The rest of the night seemed to pass much quicker than the past day had. It was probably the relief, Mista supposed, that he was still alive and so were the others.

He didn't like to admit it, but he'd had his doubts.

With Giorno there in his arms on the porch, Mista had told him everything that he knew had happened at the ruins of Rusellae. About the strange fog-like Stand that took over its victims, about his violent fight with Fugo and how they each almost killed the other, about the nut job that Fugo fought that he refused to tell Mista anything about, about the crop duster and the old man and the slime and the trip to Sardegnia.

He didn't mention his discussion with Bucciarati in the car on the way there. Mista didn't even know what to think of it himself, but it seemed too personal, too private to say aloud to anyone else. Too frightening.

Bucciarati had come out to the porch at some point, telling them in a quiet voice that they should go inside, that it was late, that they had a lot waiting ahead of them, that they all needed to sleep. Mista didn't think anyone would be sleeping tonight, but they obeyed anyway. Giorno had grabbed his hand gently, leading him inside while Bucciarati went to go gather the two boys that were still sat in the front yard. Mista didn't know what Fugo and Narancia could possibly be talking about for this long, but he caught a glimpse of the wide grin on Narancia's face and the softer one and Fugo's, and he decided it didn't really matter. He was just happy to see them back together.

Instead of going upstairs to the bedrooms, Giorno led Mista into the kitchen, gesturing for him to sit down at the table across from Abbacchio. The man spared a single glance at their clasped hand before his gaze flicked up to glower at Giorno, clearly annoyed that he had even come back inside the house at all, probably preferring if the blond slept on the porch. Giorno looked completely unfazed as he finally dropped Mista's hand.

The loss of that solid warmth made something in Mista's chest clench as he watched the blond move into the kitchen, taking a few cracked porcelain mugs from the cupboards as he began to dig through the cabinets. Leaving the guy to whatever he was doing, Mista turned to look at Abbacchio. The older man looked tired, his normal lipstick absent for once, white hair pulled back into a messy, low ponytail. Dark circles ran under his dual-colored eyes, but there was a warmth to his cheeks that made him look happier, younger.

Mista guessed that seeing Bucciarati alive did the guy some serious good.

"What're you looking for?" Mista asked, glancing back to Giorno was in the last cupboard now, a look of frustration on his face.

"You'll see," was the only response he got aside from a little hmph of triumph when the blond found whatever it was he was searching for.

"Don't you dare eat our fucking food," Abbacchio growled but his voice mostly just sounded tired, lacking its normal bite. They'd all had a long day.

"None for you then," Giorno muttered under his breath, disappearing behind the pantry door that he'd opened fully to hide whatever he was doing.

Abbacchio clicked his tongue but didn't say anything else, crossing his arms over his chest and shifting his gaze out towards the window above the kitchenette. Mista followed his eyes to see that he was watching the three figures out in the front yard.

You could barely make anything out, the grassy lawn illuminated just enough by moonlight to form three dark shapes. They were moving faintly, one gesturing wildly that Mista figured was probably Narancia. As they shifted, moving through the heavy night like pockets of air in an inkwell, Mista saw the fond smile Abbacchio wore.

He settled back into his chair with a smirk. Yup, this was how things were supposed to be. Not to be gay or anything, but God, he loved his gang.

Although maybe his feelings for Giorno were a little gay? He was really gonna have to figure that out one day, but thinking wasn't his strong suit, especially thinking about his feelings and reasons for them. He felt what he felt, wasn't that good enough?

Probably not.

"Hey dipshit." Mista jerked out of where he'd been staring vacantly into space, Abbacchio's voice bringing him back to reality.

"What's up?" he asked, resting his elbows on the kitchen table to lean forward, the sound of metal clinking against porcelain in the background.

"Don't bleed all over the table. It's oak." When Mista just looked at him, confused, Abbacchio rolled his eyes and gestured to his blood-stained clothing.

"Oh, that! Nah, I'm fine, Giorno fixed me up. Not bleeding at all," he said. Abbacchio just huffed and looked away moodily.

"That's his way of saying he was worried." The voice had come from Bucciarati, who entered the room not a second later.

He was herding Narancia in front of him and, a few steps behind them, a hesitant Fugo poked his head into the kitchen. The blond looked awkward and nervous, glancing shiftily around the room to gauge the moods of the others within its confines. Mista didn't blame the guy.

