Much as Fugo would've preferred to remain there in the hall with Narancia, wrapped up in the brunet's arms, they were both pulled back to reality all too soon.
It had been an innocent question; "Where are the others?" and Narancia had sounded so hopeful and excited but it made Fugo's blood run cold as he remembered what he'd seen in his frantic rush to get to Narancia.
"Oh no," he couldn't help but murmur, head swivelling around to stare down the stone hallway towards the center of the Colosseum where he'd left his capo's body behind. And all because of a stupid, childish crush. No, he shouldn't think like that, it wasn't what Bucciarati would've wanted him to think, it wasn't what he wanted to think, but that didn't stop the panic-laced guilt from flooding through Fugo as he jerked away, out of the warmth of Narancia's arms, and scrambled to his feet.
"Narancia-" shit, how did he say this? "B-Bucciarati's hurt. Bad. W-We have to go."
Narancia's eyes widened in shock before he quickly nodded his head in response. When the boy struggled to get to his feet, Fugo reached out and grabbed his forearms, pulling the brunet up to stand beside him as he laced an arm around Narancia's waist.
"Thanks," Narancia said softly, and Fugo could tell he knew the severity of the situation just by how he didn't get angry that Fugo was trying to help him. Narancia threaded an arm around Fugo's shoulders and they began the slow journey to the center of the Colosseum.
"What about-"
"Giorno, Mista, Trish, and Bucciarati went after the Boss," Fugo explained rapidly, cutting Narancia's question off before he'd even finished it. "Our souls switched back and- I don't know about the others but, but Bucciarati… it's bad."
That was all he kept thinking. Bad. He hoped with everything he had that it was simply the gunshot wounds from Mista, that there wasn't anything else wrong with their capo, but there had been so little blood… that wasn't normal based on where Bucciarati should've been shot. And those eyes… he hadn't even paused to think about them, too frantic to reach Narancia, but now that the boy was alive and their capo was‒
All Fugo could see were those blue eyes staring at nothing.
It was slow progress, despite both of them moving as quickly as they could. Narancia, despite insisting earlier that he felt fine, was clearly feeling the aftereffects of- of being dead, stumbling nearly every other step as if his legs were still not working properly. Fugo had assumed that rigor mortis had just begun to set in, that Narancia's blood had just barely begun to stagnate and pool in the veins, but that Narancia would get better over time, if the story he'd told about his soul was anything to go off of. His soul hadn't reached the bridge to the proverbial afterlife like Abbacchio's had, and Fugo was convinced that had something to do with Narancia's surprising vitality after death but that was something he'd ponder on later.
As soon as they entered the ring of the Colosseum, Fugo's heart dropped.
He could see a figure, no doubt Abbacchio, knelt on the ground beside a body that was eerily still for simple unconsciousness. Fugo could feel that Narancia had seen them too because he heard the sharp intake of breath as the boy choked back whatever he'd been going to say. If even Narancia had picked up on this atmosphere… Fugo's fears were being confirmed before his very eyes and there was nothing he could do about it. He was once again helpless.
As Fugo debated whether or not to call out to Abbacchio, the man seemed to sense the pair approaching and lifted his head to look over his shoulder at them. The man's eyes were dull, face expressionless, but when he squinted ‒ trying to focus on them, Fugo realized ‒ his features twisted into shock.
They were only a few meters away now; Fugo knew Abbacchio could see them well enough to know who he was supporting on his left side.
"Narancia."
Abbacchio's voice broke on the last syllable of Narancia's name as the man rose to his feet, stepping towards them as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. Narancia let go of Fugo's shoulders, staggering alone for a second before he regained his balance and reached out to the older man like it was nothing at all.
Fugo had never seen Abbacchio hug anyone before, had sort of believed the man incapable of such affection with anyone but Bucciarati, but the white-haired man enveloped Narancia in his arms so tightly that the brunet let out a soft squeak of air as he hugged back. Abbacchio rested his head against the top of Narancia's, the soft, black hair brushing the man's chin, and Fugo couldn't help but smile slightly at the scene.
"Those fuckers actually did it," Abbacchio breathed and Fugo could see traces of tears in his eyes before the man stepped back and rubbed them away. "Thank God."
"I missed you too," Narancia murmured softly against Abbacchio's chest, refusing to let go even when the man tried to push him away.
