for that stupid mission, Mista thinks, and grimaces at the thought of how it would be to join them in this state. “But hey. All that running makes my legs hurt. Forgot how nice it is to not move. ”

“I hate not moving,” Narancia whines, curling up against Mista with a dejected pout. Mista wraps an arm around him comfortingly. Mista perpetually teems with warmth, radiating it like a fire--as sucky as this is, Narancia’s pretty glad it’s him he gets to cuddle it out with. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know how much you hate sitting still. You just like to move-it, move-it like...what’s that one raccoon?”

Narancia shakes his head with frustration, though the movement is minimal by virtue of his position. “Raccoon?  Dude, King Julien is not just some raccoon!”

“Well, whatever! Big dancing rat, I dunno,” Mista starts to laugh, but that very quickly goes wrong when the laughter turns into more of a wheeze and then further morphs into a coughing fit. His chest shakes with the force as he turns his head, trying to catch his breath back. In the process, an inhale turns into a snort.

This begins a domino effect of catastrophe.

Narancia starts to laugh at the sudden noise, which then spirals him into wheezes, too. In fact, he starts to laugh so hard his whole body is spasming. Mista can’t help but laugh harder at the sight of Narancia jerking chaotically in place and gasping in whistle-esque inhales through howling guffaws. 

Mista laughs until no sound comes out save for airy coughs, clutching his aching ribcage. And Narancia looks up at Mista, who is incredibly red-faced and teary-eyed, and starts coughing harder. It’s a mutual fight for breath. The two of them, for a moment, are convinced this is how they die. And then Mista considers how fucking lame it would be to die from laughter as a mafia gunslinger . He imagines the headstone saying, ‘died from being a fucking idiot,’ and that sends him off the bed--he literally falls off the side of the bed, hitting the floor with a loud ‘thump.’ 

“How-- how did you-- hAAAH, oh my god!” 

“Stop it! Stop--” Mista has to pause to hack up a lung, doubling over. “Stop laughing at my pain, man!” 

“It hurts! Ahahahah, it hurts, oh my god it hurts please-- ”

“I can’t-- hahahah --I can’t breathe, holy shit!” Mista gives up on trying to get back up onto the bed. Every time he tries to stand, his knees buckle. He’s not even sure what he’s laughing at anymore-- everything is funny, even though all this coughing is tearing up his throat.

Suddenly, the door of the room swings open, and in it stands a very displeased looking Abbacchio. He studies them both with a glare that would, averagely, strike fear upon anyone’s frame. But right now, neither of them can stop laughing enough to give a shit. 

“What the fuck are you two doing up here?” Abbacchio gestures to Mista, “and why the hell are you on the floor? Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?” 

“He fell,” Narancia chokes out, “the stupid ass fell off the bed!” 

“Well, no shit. You’re loud.” Abbacchio crosses his arms, leaning against the doorway.  “We're loud? You--you stomped up here, Abba,” Mista wipes tears from his eyes, finally managing to get in a good couple of breaths. “What are you, Bigfoot? Are you--are you a big dancing rat--”

“HAHAHA, quit it, Mista!” Narancia rolls over to bury his face in a pillow, whacking it with his fist in sheer agony. “You’re gonna kill us! We’re gonna die!”

Abbacchio rolls his eyes and huffs, stepping back out and closing the door behind him, leaving the two to carry on with their tomfoolery. 

At least they’re finding a way to stay entertained. 

[secretsickysideblog]

dumb lucky

"“you know my favorite color?” bucciarati slurs, brows furrowing. “anyway, it also came in purple, and black, and ivory, so I bought all of them, and uh…” “that’s cute,” bucciarati smiles, and abbacchio nearly dies at the way he looks while smiling unabashedly, weak as it may be right now. “you know my favorite color.”'

a mission takes bucciarati and abbacchio all the way to a town in piedmont where bucciarati finds himself fever-riddled in the midst of a snowstorm. abbacchio finds silver linings.

(sicktember day 1 - fever)

read under the cut!

It’s only tradition for things to go wrong for Passione. 

Well, perhaps that’s a lie--normally, they get dumb lucky. But this means that when things go wrong, they go incredibly wrong in multiple ways at once. It’s only fair for the amount of times the gang has narrowly escaped death by the skin of their teeth. And Abbacchio is grateful that neither he nor Bucciarati are running the risk of death right now; it could be much, much worse.

