<Major Spoilers for pt.5>
Description: Just...As a joke I ended up live writing in front of Miru (miruwuu her shit is good if you haven't then go check her out) I don't even remember how this ended up happening but it did. there was no planning other than 'Giorno cries' involved. and then when the joke ended she said to fucking publish it so here I am, is this what you wanted, Miru!?
Trigger warning: referenced male relationships (brugio) if you have a problem with this then I don't recommend you read.
Buccellati lies ten feet under, spine full of maggots, eyes rotting nasty brown and orange in their sockets, blue turned grey. The blonde tries to keep himself from wondering if Buccellati's fingers are cold or just room temperature. He, of course, as always, miserably fails at this.
Giorno thinks he might be developing a bad habit of thinking about Buccellati--Bruno? Does he have the right to call Buccellati Bruno, probably not, sometimes he does anyway. Of all people, Fugo's the one to tell him it's a bad habit to visit Buccellati's grave daily. But he can't help it, you understand?
See, Bruno, Bruno, Bruno is a nice person to have around, if only in sentiment. It's dusk, right now, a cold fall day. Giorno wonders if Bruno--maybe he doesn't have the right to call him that--would tell him to wear a coat. Especially since the sun's fading and the cold is biting on his heels.
In some ways, Giorno is a little glad he can't see Bruno--and Giorno reminds himself that you should only call someone by their first name when you have permission. And he reminds himself that yes, maybe Buccellati was friendly and maybe Buccellati was the first person Giorno could trust and maybe Giorno loves him--loved him? Maybe, maybe Buccellati loved him, too.
He could never know for sure, though.
So perhaps Giorno loves him, and maybe Buccellati loved him, too.
'Hardly matters now, though. Because Giorno can't say 'I love you', and Bruno can't return the confession. Sometimes, though, despite how fundamentally useless it is, Giorno allows himself to dream. He allows--or maybe he doesn't allow it, maybe it just happens regardless of what he wishes--himself to think of a day, a time, a place where that kind of thing could have happened.
Giorno likes to think himself unbiased, likes to think he places every life on an equal pedestal. But sometimes he thinks that maybe it would've been okay to let Diavolo reign a little bit longer if it meant a little bit longer with Buccellati.
What ifs hardly matter now, though. Because Buccellati's tomb is cold to the touch, almost freezing. His name carved straight and pretty on the stone--and Giorno kind of really misses--that's the word, right? Mista tells him that's the word, he isn't sure, though.
'Misses' it seems too cute. A dull ache that serves a constant background. That seems too cute for how Giorno feels. Every time he picks up Buccellati's pen it burn in the wrong hands. Every time he walks the grey stones of his city, he feels like he's walking on knives. Every time he swings a smile it comes with too many false implications.
An intruder in his own home, a false prophet. Giorno wanted victory, he wanted a complete victory. He supposes that maybe that was a bit naive, maybe that was a little too idealistic of him. Maybe--
But maybe is useless, and maybe is a reality that isn't his own. Certain is that Giorno feels like he doesn't exactly want to die, but only half wants to live. And certain is that maybe misses is an understatement, but Giorno feels like he's simultaneously bleeding out and collapsing inward under the weight of his own crown. And certain is that Giorno wants to dig up the very ground under his feet and imbue new life in a long-dead corpse.
So maybe it'd become a hollow corpse with a beating heart and an absent soul. And maybe it would be warm, but it wouldn't be Buccellati. Giorno doesn't want a warm corpse, he wants Buccellati.
And yes, so, maybe Giorno does have a problem and maybe Giorno does need to fix it. But later isn't now, and now there are no creeping eyes. It's a clear place, after all. And there's no one to linger and no one to tell him what is and isn't okay and there's only his own clutch to stop him from collapsing outward instead of spilling inward.
Back when he was still in school, his social studies teacher taught them of Greek mythology, once. Pandora's box, a box of everything the world shouldn't see. Something forbidden, something of great consequences.
Giorno isn't a stranger to Pandora's box. He opened it once, when he decided Diavolo dead, when he decided Narancia and Abbacchio and Bruno dead. He can open it again. He can let himself spill outward.
He doesn't really want to, though. But Bruno's tombstone is freezing and hard under his cold-numbed fingertips, and the sky is turning from burning, bloody, red to dull and grey and maybe he would've preferred Bruno to bleed red than not bleed at all.
So Giorno was no Pandora the second time around, but the box had already been loosened, seal broken once, seal broken twice.
So it's not really okay, but Giorno finally lets the dam break. And this time, when Giorno feels white hot tears prickling at his eyes, he can't really seem to muster the will the repair his broken damn. They come slow but not quite measured, they snowball, really.
When the first one drop, splatters on Buccellati's grave and sits there--by that time, two more are coming. And when those fall, they're replaced by another wave. Italy is a soil stained blood and tears, so maybe it makes sense that Giorno is next to grow that pool.
Is he shivering? It is cold out, after all, unless he's trembling. How long has he been trembling? He isn't exactly sure, the cold saps feeling form his form, after all.
"Aughhh..." Is that really him? How absolutely and completely useless, pathetic really. It's a sin for Giorno Giovanna to cry, like this. Because he knows he's crying; he isn't that stupid. But most of all, it's a sin for the Don Passione to cry. For him to cry over someone lost in the tide of his own revolution....
So Giorno is crying and shaking so hard that he's running out of energy, and he's spilling outward so quick and so fast that he might as well be losing himself. Later he's going to have to upturn every rock and push aside every blade of grass, trying to fick up the pieces of Giorno Giovanna the Don of Passione. But right now, he loses them. They tumble and slip from his fingers like small grains of sand.
He lets his eyes burn white hot, and he lets his cheeks freeze over--and later he'll be Giorno Giovanna again. And later he'll walk home, give Mista a false smile, and set himself back to work, but later isn't now.
Giorno returns home with red eyes and bleeding fists, but he feels less like collapsing inward than before.
Oh and sixths was VERY unedited or proofread, obviously lolol