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“Have you heard anything yet?”
Buccellati closed his eyes and took a deep breath before turning away from the wall and facing Narancia. He knew that Narancia was excited that they had found Fugo, and of course all he wanted right this second was to see his best friend again. That was the only thing that kept him from snaping from the hundredth time he’d heard the same question.
“No, Narancia, I haven’t heard anything. But I promise that I will let you know when there’s anything to tell.”
“But—!”
“Narancia.” Buccellati dropped his hand on Narancia’s hoodie-covered shoulder. He tried to give him a reassuring smile. “Relax. I sent them after the drug team a few days ago. This is a mission that will take a good amount of reconnaissance. I’m certain that they’re in the middle of their mission. We just need to be patient and let them work.”
Narancia groaned and trudged back to the other side of the room, where he was supposed to be helping Trish and Giorno lay down tarp and painter’s tape. Abbacchio and Mista chose that time to reappear at the doorway, sharing a tense glance before grabbing the next piece of furniture to move to another room. Buccellati wasn’t certain what to do with the two of them. He knew from the moment they left on the boat without Fugo that there would be tension when his team ultimately reunited. Admittedly, at the time, Buccellati fully expected that he wouldn’t be there to guide his boys through this. But here he was, a leader that didn’t have nearly the amount of life experience to help his friends. Narancia, Giorno, and Trish made it easy on him. The thought of forgiveness never crossed Narancia’s mind because he didn’t think there was anything Fugo needed to apologize for. Giorno didn’t know Fugo long enough to feel betrayed and considered Fugo’s mission against the drug team to be enough to balance the scales. Buccellati didn’t know why Trish came to terms with Fugo’s decision. He hadn’t returned to himself at that point, but he suspected that he had Polnareff to thank for helping her work through her emotions. No matter the reason, she didn’t have the same aura of distaste that the older two had. If Buccellati had to put a name to her attitude, he would call it a hard neutral. But at least she was willing to talk with him and figure things out from there.
That just left Mista and Abbacchio. Oh boy, did that leave Mista and Abbacchio. Bruno didn’t hold any animosity against his old friend, but honestly, he didn’t need to. Abbacchio was plenty irritated at Fugo on Buccellati’s behalf. As difficult as it was to break past Abbacchio’s defenses, Bruno knew that, on some level, Abbacchio cared about Fugo. They had been working together for long enough at this point; there was no way they didn’t feel some sort of bond. However, Bruno wasn’t blind to the fact that Abbacchio sooner come to bat for him than anyone else on the team. It was something that he wanted to work out of him now that they weren’t under Polpo’s and Diavolo’s thumbs. But until that point, Abbacchio would take far more offense against any slights toward Buccellati than he ever would. Thus, when Fugo remained on that island instead of following Buccellati’s request—not order, request—he might as well have spat in the face of everything that a loyal follower like Abbacchio stood for.
Mista was different, though surprisingly no less complicated despite Mista’s self-admitted simplicity. He allegedly stepped on that boat for the promise of money and power, nothing more, nothing less. Mista lived in the moment, which could mean the difference between coming home in the evening or dying in a shootout for a gunslinger like him. On the other side, there was nothing between heaven and Earth that could goad Fugo into making a snap decision like that (at least, not when he was in the frame of mind to think about his choices). But knowing Mista, he didn’t hold a grudge specifically because Fugo chose a different path from him. His bitterness stemmed from how poorly the mission went. Three mortalities, unholy amounts of stress over a few days, almost singlehandedly keeping an entire organization together from the shadows while Giorno did whatever he did and while they licked their wounds. Mista would never say it, but all of that took a toll on him. Between the time Buccellati sacrificed himself and when Giorno pulled him back, something changed in Mista. His easy-going nature hadn’t been completely killed, but the shine had been tarnished. Buccellati knew that would happen one day, but it didn’t bring him any joy to see it. Regardless, Bruno was certain that Mista didn’t care about Fugo’s decision. It was everything else that came after that he had to deal while Fugo didn’t that was the kiss of death.
