Chapter Text
The veil curtains swing as the cold air from the night enters the room. He looks through the window, squinting deep black eyes as his irises meet the satellite that shines upon Earth. The moon is beautiful today, giant, bright, milky white light illuminating the cotton sheets under it.
It’s a quiet night there, the only thing that he hears it's the waves crashing gently on the sand, and of course, the wet sounds coming from inside the bedroom.
His lover is on top of him, arms around his waist, mouth perfectly nested around the cut under his right rib, made with a knife that now rested on top of a shelf next to the bed, still dirty with his own blood. A wound deep to bleed, but not enough to kill him.
He looks down again, meeting the blue eyes of his lover — his savior — as he sucks on the fresh red liquid coming out of his insides. It hurts, but his mouth curls up in a soft smile, and his left hand reaches the black hairlocks, moving them away from the beautiful, pale skin of the love of his life.
Bruno lifts his body up, crawling on the mattress until their faces are aligned. The distance between them is almost unbearable for Mista, cold air hits his skin like a million nails hammering through his tissues — the warmth of Bruno’s limbs hugging him it's the only thing that could stop the pain —, and yet, he stands there, on top of him, arms on either side of Mista’s head, staring with loving eyes. The vision of his lover shivering without his touch it’s the prettiest thing he could ever see — if only he knew how perfect he was.
Red droplets fall from the open wound, staining the sheets.
Bruno kisses him, lips touching gently at first, enough for Mista to prove only a little bit of himself on his mouth, the sweet and metallic taste of his own. And he couldn't stand it anymore. His hands grab Bruno’s hair so strongly that the older one lets out a soft moan. Their tongues intertwine, as the kiss deepens, teeth clashing, the flavor of blood and cigarettes, of love in its purest form.
Bruno presses his thumb on top of the cut, and Mista could almost not resist the pain — sweat starts rolling down his forehead and arched spine, but he continues kissing his lover nonstop.
And then, Bruno moves away again, still close enough for Mista to feel his warm breath on his cheeks. He puts his thumb on top of Mista’s under lip, red with blood, pressing until the soft touch of skin is replaced with the wetness of his tongue. He sucks it, drinking it all, savoring every little drop, tasting himself and Bruno, hungry, thirsty, like the world was near to end and they were the only ones left.
And they were, after all.
#
People walking through the corridor, nurses running, doctors talking, the clock ticks on the wall above him — all too loud, too busy, too cold, suffocating. Mista keeps his arms crossed, looking at the wall in front of him, the heel of his boots tapping the floor with anxiety. He doesn’t even know how long it’s been since the hospital called him.
His phone vibrates in the back pocket of his trousers, startling him. He grabs it, it’s Fugo, well, of course it is.
“Where are you?” he asks. Mista can hear the agitated crowd in the back. Fugo is almost screaming at the phone. “Are you already in? I told you to wait for me, I don’t wanna get in alone.”
“I– uh, I’m actually not there–”
“I knew you were gonna be late, that's why I told you to come with me, man.” he sighs loudly. “How long until you get here? I’m gonna wait in the car–”
“I don’t think I’m gonna be able to show up, actually…” Mista clears his throat. “I mean– I could try, but it depends on–”
“What do you mean you’re not gonna show up?” Fugo interrupts, the sound in the back is fading, Mista assumes his friend is walking back to the car. “ How are you not showing up? It's your birthday.”
“I’m in the hospital.” the man rubs his eyes with one hand. “They called me, like, an hour ago.”
A brief silence takes over the line until he hears Fugo’s voice again. “What happened?”
“My mom, she–” Mista bangs his head on the wall behind him. “She overdosed. Again.”
“What? Is she okay?”
“Yeah, I think her neighbours called an ambulance as soon as it happened, I– I don’t know–” he stops, taking a deep breath. “I think it was heroine or something, I didn’t really pay attention, but apparently she’s fine for now…”
“Why didn’t you call me?” Fugo’s voice is a little softer now.
“I guess I didn't really think about it.”
There's a brief silence again, in which Mista could only hear the car door closing. “Can you tell me in which hospital you’re at?”
“You don't have to come.”
“C’mon, at least–” Fugo pauses, and Mista can almost see his eyes rolling. “At least for me to bring your present.”
“You bought me a present?” he smiles. “So you actually like me?”
“Yeah, it isn’t your birthday, you idiot?”
“You didn't answer–”
“God, just text me the address, please.”
“Okay.” he laughs. “I’ll text you.”
“Thank you.”
