A/N: I didn't think people really cared about this story on here, but I've gotten some messages asking me to continue this, so I will. This is cross-posted on archive of our own and it is currently at chapter 40 on there, so if you don't wanna wait for me to update all the way, go over there and check it out! Same username, same title, everything.
Anyways, I'll keep updating here until it's completed, same with AO3. Enjoy!
"Think they think we're dead?" Mista couldn't help but wonder aloud as Bucciarati kneeled next to the car, inspecting the damage with a keen eye.
The initial plan had been to meet at the airport to fly to Sardegnia no later than 20:00 that night. It would take four hours to get to Rusellae from San Giorgio Maggiore, which left them two hours to take care of whatever awaited Mista and Bucciarati there. If they didn't show up, the others were to go to Sardegnia without them. Time was of the essence and they couldn't waste a single second.
They had accounted for the mandatory pit stops Mista had them make on the way back to procure adequate sustenance. They had accounted for the bathroom breaks along the way because Mista just had to down three colas and then was goaded into swallowing a pack of Mentos by Fugo, all for 'science.' They had accounted for the awful traffic while trying to get out of Firenze during rush hour despite Fugo saying they should just ram the other cars because 'who cares?'
They had not accounted for Bucciarati swerving to avoid a rabbit of all things and ramming their ride into a fence post along a road in the middle of nowhere.
It was almost 20:00 already; there was no possible way for them to get to Venezia in less than an hour, let alone before the plane was supposed to leave. They'd find another way to Sardegnia, but it meant forcing the others to leave without them.
"Dead or soon to be," Fugo answered for Bucciarati, who was busy trying to see if he could simply just zip up the worst of the damage and call it good enough to get the last hundred kilometers needed to the airport.
The blond was reclining in the passenger seat in the back, arms crossed over his chest and an aloof expression on his refined features. If it wasn't for the unnatural sickly pallor of his skin and the thin sheen of sweat across his brow, Mista would almost think he wasn't hurt at all.
Every once in awhile, Purple Haze would appear next to Fugo. The first time it happened, Mista had freaked the fuck out and almost dived out the window of the car before Fugo had explained to him that it was for Haze's benefit. That it was just worried about its user.
It was weird, hearing Fugo actually talk about Haze instead of pretending it didn't exist, but Mista could understand having your Stand worry about you, so he'd settled back into the seat with his hand enclosed over the door handle- just precautionary measures, of course.
Haze was there now beside him, the soft growling and feral expression looking slightly less intimidating now that it wasn't chasing after Mista, ready to pummel him into the ground or melt his face off or maybe both.
"Its out again," Mista drawled. Fugo didn't even spare him a glance, just turned to mutter something to Haze before the Stand dissipated out of sight. "Shouldn't you be resting or some shit? You look like a rat that crawled out of the sewers and got run over a few times."
Fugo fixed him with a glare that was still kind of intimidating despite looking like he was on the brink of keeling the fuck over. "Just because I have a hole in my intestines doesn't mean I can't gouge out yours."
"Bold words," Mista scoffed, "Coming from the guy whose Stand is the very definition of toxic masculinity."
"Better than having six micropenises for a Stand. Think you're compensating, Mista?"
"Listen here, you little-"
"Mista, could you come look at this for a second?"
Knowing full well that Bucciarati was really just separating them before they went at each other's throats, Mista groaned and pulled himself up from where he'd been reclining against the car door. The capo was standing a couple meters from the front of the vehicle where a sizeable dent crushed its way into the fragmented metal.
"What's up, Bucciarati?"
"I'm going to find a new method of transport for us. You'll have to stay here with Fugo." After a moment of hesitation, he added, "Don't kill each other."
"Can't we just wait until another car passes by or something?"
"How many cars have you seen in the past twenty minutes we've been stuck here." He had a very valid point and Mista sighed.
"Yeah, yeah, I'll keep an eye on him for you," he agreed, the meaning of Bucciarati's words not lost on him. "But if he decides to run off and be all stubborn and insist on helping, I ain't gonna do shit, okay? It ain't worth getting my own ass melted."
Bucciarati ignored him entirely and just smiled knowingly. Mista hated how he could do that so damn easily, like he knew everything about all of them while they knew nothing about him.
The capo set off down the road, probably towards the farmhouse they'd passed half a kilometer or so back along the way they'd come. Mista headed back to the car, finding that Fugo had gotten out of the seat and was stretching his arms over his head.
"Don't pull something," Mista teased, eyeing the zipper along his chest as it pulled awkwardly. The thing about Bucciarati's zippers was that when they were used to zip up a human, it really just closed the gap. The capo had explained to all of them multiple times that he could only staunch any bleeding and that the zipper was honestly probably more dangerous than leaving the wound actually covered and cleaned. It was a last resort and not to be relied on.
