When Narancia recognized him, Fugo couldn't breathe. For a second, he wanted to turn around and flee, to run far away from here and not confront any of the people he'd as good as left behind. But he couldn't. Not now.

With a final squeeze on Mista's arm, he let go and took a deep breath in. 'Breathe,' he reminded himself as he stepped forward, fists clenched tight as he swallowed thickly.

"Narancia…"

And then he was being knocked off his feet and for a second, Fugo thought he was gonna die. It definitely felt that way when his back hit the ground, knocking the breath he'd spent so long trying to get out of his lungs as searing pain shot through his gut. But then Narancia was balling his fists in Fugo's suit and repeating his name over and over and shaking and crying and when he finally looked at Fugo, he was smiling so damn brightly it was like the sun came up early.

As the words fizzled into gasps and snivels, Fugo couldn't help it. He hugged back. He ignored the pain everywhere and wrapped his arms around Narancia and held him and felt his breath and his heartbeat and he was still alive, Narancia was alive and okay, and Fugo was crying too.

He didn't know how long they just lay there but it felt like hours. It was probably just a minute or two, but when Narancia pulled back, Fugo didn't want to let him go. The brunette sat back, tear tracks shining in the moonlight as the grin on his face slowly fell away. Fugo sat up as well, a grunt of exertion and some extra force being all it took.

"You…" Narancia's voice trailed off, his hand reaching out to brush against the zipper covering much of Fugo's chest. His effeminate features hardened as he scowled, hissing ferociously, "I'll kill them, Fugo. I'll fucking kill them!"

"He's already dead," Fugo explained softly, taking Narancia's hand instead of letting it linger on the zipper. He wasn't gonna act like it didn't fucking hurt.

Narancia appeared torn at his words, both happy that the guy was dead and upset that he couldn't have killed the fucker himself. Fugo was just happy. He was glad Narancia had never met that madman, had never had to listen to his fanatical ravings of a God that Fugo was certain either didn't exist or just didn't care. Narancia was too impressionable, too naive, too kind to handle that.

"Fugo, I'm really glad you're back," Narancia murmured and Fugo felt the small hand within his own tighten to the point of pain, his skin glowing white in the moonlight from the fierce grip. "I was really scared."

Fugo winced. Of all the things to say next, all the things he'd tried to prepare for, Narancia had still managed to pick one of the hardest hitters. What was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to apologize for not being there to protect his friend? For not staying by his side when something as serious as this was going on, when he surely needed support? For as good as abandoning him?

"You're so dumb, Fugo," Narancia continued, and Fugo swallowed thickly as guilt welled within his stomach. "You could've died!"

"I know-" wait. Did he hear him right? Fugo could've died? What?

"What if the Boss went after you?!" Narancia said, apparently not noticing Fugo's confusion. "What if you were attacked by an enemy Stand that Haze wasn't good against?! What if they caught you?! What if they… i-if they tortured you, or, or hurt you, or-"

"Narancia, wait," Fugo interrupted, holding up his hand to stop the boy's rant. "Are you- were you… scared for me?"

Narancia scowled angrily at him, throwing his arms up as he yelled, "Yeah, that's what I've been saying you dumbass! Were you even listening to me, Fugo?!"

"I- yeah, I was, but- I mean-"

"But what?" Based on his tone, Narancia really didn't get why Fugo was confused, and Fugo didn't really want to explain it. Now that they were actually talking and Narancia was acting like he always did and was clearly over the moon, Fugo felt… well, he felt rather silly. For worrying about how Narancia would react if he came back.

Of course he'd be thrilled. Why had Fugo thought any different?

But Fugo knew why he'd thought differently: because he thought differently. That had been made evident when he'd been the only one to leave, to stay loyal to an entity he had never met or known and betray the people that became his family. He was different, he had always been different, and that was never going to-

"Fugo." The blond raised his gaze from where it had fallen to the ground to see Narancia staring at him with a strange expression on his face. "What's wrong?"

The words didn't come, couldn't come, and he just shook his head, blond bangs falling in front of his eyes to hide what he considered to be far too much emotion within them. 'Don't be weak,' he told himself, the fingernails from his free hand digging into the fleshy part of his palm.

He felt something smack his head, not that hard but probably harder than Narancia had intended and he let out a yelp of shock as Narancia harrumphed across from him. "Fugo," he said quietly, grabbing Fugo's other hand and prying at the clenched fist open to interlace their fingers together. "I think you think too much. Stop it."