He hangs up, but Mista keeps holding the phone against his ear.
Was that fair to him? Could he even think about fairness when his mom was unconscious in the room next door? I mean, it was not her fault; no one overdoses on purpose.
Did she even remember today was his birthday? She usually doesn't… But when he got the call, he thought, maybe, just maybe, this time…
He listens to the muted line. The feeling of a sharp object piercing through his chest grows bigger.
The doctor said he could wait in the room with her, but honestly, Mista didn’t really want to. It wasn’t the first time something like that had happened, not that he was used to it. At this point, he only wanted to get out of that place with her, maybe let her spend a few days in his apartment to make sure she is okay (actually a really bad idea, if he thinks properly, but he didn't have the money to pay for rehab) — it was better than leaving her alone.
He finally hangs up the phone, and the typical sounds of the hospital invade his brain again. That's not what he wanted to hear. It was supposed to be a fun night, but there he was again, dealing with his mom’s bullshit. If only she cared for him as much as he cared for her–
Mista closes his eyes, stopping the thoughts. She was sick, lying in a hospital bed right next to him, and there he was, thinking about having fun and drinking with his friend. It was his mom, and, well, she must at least trust him if he is her emergency contact.
Although she wasn’t his.
The man’s right hand reaches the golden rosary dangling from his neck. When he was a kid, they used to say in church that we shouldn’t look for God only when in need — well, Mista was never one of those good Christians, after all.
He prays in silence.
Minutes pass, hours maybe, time dragging as he tries to concentrate. The voice in Mista’s head repeats the words of The Lord’s Prayer over and over again (wow, that's a really good way to spend his twenty fifth birthday, he thinks), he stops and starts again (this words don't make sense anymore), his fingers are clenching the golden cross, the four points carving little holes on the palm of his hand (was that even worth it?). A nurse stops by, touching him gently on the left shoulder.
“She woke up.” the woman says in a soft voice, waiting patiently as Mista opens his eyes to stare at her. He looks up to the clock on the wall, thirty minutes since he last checked.
“Is she okay?” he asks, getting up on his feet.
“She’s gonna be fine…” The nurse keeps a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it as if trying to comfort him. “Do you want to see her?”
Mista opens his mouth, but the words won’t come out. Does he want to see his mom? He should, right? It’s not a hard decision to make. “I don't wanna bother her.” he answers, and notices how the nurse’s face twists in a funny, but subtle way.
“Why would she be bothered by her son?”
That's a damn good question, Mista thinks. One he’s been asking himself since he was a child. “She should rest, y’know.” sighing, scratching his head. “She just woke up.’
“Don’t you wanna just say hi?” the nurse finally takes a step back, indicating the door with a quick head gesture. “I know you’re worried; maybe seeing her will make you feel a little better.”
Mista bites the inside of his cheek, pondering. In and out, right? That should be okay. He would exit as fast as he could and sleep in the corridor, later. “Yeah. Okay, fine.”
He follows the nurse to the room, tension building up with which step closer to the door. His throat burns, and his chest seems weirdly tight, making it incredibly difficult to move, like his body was trying to stop that madness. He knew what would happen. He always had kind of a short temper — got that from that woman. When the door opens, all the emotions that Mista’s been repressing since he got the call seem to finally get him, as his heart starts to race and his whole body sweats like he just ran a marathon.
She was a relatively young woman. Just turned forty, she was really young when Mista was born. Although she looked at least ten years older now. Pale skin, pointy bones, dark circles under her deep black eyes, curly brown hair all tangled up her head, purple lips — God, she was a mess.
Leaned up in the hospital bed, her eyes met with Mista’s. She turns them away quickly.
“I brought a visit.” the nurse announces, stopping by the foot of the bed.
Mista gets closer, she doesn’t look at him.
“What happened?”
“You know what happened.” her voice is hoarse, almost coming out as a whisper.
“You told me you stopped.”
“And you believed it.” she finally turns the head to stare at him. “It’s not that easy.”
“You gotta be fucking kidding me.” Mista murmurs, rubbing his forehead, already regretting the decision to walk inside that room. “Where are you even buying this shit? Is it heroine?”
“Why do you wanna know?”
“Because you’re using my money.” the man answers, raising the tone of his voice. “The money I give you every month since you call me every fucking week asking for it– you can’t even eat if I don’t show up at your door with fifty euros–”
“You should not talk to me like that.” his mom interrupts. “And don’t act like you’re never done anything like it.”