Fugo stepped around the pair, letting them have their moment, to see what fate awaited Bucciarati. He had to see for himself; he wouldn't believe it otherwise.
His capo was splayed awkwardly on the stones from where he'd fallen when shot, two distinct gunshot holes on his chest, one in the right lapel of his jacket and the other directly below the button holding the jacket closed. And yet there was almost no blood, the holes looking almost perfectly pristine even though they'd most certainly burrowed their way through the capo's body since the shell casings were off to the side.
A small pool of blood had formed beneath Bucciarati's body, a few droplets splattered further away likely from when the capo had convulsed briefly after being shot, but there was hardly enough for two chest wounds. Fugo had had plenty of experience with bullet wounds; he'd been the one to patch most of them up before Giorno had joined, and even if they had missed anything vital, the amount of severed blood vessels would surely have made the wounds severe simply from their location. Something was different here, Fugo just didn't know what.
As his gaze swept up the capo's motionless body, he focused on the man's face. There they were, those bright blue eyes that Fugo thought were like the color of the sky staring vacantly up at it. When he waved a hand over Bucciarati's face, the man's pupils didn't move at all, no recognition, no focus, no reaction at all. Fugo wasn't a fool; he knew what that meant, even when he bent down to press an ear to Bucciarati's lips.
No sign of breath, no puff of air against his skin. With trembling fingers, Fugo pressed two against Bucciarati's freezing cold skin beneath the man's chin, searching for any sign of a pulse.
"There's no point."
That was Abbacchio's voice, and Fugo turned to see the man standing behind them with a defeated expression on his face. Narancia was poking his head out from Abbacchio's back, eyes wide and disbelieving.
"Surely we can-"
"No point," Abbacchio repeated, and Fugo wondered why Abbacchio sounded so certain.
"Both you and Narancia were technically dead as well, yet you're both alive, there must be something-"
"He's been dead for five days now." Fugo couldn't even manage a sound as his mouth dropped open in shock, but luckily Abbacchio kept talking without waiting for an answer. "He told me two days ago. When he fought Diavolo the first time, back at San Giorgio Maggiore Island… he killed him. I don't know what Giorno did but the guy did something and… Bruno's soul didn't leave, I guess. But now it has."
"That…" Fugo was at a loss for words but things were falling into place all too easily now, the strange feeling he'd get when looking at the capo, how he'd never seen the man eating or sleeping the last few days, the way he'd so easily told Mista to shoot his own body. And the conversation he'd heard between Bucciarati and Abbacchio in the car… it was about this, about Bucciarati knowing his death was imminent. And the capo hadn't said a single word to them.
'Why?' was Fugo's first thought and then his mind went to the reason it always did: that Fugo hadn't been worthy enough to know, that he hadn't proven himself yet, that Bucciarati didn't trust him. And Fugo couldn't even blame him because he'd left, he hadn't been worthy. Fugo had abandoned his friends, his family, and- and Bucciarati had already been dead.
Guilt crashed down on him like a tidal wave, his hand flying to his mouth to hold back the choked scream that was his gut reaction after realizing how badly he'd messed up.
"It's not your fault," Abbacchio growled, Fugo's head jerking up to meet the man's firm gaze. There was no hatred there, no admonition for his actions. Abbacchio just looked sad. It was like he knew what Fugo was thinking, and really, he probably did.
Fugo swallowed, averting his gaze back to Bucciarati. Abbacchio was right; he couldn't think these things. And hadn't Narancia just told him the same thing, to stop always blaming himself? No, it wasn't what his capo, their capo, would want. Besides, they all knew the real answer, the real reason why he hadn't said anything.
Bucciarati loved them, all of them, and he would never want to do anything to cause them pain. Even if that meant he was in pain. Even if that meant dying alone.
"No!" Narancia was crying, and at some point he must've moved to the capo as well because now he was beside Fugo with tears streaming down his face as he begged Bucciarati to wake up. Fugo wondered if the others had felt this same, sharp pain in their chests at the sight when he had been yelling the very same thing over Narancia's body just fifteen minutes ago.
"No, we're all supposed to live!" Narancia sobbed. "We're the good guys; we aren't supposed to die! That's what you told me, Bucciarati, you can't do this!"