Fugo was dumbfounded. Had he given that much away? No, of course he hadn't. But this was Narancia, and Narancia knew him. Probably better than he knew himself. Fugo couldn't help but laugh as a soft smile stretched across his cheeks. How the hell could this dumbass kid read him so well? "You don't think enough," he said back and the tension slowly began to dissipate between them.

Narancia grinned wildly, his purple eyes shining bright under the moonlight as he reached out to hug Fugo again, this time carefully avoiding the long zipper stretched across the blond's abdomen, and Fugo was glad he wasn't asking anymore questions. Sighing, he leaned into the hug, feeling his worries and anxieties draining out of him as he rested his head against Narancia's shoulder and let his eyes close for a few seconds.

"This time," he heard the brunette murmur softly, voice full of determination, "I'll be the one to protect you, Fugo."


Mista did his best to not pay attention to the two boys sitting in the dirt and grass and whispering amongst themselves, stuff that he was sure was probably way too mushy for how the two normally behaved. Instead, he helped Bucciarati unpack what little was left in the car that they'd brought with them: the extra jacket Fugo left in the car, some bags of food in the trunk that Bucciarati had insisted they buy, the compass and first aid kit they'd stolen from the crop duster.

He had insisted that Bucciarati let him do most of the heavy lifting, since he still wasn't convinced that there wasn't anything wrong with his capo. Not after the bullet left a hole in his side that Bucciarati failed to notice. Maybe not his best idea, what with a potentially shattered shoulder and fractured ribs and all, but oh well, he'd dug his grave. Best to just lie in it, or he'd be less of a man and Mista couldn't possibly have that, now could he?

Setting the bags down next to the bench that sat on the porch, he turned to Bucciarati, who was staring out at Fugo and Narancia with such a goddamn warm expression, that Mista would suggest Bucciarati just adopt them already if the age gap would even possibly allow for it.

Bucciarati may say that they were like his brothers, but that was utter bullshit and all of them knew it. Especially Bucciarati.

He was about to say something, probably about whether they should leave them out there or not, when the front door burst open again.

A panicked, scowling Abbacchio stepped onto the porch, eyes flicking around wildly as he searched for some nonexistent enemy that caused Narancia to leave his post. He opened his mouth, presumably to yell at said guard or call out Moody Blues, when he noticed Mista and Bucciarati and just… stopped.

Mista was pretty sure he even stopped breathing.

This staredown was not nearly as long as Fugo's and Narancia's had been, and unsurprisingly, it was Bucciarati who took the initiative in this case. He stepped forwards to close the gap between them, blue eyes never leaving Abbacchio's as he gently reached up to rest a hand against the taller man's cheek, murmuring softly, "Hello, Leone."

Mista watched as Abbacchio slowly lifted his own hand to place it over Bucciarati's, as if to make sure that the warm palm touching his pale skin was truly real. After a moment of silent discussion between their eyes, Abbacchio laced their fingers together and released the breath he'd been holding. His head fell forwards to rest his forehead against Bucciarati's as he finally whispered back quietly, "Bruno. Thank God."

"I'm sorry to have worried you." Bucciarati's voice was soft and low and warm and so damn loving and Mista wanted to disappear where he stood because it wasn't just Bucciarati, it was the way Abbacchio was looking at Bucciarati. So damn sweet, ugh. Mista had been pretty sure that Abbacchio wasn't even capable of feeling a positive human emotion. It was like when he was five years old and watching his parents make out in public all over again, only worse. And they weren't even in public, let alone doing anything.

"You better be." It was clearly meant to be a grumble, but it obviously didn't come out as anything less than equally warm and loving and Mista wondered that if he had a Stand like Bucciarati's, could he could melt into the ground. Maybe Purple Haze could come murder him where he stood.

He was happy that they were happy, 'course he was, but it felt like he was seeing something that was almost too intimate to be shown to others, what with how infrequently Abbacchio showed any emotion other than anger, disdain, or ambivalence. And maybe Bucciarati didn't care, but Mista was sure that as soon as Abbacchio remembered that they were not, in fact, the only two people in the world, his presence would quickly turn into, well, not a present. So Mista shifted his gaze away from Abbacchio and Bucciarati as stepped off the porch- well, more like jumped, landing a bit harder than he'd like due to his sore ribs, but it put some distance between them anyway, which was the point.

What now, he wondered.