Mista feels the air getting stuck in his throat. This woman–
“Don't try to turn this on me.” he says, clenching his jaw. “I’m giving you half of my payment for you to survive because you can't get a fucking job, and you spend all of it on drugs?” the man points a finger at her. “And then I get a call, on my godamn birthday, that you collapsed in front of your neighbour’s house and could’ve died ‘cause of the amount of shit you put in your veins– you really think I should not be losing my fucking mind!?”
There’s a moment of silence between the two of them. The nurse gets closer to Mista, slowly. “I didn't know it was your birthday.” she says, without a change in expression.
“For fuck’s sake, you’re pathetic–”
“Sir.” the nurse raises her voice, getting Mista’s attention. “I think it’s better if you leave.”
“Yeah, no shit.” Mista turns away and leaves the space as fast as he came in, barging through the door in absolute anger. The hospital’s staff watches in disapproval as he steps out of the waiting room, mumbling bad words in front of sick patients and concerned relatives.
He doesn't even know how he gets to the front of the hospital. Too quick for his perception, although the path to get to the sidewalk seemed infinite at some point. The cold air of a December night hits his face, making everything hurt a little bit more, like diving headfirst into a bath filled with ice in a feverish body. Reaching for the pack of cigarettes and the lighter in his front pocket, he quickly lights one, holding it between shaky lips and fingers. Was it really that cold when he arrived?
The sound of a car door closing gets his attention.
“Mista?” it’s Fugo, looking briefly at both sides of the street, before running towards his friend in an urge, like he was the sick person, like he was the one needing help. He felt pathetic. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, uh–” Guido takes a long drag from the cigarette. “She just woke up and– yeah, she’s fine.” he feels his head about to explode. “God, this fucking woman–”
“Did you fight with her?”
“Yeah, she is buying drugs with my money again” the older one rolls his eyes. “I don’t know what to do with her anymore, I can't pay for rehab, I can't give her money, I can't let her starve–”
Fugo gets closer to Mista, not really touching him, hoping that somehow the approximation would comfort his friend. There wasn’t really a thing that could be said in a moment like this. It could be worse, she could’ve died, but– would that really be that bad? I mean, it was a terrible thing to even think about, but Fugo knew damn well how things worked between Mista and his mom. It was too complicated.
“I could try to help you…” he tries, in a low, soft voice, not usually how he talks to Guido, but not the first time as well.
“She’s nobody’s problem but mine.” Mista doesn’t look at him when he says that, the smoke that comes out of his lips when he speaks dissipating in the air right in front of Fugo’s face. “I don’t want her giving trouble to anybody.”
And Fugo knew he would say that. It didn't really make sense to him why his friend was so stubborn about that — he would offer help, and every time he would deny it — but again, things were too complicated. Not quite easy to understand, and he tried multiple times. Fugo was not the best when it came to having a good relationship with parents, as well.
The blonde guy raises his left hand, offering his friend an awkward pat on the back. Damn, he clearly was also not that great at demonstrating affection — not even towards someone he loved with all of his heart.
“Hey,” Fugo cleans his throat, waving a hand in front of his face as Mista blows smoke once again. “We can still go out if you’d like to…”
“I don’t think my mind is in the right place for that.”
“Yeah, I know, but…” he sighs, trying to look for the right words to say it. Usually, talking to Mista was easy, not much to think about, just let whatever was in his brain come out of his mouth, and he would never complain, he would never be mad. Things were different when his mother was the topic. Guido was like a bomb about to explode. “It’s your birthday, and I promised I would buy you a drink, and, you know… I don’t even like to drink with you because you always end up giving me work and–”
“Wow, you wanna go out with me that much?”
“Dude, I’m trying really hard over here, okay?” and, somehow, that takes a snort out of Mista’s lips. It’s quick, almost imperceptible, but Fugo is glad (and a little proud) that he could make his best friend laugh in a shitty moment like that.
“I just think that maybe it would be better if we stick with our plans.” he continues when he doesn’t get an answer from the older one. “What are you gonna do staying here? Sleeping on the benches to wake up in the middle of the night and fight with your mother again?”
Mista looks disappointed hearing that, throwing the rest of the burnt cigarette in the ground to step on it and put out the flame. Fugo doesn’t say anything; although things could be complicated in times like these, Guido was still a simple guy to read. It was clear he was thinking, considering the proposal, battling a war inside himself.
And it looks like an eternity has passed when he finally raises his head to, for the first time since Fugo arrived, look into his purple eyes.
“Okay. Let’s go.”