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He knows it’s a dream, but it doesn’t feel like it.
Everything feels too sensitive. When he blinks, he feels his eyelashes touch his face. He smells the lack of smell. His body feels like he had sunken into a hot-tub after standing in a freezer.
Mista snaps his fingers. He hears the sound and feels the friction. He reaches into his pockets. Huh, no gun.
He can’t hear the buzz of the Pistol’s conversations in his head. He tries calling them out. They don’t appear.
A table sits in front of him with two chairs. Mista pulls out one and sits down. Waiting for something. It’s unnerving.
After a long time passes (or perhaps none at all), Bucciarati appears. His hair and signature suit remain the same. But then there’s his stomach wound. It looks fresh, but small bugs surround it. Picking at the flesh. Eating it.
He doesn’t seem to notice it.
“Mista.”
“Bucciarati.”
“May I sit here? I have traveled a long way to get here.”
Mista has a hundred questions. Why is he here? Why is Bucciarati here? Is he dead? Is this a dream? Why does it feel like he just got over a bad hangover?
Instead he says, “Go for it, man.”
Bucciarati gives him a smile. He pulls out his chair and sits down, staring at Mista. His face appears friendly, but there’s something in Bucciarati’s eyes. Something cold. Unfamiliar.
Dangerous.
It takes a moment for him to realize it, but Bucciarati’s eyes have no light in them. Mista can see the color clear as day, but the shine once there is gone. It unnerves him. It feels like bugs are crawling in his skin.
“Are you going to speak?”
“Huh?”
“I asked if you are going to speak,” Bucciarati says, cocking his head slightly. “You must have a lot of questions.”
Mista spares no time.
“Why am I here? Why are you here? What are we doing here? Where are we? You’re still dead, right? Am I in a dream? Am I in Heaven? Am I dead?! What do I-”
“Not those kinds of questions!” Bucciarati interrupts, chuckling and shaking his head. “You did ask why I’m here, but I thought you’d ask how I’d been. More casual questions.”
He feels embarrassed for a moment. Mista tries to laugh, but it’s shaky. Bucciarati’s smile remains for a moment before it falls.
When the light is gone from Bucciarati’s eyes and his face is still, Mista feels something. Definitely not something good.
“I’m still gone, Mista. There’s no coming back for me. No one’s coming back. Not Abbacchio, not Narancia, not even me. Though I still have regrets.”
“Like what? What regrets could you possibly have?”
Bucciarati sighs, folding his hands in front of him and staring at his lap for a moment before looking up and speaking.
“Giorno is still fifteen, Mista.”
“Yeah, I know that. And?”
“He’s still a boy. There’s so much he needs to see. He can’t go for a drink. He hasn’t left school. Mio dio, he hasn’t even gotten his drivers license yet!”
“So? What does that mean? I was seventeen when you picked me up! Narancia was, I think, sixteen. And Fugo…god, the kid was the same age as Giorno! What does his age have to do with anything?”
“Mista, you don’t get it! That’s not-” Bucciarati lets an exasperated sigh, holding out his hand and staring down. Mista feels a tad bit guilty, but he feels worried. Bucciarati always stays calm. When he gets angry, it’s within reason.
Bucciarati never gets exasperated.
“…Giorno hasn’t yet experienced what we all have,” He eventually says, looking up at Mista. “From what I know, he was beat as a child. I don’t doubt he has trauma. But from what I also know, he had hope. He had an idol. Someone who cared for him. When we died, of course he was sad! Obviously he would be depressed. But…”
Bucciarati goes silent. He takes a breath that Mista can hear the shakiness in it.
“He had you. And he had Trish. He had people who could help him up. He has known pain, but there was at least one person who he could lean on. Giorno, the poor boy…he hasn’t reached that low point our crew all knows and loves.”
“…What is that. What is that low point, Bucciarati?”
Bucciarati laughs, but not out of humor. His laughter cracks and he needs to take another breath again.