Abbacchio was silent as he knelt down on Bucciarati's left side, sitting on the stone ground as he took one of the capo's hands in his own. Fugo watched as the man lifted Bucciarati's hand to his lips before closing his eyes and resting his forehead against the lifeless skin.
A ring. There was a ring on Bucciarati's fourth finger, his ring finger, that Fugo knew hadn't been there before.
"Abbacchio, you…" his voice trailed off when the white-haired man just shook his head and didn't say a word.
As Narancia caught on to what Fugo was getting at, his tears just turned into sobs and Fugo couldn't keep watching this scene; he had to look away.
He felt like he was going to cry too but he shook his head and slapped his cheeks as hard as he could. No, someone had to keep a calm head. Things couldn't end like this, Fugo wouldn't let them. Someone had to think of a solution, and that someone was him. It was time to prove why he was Bucciarati's second in command. Surely, there was something they could do despite Abbacchio's claims; there had to be a way, if he could just think…
So Bucciarati had been dead, okay, he could work with that, couldn't he? That meant it was the capo's physical body; he'd certainly still been alive, at least mentally and emotionally, and he could still move, sort of like a zombie almost. A week prior, Fugo would've believed that to be impossible but a lot of impossible things had been happening lately.
That left the reason as to why, and if he could pinpoint that, then maybe he could find a workaround, some way to restore the physical life to Bucciarati. If it was restoring life, then the method he and Giorno had used for Narancia might work but that wouldn't account for all the dead tissue and organs throughout the man's body. No, they'd have to be replaced entirely, and Giorno was insistent that he only heal things Gold Experience could reach, be it an actual Stand limitation or simply Giorno's confidence, both were vital to consider in order to maximize the chance of success. So that left the problem of how to reach the organs without causing further damage.
Fugo hoped they'd at least remained untouched in the last few fights but he had no way of knowing for sure; those were bridges they'd cross when they got there. So, assuming minimal damage and natural cell death were the cause of Bucciarati's physical death, that could be fixed. Gold Experience gave dead things life; it made life from inorganic matter, imbued a sort of energy, as Giorno had put it. Right, so they just needed to get something inorganic within Bucciarati. Fugo didn't want to use anything around them; he didn't want to force things into the capo's body because that could irreparably damage the organs.
There had to be something he was missing, he could feel that the answer was right there eluding him. Giorno's Stand, energy, inorganic material – wait, that wasn't quite it, wasn't it? Inorganic meant nonorganic compounds of course, which was what Fugo had been considering, but there was also the simple definition of nonliving matter. Fugo had been thinking too literally; if he broadened the definition, then by default, anything outside of cellular life, including viruses, would count as inorganic. And if anything with the absence of life counted, then–
The parasites.
Purple Haze could create parasites now. Inorganic parasites, parasites with no life because they were from a Stand, something that wasn't alive to begin with. If they could work with that, if Giorno could theoretically use Haze's parasites to replace the organic matter in Bucciarati's body, then perhaps… yes, that might work. It was entirely possible it would fail as well, but it was worth it to try; after all, what other option did they have?
It occurred to Fugo that using the parasites could have an adverse effect on himself; it could be considered an attack on the Stand and could harm Fugo, but that was a risk he was willing to take. As long as it didn't harm Haze, it wouldn't be able to kill Fugo.
So the matter of cell growth was potentially solved; if they then used the virus, maybe even simultaneously if Fugo could manage it, then they could get Bucciarati's stagnant blood flowing, and Fugo could also use some of the parasites to eat away at the clots that had likely formed throughout the man's body. Somehow, they would have to restart his heart though. That was the biggest problem; Narancia's blood was still thin enough, still oxygenated enough, that once he'd begun breathing again, it had forced his heart to start beating as well. If Bucciarati's had been dead for multiple days, it was possible that they would need to take extra measures; Fugo didn't want to rule out the possibility of rigor mortis setting in in certain parts of the capo's body that hadn't continued moving after his physical death.
He sighed, deciding that was something he could discuss with Giorno when they got to that point. It would be one of the last steps in attempting to revitalize Bucciarati, and if any of the prior steps failed, then it wouldn't matter in the end. No, he needed to focus on the final piece of the puzzle: consciousness.