They'd all relied on them heavily.
Fugo scowled, lowering his arms as a small trickle of blood oozed out from the end of the left side. "I'll pull your fingernails off, how's that?"
"Can't, who'd cart you around then?"
"My own legs, asshole."
"Yeah? The ones with the broken foot? Sure," Mista scoffed dismissively. "Sit the fuck down, dumbass, Bucciarati'll be pissed if you keep moving around like that."
"Bucciarati isn't here so who gives a shit," Fugo answered, crossing his arms over his chest. "What he doesn't know won't hurt him. Besides, I wanted some fresh air. The car's too damn stuffy."
"All the windows are down and the doors are open."
"It's. Stuffy."
"Whatever you say," Mista said with a shrug. He could tell by the way Fugo's face was all pinched and creased with a bajillion wrinkles that he was probably thinking about something. What was with everyone in this damn group and thinking too much? Look at he and Narancia, perfectly happy with their cumulative three brain cells- not the brightest, but smarter than Narancia, he thought smugly to himself.
"What if they hate me."
Ah. There it was. Again.
"They don't hate you, dipshit. I've told you that a million times already."
"But you don't know that," Fugo insisted. "Just because they didn't say anything about my refusing to go with you all doesn't mean they'll just take me back."
"Bucciarati took you back," Mista pointed out.
"Bucciarati also wanted me to come back from the very start."
"And you think the other guys don't?"
"I don't know what they think," Fugo groaned with a sigh, leaning back to rest against the side of the crimson metal lining of the car. "That's the whole problem."
"Thinking I know more than you do," Mista bemoaned. "That's your first mistake. And then thinking too much. That's your second one. Grow a pair dude, they won't care."
"Better than not thinking at all," the blond snapped. "You don't get it, Mista."
"Yeah you're right, I don't because I wasn't a coward in the first damn place." Fugo flinched at that and Mista almost felt a little bad. Almost. If it hadn't been the thousandth time they'd had this damn conversation, though. "Look, who cares? You already know what Bucciarati and I think, Narancia's obviously gonna be happy to see you, which just leaves Abbacchio and Giorno. Abbacchio's gonna be a little bitch about it, but he's always a little bitch anyway, and Giorno won't care either way, I don't think."
"And you would know."
"More than you would, bitch."
"I'm just… I just don't want him to hate me." And the truth of the matter was out. It didn't take a genius to know who Fugo was talking about, and thank God for that because Mista didn't have enough brainspace to waste on shit like that.
"Maybe you should wait and talk to Narancia about that yourself," Mista answered, trying to recall what Bucciarati had murmured to Fugo in hushed tones when they both thought Mista had been asleep. "He's the only one who really knows what he thinks."
"I never said I was talking about Narancia," Fugo defended weakly, but really, he wasn't fooling anyone.
"Uh-huh, sure," Mista waved his hand lackadasically. "Just get back in the damn car, or at least sit the fuck down; you look like a damn ghost and Bucciarati'll kill me if you keel over all 'cuz you refused to take it easy."
"It'd take more than this to kill me, Mista."
"Oh really? Well, guess I'll try harder next time."
Fugo scowled but listened to him anyway, settling back into the carseat with a harrumph and a cross of his arms. It was one of the rare occasions he acted his age- although Mista thought he was being a little more overdramatic than necessary.
"You know, if I was actually trying to kill you, you'd be dead."
"Is that so? Guess I should be thanking you then, oh kind benevolent Signore Fugo," Mista bowed low with a shiteating grin that quickly broke into a grunt of pain as his ribs complained at being jostled awkwardly. Who cares, worth it.
"Don't call me that," Fugo grimaced with a dismissive wave of his hand. "That asshole liked to call me that. Sent shivers down my spine every damn time he did it. I would've ripped his tongue out if I could've."
"Well you melted the bastard, does that count?"
"It'll have to." A smile broke across Fugo's face, the one that always reminded Mista why Purple Haze was so damn scary in the first place. "Though I wish I could have kept him alive long enough to see his face when he realized he'd lost. It had already started to be eaten away at when he found out; such a disappointing end. He deserved to suffer longer."
"You're damn creepy, dude."
"I try," Fugo replied, taking it as a compliment and Mista certainly wasn't gonna stop him. He shifted his gaze back to the road just in time to see a figure appear out of the tall wheat fields lining the otherwise empty road. Tensing for a second with his fingers dancing across his gun, he relaxed when he saw who it was.
"Bucciarati," he called, jogging over to the capo who looked up with a smile. "Didja find anything to help us out? A car or something?"
"Even better," Bucciarati answered. "I found a crop duster."
