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Bruno didn’t know how long he’d been in the room. He didn’t know what time of day it was, either; all he knew was that he was sitting, in darkness, with only his thoughts. But, he knew it had been far too long. Of course he’d gotten hit with a nullifying Stand, while trying to protect Giorno. Of course he couldn’t just zip out of there with Sticky Fingers, ready to decapitate every single one of the traitors. Of course he’d failed.
So, chained to the walls with enough links to allow for minor movement, he sat. Sometimes, he’d stand up, go a bit forward, and then be violently yanked backward. So, back down to the ground he went. It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go…
Still, his stay in this isolation chamber wasn’t entirely darkness; sometimes, bursts of quick, sharp pain would hit along with the darkness. Disembodied volleys, to snap him out of his reverie. No matter how much his captors screamed to him telepathically via their Stands that you’re gonna crack sometime, he wouldn’t. No matter how thirsty he became. How hungry. How touch-starved and lonely. He held out hope.
He must have been there for weeks. He couldn’t tell for sure, but everything was pitch black. The room must have been muffled with a sort of Stand, as he couldn’t hear anything, outside of his heartbeat and the sound of his breath. His sense of time was hazy, but he could get through this. So, why was he scared out of his mind that he may not get out of this?
Bucciarati had been gone for three days. While the most obvious reason for his absence was because he’d been kidnapped and was being tortured, Giorno knew the truth. It was because he, the new head of Passione, hadn’t been paying attention during a drug bust. It was his fault.
Mista pointed out to him that, in all fairness, it wasn’t entirely his fault. The nullifying Stand had knocked him unconscious at first–a perk of their power. Still, by the time it had worn off and he had come to, any sign of the captors had long disappeared.
The Don’s closest allies had been frantically trying to trace security footage, phone calls, and more. They managed to find a hit. Without a moment of hesitation, Giorno, Mista and Narancia went.
Pulling up to the point that Fugo had determined was Bucciarati’s most likely location, the trio braced themselves. An abandoned house of some sort, a half-hour away from the Passione mansion.
Before Giorno could even ask if they were ready, Mista put his hand on the blond’s shoulder and nodded, his Pistols peeking out from below his hat as he cocked his rifle. Narancia already had Aerosmith’s visor out.
While it hadn’t been long since they had joined together, the three of them really were beginning to sync up more and more.
So, in an intricate dance of Stand attacks, the three tore their way through every single mook they could find, until they found a room that was entirely locked, no windows. Dark.
One by one, breath signatures faded from Narancia’s radar, leaving one behind the door. The last guy they’d taken out, strangled to death by a boa constrictor that Giorno had manifested from a dropped gun, had mentioned before he lost breathing capabilities that their leader had skipped town. So, that left two options: either he was gone and this was Bucciarati behind the door, or he was lying. Regardless, there was only one way to find out.
Giorno turned the door into a swarm of fireflies, which illuminated a person’s form; they looked like they were wearing a spotted suit, but in the dimness, he couldn’t be sure.
“...Bucciarati?”
A gasp in the distance, somewhere between a much-needed breath and a sob. The fireflies, going to a glint of light from the hallway that was reflected on the figure’s suit--a zipper?--began to flash, back and forth, showing a bit more of the unwitting prisoner. For the first time that day, the three dared to hope that they had found their friend.
Narancia piped up: “Bucciarati, is that you?”
The reply was soft, and oh-so-small, but the voice was familiar: “Yes.”
“Thank god!” A clank and the loud sound of a wince came from the corner where Bucciarati was as Mista practically ran into the room, pocketing his gun. Giorno and Narancia followed, with Narancia dismissing Aerosmith.
Between bioluminescent flashes, they caught pieces of a ghastly sight--a battered Bruno. He was chained against the wall. There were gashes in his lingerie, his suits. His skin was littered with bruises. The man was largely unscathed, outside of those things, but based on the way he would recoil at the fireflies’ light or the slightest noise… Giorno had a feeling that the scars were more than skin-deep.
Giorno moved closer, touching the chains and turning them into even more fireflies, which flitted away, illuminating the room like small stars. It would have been beautiful, if the situation hadn’t been so horrid. Bruno, meanwhile, took in the scene with a dull resignation; as if he couldn’t believe it was real.
Before the boy could stop himself, he tackled his friend in a hug, knocking him against the wall. While there was an exclamation on Bucciarati’s end and his frame stiffened in shock, he hugged back. Bruises be damned.
Mista and Narancia moved to them, joining in on the group hug. While they still had to find the bastard who tortured Bucciarati, that could wait.
It was Narancia who let go first, asking, “Hey… Shouldn’t we go home? Probably more comfortable than the floor here.”
Giorno let go, getting up and moving to Narancia. Mista, meanwhile, had buried his face into Bruno’s sleeve, with Bruno rustling his hair fondly. The Don addressed them all: “Yes.”
It was Mista’s turn to stand, going back to the door and moving behind Narancia.
Giorno leaned down. He offered Bruno his hand. “Let’s go home.” The boy's eyes were shining.
Bruno, giving a positively radiant smile despite the circumstances, took his hand.