#sickember 2021

[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.