At least Mista’s anger burned fast and hot. Abbacchio would take months to let Fugo back in. Buccellati knew that he could leave Fugo and Mista alone in for an hour and come back to a brawl between Fugo, Mista, and Narancia before they started conspiring to drag Giorno out to go dancing.
But there was no real point worrying about team unity until Fugo was back with them. And Buccellati was bound to have some of these rooms refurbished by the time he returned. With that, he unzipped the last piece of furniture into smaller pieces so Mista and Abbacchio could move it through the door more easily. Buccellati stood on the stool, pressing more tape along the ceiling. The villa was lovely, but apparently Diavolo didn’t believe in basic upkeep of his properties. Since the team decided to claim the villa, they had gotten just as invested in interior decorating as running a criminal empire. This room was one of many that had lackluster paint jobs, and because it was being converted into a bedroom (Narancia’s, to be specific), they took the opportunity to revamp the room as a whole.
A vibration behind his ribcage gave Buccellati pause. He slapped a zipper onto his work t-shirt and pulled open the void as he hopped from the stool. He passed the roll of tape to Abbacchio as the two reentered the room, freeing his hand to answer his cell phone.
Once he stepped across the doorway, Bruno put the phone to his ear. “Ciao?”
“Buccellati?”
“Murolo.” The corner of Buccellati’s lips twitched when he saw Narancia perk up at the name. “It’s good to hear from you. What’s the mission status?”
“Oh, well, um, we’ve finished up over here.”
Buccellati’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? It’s only Thursday. That’s incredible! I take it you’re going to move on to your other mission now.”
“That’s also wrapped up.”
Something odd was settling in Buccellati’s gut the longer the conversation continued. The words that Murolo was saying were triumphant in theory, but there was a cageyness to his tone. Then again, Murolo was a naturally cagey person, so maybe there wasn’t anything wrong.
“I’m amazed,” Buccellati said. “You’ve done so much in such a short time. It really is incredible. I’ll report the destruction of the mask to the Speedwagon Foundation as soon as I can. Is there anything that I can do from our side? Do you need a cleanup?”
“There’s just one body that we need to remove.” Murolo paused, and Buccellati could hear him hemming and hawing over the line. His next words had a bit of an edge to them, like he wasn’t certain if he was supposed to say them. “The others didn’t leave enough to warrant a cleanup. Maybe a hose down, but that’s it.”
Ah, so Fugo got to them. Good to know. “I’ll get in contact with the local clean up team and get that taken care of.”
“Thank you.” Murolo went quiet again, but not completely silent. There was noise on the other side, and Murolo said something not directed into the speaker.
When he heard the phone settle back on Murolo’s ear, Buccellati asked, “Were you talking with Sheila E and Fugo? How are they?”
“Uh, no, not talking to them.” Murolo let out an uneasy laugh and mumbled a quick “Gesù Cristo” to himself. “Sheila E got pretty banged up, so she’s getting checked out by doctors right now.”
“Oh, is she alright?” Buccellati didn’t know Sheila E well. Moreso he knew of her and how established she was in Passione. Mista had the most contact with her on a personal level and Giorno on a professional level. However, that didn’t mean that Buccellati wished her any harm. He saw promise in her. He’d be happy to welcome her into the fold provided that she proved herself trustworthy. Trustworthy in the sense of loyalty to the new Boss, and trustworthy as an asset that won’t sacrifice herself needlessly. He’d had enough of that as of late. However, as someone who worked under the previous “consigliere” to feed information to and from the assassination team, it had to be a challenge to cast off the self-sacrificial mentality that Diavolo installed in those in the upper levels of Passione.
“She’ll shake it off. There was just a helicopter crash. And a car crash. Pretty sure she was tortured too. But she’s getting patched up as we speak.”
“...Good to hear. And Fugo?”
Murolo sighed. “Fugo…shit…he was the one responsible for taking down Volpe.”
Buccellati felt dread pooling in his stomach. Volpe was a major threat as the team’s producer. Taking him out meant crippling Passione’s drug trade, maybe even killing it altogether. He and Kocaqi were the prime targets that Fugo’s team needed to kill. However, despite how happy Murolo’s words should leave him, his tone was shaking Buccellati to his core.