But that wasn't really a puzzle, was it? The souls. That was it, the soul. That had been what kept Bucciarati alive. Not his body, not his brain, not even his overwhelming force of will. No, it had been his soul refusing to leave. And if, if maybe it hadn't quite left yet, if it was possible to come back from the edge of death because your soul returned to you, then it was possible that Bucciarati could be resuscitated. As long as Bucciarati's soul hadn't left yet… How long? How long had it been for Abbacchio, for Narancia, fuck, why hadn't he tried to pay closer attention? Fugo wasn't sure, but it had been longer than expected, longer than the few minutes it normally took to ensure a reversal of death was impossible when it came to cardiac arrest or drowning. And if that was the case…
"There's still time," Fugo breathed aloud, his head jerking up in shock.
Giorno. He had to get Giorno.
"What did you-"
"I'm getting Giorno," Fugo interrupted Abbacchio, getting to his feet. "Did you see which way they went after leaving the Colosseum?"
"Fugo, I told you-"
"Shut up! You can either tell me or you can just give up, Abbacchio! Now which do you pick?!"
Abbacchio stared at him in surprise for a second before his eyes narrowed into understanding. "You have a plan," he stated, and when Fugo nodded, he said, "They went left. Down the tree-lined street. I lost sight of them after that."
Fugo nodded, turning to go when he felt someone grab his wrist. He looked down to see Narancia staring up at him desperately, and for a second, worried that the boy was going to ask to come with him. Instead, Narancia just whispered, "Please be careful."
Fugo's eyes softened and he twisted his hand around so he could grab Narancia's wrist as well, squeezing it tightly in a handshake and a promise.
Then he pulled away and took off in the direction Abbacchio had pointed him in.
The first thing Mista felt when he landed in his own body was pain.
So this was what having your chest completely blown through felt like. Still, no matter how much he wanted to just give in and pass out, they weren't done. Not yet.
Someone caught him before he hit the ground, and his eyes flicked up to meet Giorno's worried green gaze. If only he could enjoy this moment.
"W-We did it," he coughed out, nearly choking on the blood bubbling up in the back of his throat despite the feeling of victory, however brief it was, coursing through him. "Way to go, Bucciarati… That was a close one, but Trish will be okay now."
For the first time, he was glad that he was the one who had switched bodies with Trish. Say what you like about him, Mista knew he had serious stamina when it came to getting injured. It sure as hell happened often enough, and he could walk this off. Probably. Trish, who likely had never fought before this week, would not have been so lucky. Better that Mista was the one who'd sustained the injury instead of her.
"Giorno, you need to heal us…" Much as he didn't want to increase the blond boy's burden, there simply wasn't time to waste. They needed to act now while they had this chance, and that meant they needed the three of them in their best state.
"Bucciarati's still at the Colosseum but…" Mista swallowed, forcing himself to say, "I'm sure he'll be here in no time."
Giorno's expression sharpened, biting his lower lip as he turned his green gaze towards the sky. Although Mista sort of expected that reaction, it still hurt because it confirmed his worst fears, since even Mista didn't really believe his own words.
Shit, this wasn't good, he kept wavering in and out of consciousness despite trying to focus on something, anything to keep himself awake. Digging his fingernails into his palms didn't work either, although what did he expect, since the pain was what was making this so damn hard after all.
There was a strange mist all around them, pale blue distorting his vision as Giorno rested Mista down on the ground before moving away, disappearing into the fog. He could hear someone yelling, the voice belonging to Diavolo. He must be back in his own body too. Shit, if Mista could just get himself to move–
"Don't let him get away… Giorno…"
Trish. That was Trish. So she was okay. Relief coursed through Mista as he heard the girl's voice. So she couldn't see through the fog either, but– that's right, she could feel him. Diavolo.
"I just felt it… he took a step back!"
It took nearly all his strength to roll over, trying desperately to get up but barely able to support himself on his elbows. Mista could feel blood dripping out of his chest onto the ground, knew he didn't have long to help, but the pain had lessened considerably compared to before. Mista hoped it was because the wound wasn't as bad as he'd thought and not because his nerves were going now.
And then the mist seemed to clear, a figure obscured by the fog suddenly visible again. Giorno had never looked more beautiful, the arrow in Giorno's hand pointing up towards the sky as if it was gifted from God himself.
"He's holding the arrow!" Mista cried, unable to hold back his excitement. "The one who will control the arrow after Requiem is Giorno!"
At the same moment Diavolo charged, Giorno had already summoned Gold Experience. Gripping the arrow, the Stand didn't hesitate to drive it deep into its left breast.
