The cloudy gray sky reflected the mood that clung to the gang relentlessly, the sounds of muffled sobbing and the ebbing backwash of ocean waves pierced through by a lone seagull's cry flying far above them.

Time seemed to drag on as each passing second yielded no response in their lifeless teammate.

Narancia was knelt on the beach a few meters away, practically in Fugo's lap as he cried and Mista couldn't help but wonder just how many tears the boy still had left in him. It had been almost ten minutes now since he and Giorno had seen… seen that. Mista refused to admit what it had been; it felt like if he did, it was the same as admitting Abbacchio was… well.

When Narancia had first started to crumple, Fugo had instantly followed him to the ground, rubbing soothing circles in the boy's back as he pulled him into his lap to cradle the distraught brunet. Mista had watched them as he continued with chest compressions, wishing there was someone who could hold him too.

He'd made eye contact with Fugo for the briefest second and the emotion held within those violet eyes had been too much. Mista had looked away first.

He hadn't even dared to glance at Bucciarati after hearing that desperate plea, too afraid to even acknowledge that his strong, powerful, mature capo could ever feel or look distraught but from the man's voice… it was obvious that he was broken up inside.

As for Giorno, the boy, to his credit, had explained the situation far more calmly and straightforwardly than Mista could have ever managed. And without even looking away from their fallen teammate once.

Bucciarati must have nodded or given some other wordless affirmation because Giorno had fallen silent afterwards, the sounds of warping filling the empty space.

Mista had never even imagined Giorno ever having to heal something like this. He'd managed limbs, bullet wounds, gouges, even second degree burns but this… none of them had ever taken a fist through the chest before. Mista was pretty sure no one could take that and survive it either. The damage was just immeasurable.

The image of that gray slab of rock stained red with blood showing through where Abbacchio's right lung and rib cage should be was forever etched in Mista's brain.

Blood was spattered across Mista's hands and arms, staining his favorite sweater and smearing across his forehead from where he'd wiped sweat off it.

Red was never his color.

Red shone against the white of Abbacchio's skin that was slowly turning gray despite their best efforts to revive the man. Mista was exhausted but refused to stop administering CPR, even when Fugo had offered to take over. The blond needed to focus on Narancia right now; Mista could handle this. If Giorno wasn't going to quit, then neither would Mista.

The blond was nearing the end of closing up the wound when Mista finally chanced a glance at the man's chest cavity. The white of newly repaired rib bones was quickly disappearing beneath pink muscle and a web of blood vessels that sprouted into one another. Giorno was pale and sweaty, his cheeks sallow and normally brilliant green eyes hollow but the grim determination on his face hadn't yet faded.

Each time Mista moved to Abbacchio's head to give the two breaths, he kept hoping beyond all hope that he'd feel an exhalation against his face or warmth in those freezing cold lips and each time, he was let down.

"…It's done."

Giorno's voice cut through the tension, an empty tone in those otherwise hopeful words.

Mista looked down to see the Abbacchio's chest was fully closed up, gray skin covering the former gaping hole with no visible trace that it had ever been there at all.

And yet there was no change.

"Just… just a little more," Mista heard himself stammering. "I-It'll be fine, he's fixed, he's better, i-if I just keep going, I'm s-sure he'll-"

Before he could start another round of compressions, Mista felt a hand on his arm and looked up to see Giorno standing behind him and when did the blond get there?

Giorno shook his head minutely, jaw clenched tight beneath pale lips and ashen skin and Mista watched as the blond reached out to brush a gentle hand against his cheek and saw it come back wet.

When had he started crying?

As the realization swept through the group, Mista heard Narancia's sobs dissolve into full blown wailing that wrenched his heart even further than it already was, mixed with the soft, almost inaudible keens from Fugo.

When Giorno reached out again, Mista fell into him all too easily.

Burying his fists in the blond's suit that was now closer to red than pink, Mista clenched his teeth to keep from crying out himself. Giorno's hands wrapped around him tightly, one reaching up beneath his hat to curl in his hair and stroke it gently, like his mother used to do when he had a nightmare as a kid.

