When Giorno had watched Mista follow Bucciarati to the car they were taking South to Rusellae, he'd had far too many unnecessary thoughts swirling through his mind. He'd pushed them down without a second thought, far too used to doing such things in the past. Unnecessary things were pointless and pointless things were useless and he hated useless things.

Yet somehow there was a small part of him that wondered whether those feelings were truly useless or not.

He didn't allow himself to dwell on it, far too consumed with following the current plan and trying to discuss inconspicuous routes to the airport with Abbacchio without antagonizing the man too much and ignoring Narancia's purposeful pout at being left behind and not thinking about how he has no idea how to deal with girls and now there was even less of a buffer between him and Trish than there was before.

They'd made it there somehow, and he and Abbacchio had only argued a total of four times. Giorno considered that progress and enjoyed the snippets of Mista floating hastily through his brain that involved the gunman yelling about having to argue a fifth time because four was just really no damn good at all.

And then they'd waited there, hiding out behind one of the hangars that they most certainly should not have been able to get so close to, but they were the mafia and they had their ways and they discreet enough, since both Abbacchio and Giorno had actually agreed on leaving Naranacia in the turtle with Trish. Giorno had secretly taken joy in making the man's lip curl at even the thought of agreeing with him.

But then they'd kept waiting as lunchtime passed with meager sandwiches barely eaten.

And waiting as the sun crept to its peak and began to fall below the horizon.

And 20:00 came and went and there was no sign of neither Mista nor Bucciarati. Giorno didn't have to say anything; he could feel it. He could feel the anxiety, the worry, the fear spilling off Abbacchio in roiling waves as tumultuous as he was sure the man's thoughts were.

He was impressed when the taller man squared his jaw, turned to him and said, "Get in the turtle. Tell them we're going."

Giorno wanted to argue. They couldn't wait any longer, couldn't put the plan at risk. The knots in his stomach had twisted tighter as his watch ticked the seconds past 20:00 and bile has gurgled into the back of his throat, forcing him to swallow it down and ignore the impending knowledge of what not waiting any longer meant. He wanted to stay and wait until they came, even if they never did, and he knew Abbacchio did too.

Giorno disappeared into the turtle.


Narancia wasn't speaking to either of them.

He'd been completely silent when Giorno had broken the news, a stiff nod the only response he got. He suspected that Bucciarati must've said something to the boy for him to not be protesting the development at all. Instead, Narancia had held his tongue and continued to stare off into space as he listened to his CD.

Giorno noticed that when the CD ran its course and the music ceased playing, Narancia didn't bat an eye.

It was dark now, early in the morning the next day as Giorno sat stiffly at the table of the safehouse Abbacchio had ushered them all into less than an hour ago.

Rust-colored stains blemished his normally pristine suit halfway down his forearms, grim reminders of the Stand they'd encountered on the flight. If Trish hadn't had a Stand with her all along… all of them would be dead. Once again, Giorno had been unable to do a thing.

They'd all come out of the fight worse for the wear, despite their physical wounds being long healed now. The knowledge that Bucciarati and Mista would not be coming back was… it was unbearable. It affected them, all of them, even Trish, who Giorno suspected had been starting to look up to Bucciarati as an older brother. Possibly even a father- one who would not fail her.

If only Giorno hadn't failed him.

Dull twinges lit up his palms as he dug his fingernails in tighter. The tense silence that had settled over all of them was uncomfortable, just waiting for someone to shatter it.

Ultimately, it was Trish who did so. "Which room can I use?"

Abbacchio didn't even look at her as he said, "Who gives a shit? Pick one."

She looked at him for a few seconds but when it was clear that he wasn't going to give any more clarification, she just sighed quietly and left the room, the click of her heels on the wooden floor turning to thumps as she ascended the stairs. When the sound of a door falling closed echoed down the hall, Giorno turned to him.

"You could have been a bit kinder." It was just meant to be a suggestion but Giorno should've known Abbacchio wouldn't take it as such.

"That so?" the older man snarled at him, lip curling in disgust. "And you think you're the one to tell me so, hah?! Like you're the new boss or some shit?! How dare you fucking order me around!"

"It was only a-"

"Shut the fuck up!" Abbacchio glared daggers at Giorno, and the blond prepared himself to have to deal with this now. He should've just kept his mouth shut. "I'm tired of you acting like you're some kind of God-sent savior, Giovanna! Ever since you came along, shit's been flying around left and right and I have no doubt that you're the problem here! Everything's gone wrong since you joined us and you twisted Bruno around your damn finger!"

"He isn't-"

"I told you to shut up!"

Giorno flinched when Abbacchio slammed his hands down on the wooden table separating them, looking half like he was going to bolt across it and deck him. Abbacchio was much bigger than him; that would not be ideal.