"Thought that was you," Abbacchio said, his voice oddly controlled, no hint of emotion in the words. So he didn't want Fugo to know how he was feeling, Mista realized. Interesting.

"Hey!" Narancia, on the other hand, sounded petulant and angry. Like always. "Fugo already apologized so back off!"

"Oh, he apologized, huh? Guess that means that everything is perfectly fine? That you didn't try to fucking kill one of our own? Or am I mistaken, Fugo?"

Wincing at the harsh words, Mista spared a glance towards their capo. Bucciarati, after stepping over to say something to Giorno (still behind that damn door), was now reclining against the countertop across from the table, watching the exchange between the two. While he looked mildly concerned, he made no movements to stop them. He wanted to see them play this out on their own, then.

Fugo, on the other hand, looked like he wanted to melt into the floor and disappear forever, and again, Mista didn't blame the guy. The only thing scarier than a pissed off Abbacchio was a calm Abbacchio. And from the way Narancia was staring at Fugo in shock, he hadn't told the older boy of his fight with Mista. Noticing Mista's gaze on him, Fugo glanced up and locked eyes with Mista and the gunman flinched automatically, averting his gaze. He immediately regretted it, forcing himself to look back up. It wasn't because he was scared or even still upset, just that he hadn't been expecting eye contact, but the hurt was still evident in Fugo's violet eyes, and that was ultimately why Mista spoke up.

"Hey, I gave as good as I got," he said awkwardly, trying to diffuse some of the tension. "It wasn't any worse than the fights we got into on the team anyway."

Mista pointedly avoided Bucciarati's hard stare, willing the brunette to not describe all the ways that statement was completely fucking wrong. Thankfully, he held his tongue, blue gaze switching from Mista to stare analytically Fugo.

"That isn't the point," Abbacchio said flatly. "I don't give a shit how beat up you two got; what I care about is whether or not we can trust him."

"You said yourself that Fugo was making the right decision, Leone," Bucciarati pointed out smoothly, his arms crossing over his chest as he cocked his head in interest. If Mista didn't know any better, he woulda sworn Bucciarati was entertained by this.

"Yeah, and I stand by that. He did, going after the Boss is suicide, so leave, sure, whatever, it's the right thing to do. But what he did after that," Abbacchio explained, "is that he changed his mind. All of us made our choice and have no intentions of going back on it. However, Fugo here, has already betrayed his original decision. Who's to say he won't do it again?"

Fugo was quiet for a few seconds, fists clenched at his sides. When he finally looked up, his eyes were hard, determined.

"…When I was a child," he said at last, and Mista was surprised. The guy never talked about his childhood, and Mista had a feeling it hadn't been all that great. He knew there were things Bucciarati and Fugo were hiding from them all about it, but he never pried. "My parents enrolled me in a private school. There was a boy there who decided he didn't like me for whatever reason and started to bully me. I mostly ignored him because he was a dumbass, but one day, we got into an argument and he punched me. I beat the shit out of him for that."

Not a surprise, Mista thought, but what did that matter?

"When I got sent home early that day," Fugo continued, unperturbed at the incredulous stares upon him, "my parents yelled at me. I was wrong because it gave me a bad reputation, because it encouraged me to use my fists instead of my brain, but mostly because it reflected badly on them, to have a violent child. So the next day at school, when he tried to get me back, I just stood there. I was eight, I didn't want to disobey my parents. I was sent home again, this time for injuries. And they yelled at me again. This time, I was wrong because it made me look like a coward, because I was complacent and allowed myself to be stepped on, because it made them look bad. Again."

"That's great, what fucking ever, what does it have to do with anything?" Abbacchio interjected, his patience clearly starting to wear. Mista studied the man's features scrupulously, but aside from the tone, not a single muscle was tensed in anger or irritation. The guys looked like he had full control over every damn muscle in his body; how the hell was that the same guy who freaked the fuck out whenever Giorno spoke?

"Because," Fugo explained, his voice careful and withdrawn as he tried to figure out how best to explain the story's relevance. "I didn't understand. If I was wrong both times, then what was the right thing to do? What should I have done, in their eyes? Why could both things be wrong at the same time, when they were exact opposites of everything they gave as explanation? What truly is right and wrong? Do those concepts truly exist, or are they simply words that we as humans give meaning to when it suits us, in order to justify our choices?"