He twisted around enough to see Bucciarati still beside Abbacchio, face shadowed by the dark bangs that fell over his eyes, and watched as a drop of blood rolled down the man's chin to fall onto Abbacchio's cheek from where the capo had bitten his lip.

"...rry."

Mista thought he'd imagined it for a second before he realized the sound had come from Giorno.

The boy's eyes were fixed on Bucciarati, knelt over Abbacchio's prone form, soft whispers escaping his lips with an expression of fear etched into his pretty features.

"I'm sorry."

Giorno was apologizing. Over and over and over again, like it was the only thing he could think and the only thing he could say. Like his life depended on it. Mista had to wonder if Giorno thought that it did.

Before he could say anything, and he didn't even know what to say, not really, they both heard Bucciarati utter, "Leone" in the most heartbreakingly shattered voice Mista had ever heard their capo use.

In a way, it felt like the world was ending.

And then Bucciarati spoke again, but this was different.

"Leone?!"

He sounded shocked and Mista twisted back around to watch as Bucciarati's arms jerked forwards, like he wasn't able to reach Abbacchio fast enough, to cradle the white-haired man's head and upper torso in his arms.

"Leone, Leone," Bucciarati murmured desperately, free hand brushing against Abbacchio's cheek. "Leone, can you hear me? See me? That wasn't- I didn't imagine that?!"

Mista thought for a second that Bucciarati really had lost his mind from grief.

Until he saw Abbacchio's hand twitch.

"Oh my God," he rasped, pulling away at the same time as Giorno, who was also staring at the pair in shock.

Mista staggered to his feet, stepping towards them in fragmented incredulity. When he was close enough to see Abbacchio's eyes, he froze.

That vacant stare was gone, the cloudiness that had coated Abbacchio's violet eyes disappeared, the color was back, and they were focused on Bucciarati.

And Abbacchio was smiling.

He hadn't registered he'd sunk down to the ground until his hands clenched in the sand beneath him, digging into his skin and inching under his fingernails as Mista fought for any kind of tangibility within the tiny grains.

This couldn't really be happening but it was. Somehow.

They'd done it.

Mista watched as Abbacchio's left arm moved its way towards his face, slow and shaky like he didn't have full control over it yet, to press against the hand Bucciarati was using to hold Abbacchio's head. Their fingers slowly entwined with each other and it was like the dam had finally burst.

As Bucciarati's tears slipped out of his eyes, a grin of pure joy stretching across his face like he'd never been happier before in his life, Mista heard Narancia shriek something unintelligible and bolt towards the white-haired man desperately.

Fugo could barely hold him back from tackling Abbacchio, frantically explaining how the man was far too weak for that, but the expression on the blond's face was one of relieved elation. Narancia bent down next to Abbacchio opposite Bucciarati, his hand hovering over the man as if he wasn't sure if he could touch him or not.

Bucciarati's grin softened as he let go of Abbachio's hand so the man could reach out to Narancia. Mista had never seen Abbacchio look so gentle before, meeting Narancia's outstretched fingers with a warm smile and fondness glistening in his violet-gold eyes.

The brunet dissolved into sniffles all over again, Fugo's hand coming to rest gently on the boy's shoulder as he exchanged a nod with Abbacchio. Narancia was blubbering about how happy he was and how pissed off he was at the same time and the scene was just so them that Mista felt like he was going to start crying too.

They'd almost lost this.

And Mista would've gone to them too, would've knelt down next to Narancia, smacked Abbacchio's shoulder as gently as he possibly could while telling him to never pull that shit again, would've initiated a group hug that Abbacchio would obviously protest to but that everyone knew he loved.

But Giorno's whispering hadn't stopped and Mista felt himself moving back before he could process it.

The blond was shaking now, shoulders trembling almost violently as he stared at the four men before them on the rocks. His skin had yet to regain any color and his hands were gripped around his upper arms, squeezing himself so tightly that Mista thought he might be cutting off his own circulation.

"Giorno," Mista murmured softly, and when the blond didn't look at him, he knelt down in the sand and placed himself between Giorno's gaze and the rest of the group.

"Giorno," he repeated.

This time, the boy's green eyes seemed to register him as recognition flashed through them.

