PSEUMINO | VENTO AUREO

37 | mista.

═ ☆. IT WASN'T UNTIL AFTER MISTA opened his centre console that you noticed the sleek glass bottle catching the light.

"You are not bringing that."

"Hell yes I am. My guy will thank us for it, trust me."

"Did you get that from Prosciutto?"

"Who else? He may be a questionable guy, but when it comes to suits and alcohol, he does not go wrong."

You wrinkled your nose at the bottle. You were barely out of the hospital, and the thought of ingesting anything of that sort made them queasy.

"Hey, Prosciutto gave me his word this was a good batch. I owe him like, 200 euros for it, the bastard." Mista took out the bottle with a self-assured smile.

You got out of the car with a sigh. You'd been pleasantly surprised when Mista had suggested visiting Scolippi. The poor sculptor had slipped your head the past few weeks. Hopefully, he was doing well.

The two of them asked to see Scolippi at the front desk. The receptionist sent up a call and allowed them to take the elevator to the seventh floor.

"Actually, we'll take the stairs, if that's alright," said Mista.

The man blinked. "Yes, of course. Feel free."

Mista swung the bottle of alcohol jauntily at his side as he led you up the staircase. You were a little miffed. Even if you were at a hundred percent health, you did not enjoy traversing seven flights of stairs.

"Tell me what was wrong with the elevator?"

"I want to check something," replied Mista. He was dressed in bright-red joggers and a blue-and-white windbreaker that rustled loudly with every movement. He had been a little too pleased at the compliment you paid his high-top sneakers, doing a terrifying dance in the custom Sex Pistols shoes that mortified you and every passerby on the street.

No more compliments for Mista.

The stairs were like some vertical memory lane for you, which you realized must have been the reason Mista had insisted on them. Actually, this entire trip had a delicious sort of irony to it, the sharp contrast to how you'd first met Scolippi to now. If you concentrated, you could almost hear Rolling Stones slamming down the stairs.

"Aw, look, the window is still broken." Mista stopped in front of said window with an almost wistful smile on his face. It was such an odd expression that you laughed.

"Ah, yes, I too fondly remember the time you nearly fell to your death out here."

"But you caught me," said Mista, "and that makes all the difference."

Your heart tripped a little at the tone of Mista's voice. You were about to say something when Mista continued up the stairs.

You finally reached the seventh floor. You tried to hide how winded you were while Mista counted the rooms down to Scolippi's.

"Gross, 484," Mista muttered, knocking on the door.

"It's unlocked, you come in," Scolippi called from the other side. "Just be careful of—"

There was a crash and a screech that you weren't sure came from Scolippi or Mista. You rushed through the door to help Mista right the large sculpture he'd knocked over.

"Shit, my bad, Scolippi," Mista said. His eyes widened when they landed on a hairline crack that you were 90 percent sure hadn't been there before. He discreetly angled the sculpture toward the wall, glaring at you to keep your mouth shut.