“Murolo, what happened to Fugo?” Buccellati cursed to himself. He spoke too loudly and accidentally caught Narancia’s attention. He stopped trying to open the paint can and looked up to Buccellati with his large puppy eyes.
“Fugo had to use Purple Haze’s virus at close range in order to kill Volpe.”
Buccellati’s knees buckled. He threw his arm out and grabbed the doorframe to keep himself from stumbling further as he processed the information. That certainly caught everyone’s attention. Now, in addition to Narancia jumping to his feet and rushing to Buccellati’s side, the other four stopped what they were doing and turned to him.
And Murolo kept talking. “He had to bite down on one of those little virus capsules in order to take him out.”
Buccellati’s shoulder slammed against the doorframe because he needed his hand to cover his mouth before a curse slipped out. Narancia gripped his arm, asking what was going on. Buccellati had to close his eyes and take a few deep breaths to compose himself. He pushed off the doorframe and opened his eyes to find the rest of his friends standing around him. Buccellati couldn’t afford to wilt under the concern simmering in each of their eyes.
Taking a deep breath and releasing it, Buccellati pulled the phone away from his ear and addressed his team. “I was just informed that Fugo had to use Purple Haze’s virus while he was within range.”
The effect was instantaneous. Narancia immediately started shouting, tears welling up in his eyes as he tried to snatch the phone from Buccellati’s hands. Buccellati kept it away from him, not certain what he would start screaming at Murolo. Abbacchio’s teeth were tightly clenched. He didn’t say a single word, but the fist he slammed against the wall spoke volumes. Mista immediately started mumbling in denial, hoping, praying that he misheard Buccellati. Even Giorno’s eyes widened in shock.
Trish was the only one who didn’t immediately respond. She saw the others and their visceral reactions but couldn’t do much but look at the others in confusion. She leaned toward Giorno, whispering, “Is Fugo sick? What’s going on?”
Giorno, as the only one who had kept his wits about him, took Trish to the side. Buccellati couldn’t hear what they were saying, but as her expression grew more and more horrified, he could only imagine that Giorno was explaining the horrors of Purple Haze’s virus.
Buccellati braced himself. He wasn’t certain if the next words should be spoken. They would do nothing but cause more suffering. But Buccellati needed to be selfish. He couldn’t endure this knowledge alone.
“In order to fulfill the mission, to take out the man manufacturing the drugs,” Buccellati took a deep breath and pressed forward, “he had to bite one of the capsules.”
For once, Narancia went silent. He stood shock still, staring at Buccellati like he would take back his words. Tears flowed down his cheeks, but his face didn’t twitch despite his sorrow. Abbacchio’s hand raised his hand to rub his cheeks in sympathy toward the pain that Fugo certainly felt in his last moments. But most visceral was Mista’s reaction. His knees buckled from underneath him. Giorno broke away from Trish to grab him before he completely collapsed to the floor and helped him to the wall. Slowly, he descended to the ground, wrapping his arms around his knees and burying his face.
Abbacchio was the first to find his voice. “At least he wasn’t aware for long.” Abbacchio didn’t look happy saying these words but continued. “The virus would’ve taken out his brain before his body started melting. If he was lucky, he was gone before he could even feel pain.”
Small mercies, in Buccellati’s opinion. He wanted to return to his flat, so he could indulge his sorrow in privacy. Right now, he needed to be a figure of strength for the others.
But how could he be strong after being stabbed in the heart? Abbacchio was the first soldato under his command that he lost. Narancia’s death was brutal, unjust, and unseen. But Fugo? Fugo was his oldest friend. The person who brought family back into Bruno’s life after what happened with his father and losing himself to the isolation of a criminal life. Losing Fugo was like losing a fundamental part of himself, almost like he lost a little brother before he had the chance to reach adulthood. And yet, the last time he saw Fugo, it was all business. He spent his last moments preparing Fugo for this mission, wearing the face of Passione’s underboss. Had he known those would be the last minutes he would be graced with Fugo in his life, he would’ve let the mask slip and show the friend underneath.
You killed him. You killed him you killed him you killed hi m y ou k I l l ed hIm.