"Listen here, and listen good, you fucking brat," Abbacchio hissed, his voice dangerously low as he pointed a finger at Giorno. "If I figure out you've had any fucking part in this shitshow, I will not hesitate to fucking maim you where you stand. I don't trust you and I'm never going to trust you, and like it or not, I'm in charge now, so you'd better keep your damn mouth shut the rest of the time we're here or I swear to God, I'll-"

"Just stop it!"

Both Giorno and Abbacchio froze at the interruption, their heads swivelling to stare at Narancia in shock, who at some point had stopped listening to his music and tuning out the world to apparently listen to them.

The boy was staring at both of them with wide, purple eyes that watered at the edges, his bottom lip quivering as he scowled angrily. This was probably the most upset Giorno had seen Narancia, not including his random fits of violence.

"Stop fighting!" he repeated frustratedly, arms gesturing wildly. "Giorno is in the gang now and that means he's our friend so stop yelling at him, Abbacchio! And Giorno, stop trying to a-anti- an-"

"Antagonize?"

"Yeah, that! Stop doing that!"

Giorno decided not to mention that he was merely trying to point out a flaw of Abbacchio's and then was only attempting to defend himself.

"This has nothing to do with you, Nara, so-"

"But it does though!" Abbacchio looked too surprised that Narancia had interrupted him to get angry. "We're- we're what's left! We can't fight! If Bucciarati was here, he'd… he'd do something to make you stop but I dunno what to do, so I gotta just tell you to cut it out!"

"Narancia, that might not be-"

"I'm not an idiot, Giorno. You think they're both dead, right? That's why you said we were leaving? I can take a hint, y'know. And… and they probably are." His voice broke on the last word, tears welling in his big, purple eyes. "B-But we can't just f-fight! We gotta protect Trish b-because that's what Bucciarati would want, a-and… and…"

Abbacchio pulled back from the table and moved around it, coming to rest a hand on Narancia's shoulder as it shook from his muffled sobs. "Sorry, kid," he murmured, more gently than Giorno ever would've imagined he could. "We took it too far."

He shot Giorno a look and the blond quickly nodded his head in agreement. "Yes, we shouldn't have started yelling. My apologies, Narancia. I understand your distress."

"Like you do," Abbacchio scoffed under his breath, but froze when Giorno's green gaze switched to meet his own.

"Your right to grieve is the same as mine. Just because you have been with them longer…" he trailed off, not wanting to say anything else that would admit his own weakness.

Giorno had waited by the door of the plane for as long as possible, eyes fixed on the edge of the tarmac where he kept hoping to catch a glimpse of the pair running to call them to wait. Bucciarati, with his strong blue eyes and slightly frazzled but warm smile as he explained why they'd gotten held up. And Mista… How Mista's dark eyes would light up when he saw that Giorno had been waiting for them, how his face would split in two with a grin that looked happier than anything Giorno had ever seen before, how he'd wave and yell and when he got to Giorno, swing the blond up into the air, laughing, and Giorno would start laughing too, because really, how could he not?

Giorno started when he felt a hand on his arm and he snapped out of his daydream as his eyes focused on Narancia standing in front of him, eyebrows furrowed upwards and a wobbling bottom lip. Seconds later, he was pulled into a tight hug, the shorter boy burying his head under Giorno's neck as he gripped the blond's suit tightly.

After a few moments, Giorno returned the gesture, resting his chin atop Narancia's head in a moment of boldness. He wasn't used to hugs and felt sort of out of place, but he also felt it was the least he could do. And it felt… it felt warm. He could feel the brunette's soft sobs against his skin and it sent a sharp twinge in his chest. Giorno hadn't realized when Narancia had wormed his way into his heart, but the affection for the boy who seemed like how a brother would be was there. Feeling eyes on him, Giorno's eyes flicked to the side to see Abbacchio watching them both.

The white-haired man's expression was unreadable as they stared at each other and Giorno half expected him to get angry again and start yelling at him to get away from Narancia, but what happened instead was unexpected.

Abbacchio sighed, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly as he glanced away. "I'm sorry," he muttered awkwardly. "I get it, you're upset too. So stop looking like that, okay?"

Giorno was confused until he felt Narancia's shoulders shake again, this time in laughter, and the brunette leaned up just enough to whisper, "He acts all tough but he's a softie. He hates it when we cry."

Giorno didn't know why Narancia had said 'we' but then he felt wetness against his left cheek and realized that he'd started crying too at some point.

Giorno was not a messy crier. He was not a loud crier either. In fact, he showed such little emotion on his face when he cried that it had caused him to nearly stop crying altogether. After all, when the kids at school would call him a freak and the teachers would call him a liar and his mother would shake her head and say, "Not right now," and walk away without a second glance, well… he'd learned that crying only made things worse.

It was weak and useless and he hated himself for it, but… but if Narancia, who he'd seen plenty of strength from, could cry too… maybe it wasn't as weak as he'd thought.