And then a large, gaping hole appeared exactly where the arrow had struck. Gold Experience fell backwards, into its own user's arms as blood oozed from Giorno's mouth, the blond staring at his Stand in shock as the same wound appeared on his own chest.
No. No, this couldn't be possible. What had happened?!
Mista could hear Trish echoing his own thoughts from behind him and time seemed to move in slow motion as Giorno fell backwards, far too much blood billowing out of the hole in his chest as the arrow clattered to the ground. Diavolo landed next to Giorno. Mista tried to get to his feet but felt that he couldn't move, frozen in place from either his injury or shock.
This was it. He was going to watch Giorno die and he couldn't do anything to stop it.
"Giorno Giovanna… You weak little newcomer…" he heard Diavolo say and Mista's ever-present urge to beat the shit out of the man doubled. Giorno was anything but weak. The man's mouth continued to move as he spoke just low enough for no one to hear but him and Giorno, but Mista could tell from Giorno's expression what the man was likely saying.
Realization hit him at the same time Diavolo cried, "You've been rejected by the arrow!"
"Giorno, run!" Mista screamed, not caring if he drew Diavolo's attention. He watched as the Boss reared back, King Crimson's hand twisting into a fist as it flew towards Giorno's head.
King Crimson's fist collided with Gold Experience and the Stand's head shattered.
Mista felt like his heart had stopped. Sheer horror flooded his entire body as he watched Giorno pitch forward with blood streaming down his face.
"G-Giorno–!"
"Mista, wait!"
When Trish pointed at Gold Experience, he saw what she was talking about. An eyeball, strange and gold and shaped a bit like an ankh had appeared where Gold Experience's skin had shattered.
Giorno hadn't been rejected at all.
It was confusing, to watch the Stand Mista was so familiar with shed its skin like a snake to emerge unharmed, perched in the sky with Giorno beside it. Floating there, the bright blue sky behind him with his golden hair whipping wildly in the wind and his sharp green eyes narrowed with such overpowering emotion, it was like Giorno was a literal angel sent by God to punish the sinners. A strange sort of energy seemed to flow around the two, and Mista could feel its power all the way from here, pure life itself twisting to Giorno's command.
The energy, this bizarre wind that Giorno seemed to exude simply by breathing, Mista could feel it pass through him. It was warm, familiar, felt like a wisp of wind on a spring day carrying the scent of the sun upon it. This golden wind that Giorno positively glowed with flooded through Mista and touched his heart.
This proved it.
Mista loved, was in love with, Giorno.
Gold Experience was – no, Gold Experience Requiem was strangely beautiful, with its head twisting into a pointed, golden crown and its magenta eyes displaying the same level of emotion as Giorno. Maybe the reason Mista found it so beautiful was that every part of it was just so utterly Giorno that Mista could imagine nothing else.
Its power was overwhelming, piercing Diavolo's hand and ripping off a finger before Mista could even process it had happened.
"The only thing that will survive is the truth of this world," Giorno said, and his voice was so calm and collected that Mista knew, he knew they would win. Giorno had never sounded so sure of himself before.
"Righteous actions born of truth shall never be destroyed. My friends may have perished, but their actions and wills have not been destroyed. They handed this arrow to me." Narancia's lifeless face flashed through Mista's mind, the conversations he'd heard from Bucciarati, Giorno's sad expression when Mista said the capo would join them, both of them had sacrificed so much. Even Abbacchio had given his life for this, and was stuck with the permanent side effects forever.
But they had to keep moving forward.
"So, are your actions born of truth, or are they merely superficial, born of evil? We're about to find out. Can you avoid destruction, Boss?"
Giorno's voice was laced with disdain on that last word, his utter hatred of the man he once called Boss shining through even his elegant string of words, and Mista felt the same. How could he have ever sworn his life to this man? But, Mista supposed, he hadn't sworn it to him, but to Bucciarati.
"What's about to happen?" he couldn't help but wonder aloud. There was no telling what power Gold Experience Requiem contained, but if the aura was any indication, it would be something the likes of which Mista had never seen before.
"I don't think Giorno knows either," Trish said from where she lay next to him, her eyes as fixated on the scene in front of them as Mista was, and Mista had to wonder if she could see that power too, could feel the energy around them.