But this mission could certainly be going much better. After all, Abbacchio never thought he’d be buying fever reducers in a little town in Piedmont, Italy as a part of the job of Neapolitan Mafioso. He hadn’t expected to be led all the way to Piedmont in the first place. 

Easy mission my ass, Giovanna, he laments internally, rolling his eyes as he compares the prices between on and off-brand fever reducers. Abbacchio doesn’t usually bother to buy things like this, but Bucciarati’s fever--yes, a fever that had managed to swell up to a whopping 39 degrees overnight while on a mission--definitely needs to be treated. 

He settles on both bottles, and he grabs a pack of water bottles, too. Abbacchio peruses the shelves, considering what else Bucciarati might need. He’d rather not come trudging out through this snow again if he could help it; it started coming down last night and hasn’t shown any sign of stopping since. He grabs another thermometer, a can of soup, and he’s about to head to the register when he spots something else that catches his eye.

It’s a large blanket in blue--Bucciarati’s favorite shade of blue (not that Abbacchio bothers to remember things like his Capo’s favorite color), and god, does it look soft. His gaze wanders to the window. Snow falls in clumps, kicked up into a white mist by the wind, and Abbacchio could shiver just looking at it. He does shiver thinking about the short walk back to the motel through that storm. 

Abbacchio sighs, runs his fingertips over the inviting fleece. A blanket couldn’t hurt. 

He grabs it and tucks it under the arm without the basket only to spot that there’s another of the same in purple. And another, in ivory? Abbacchio isn’t someone tempted by luxuries, but blankets in the cold seem like a necessity. 

So he picks up both. Because Bucciarati has to sweat out the fever anyway, right? He’s too out of it to be angry, anyway. 

Abbacchio lugs the three heavy blankets and the basket of various other supplies to the register, fishing around in his pocket for his wallet. The cashier looks over his selection as she rings up and bags each object, smiling fondly. 

“Taking good care of someone, I see.”

Abbacchio huffs, lips quirking upward to a ghost of a smile. “Yeah, I guess I am. It’s about time he lets me.” 

“These blankets are on sale, you know. Buy one and the other is half-off,” and, in an expertly-crafted manner of egging him into it, the cashier finishes her sell with, “Everyone loves a good blanket. Perfect to cuddle up under.”

Abbacchio doesn’t anticipate growing the balls to ‘cuddle-up’ with Bucciarati, but something about the idea sways him into it. He stares at the blanket shelf in consideration for a long moment before giving in and grabbing a fourth, this one in black. 

The cashier is, clearly, proud of herself. Abbacchio can’t find it in himself to get as annoyed by this as usual. He did fall for her marketing scheme, after all. Can’t bitch about it if he gave in. 

Altogether, he walks out of the store with five bags slung on his arms, four of which are occupied by heavy fleece and tied off to avoid any of the snowfall. His boots feel like weights as he trudges through planes of muddy white, wrapping his scarf tighter around his neck. His hands are freezing--he wishes he’d bought gloves. 

When he finally returns to the motel room, Bucciarati is curled up on the bed. He looks just about the same as he did when Abbacchio left which is, admittedly, like shit. His hair, lacking its typical braid, fell in uneven layers wherever it wasn’t sticking to sweat-soaked skin. The only real color in his face is across his cheeks in bright, splotchy red, and though his eyes are closed now, they’ve been glazed over all morning. 

Abbacchio shakes his head in disapproval, wondering how Bucciarati managed to just ignore this, because he knows damn well it didn’t just spark overnight. He must’ve been feeling at least vaguely unwell before they’d embarked on this (unexpectedly) lengthy journey. Abbacchio tells himself, as he has every time he starts thinking about how his Capo sucks at self-care, that he’ll just bitch at him about it later; criticizing a sick person is mean, and besides, there’s not enough cognizance in his fever-addled head to comprehend annoyance right now anyway. 

He unties his scarf, shrugs off his coat, and unbags the items on the small coffee table in the room. Bucciarati stirs into half-lucidity, as told by the mix of a groan and a whine that slips from him after a bit of shifting around. Abbacchio looks over to him, seeing his hazy blues blink open, and he immediately grabs the bottle of fever reducers to force down his throat now while he’s just awake enough to swallow and not awake enough to protest.

“Here,” he holds out a bottle of water and two of the pills for Bucciarati to take, which he does after taking a second to process the command. He moves sluggishly, but he manages to get the pills down and put the water bottle on the nightstand. Abbacchio feels his forehead with the back of his hand, frowning at how much he’s burning still.