Mista was completely lost at this point, but did his best to scale his features into ones of understanding. Couldn't look like an idiot in front of Giorno, after all, who had finally closed the damn pantry and was looking very intrigued in Fugo's musings, his back to a pot of something that was boiling on the stove.

"It would be more accurate to say that choices are simply correct or incorrect," Fugo continued. "And that right and wrong are too intangible and incorporeal to be used as feasible explanations for choices. They hold too many morals within them that vary with every individual. As a child, I didn't know that. I didn't understand it. I still don't, not to the degree that all of you seem to. A true moralistic sense of right and wrong just isn't innate for me, it's not something I was born with or was ever taught to develop.

"Therefore, while right and wrong are simply moralistic ideals, correct and incorrect choices rely on logistics and facts. I have a deep understanding of both of those; therefore, I excel at the aspects of making a correct decision. However, although I was correct in my choice - which is what you agreed with, Abbacchio - I was wrong in my decision. And I didn't realize that until I met a madman who was both right and wrong, correct and incorrect, all at the same time."

His tirade, which had increased in both speed and volume as he ranted further, was met with utter silence and five stares- three curious, one confused, and one glassy-eyed stare from Narancia, who had probably tuned Fugo out the second his explanation switched from a childhood story to a philosophical debate. Bucciarati rested his hands on his hips, fixing Fugo with a look that could only be described as fond. Giorno was rubbing his chin and seemed to be mumbling something to himself, too quiet for anyone to make out. Abbacchio was just staring, his gaze carefully blank.

"…When'd you become a damn philosopher?" he said finally, leaning forward in his seat to hear Fugo's response.

Fugo fixed Abbacchio with a hard stare as he answered firmly, "When I died and was reborn."

The white-haired man returned the gaze with a long, unreadable look, arms folding tightly over his chest. It felt like the life was being sucked from the room by the tension that consumed the two, both waiting for the other to make the next move. Then Abbacchio sighed and stood up to walk over to Fugo. No one said anything or made any move to stop him, but Mista saw Narancia's shoulders tense, probably preparing himself to jump to Fugo's aid if he was attacked.

Abbaccio raised his hand, features stoney and cold as he swung it down-

And smacked Fugo on the shoulder, so hard the blond staggered to the side. He looked as surprised as Mista felt, watching a sly grin cross Abbacchio's face as he rested his hands on his hips. It was fucking terrifying.

"Welcome back, kid," Abbacchio drawled, and Mista watched as the shock slowly slipped off Fugo's face, replaced with a small smile of his own. Finally sure that no one was going to get murdered, Mista took this chance to survey the rest of the room's reactions.

Bucciarati was smiling proudly at them both, and Mista couldn't tell which of them the pride was more directed at. Probably both. Giorno had watched the entire exchange with a solemn face, his features schooled into an expression of careful consideration. Mista knew the guy probably had a much better idea of what had just gone down than he did; as far as he was concerned, everything they'd just said had gone in one ear and out the other.

Not that he hadn't tried to understand, but Fugo used too many big words and Mista just didn't really get it. Didn't right and correct mean the same damn thing? And so did wrong and incorrect? Whatever, it ain't important, he figured he didn't have to get it, Abbacchio did. And it seemed like the guy had, based on the way his posture had relaxed, shoulders slumping down a bit as the tension in them ebbed away.

As Bucciarati straightened from where he'd been leaning against the counter, probably to go lecture them on the importance of resolving their differences and how he was greatly impressed with their maturity or some parental shit, Mista's attention shifted back to Giorno. The blond was completely lost in thought at this point, green eyes staring blankly off into space. Mista could almost see the thoughts flying around in his head at the speed of light. He just wished he knew what those thoughts were.

Maybe he should've tried to understand Fugo's weird rant after all.

Mista felt a tap on his shoulder and drew his gaze from Giorno's pretty features the same time as the blond shifted back to the stove to see Narancia leaning in towards him, hand around the corner of his mouth to hide his whisper.

"Did you get any'a that?" he murmured surreptitiously, casting a nervous glance around the room to be sure no one heard him.

Mista snorted. Shrugging his shoulders, he hissed back, "Not a fucking clue."