"But…" he whispered. "I… failed."

"No," Mista answered. "No, you didn't. He's alive, Giorno. You saved him."

"I…" Giorno's voice trailed off as Mista reached out to cover Giorno's clenched fingers with his own hands, engulfing them in his warmth as he worked his fingers beneath them to loosen the grip the boy had on himself. "But- I can never save anyone, never-"

"Whoever said that is wrong," even though Mista was pretty sure he knew who would say something like that. "Abbacchio is okay. It's okay, Giorno. Everything is. You did good."

It was like all Giorno needed to hear were those words because he threw himself forwards into Mista's arms before the gunman could really comprehend what he was doing. It was an unnatural display of affection from the blond but Mista wasn't about to discourage him from those and he took Giorno in his arms as easily as if he was meant to be there from the start.

Giorno's shoulders were still shaking, but Mista could feel wetness where Giorno's eyes were pressed against his neck and he figured that kind of shaking was okay.

He'd never seen Giorno cry before.

"Thank God," the blond was whimpering into the crook of his neck. "Thank God. I didn't fail. I didn't fail. I wasn't wrong."

There was more to unpack there than Mista wanted to get into right now so he just held Giorno tightly as he replied, "Yeah. Yeah. You did great, Giorno. So great."

A noise from behind Mista drew his attention and he glanced back to see the others watching them. Well, Abbacchio was watching them, his eyes fixed on Mista - no, fixed on Giorno, what little the man could see of him that wasn't obscured by Mista's body. Bucciarati was smiling at them warmly while Fugo was exchanging glances with Narancia that Mista recognized and did not like the feeling they gave him.

"Well?" Abbacchio said, and his voice, though heavy and thick like something was in the back of his throat, was still unmistakably his own. Mista had thought he'd never hear that voice again.

"He means," Bucciarati said, pushing Abbacchio's shoulder gently with a fond smile. "Aren't you two coming over here?"

Mista turned back to Giorno and the blond had pulled away from his neck and shoulder, rubbing at his eyes with his hands to get the tear tracks off his fair skin. He glanced up at Mista, green eyes with the faintest red rims around them, and nodded with a small smile. Mista grinned back.

"Yeah," he said, getting to his feet and extending a hand to Giorno. The blond took it and Mista pulled him to his feet, doing his best to suppress the giddy feeling that spread through his chest when Giorno made no notion of letting go.

Who gave a shit that Narancia and Fugo would give him hell for it later? Abbacchio was alive and Giorno was holding his hand. In Mista's humble opinion, the day couldn't get any better.

When they approached, Mista could feel Giorno hesitate the closer they got. Probably because of his relationship with Abbacchio. All Mista could do was give the boy's hand a brief squeeze, but it seemed to be enough because Giorno moved forwards those last few steps without pause.

"Glad to see you're back with us," Mista said warmly, grinning down at Abbacchio. The man had shifted into a more comfortable seated position, back pressed against the sheer rock face of the cliff behind him.

"Glad to be back," Abbacchio admitted, smirking up at Mista before his eyes drifted back to Bucciarati briefly. Somehow, Mista got the feeling those two would be closer than ever now. And not just because one of them almost died. He missed something while he was with Giorno but for now, Mista was content to leave that secret to Abbacchio and Bucciarati.

"I'm so happy," Narancia said, and judging by the way Fugo rolled his eyes, this was not the first time the brunet had said that. Still, the fondness was unmistakable, and Mista had to wonder how much this affected their relationship too.

Who knew a near-death experience would bring people together?

"As am I," Bucciarati agreed as he stood to step over towards them. He reached out to place his hand on Giorno's shoulder and said, "Giorno. This is because of you. From the very bottom of my heart, I thank you."

"There's no need to, Bucciarati," Giorno said quickly and Mista could tell from the faint pink on his cheeks that he was embarrassed. "Really. I just did what I had to."

"No."

Abbacchio's voice cut through the air and instantly everyone fell silent. Mista could feel the collective intake of breath in anticipation of what was to come spreading through them all and he prepared to defend Giorno if he had to.

