"Oh hell no."

"Mista-"

"No, no fucking way I'm getting in that thing."

The said-thing was a bright yellow one-seater plane that Bucciarati thought would be the perfect thing to take the three of them to Sardegna -

"We can use Sticky Finger's zippers to fit you two in the cargo hold, it'll be a perfect fit."

"Bucciarati, crop dusters don't have cargo holds."

Bucciarati had frowned at Fugo's words before his Stand suddenly appeared, punching a massive hole in the front of the plane, right in the cockpit where the pilot's seat was, a mess of zippers and open void appearing from its hands. "Well now this one does."

- but Mista was confident this would only end in disaster. After all, it had four fucking wings and four propellor blades! No fucking way was he getting in that thing!

"Who's even gonna fly it?!" he practically shrieked.

"Well I can't possibly expect Fugo to pilot a plane in his condition," Bucciarati explained, ignoring Fugo's indignant scowl, "and I'm hesitant to even trust you behind the wheel of a car. Therefore, that would be me."

"You don't know how to fly a damn plane!"

"It will be a learning experience," Bucciarati nodded.

"Oh fuck no! Kill me right now because I will never willing get in that tetraphilic abomination of a yellow flying death trap alive ever!"

"Impressive vocabulary, I would think you wouldn't know what half those words mean," Fugo butted in. "But tetraphilic abomination death trap… I actually like that. What do you think, Bucciarati?"

"It's a nice name," the capo agreed, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "T.A.D for short."

"Stop nicknaming it; you'll get attached!" Mista protested. "Remember that cat I told you guys about?! Well that kid in my neighborhood not only lost his eye, but he fucking died from rabies! It'll kill us all!"

"Okay, now you've got to be making this up," Fugo groaned as he rolled his eyes. "I'd always kinda thought so, but now you've proven it for me, thanks Mista. And anyways, T.A.D would never hurt anyone."

"Yeah, well T.A.D can go suck my dick because I'm not riding that fucking thing!"

"Mista," Bucciarati said, placing his hand on the gunman's shoulder. "I understand that you're worried for us-"

"We should be worried about him, he'll lose that last brain cell he has before too long."

"-that you're worried. For. Us." As Bucciarati shot the blond a stern glare that only true mothers can pull off, Fugo frowned but didn't say anything. "But what about the others? We have much more reason to be concerned for them, as we've defeated the foe sent after us and we aren't the ones who have Trish. Who do you think the Boss would choose to pursue; the three of us, whom he likely doesn't even know the outcome of their fight yet, or the group that is protecting Trish, the person he wanted to kill in the first place?"

"...Trish?"

"Exactly." Bucciarati's smile was almost condescending in how genuine it was. "So that means the Boss will go after Trish, Abbacchio, Narancia, and Giorno. Therefore, we need to get to them as quickly as possible, in order to bolster at least our own numbers."

"They've probably already been attacked," Fugo added. "I don't know any details, but I know that the Boss was sending someone else to pursue you all."

"Wait, that was probably those two shark guys, right? The ones Narancia took out?"

Fugo frowned in confusion. "Two? The man I knew of worked alone. Supposedly, he was some kind of failsafe."

"Shit."

"Do you see now why borrowing . is the best option?"

"God, please don't call it that, Bucciarati," Mista groaned. "Look, I get it, okay? We don't really got a choice, huh…"

Bucciarati nodded as he turned to look back at the crop duster before them. It would take some fanangling but Mista was confident that his capo could figure out the whole zipper situation to fit all three of them. He was more concerned about the actually-flying-it part. He'd trust Bucciarati with his life, yeah, but a plane? With four wings? That was way different.

Before he could say anything more about it, there was a loud shout behind them and all three men spun around to see a short, rotund man thundering towards them through the wheat field from the direction of the farmhouse.

"Hey! You're on private property!" the man yelled angrily, shaking his fist at them. "What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

"Think he's actually the owner?" Fugo muttered under his breath, his violet eyes narrowed and cold. Obviously, he wanted to fight first, ask questions never. However, Bucciarati stuck out his arm before the blond could pull out his Stand and attack.

"Signor Panciera!" Ignoring the way Mista and Fugo stared at their capo in blank confusion, he continued, "How good of you to come out and see us off."

"Oh! Bucciarati! I didn't notice it was you, mi caruccio!" The older man broke into a grin as he clasped his hands together jovially. "You look quite different from the back."

"My apologies for not warning you," Bucciarati continued, completely unfazed by the snickering that was quickly erupting behind him at the nickname. "Time is of the essence, as I'm sure you remember. These are my two brothers I told you about, Signor Panciera."

Brothers? What the fuck were they talking about? Mista was about to open his mouth and say something when he felt a sharp jab in his side and bit back a whine as he swivelled to glower at Fugo. The blond shook his head so slightly it almost looked like he didn't move at all but Mista got the message loud and clear: shut the fuck up and stay that way.