"But given what just happened, I know that Giorno has complete control of Requiem! It hasn't gone berserk!"
She was right, Mista realized suddenly, too in awe of what he was seeing to think about that until now. Polnareff had said the arrow controlled the Stand, but Giorno had full control of Gold Experience, which meant he now controlled the arrow itself. Could it still give Requiem Stands? Or was only one person ever worthy?
Somehow, even if he didn't get a Requiem Stand, Mista didn't really mind. Not if it was Giorno. Not if it was for the only person who felt right.
"Don't talk to me like you have any idea what's going on, Giorno Giovanna!"
Shit, Diavolo sounded pissed as all hell. As the man shrieked, "I won't even give you the chance to regret your death!" Mista frantically reloaded his gun, too weak to get Pistols to do it for him but fuck if he was gonna lie here and do nothing.
"King Crimson!"
Pistol ready, Mista cocked the gun, pointed it and–
Diavolo was just standing there.
What about his Stand? Mista could've sworn he'd seen King Crimson, he had, he was sure of it, so where had it gone? It was like he'd blinked and it disappeared.
But it didn't matter because there was Gold Experience Requiem, standing before Diavolo as it unleashed a flurry of attacks so fast that Mista couldn't even register the punches. Its Stand cry drowned out any yells or noises Diavolo made, and all Mista could hear was Giorno's voice crying "Useless!" over and over again as its fists thudded into flesh and bone with all of Giorno's anger behind them.
King Crimson flashed for another second, Diavolo's final, desperate attempt at a comeback, but Gold Experience Requiem was too quick, it left no holes open, guard fully up as the cries progressed into full-blown screams, and with one final cry, Diavolo's body flew towards the sky gushing blood.
Mista watched as the man's body fell towards the Fiume Tevere, landing with a splash amid the murky green-blue water.
A part of him couldn't believe it, even as Mista managed to struggle to his feet as he cried, "Y-You did it!"
Holding his chest, ignoring the fiery pain that movement caused, he stumbled over towards Giorno, unable to contain his beaming smile.
They did it.
They fucking won.
"Your Gold Experience evolved. I couldn't see what it did," Mista continued as his grin grew even wider, coming to a halt a step behind Giorno. "So I don't really know how, but you finally defeated him!"
The expression on Giorno's face when the blond turned to look at him made Mista falter for a second. He looked so… pained.
Before he could ask what was wrong, Trish's sharp cry near the water's edge drew his attention back to the river.
"His body! Did it float up anywhere?" Trish was saying, leaning over the stone wall to search the water's surface frantically. "Where is he? Where's his body?!"
"Damn it!" Mista cursed as he rushed to her side. She was right; there was no sign of a body anywhere, corpse or not. People were supposed to float, if Diavolo was truly unconscious or dead, they should be able to see him somewhere.
"Find him, Giorno!" Trish shrieked, looking half-ready to jump in and search the Tevere herself. As she continued to insist, Mista slowly turned to stare at Giorno. That look in his eyes… Mista stepped away from the river's edge. There was no point.
"I can sense that he's still alive!" Trish cried. "We have to find him!"
"No, there's no reason to search for him." Mista watched as Trish turned to stare at Giorno in shock, too caught off guard by his words to continue looking for Diavolo.
"Everything's already over," Giorno insisted, Gold Experience Requiem turning its head to stare directly at Mista and Trish. The look in those eyes was both unnerving and soothing at the same time and Mista wondered how that was even possible.
"I wasn't able to clearly see Requiem's ability myself, but I know deep in my heart that it's true," Giorno explained, clearly not quite understanding it either. Still, it was enough for Mista. He knew what it was like to trust in a feeling and have it pay off. "He won't be heading anywhere ever again. In particular, he'll never arrive at the truth…"
Giorno had said something about that, about whether Diavolo's actions were truth or lies, and Mista only sort of understood what that had meant. At the very least, it confirmed all of their thoughts, that the Boss had simply been pure evil. Wasn't that what it meant, that he was only built on lies and deceit that had caused his own downfall in the end? Mista didn't really know, he wasn't good with conceptual stuff.
"He'll never even arrive at the truth behind his death," Giorno said softly, the look in his green eyes almost pitying. "Eternally."
"B-but he's alive…" Trish stammered. Giorno fixed her with a cool stare.
"His end is that there is no end," Giorno stated firmly. "That is… Gold Experience Requiem's ability!"
