Mista tried not to think about the apprehension that was bubbling in his gut as he followed after Bucciarati.
He didn't know where the capo had ended up during his fight with Castagna, but it had to have been far enough away for Mista himself to not be noticed. Fugo wouldn't have sent Bucciarati somewhere that was within sight.
He really, really, really wanted to believe that his friend had had a change of heart, that the reason Mista was still alive was because Fugo decided to help them after all. That there wouldn't be double the enemy waiting for them when they reached wherever Bucciarati was leading him to. That it wasn't a trap.
"Calm yourself." His emotions must've been showing on his face if Bucciarati was pointing them out, and Mista nodded with a sheepish look before squaring his features into practiced indifference. It didn't do for a gangster to wear his heart on his sleeve, and Mista was a known bleeding heart.
They began skirting around the hill that most of the ruins were perched on, the one where they'd seen the shoe of a corpse not fifteen minutes earlier. That lives were decided in the span of a fight less than ten minutes still astounded Mista.
At first, he couldn't see anything aside from the landscape, but when he began to scan the ground as well, Mista could make out a figure slumped in the blood-stained grass. Fugo.
The blond was on his back, staring up at the sky with one arm resting over his eyes and another pressed against his neck, the blood from the gaps in his fingers making it clear there was at least a semi-serious injury there. His 'suit' looked like ratfood by this point and the amount of blood spattering his clothes could not possibly be safe, nor sanitary. The blood seemed to congeal in one place in particular and as they drew near, Mista winced.
A deep gash ran across Fugo's chest, the crimson liquid still oozing from the wound lazily with each unsteady heartbeat. Definitely lethal if left alone for too long.
Mista only recognized the bulletwound on his shoulder; so, there definitely had been a fight. He didn't see Castagna anywhere though, and his dark eyes immediately narrowed, throwing out his arm to stop Bucciarati and yanking his gun from his pants.
"Stop."
Fugo's voice made him pause for a split second before he growled, "And why do I hafta listen to you, asshole?"
Fugo's arm fell away to the side, his violet eyes staring calculatingly at Mista. With a carefully slow pace, he explained, "He's dead," and gestured to something off to the left of the blond, on Mista's right.
Biting back a gag, Mista lowered his arm but kept his gun cocked as Bucciarati stepped around him to go to Fugo. Luckily the smell from the half-dissolved corpse hadn't reached him yet; he'd only smelled the remnants of Haze's virus once before and had promptly puked up his lunch. It was easy to miss, deflated as it was, the tatters of clothing and pointy white bones sticking out of what looked otherwise like a grotesque mix of moldy meat and spoiled chocolate milk. A single plum-colored eye sat untouched in what he assumed was liquified brain, preserved in a fractured skull with jagged edges that were yellowed with decay. It felt like it was staring at him.
"Fugo…" Bucciarati had stopped a few meters away from the blond, just outside of Purple Haze's range, Mista realized. The capo's face was expressionless, waiting for whatever Fugo said next to determine what they would do.
Mista knew that if it came to it, he could take Fugo out this time. If he really hadn't changed, if Castagna wasn't dead and this was a ploy, if he tried to attack, he wouldn't hesitate this time. A second chance, sure, but a third? Even Mista wasn't that dumb. It would take a second to fire, two seconds for the bullet reach Fugo, three to four if it was deflected for Pistols to change its course. Although Fugo didn't look up for a battle, that didn't mean he wouldn't fight back. It would have to be decided in one shot.
"Bucciarati." Fugo's voice was void of emotion and his gaze reverted back to staring up at the sky as he murmured, "I still don't understand. I've thought and thought but still haven't reached an answer. I wasn't wrong."
Mista saw Bucciarati stiffen ever so slightly, his shoulders squaring just enough to be prepared for an attack if it came to that-
"But I wasn't right either."
-and just like that, the capo's shoulders sagged in relief and that same, soft, motherly smile that he wore whenever one of them did or said something he adored. Mista didn't really know what that meant, but it was enough for him to lower his gun.
"What even is right or wrong?" Fugo continued, not noticing the change in the two men, or if he did, he made no notion of seeing it. "I used to think I knew, but after meeting that man, I realize I have no idea. What he did was wrong, but to him, it was right. What you all did was wrong to me, but right to you. I suppose I was just a naive fool."
"That you recognize the difference puts you far beyond your peers, Fugo," Bucciarati replied, walking over to kneel by his former righthand's side. His eyes softened as he reached out to rest a hand on the boy's shoulder.
Fugo stared at Bucciarati for a few seconds before looking away, guilt clear on his face. "Bucciarati… I don't understand. But I want to. I want to learn what it is I'm missing. Can I- can I have that chance?"
This time Mista was the one to answer, strolling up next to the capo with his arms crossed over his chest to glower down at the blond. "Dumbass," he chided, "Didn't I say it already?"
Fugo's gaze flicked to him and for a second, a soft smile crossed his face before narrowing into a smirk as he said, "Your name isn't Bucciarati, so who's the dumbass now?"
"All you had to do was answer me, no snark needed."
"The day I answer to you is the day I fucking kill myself."
"Well you came awfully close to that just now, didn't ya?" Mista growled with a roll of his eyes as he scuffed his boot in the dirt to kick sand into the blond's lesser wounds. A little grit wouldn't kill him- hopefully.
"Stop, both of you," Bucciarati scolded but the fondness in his eyes was unmistakable. Sticky Fingers appeared behind him, reaching out to Fugo to zip up the worst of the injuries, the deep gash in his stomach and the graze on the left side of his neck. Fugo winced, whole body jolting as a zipper appeared in his chest and a gasp of pain left his lips.
"We need to get you to Giorno," Bucciarati stated firmly, eyeing the injury with heavy distaste. "I don't think Sticky Fingers will be enough to keep it from infection or inflammation."
"Nah, I'm fine," Fugo grunted, but by the noise he made while sitting up, he was probably the furthest thing from it. "Just got skewered, is all."
"Oh, is that it?" Mista growled sarcastically, shoving his gun back down the front of his pants as he grabbed Fugo's arm. The blond flinched away at first, looking surprised and a little worried, though what he was worried about, Mista didn't know, he wouldn't hurt a fly (unless the fly was a shit one that deserved death), but he relaxed when Mista just pulled Fugo's arm over his shoulders and wrapped his other hand around the smaller boy's hip.
"Well, I did get shot at too."
"And I got suckerpunched in the nose, I think we're even," Mista answered as they began to walk forwards, Bucciarati ahead of them leading the way to the car. Every so often, he'd look back over his shoulder, probably to make sure they hadn't killed each other. "What if you broke it, man, what am I gonna do about my good looks?"
"Don't worry, it's quite the improvement," Fugo chuckled. "I'm sure Giorno will agree. Now, if only we could do something about the rest of your face…"
"Hey!" Mista cried, but he was grinning by now and so was Fugo, even as they moved agonizingly slow towards the car that Bucciarati had insisted be parked outside the ruins. It would take them forever to reach it, but maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.