A familiar intrusive thought echoed in his head. Why did he need to send him after the drug team? In all of his power, was there really nothing that he could’ve done to welcome him back into the fold? At least let him see his famiglia again? Bruno understood the optics of showing that Fugo was loyal to the team, but he knew in his heart that if he had been strong enough to argue, he would’ve been able to convince the others to allow him back. Were years of loyalty so easily washed away by one moment of divergence? They could’ve figured something out. They could’ve taken out the drug team together. Any plan would’ve been better than the one Bruno accepted.
Youkillledhimyoukilledhimyoukilledthemyoukilledthemyoukilledth—
Buccellati started at the sound of his phone ringing. How odd? If someone else was trying to reach him, it would’ve beeped to show that someone was on the other line, not sound out his ringtone. Looking at the ID only confused him further. Cannolo Murolo. Did Buccellati accidentally hang up on him?
He answered the call and brought the phone back to his ear. “Ciao?”
“Oh, good. That worked.” Murolo sounded tense but relieved. “You weren’t responding when I was calling your name.” He sighed and his tone turned businesslike. “Look, I know this is a lot to take in, but I really need you to stay with me now. There are doctors here who’ve told me what needs to happen with Fugo, but because he’s a minor and I’m not his guardian, I can’t consent for him.”
Buccellati froze. He couldn’t have heard that right. “Excuse me? What are you talking about?”
“Fugo! He needs surgery, but I can’t consent to it. Can I put you on the phone with a doctor?”
“He’s alive?!” Buccellati couldn’t even feel ashamed of the shock that was blatant in his voice. His boys’ attention immediately snapped to him, confusion in each of their eyes. Buccellati didn’t blame them. He felt the exact same way. He knew for a fact that Fugo wasn’t immune to Purple Haze’s virus. “How?”
“This isn’t the time, Buccellati!” Murolo growled, patience wearing thin. “Can I pass the phone off or not?”
Buccellati shook his head to clear his mind. He raised a hand toward the others, telling them that he’ll be back. With determined steps, he walked further down the hall to give himself some privacy. “Yes, thank you.”
Buccellati wasn’t certain how long he spent on the line with the doctor, but he needed a drink and a nap by the time he returned to the room. He wasn’t surprised to see that the others hadn’t gotten any work done while he was talking. It didn’t seem like anyone had breathed a word since Buccellati stepped out. The silence was chilling. It was like they were too afraid to jinx Fugo’s health by disrupting the tense peace.
Glancing at the faces of each of his friends, Buccellati said, “I need to make arrangements to visit Sicilia. Fugo’s in the hospital. I won’t stop anyone from coming with me, but I ask that you come to the decision quickly so we can make proper travel plans.”
Turning on his heel, Buccellati said, “I’m going to go home and pack. Anyone coming with me, I advise you do the same.”
───※ ·✥· ※───
Buccellati steered the car through the Sicilian streets as he made a beeline to the hospital. Abbacchio was seated on the passenger side, calling out directions from the map in his hands. That left the three boys in the backseat. Trish wanted to come and support everyone, but she had a recording thing up in Milano that she couldn’t reschedule. Buccellati would never ask her to compromise her burgeoning music career. He was proud of her for even getting to where she was now without using their underground connections. Bruno didn’t want to be the reason why she lost a contract. Though it seemed to be a multifaceted decision. As they were gathering thier bags, he overheard her confiding to Narancia that she also didn’t want to overwhelm Fugo while he was trying to recover. She didn’t think that the extra stress would be good for the healing process. However, she still wanted to show her support, so she sent a colorful floral arrangement and a card with them. Giorno was currently clutching both in his lap.
Once Buccellati pulled into a parking spot, he unbuckled his seat belt and turned around. “Alright, before we go in, we need to have a talk.” He locked eyes with all of his boys before continuing. “I know there is some tension around Fugo at the moment. I completely understand; I don’t agree with it, but I understand. However, this is a hospital. Fugo is healing. There will be no shouting, no fighting, no getting riled up while we are visiting Fugo. He needs to focus on healing at the moment. If I catch any of you stressing Fugo out or being antagonistic against him, you are going to be thrown out of the room faster than you can blink. Do you understand?”