"You didn't have to." Mista felt Giorno stiffen beside him before turning to face Abbacchio with his features schooled in an unreadable expression.

"You had no reason to," Abbacchio continued. "I've told you before to let me die, if that's what it takes. You didn't go after whoever did this, even though that could've been a breakthrough. You never listen to a single damn thing I tell you."

"Leone-"

Abbacchio put out his hand before Bucciarati could continue. "Let me finish, Bruno. I need to say this."

The capo didn't look all that thrilled about it but sighed before nodding that it was okay to keep going.

"Look. I have never once been kind to you, brat. You had absolutely no reason to try that hard for me. And I'm not stupid, you look like you're the one who almost died, not me. You almost killed yourself for me and ignored the damn mission to do so. So you better listen real close because I'm only gonna say this once, got that?"

Giorno nodded stiffly and Mista felt his fingers tighten around his own hand so tightly that Giorno's fingernails dug into Mista's flesh.

Abbacchio cleared his throat.

"Thank you."

Wait, that- did Abbacchio really just say that? Mista stared at the white-haired man in disbelieving shock. Surely he'd heard wrong, right? That that Abbacchio just thanked Giorno? No way in-

"For all that you did," Abbacchio continued, his eyes flicking back to Bucciarati before raising to meet Giorno's steady green gaze. "Thank you."

Giorno's mouth opened but no words came out, an expression of astonishment on his face. Mista watched him glance at Bucciarati, who just smiled and nodded, before the blond looked back at Abbacchio and slowly shut his mouth.

His fist loosened, fingers going lax against Mista's own, as he nodded awkwardly at the man.

"You're welcome," he said quietly. "I'm just… glad it worked. That you're okay."

Abbacchio nodded at Giorno before he sighed and leaned back against the rocks.

"Fuck. I'm exhausted."

Bucciarati laughed. "I would imagine dying does that to someone."

"You should go in the turtle," Narancia added. "Take a nap on the couch! Although I like the armchairs better but you're too long to fit good in them."

"Well."

Narancia turned to look at Fugo in confusion.

"Huh?"

"It's well, not good," Fugo explained, crossing his arms over his chest. "Math is already bad enough; do we have to work on your grammar too?"

"We don't have to work on anything," Narancia snapped back. "You just make me!"

As the two began bickering, rapidly getting more and more heated until it dissolved into a screaming match, Bucciarati knelt back down beside Abbacchio murmuring quietly about things that Mista felt like he shouldn't try to hear.

Instead, he stepped away, hand slipping out of Giorno's to go get Coco Jumbo from where Fugo had left the little reptile in the sand a few meters away. It looked up at him, blissfully unaware of anything that had just happened, and Mista couldn't help but smile. He sat down on the beach, looking up to watch the waves ebb and flow fifteen meters or so away from them.

He felt Giorno approach behind him and plop into the sand next to him.

"So," he said.

"So," Mista echoed, cocking his head to the side as he turned to stare at Giorno. The blond met his eye with an affectionate grin.

"Thank you. For calming me down."

"Nah," Mista replied with a wave of his hand. "You did the same thing for me, it was nothing."

"It wasn't nothing to me," Giorno answered softly. "No one has ever said that to me before. To hear words of praise… that meant more to me than you know."

"Bucciarati praises you all the time though?"

"It's not the same," Giorno said, and Mista waited for an explanation but after a few seconds, it was clear he wasn't going to get one.

"Well, glad I could help," Mista said with a sigh before glancing at Giorno with a sly smirk. "Y'know, I can always praise you more. If ya want. I got a lot of ideas on what to say."

Giorno snickered. "Perhaps on that date," he replied and Mista was shocked that the blond even remembered that.

"I'm gonna hold you to that," he said with a grin, reaching out to put his hand atop Giorno's.

"Well I would hope so."

Behind them, Mista could hear the sounds of Fugo and Narancia's protests as Bucciarati cowed them into submission mixing with Abbacchio's laughter at their lecture. Giorno was next to him, fingers entwined with his, the ocean was calm, the sun was coming back out, and they were all alive.

Yet somehow, Mista got the feeling that this was only the calm before the storm.