There was silence for a few seconds as the knowledge of what Giorno had just said coursed through them all. The weight of his words, what that had to mean for this fight…
"So we finally did it?" Mista breathed in shock.
"We're the ones who won?" Trish added, sounding like she could scarcely believe it either.
They'd won… they had really won.
But what a cost it had taken.
When Mista looked up at Giorno, he saw the blond's eyes were fixed on the sky, green orbs glossed over with a faint trace of tears, and Mista knew the boy was thinking the same thing he was. And then Giorno, as if sensing Mista watching him, turned to meet Mista's gaze. The smile that graced Giorno's features was so small, so sad, that Mista felt his heart breaking even though he held the same pain within his own chest.
"Let's go back to the Colosseum. Bucciarati got his soul back but he still needs to be healed," Trish was saying, the grin on her face clear that she didn't know what she would be walking back to. It was one thing to come to terms with Narancia's demise, but to know she would see Bucciarati, the man who she seemed to hold many swirling emotions for, to know that he died for her…
Mista didn't think Trish would take it well.
Still, they had no choice but to return, and as Giorno walked over to Mista's side, resting a hand on his shoulder, he knew the blond was thinking the same thing. Mista swung his arm around Giorno's shoulders, pulling the blond close to him in a tight hug.
"No price is too great," Mista murmured into Giorno's ear before pulling away, flashing him a faint smile that he hoped didn't look too much like a grimace before he turned to face Trish.
At the very least, he could handle the pink-haired girl on his own, knowing Giorno wasn't too good at dealing with her. Mista would help her get through this. It was what Narancia would've wanted.
"Yeah, let's go," Mista said, forcing enthusiasm into his voice as he marched over to Trish with his hands on his hips. He could do this, he could act like nothing was wrong. If she knew they'd kept it from her, she'd be furious, and the sorrow would already be more than enough for her to deal with.
But before he could even say anything else, a sharp cry from down the alleyway they'd come from drew all their attention.
Mista had his gun out before he'd even processed that it was Fugo sprinting towards them as fast as he could, blood covering the front of his hot pink suit. Mista froze for a moment, wondering if they'd been attacked at the Colosseum, but then remembered that– that it was just Narancia's blood.
"Fugo…" he heard Giorno murmur from beside him and his heart dropped to his stomach. If Fugo was here, there was only one reason for it. He and Abbacchio had found Bucciarati's body. Any faint hope that maybe Mista had simply read the clues, the conversations, wrong vanished with the sight of the blond.
"Giorno!" Fugo yelled, catching sight of them at the end of the alley and his expression broke into one of relief. "You're alive; thank God! You all are!"
As the blond neared them, he began to slow, panting hard as he knelt to catch his breath with his hands on his knees.
"I couldn't find you guys… this is… the third street I've searched," he gasped out, drawing a deep breath before he straightened up to look at the three of them.
"We have to go; there's no time to waste, Bucciarati needs us–"
"Fugo, I.." Giorno's voice trailed off and the blond cleared his throat before beginning to say, "I can't do–"
"You're wrong."
Fugo's voice was so certain, so sure of himself, that it even gave Mista pause. He was staring directly at Giorno, violet eyes flashing with such conviction that Mista felt a shiver run down his spine. Fugo looked… he looked like Bucciarati when he'd made a decision and nothing was going to sway him. Fugo looked just like him.
"You don't–"
"I know," Fugo interrupted Giorno with a wave of his hand, and Mista was confused; hadn't Bucciarati not told anyone? But no, he'd told Giorno, so maybe Abbacchio–
"I already know. Abbacchio told me–" and there it was, "–everything. I know what you must be thinking, but it's not too late. It's not. Maybe alone it would be futile, but Giorno, you and me, we can save him!" Fugo's voice trailed off when he was met with silence. A flicker of doubt crossed his features before he narrowed his eyebrows, fixed Giorno with a stare and whispered, "Do you trust me?"
Mista felt a grin spreading across his face in spite of himself because Fugo had a plan, and goddammit, he had never loved the blond's brain more than right there in this very moment. Because one way or another, Fugo's plans never failed.
"What a silly question," Giorno murmured, his hand brushing faintly against Mista's as he stepped forwards, and Mista heard the same faint hope that had bloomed in his own chest in Giorno's voice.
"Let's go."