He goes to pull away. Bucciarati doesn’t let him, grabbing his wrist and holding his hand there.

“What are you doing?”

“Cold,” he mumbles, letting his eyes flutter closed again. “Feels nice.”

Abbacchio opens his mouth, closes it. Thanks the lord above that Bucciarati can’t see the way his cheeks heat up as though he’s contracted a fever. After a moment of hesitance, Abbacchio brings both of his hands up to cup Bucciarati’s cheeks, and the other man sighs contentedly. 

“Well, if it’s cold you want, maybe you should go take a nap in the snow,” Abbacchio jokes.

“Hm,” Bucciarati takes a breath. “Perhaps I should.” 

Abbacchio stares down at Bucciarati. At the way his eyelashes, dark and thick, fan out across his cheeks. At his lips, still pretty and pink and miraculously not very chapped. Even now, sick as a dog, Bucciarati is gorgeous. Abbacchio could watch him forever, he’s sure, but then he realizes how creepy he’s being and abruptly pulls away. Bucciarati’s eyes open with a dejected look to them, and Abbacchio reminds himself that it’s not because it’s his hands, it’s because his hands are cold and Bucciarati is delusional with fever.

“Uh, so, I got you two kinds of fever reducer, and you’re gonna take it whether you like it or not,” Abbacchio starts to say, clearing his throat. Bucciarati hums, half-listening. “I got water. A can of soup, if you get hungry, but since you just woke up I’m sure you’re not yet.”

Bucciarati doesn’t respond, so Abbacchio assumes he’s right. He’ll make him eat something later. 

“And,” Abbacchio unties the other four bags, “I know you’re not looking to get warmer, but fevers have to be sweat out, right? I got blankets. They were on sale.”

Bucciarati almost whines, though it’s quiet, subtle. Abbacchio opts to ignore it, because it does nothing good for his heart. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but look, it’s your favorite color,” Abbacchio holds up the blanket in proud display. Bucciarati looks at it, but it’s clear that he’s not fully seeing it. 

“You know my favorite color?” Bucciarati slurs, brows furrowing.

“Anyway, it also came in purple, and black, and ivory, so I bought all of them, and uh…”

“That’s cute,” Bucciarati smiles, and Abbacchio nearly dies at the way he looks while smiling unabashedly, weak as it may be right now. “You know my favorite color.” 

Abbacchio takes the tags off the plush fabric and chucks it at Bucciarati. Bucciarati, as expected, makes no move to catch it. It takes him a minute to slip the fleece off of his head and onto his lap. This process is repeated four more times as a mountain of plush fabric piles up on the bed--the singular bed, which Abbacchio would be incredibly nervous about if this was a year ago, but they’ve been stuck in the ‘unfortunate’ one-bed scenario too many times for him to care anymore. 

“This is...so many,” Bucciarati murmurs, staring down at the pile. He runs his thumb along the hem of the blue one. “They are soft, though.”

“I don’t know if you can feel how cold it is in here, much less out there,” Abbacchio gestures towards the storm just beyond the windows, “but we needed them. I don’t know how long we’re gonna be stuck here, between your fever and the bastard we’re after.”

Bucciarati nods, absently petting the blankets. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Falling ill,” Bucciarati says it like it’s the most obvious reason to apologize in the world. “We’re stuck here. It’s my fault.”

Abbacchio rolls his eyes. “Stop apologizing for things you can’t control.”

Bucciarati looks like he wants to protest, but then his expression turns confused as if his own thought process doesn’t make sense to him anymore. Abbacchio snorts at the sight and shakes his head before climbing into bed beside the other man and urging him to lay back down.

“I’m all sweaty.”

“I don’t care,” Abbacchio pulls one of the many blankets around them up to his shoulders, and another about halfway above that. He lets Bucciarati kick the others aside. “You’re warm, and I’m cold. I’m finding silver linings.”

Bucciarati chuckles a little. If he were any more coherent, he’d make a joke about Abbacchio’s usual pessimistic cynicism being an act; the latter is almost grateful, at that thought, for the fever. The wind howls outside as the storm picks up. It’s definitely not an ideal situation, but it could be much worse.

Bucciarati turns to nuzzle his face into the crook of Abbacchio’s neck. Tentatively, Abbacchio wraps an arm around him.

Maybe this was just dumb luck in disguise.