“Understood.”
“…Thank you, Giorno, but I wasn’t worried about you.”
“Oh.”
“Narancia, understood?”
Narancia nodded vigorously. “Of course! No way am I going to yell in a hospital!” Buccellati believed that. Narancia looked pale since they got in the car.
“Mista?”
“Got it, boss. Besides, it’s not satisfying to punch someone bedridden anyway.”
Buccellati could accept that. “Abbacchio?” Abbacchio locked eyes with Buccellati but didn’t respond immediately. “Abbacchio!”
He threw his arms out incredulously. “I’m not going to scream at a kid in a hospital!”
“Promise. Me. Now. Otherwise, stay in the waiting room.”
“Yes, I promise!” Why did Buccellati have to pull teeth to get that out of him?
“Great.” Buccellati opened the door. “Let’s head inside.”
They made their way past the door. When they hit the reception area, he sent the others ahead to get Fugo’s room number and pulled Narancia aside.
“Narancia,” Buccellati quietly said. “You understood me when I told everyone about what kinds of procedures Fugo needed?”
Narancia, somehow paler, nodded.
“And you understand that Fugo is going to look rough when we see him, right?”
The “Yeah” he got back in return was so tiny.
“If at any point you need to leave the room, you are free to leave. If you need to go back to the hotel, either Abbacchio or I will hop in the car and drive you there. Got it?”
“…’t’s probably better that you stay instead of Abbacchio.”
Buccellati dropped a hand on Narancia’s shoulder. “You are just as much a member of my team as Fugo is. If you need me to come with you, I’ll need to trust that the others will behave themselves.” Murolo would keep him updated anyway.
Narancia smiled, through it looked tired. “Thanks, Buccellati.”
The two caught up with the others and joined as they walked through the halls leading to Fugo’s room. The door was open, but the bed wasn’t in immediate view from their angle. They saw the other two potential problems before they saw hide or hair of Fugo. Murolo looked more or less completely fine as he sat in an uncomfortable-looking chair. Next to him was Sheila E, who was a bit more banged up. One arm was restrained in a sling, and a cast encased one of her legs. Buccellati wouldn’t be surprised if her wounds would start looking worse as they got closer to her. However, he was happy to see that the two were getting along. Murolo was holding what looked like some type of puzzle book still so Sheila E could fill it out without it sliding everywhere. When they noticed the team entering the door, both waved before glancing at the bed.
Buccellati’s breath hitched. He knew that Fugo was going to be a bit messed up, but he hadn’t quite prepared himself. There were bandages wrapped all around his face, with especially thick gauzes planted over his cheeks. After his exposure to the virus, there were several points on Fugo’s body had deteriorated. His cheeks received a good deal of damage, but there were other parts of the body that had been affected badly enough to necessitate skin grafts. Buccellati imagined that there were other bandages covering both the affected areas and donor sites that were concealed by the hospital gown and sheets. If he squinted, he could see the swelling where the bandages thinned around the areas where the facial skin was donated to his cheeks. The white wrapped around his face made his brightly colored eyes even more vibrant.
Yet however bad Fugo’s skin had it, it wasn’t the worst his condition had to offer. After the virus filled his mouth, his throat took the brunt of the damage. The combination of the virus’s halted attack on the tissue, the inflammation caused by his body fighting back and trying to heal, and the facial surgery necessitated the insertion of a feeding tube. It wasn’t obvious at first glance with so many things to look at, but upon closer inspection, there was a small tube sticking out from Fugo’s nose, which Buccellati was told allowed the medical staff to bypass the mouth and send “liquid nutrition” to his stomach. It was basically a long straw, as Buccellati had described it to keep Narancia calm.
Speaking of Narancia, Buccellati glanced to see how he was taking Fugo’s appearance. He didn’t look completely panicked like Buccellati worried when he told him about Fugo’s hospitalization. His expression was closer to that of a deer in headlights. The sharp inhale was all the warning they got before Narancia launched forward.
“Fugo!”
Abbacchio quickly grabbed the back of his shirt, scruffing him like a cat. “The hell did Buccellati say?”