"You don't look much alike," the man mused as he scratched his stubbly chin. "Then again, I don't know much about dyes and whatnot. You kids are all about new fads these days, right?"

"We get that often. I'd like to offer my thanks once again for the use of your crop duster."

"Oh nonsense, I was getting a new one in a few weeks anyways! Your devotion to your brothers is very admirable, caruccio, I wish more kids these days were like you."

"Thank you, Signor." Bucciarati stuck out his hand and the old man took it, giving him what looked like such a firm handshake that it shook his whole body.

"Of course, of course!" He turned to look at Fugo and Mista for a quick second before settling his gaze on Mista. A pitying smile crossed his face as he reached out to grab the gunman's hand and squeeze it. "Best of luck with that disease of yours, my boy. I'll pray for you."

"Uh…" Over the older man's shoulder, Mista saw Bucciarati giving him a look so sharp it could decapitate him and he quickly grinned back at the random guy. "Thanks. I, uh, appreciate it?"

The man smiled back and slapped Mista's shoulder in a way that was probably meant to be sympathetic but he didn't really pull his slap at all and Mista stumbled a few steps forward under the blow. He scowled as he heard Fugo snickering but held his tongue.

"This baby here should get all three of you to Sicilia no problem!" he said as he patted the crop duster lovingly. "Although I'm not quite sure how you'll all fit…"

"Ah, no need to worry, we'll figure it out Signor," Bucciarati cut in as he ushered Mista and Fugo towards the crop duster. "No need to see us off, you have your cows to get back to, if I remember correctly?"

"Ah, right, right, they won't milk themselves!" The old man laughed annoyingly loudly as he turned to head back towards the barn. "Be safe, all three of you!"

"We shall pay you back for the plane once we've returned," Bucciarati added, to which the old man just waved his hand in dismissal as he pushed his way back through the wheatfields.

Once he was out of earshot, Mista swivelled to Bucciarati to stare incredulously as he hissed, "What the fuck was all that?!"

"I do believe I said we were simply borrowing it," Bucciarati answered as he moved back towards the crop duster, Sticky Fingers appearing at his side as reopened and began to further expand the hole he'd created earlier to fit them all. "On my way to inspect the farm, I noticed the owner was outside by the farmhouse, so I went over to discuss the possibility of using his crop duster."

"You're the only one who could convince a completely random stranger to let you take what is possibly the most expensive piece of equipment for his livelihood that he has," Fugo scoffed in disbelief as he shook his head.

"Regardless, he agreed to let us take the crop duster once I'd told him of the situation."

"Yeah, speaking of that, the fuck 'illness' do I have?!"

"Mental retardation?" Fugo suggested innocently.

"Keep flapping those lips and I'll break your other fucking foot," Mista growled as he swung around to thrust a finger into the blond's face. "Don't you fucking think I won't."

"Enough, you two. I simply told him you have a grave, hereditary illness that cannot be cured and that we are on our way to Sicilia to visit our parents' graves one last time before it claims you as well."

"Geez, morbid much?" Fugo said as Mista tried to figure what the fuck the word 'hereditary' meant. Clearly his confusion was evident, since Fugo snorted as he explained, "He said you're gonna die from something our 'parents' had."

"My parents didn't have no diseases!" Mista protested. "They're both still alive- I think?"

"God, you're an idiot. It's a hypothetical situation. It doesn't mean any of it's true."

"Better to be an idiot than a coward."

"Fuck it, you don't need a disease, I'll fucking kill you myself-"

"Enough!" Bucciarati's stern command had both of them freezing in place, expressions of guilt forming as if they were children being scolded by their mother. "Must you two always be like this? Now get in the damn plane before I'm forced to make you."

"Sure, mom," Mista growled under his breath, smirking at Fugo's snort of laughter next to him as they skulked over to the crop duster to see where Bucciarati was pointing.

"You two will both be on the sides," the capo explained as he gestured to the expansive space that now surrounded the cockpit of the crop duster. "Fugo, you get on the right. Mista, you're on my left."

The two nodded, Mista hoisting himself into the plane with relative ease despite his broken shoulder. If there was anything he was good at, it was pain tolerance. Holding his good hand out to Fugo, the blond scowled but took it anyway as Mista helped him into the crop duster, ignoring the soft grunts of exertion and the thin sheen of sweat that broke out across his forehead. Fugo collapsed into the space Bucciarati had prepared for him looking pale and green around the gills and Mista was reminded of the other reason why they needed to get back to the others as quickly as possible.

Bucciarati was the last one in the crop duster and he settled into the pilot's seat as he surveyed the controls. "It's not as bad as I thought," he murmured half to himself as he pressed a button and started flicking some switches. Mista stopped paying attention when the plane lurched forward suddenly, opting to focus on the void in front of him rather than their possible impending fiery death.

"I'm just gonna rest my eyes," he said as he squeezed them shut, and for once Fugo didn't have anything to say about that.