“When there’s no one to hold you up again. When Fugo was abandoned by his family. When Abbacchio was abandoned by society. When you were abandoned by the law. When I…When I abandoned my childhood to save my father.”
Bucciarati has never told Mista this. He probably hasn’t told anyone this. Mista stares down in shame. He gets where Bucciarati is coming from.
“Bucciarati…I’m so sorry, I never knew-”
“How is Fugo?”
Mista hesitates. He doesn’t want to respond. Fugo was one of his friends, a ride-or-die type of guy. He was like a brother to him. But after the betrayal…
“I dunno, man! Last time I saw him, I was working. Not like I could’ve had a civil conversation with him.”
“I see. But if that is true, then what was the reason why you threatened him?”
His soul goes cold and his mouth loses its moisture. He opens his mouth to retort.
And nothing.
And nothing comes out.
“Did you threaten him because you felt rage towards him?” Bucciarati questions. “Did you wish to judge him to make yourself feel better? Had you already thrown out your relationship with him?”
“Well, he was kind of a, pardon my language, a pussy! He left us for the Boss! That’s no excuse to leave your friends-”
“Had you not considered his outlook on the situation, Guido? He didn’t want to die. He didn’t know the risks. He truly knew nothing and that tore him apart. He loved you all, but Fugo was, and still is, a deeply hurt child. He was doing what he thought was right.”
The two sit in silence. Mista wants to say something. How he isn’t wrong. How Bucciarati is wrong. How his superior has the wrong idea.
But those dead eyes give Bucciarati’s disapproving gaze a fear that Mista can’t describe.
“…Bucciarati, I-”
“The day we brought Trish to Diavolo.”
“…”
“The day we brought Trish to Diavolo, there were three people on the boat. Abbacchio was the fourth person to come on. You were the fifth.”
Mista scoffs. “And?”
“You are a simple man, Guido. Your loyalty to early Passione was very strained. I know you. You would have been the first person to step on that boat. Now tell me this; If no one had stepped on that boat, would you have stepped on it?”
“Bucciarati, don’t be stupid-”
“Guido.”
“…I wouldn’t have.”
Mista feels incredibly ashamed. Bucciarati’s eyes stare into his soul. He lets out a breath that seems like he knew what Mista was going to say.
“You shouldn’t be living in fear, Mista,” Bucciarati says. “Living your life to avoid a number is not a good way to live!”
“But it’s the number four, man! Unlucky things happen to people who do things in groups of four!”
“When we went to collect Polpo’s fortune, we didn’t go on the fourth boat, yet we were still attacked. Our team was made of six people, yet tragedy still befell us. Bad things can happen to anyone.”
“That’s not how it works, Bruno!” Mista slams his fist on the table. “When I was a kid, my neighbor adopted a litter of four cats. And then-”
“Guido! Can’t you get that your fear of the number four is stupid? Per l'amor del cazzo, your name has four syllables in it, but you don’t seem to care about that, do you?”
“Bucciarati-”
“Excluding me, our team before Giorno had four members! You are most likely aware of this, but that doesn’t bother you! April is the fourth month, but you don’t care! You only are afraid when the number is right in your face!”
“Bucciarati-”
“And that day in the Colosseum! Guido, what the hell were you thinking? You had just lost us and you were ready to kill Giorno! Were you not aware that if you did that, then our deaths would be for nothing?”
“Bucciarati-”
“WHAT? WHAT COULD YOU POSSIBLY WANT TO SAY? THERE’S NO REASON FOR YOU TO DEFEND YOURSELF FOR BEING OVERANXIOUS, TRIGGER-HAPPY, AND NEGLECTFUL?!”
“…”
Bucciarati looks down at the table. He lets out another sigh.
“I thought I could do this calmly. I thought that I could guide you. But that clearly can’t happen.”
Bucciarati stares at Mista for a long time. Then, he gets up and turns to walk away. Before he’s too far gone, he looks back at Mista.
“You disappoint me.”