The office that Giorno was talking about was unsuspectingly plain: a desk pushed up against one wall with a cushy chair that Narancia quickly claimed for himself, bookshelves on the wall across from it lined floor to ceiling with a bajillion different titles that made Fugo's eyes light up when he saw them, a window seat on the far wall that held some potted plants that looked half dead, and an ornate rug covering the dark wood floors.

To an unsuspecting eye, it looked perfectly normal. To Mista, he saw the way the glass window panes were especially thick, likely bulletproof glass, the dark wood a rust color to hide any potential stains, certain books that were likely hollow on the inside and easy to reach, the hidden flap that flipped up the window seat to reveal whatever needed to be hidden there. It was the perfect type of room to lay low in but be surrounded by everything you could need.

He took a seat along the window, saddled between a ficus and some sorta curly fern before Narancia moped over to join him, kicked out of the chair by Giorno, who was now instructing Fugo to sit down in it as he locked the doors behind them.

"Now then Fugo, you're the last one out of the three of you," Giorno explained. "I feel like I owe you an apology, your wounds should have been treated first."

"No, definitely not, I didn't know you guys would take me back, so don't feel bad," Fugo said quickly. "It's honestly not as bad as it looks."

Mista knew that was a massive lie, if not for the blood-stained scraps of lime fabric still clinging to his body, then for the pale skin that looked just a shade darker than white. Judging by the way Narancia was glaring at the blond boy, everyone knew what bullshit that was. Not that any of them would point it out though; let the guy keep what pride he had left.

"You said I was the last one; when did you heal Bucciarati?"

If not for the way Mista had been watching the cute blond boy, he would've completely missed the way Giorno seemed to stiffen slightly at the question, brows creasing minutely before a casual mask of indifference settled across his pretty features.

"While you were outside with Narancia," Giorno answered, voice giving nothing away. "Though he didn't have much I needed to do; it seems you and Mista were on the receiving end of most of the action."

Fugo nodded, accepting the answer as Giorno turned back to look down the long hallway through the glass window by the office door. Probably looking to see if Bucciarati was there, Mista realized. He wondered if Giorno knew he was doing so, or if the movement had been involuntary, driven by the boy's knowledge of some situation that Mista had no idea of.

"I don't want to cause any concern," Giorno explained as he turned back to the others in the room, drawing Mista out of his thoughts. "Fugo, you haven't had to have Gold Experience heal you before, so I don't really know you will react. I'm sorry, but this will likely hurt."

"Hey, if that dumbass over there with no pain tolerance can handle it, I think I'll be fine," Fugo answered goodnaturedly, ignoring Mista's cry of indignation. He did not have no pain tolerance, he just didn't see the point in suppressing it when he was with his friends! His bros! And it was getting healed anyway; who cares if he says it hurts?!

"While you were talking to Abbacchio, I gave you a quick once over, but most of your injuries looked surface level to me. Of course, I don't know for sure, so I'll need you to tell me about anything I can't see. I assume your stomach is the worst of it?" Giorno pressed, looking over the other blond carefully to see what else needed fixing- which wasn't hard to do, as Fugo's suit, which was already full of holes, now looked more like a flasher's typical attire.

"Yes, that's really all you need to-"

"And his neck," Narancia interrupted, Mista jumping in his seat. The boy had been so unnaturally quiet, Mista almost forgot he was there. Probably out of concern for Fugo. The brunette leaned in from where he sat as he spouted off, counting on his hand, "and his right shoulder, and his left eye, and his left ankle, and his right side, and the fingers on his left hand. Oh, and his left thigh! That one looked really bad."

"Wha- that's- when the fuck did you take inventory of me?!" Fugo cried angrily, his cheeks flushed red, and Mista thought that was kinda cute, how he was embarrassed and all. Acting his age for once.

"Because you wouldn't'a said anything!" Narancia huffed, crossing his arms over his chest in a pout. "I was lookin' out for you, don't get mad! I was worried, Fugo! You look half dead!"

Mista personally thought Fugo looked more like a tomato at this point, vaguely wondering how a guy who lost so much blood could still be so red. Fugo's mouth was open but no sounds came out except awkward squeaking noises. Finally he cleared his throat and muttered something that was probably a thank you but really, this was Fugo we're talking about, it could just as easy be a fuck you instead. Judging by Narancia's victorious expression though, whatever he'd said unintelligibly for everyone except the brunette had been a good thing.

"Well," Giorno said smoothly, clearly deciding to just not address whatever exchange had just happened between Fugo and Narancia. "As far as your eye goes, I can't do anything. Bruises are… a bit complicated. And it will heal on its own."

"Wha- bruises are complicated but bones are fine?!"

"The chemical processes for regeneration are quite different when it comes to different kinds of tissues, Mista," Giorno replied, not looking away from where he was examining Fugo's ankle. "While bruises heal on their own, bones often need assistance and that is where I come in. Bones are a lack of something, bruises an excess."

Mista had no idea what the fuck Giorno was saying but Fugo was nodding like it made sense, and if it made sense to both of them, then Mista guessed he was probably just too dumb to get it. Narancia's vacant expression suggested he was as well.

"Your ankle would benefit more just from being wrapped," Giorno said as he set the foot back down on the ground. "And just as well; the rest of your injuries are treatable but I'm still hesitant to use so much inorganic material in one body in so many various places. It will be a bigger feat than anything I've attempted in the past. Regrowing my own arms included."

"Just get it over with," Fugo interrupted with a wave of his arm. "I don't really care about the semantics of it, do what you gotta do."