“I wasn’t gonna fight him!” Narancia glared at Abbacchio. “It’s been months. I want to hug my friend. Sue me!”
“Does he look like he’s in a state to be hugged? Think for once!”
Narancia pouted but calmed down enough that Abbacchio set him down. After shaking himself out, Narancia took even steps to the bed and set his hand on top of Fugo’s. “Hey there, stupid,” he said quietly. “How ya doin’?”
Fugo didn’t say anything back—Buccellati would be surprised if he could say anything back, poor guy—but he turned to Narancia and smiled. It was small, maybe the most he could do at the moment, but it was clearly a smile.
Narancia used his free hand to wipe at his eyes and smiled back. “Yeah, I’m glad to see you too, buddy.”
Giorno walked to the table near the bed and set down the flowers and card. “Trish couldn’t make it, but she wanted you to have them. She wishes you a quick recovery.”
Fugo turned and looked at the colorful bouquet, staring intently at the flowers. With a nod, Giorno stepped out of the way so Abbacchio could approach the bed.
Abbacchio lightly patted Fugo’s leg, his face stern but his shoulders lax. “Glad to see you’re alright, kid.”
Fugo continued to stare at the flowers.
Abbacchio rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “Okay, no smile for me. Cool, screw you too.”
“Abbacchio, be nice,” Buccellati said, though he was surprised that Fugo was still staring at the flowers with such intensity.
Apparently, Mista didn’t share this concern because he started wheezing out a laugh. He jogged to the other side of the bed, leaned over, and asked, “Are the pretty colors nice, Fugo?”
Fugo gave a quick, sloppy nod, not breaking his eye contact with the flowers.
“Aww, they gave you the good shit, didn’t they?”
Fugo turned to Mista and nodded with wide eyes.
Mista chuckled and patted Fugo’s head. “Well, enjoy it now. You’re gonna be hurting later.”
Fugo closed his eyes and leaned into Mista’s hand. Mista let out a closed-mouth coo at how cute Fugo was acting (and he wasn’t wrong, in Buccellati’s opinion). Sluggishly, Fugo’s attention traveled elsewhere. He lifted one arm, which had bandages wrapped around the elbow indicative of a past IV. Then he looked at the other arm, which Buccellati now noticed also had bandages indicative of an IV. Fugo looked between the two a few times before lifting both arms and turning to Murolo and Sheila E in confusion.
“That was from when you partially woke up in the middle of the surgery and ripped out your IV, so the doctors had to stick your other arm,” Murolo said. Fugo nodded and settled back in bed, pacified by the answer. Murolo turned to Sheila E and told her, “Add another tally.”
“Another tally,” she said, flipping to the back of the cover page and drawing a new line. “We’re up tooooooo seven times he’s asked now.”
“HOLY SHIT ON A BRICK!” Mista jumped backwards, his back hitting the back of Fugo’s partially reclined bed. He clutched his chest like he was having an active heart attack and did his best to catch his breath. He ignored the chorus of shushes, choosing to stare at the ground and ask, “What are you doing here?”
Concerned, Buccellati walked to the other side of the bed, freezing on the spot when he saw who Mista was talking to. He had no idea how Mista didn’t notice—he must’ve been completely zeroed in on Fugo—but not even a meter from the bed, Purple Haze was crouched next to the wall. Mista must’ve caught Purple Haze in a moment of calm, because the two were just staring at each other. Slowly and without removing his eyes from Purple Haze, Mista took steps along the length of the bed until he could make it to the others. Purple Haze kept his eyes locked on Mista until he physically couldn’t see him anymore. Without Mista to stare at, Purple Haze turned his attention to the other newcomer.
“Um, hello.” Buccellati felt foolish waving shakily at Purple Haze, but he was willing to do anything to keep the Stand in his calm state.
And he was calm, wasn’t he? Unnaturally so. By now, he would’ve started mumbling to himself or devolved into a fit of rage. He didn’t even seem to be drooling that much. It wouldn’t be accurate to say that he was as still as a statue, but he was as still as someone would be if crouched into a ball.
Steadily, Purple Haze unfolded and rose to his feet. As he returned to his full height, Buccellati was suddenly struck with the realization that something had changed about Purple Haze, visibly so. With no other way to sate his curiosity, Buccellati risked a few steps closer. It had been a while since he’d seen Fugo’s Stand and even longer since it was in a calm context. However, Buccellati could see that Purple Haze had lost most of his armor since he last saw him, only retaining the pauldrons on his shoulders and his helmet and visor. Now, the diamond pattern filled the empty space, broken up by holes that exposed his skin, much like Fugo’s preferred style. But the most striking difference was his face. Before, he looked like he was barely in control. He was a hair’s breadth away from a complete meltdown. No one could look at Purple Haze and assume he was anything but feral. But in that moment, that furiosity couldn’t be seen. In its place was an uneasy expression, as though he was nervous. Not nervous about anything in particular; rather, it was as though Purple Haze had replaced his blind rage with anxiety.
Buccellati turned to the other members of Fugo’s strike team. “Is he also being affected by the pain meds?”
Sheila E looked at Murolo. “You know more about this shit than I do.”
Murolo adjusted his hat and stepped forward. “I don’t think so. I mean, it’s possible that he’s being affected to an extent, but this is what I couldn’t explain over the phone.” All traces of his jittery nature evaporated as he looked Buccellati in the eye and asked, “Are you familiar with the phenomenon of Stands changing?”
It took everything in his power for Buccellati to not risk a glance toward Giorno. He had to hope that the others did as well. They weren’t certain how to approach the issue of Gold Experience Requiem, especially given that Giorno still couldn’t completely control when he emerged. Depending on how this conversation went, it was possible that Murolo was about to hand them an out on a silver platter.
“Change how?”
Murolo sighed and stood up straighter. “I’m not surprised that you haven’t encountered this, given how insular Passione teams are. It’s not the most common thing in the world, but it happens often enough that I’ve seen it a good amount of times among the Data Analysis Team.”
He paused as Purple Haze took a step forward. His gait was odd. Buccellati didn’t recall there being any past issues with how Purple Haze moved, barring his erraticism. He initially chalked it up to the pain meds affecting Fugo’s Stand; however, glancing down, he noticed that Purple Haze was walking on his toes like he was a fumbling ballerina.
“What are you doing, Purple Haze?” he asked. The four keeping their distance walked to the foot of the bed and peeked around the corner. Purple Haze didn’t respond to him—not that Buccellati expected him to be capable of full sentences like Spice Girl or the Sex Pistols—but he did look to the floor, and with a snarl, he released a gurgly growl. A foam of drool bubbles formed between the stitches around his lips.
“Makes sense,” Abbacchio said as Sheila E grabbed a tissue and passed it to Purple Haze. “Hospital floors are gross as hell. If I had to guess, he doesn’t want to touch it any more than he has to.” His eyebrows shot up as Purple Haze slammed the tissue against his mouth to violently dab the drool. He looked like he was completely lost for words, only able to say a slightly impressed, “Hm.”
“As you know,” Murolo continued, “Stands are inherently tied to our very beings. But people aren’t static. We change and grow with time. In most cases, these changes are so gradual that they only cause slight fluctuations in power or a new ability within our Stand will be revealed.
“But sometimes, we encounter something that changes us so fundamentally—some epiphany strikes us so violently—that we go through a full paradigm shift. Our world shifts on its axis, and we are forced to reconstruct the way that we view the world. For a Stand user, this type of change occasionally results in an evolution within their Stand.”
“And you think this happened to Fugo?” Mista asked, eyeballing Purple Haze with equal parts fear and interest.
“I’m certain it did. Would you look at him and say that this is the same Purple Haze you knew before?” Murolo walked to Sheila E’s chair and set his hands on the back. “Sheila E and I both saw him summon Purple Haze during our time together. I wouldn’t claim that we’re well experienced in his quirks, but even we’ve noticed a complete change in his demeanor since the fight with Volpe.”
“So when you say he’s different from his original form, does that mean this is essentially a new Stand?” Giorno asked as he watched Purple Haze who was idling by the bed and staring at the members of Buccellati’s team.