Giorno nodded. "I'll do your fingers first," he said, taking Fugo's hand in his own as Gold Experience appeared behind him. There was a soft tinkling noise, the strange sound coming from Gold Experience as it brushed its lifeless fingers against Fugo's own and the bandages that had been used to flimsily wrap them twisted and warped, forcing their way into the open wounds and knitting the severed muscles back together as the teeth marks faded.

Aside from a sharp intake of breath, Fugo didn't show any signs of discomfort, his features carefully schooled into a neutral expression. Mista was pretty sure that was for Narancia's benefit. The kid looked like he might vibrate off the window ledge from nerves.

When Giorno pulled away, Fugo lifted his hand to stare incredulously at it. He looked like he couldn't really believe it was healed, looking as good as new aside from the rusty dried blood on his fingertips and palm.

"That wasn't too bad, I hope," Giorno murmured as he immediately moved on to look at the remaining injuries. "However, the rest of your wounds are too deep for me to simply use the bandages; there isn't enough of them to fully heal them all. Do you mind if I use the rest of your suit for the materials?"

"Knock yourself out," Fugo agreed easily. "I don't think I can really salvage it at this point, plus I know Bucciarati bought me new clothes earlier."

"Speaking of Bucciarati…" Giorno sounded hesitant as he said quietly, "the zipper. We need him to remove the zipper."

Mista exchanged a quick glance with Narancia and Fugo before he stood up. Obviously Fugo had to stay here, and Narancia might literally die if Fugo was out of his sight for more than a single second. That left him or Giorno, so…

"I'll go tell him," Mista offered. "Better me than you, Giorno, Abbacchio might actually murder you for interrupting them."

The blond nodded and turned back to Fugo as Mista left the room. He shut the door quietly behind him, heading back down the hallway towards the kitchen. The house was silent, the only noise the click of the heels of his boots against the wood floor and the creaks and sighs of the house as it settled in for the night. It was deceptively calm. In a way, that itself was eerie.

When he got to the kitchen, it was empty, the lights off and mugs picked up and sitting in the sink to be cleaned. In the momentary silence, quiet voices coming through the window pane told him that the pair must've moved outside. A quick glance through the window above the kitchenette showed that they were sitting on the porch again and Mista headed out of the kitchen towards the front door.

The screen in front of the door was closed but the actual door itself was cracked open, allowing the cool night air to drift through the gap. Mista grabbed the handle, about to turn it when he heard Abbacchio's furious voice slide through the gap to meet him.

"-n't you tell me?!" the voice echoed through the screen and Mista froze in place. Abbacchio never sounded like that with Bucciarati. "I never would've let you go if-"

"That's why, Leone." Bucciarati's voice was calm and firm with an underlying distance that made Mista's blood turn to ice. "We both know I had to go."

He shouldn't be here. This wasn't something he was supposed to be hearing but suddenly Mista couldn't move.

"Bull fucking shit you had to!" Abbacchio fumed. "We should've just ignored it! I told you that already when we first talked about going, it was a stupid decision, it was rash, and now we're paying for it!"

"And just waste the chance it gave?" Bucciarati said softly, continuing before Abbacchio had a chance to argue, "Just throw away an opportunity to learn more? To help Trish? To leave Fugo with that madman?"

"We didn't even know he'd be there… He could've handled it." Despite what he was saying, Abbacchio sounded like he didn't believe his own words. Mista didn't either.

"He's too young, Leone," Bucciarati replied with a tired sigh. "They all are."

"So are you, Bruno. So are you."

This wasn't supposed to happen, Mista thought numbly, the ice in his veins sending a shiver down his spine. Abbacchio wasn't supposed to sound like that, like his world was shattering, like he was broken and defeated. Bucciarati wasn't supposed to be hiding things from everyone else, wasn't supposed to be talking like that, as if Bucciarati was-

Mista wrenched the screen door open as loud as he could, sending both men whirling around to face him. Abbacchio looked stressed and tired and Bucciarati looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. They both glanced frantically at the other, clearly wondering how much he'd heard.

Taking a deep breath, Mista forced a casual grin onto his face as he stepped out onto the porch to join them. "Yo! So this's where you guys were, I was lookin' for ya." Mista wondered if his cheery voice sounded as fake as he knew it was.

"Mista," Bucciarati said slowly, his shoulders slumping as some of the tension left them Abbacchio looked at the floor but didn't seem like he noticed anything wrong. So he'd managed to fool them for now. "Is something wrong?"

"Nah, just we need you to take off the zipper on Fugo," Mista explained. "Giorno wants to fix him up all nice but it's kinda in the way, y'know?"

Bucciarati nodded. "I'll be there momentarily, just let me finish up with Abbacchio here," he replied, exchanging a meaningful look with the taller man. Mista felt his stomach twist. The look in Abbacchio's eyes was… it was something he didn't want to put more effort into understanding. He had a sinking feeling that whatever it was, he truly didn't want to know.

"Sure," Mista nodded, forcing an effortless smirk born from years of practice across his features as he added offhandedly, "I'll let y'all get back to your gross flirting. Just keep it clean, there's children in the house." He hissed that last part scandalously, ducking out of the way of a flower pot that had been sitting on the porch, carefully aimed at his head.

He re-entered the house to the sounds of a pissed off Abbacchio yelling - at who, God knows - as Bucciarati's calm voice tried to soothe the enraged man. That was how it was supposed to be. That was how they were supposed to sound, not like- like the world was over. Mista'd done his job, played his role of the easy-going mood maker perfectly. They didn't suspect a thing, had no idea he'd heard them.

And oh, how Mista wished he hadn't.


A/N: clarification that comes later in the story as well: Abba doesn't know Bruno is dead, just that something is wrong with him