Murolo wiggled his hand back and forth. “Yes and no. No, in the sense that the core of Purple Haze is still there. He’s still the Stand that Fugo awakened. But also yes, in the sense that the Stand has changed enough that he might not have the same identity. Most, maybe all, of the people I know who’ve had an evolution like this change their Stand’s name to reflect the growth. I wouldn’t be surprised if Fugo was no different, but we won’t know that until he’s able to talk to us.”
“This is unbelievable,” Buccellati muttered. “What could’ve been running through his head that caused such a change in Fugo?”
Murolo shook his head. “It’s impossible to say without him telling us, and that’s even if Fugo knows himself.”
Narancia took a few shaky steps forward until he was standing right in front of Purple Haze. With a small wave and a nervous smile, he said, “Hey, there Purple Haze, or whatever your new name is. Love the new look you’re rocking. Heh heh…” Narancia’s awkward laugh trailed off as he curled in on himself, gauging Purple Haze’s reaction. He didn’t seem like he was going to try to attack Narancia just for talking to him. He actually seemed rather curious, like he didn’t know what to do with a conversation. (The more Buccellati thought about it, Purple Haze probably didn’t know what to do with conversation. This might be the first one he’s ever had.)
With a wince, Narancia asked, “Do you…know who I am? Do you think that we can be friends, like we are with Fugo? Or what do you think of us? Friends…? Foes…? In the way…? Give us a vibe.”
Purple Haze stared down Narancia. For the first time in his life, Buccellati could swear that he saw Purple Haze evaluating someone. Never before had Purple Haze taken the time to distinguish between friend or foe. But now, it looked like he was mulling over Narancia’s questions, yet he didn’t seem to know what to do with them.
In the end, Purple Haze gave no true response. Instead, he turned and walked to the head of the bed. He stared at Fugo for a moment before tentatively reaching a hand out. With extremely measured movements, nearly mechanical, Purple Haze patted Fugo’s head, almost in the exact same spot that Mista did earlier. His fingers were pulled back, cupping the capsules on the back of his hand in place. When he was satisfied, Purple Haze pulled his hand back, took one final glance toward Fugo’s visitors, and returned to Fugo.
Buccellati walked to the side of Fugo’s bed, taking Purple Haze’s spot. He took a moment to run his fingers over Fugo’s knuckles. Without turning from his wounded friend, he called for Giorno, who appeared by his side posthaste.
“Do you think you could help Fugo’s healing along? It seems like a waste to not take advantage of the number of pain meds he’s on.”
Giorno nodded and walked to the other side of the bed to give himself room. “Of course. This shouldn’t be too hard for Gold Experience.”
“Make sure to keep things under control. We don’t want the doctors to question too much and attracting the press. We’re looking for ‘Fugo’s a fast healer,’ not a miracle.”
Giorno nodded, shifting slightly as Narancia pulled up a chair and leaned his arms on the foot of the bed. “I’ll try to stay my hand. I’ve never partially healed, but it can’t be too hard, right?”
“And make sure to mind the feeding tube,” Murolo added. “Seems like the doctors would freak a bit if a long plastic tube went missing in someone’s body.”
Giorno nodded, summoning Gold Experience and resting both sets of hands on Fugo. Buccellati slipped his hand in Fugo’s, giving him the option to squeeze it in the off chance that some pain peeked past the meds. Abbacchio leaned on the wall, trying to look disinterested, but Buccellati couldn’t miss that his eyes were locked onto the bed. Murolo hovered behind Sheila E, his chair now stolen by Narancia, as she received unwanted help from Mista with her puzzles.
Buccellati smiled. Yes, there was still a great deal to work out. Mista’s and Abbacchio’s anger didn’t magically disappear. They needed to evaluate whether Murolo and Sheila E could be trusted enough to be welcomed into the fold. He expected there would be lingering tension from Fugo’s side, especially once he was told the full story of what they went through. But disregarding that, Buccellati was happy to have his team back together.
As Fugo’s eyes jerked back and forth in vague discomfort, Buccellati leaned to Fugo’s ear and whispered, “We’re going to have a lot to talk about later, but I’m happy to have you back, Panna.”