<major spoilers for pt.5 character deaths>
Description- Giorno tries to ease into his new life, it isn't exactly easy. Written in second person POV.
Easing into the new life isn't exactly easy. It's not exactly hard, either. The claiming of Italy is quick, methodical, done as fast as possible. By the time Italy as its new golden head, and by the time Mista has stopped sobbing himself silly every night—it's only been three days. It's only been three days, but when the bodies of your accomplices have been recovered, they stink of rot and fall apart to the touch.
It's not hard, just different. The responsibility is different, but that's okay—you wanted this, didn't you?
If there's any part of this that's hard, it's the mornings. That moment when early morning sunlight burns through your fog and you groggily muster the strength to peel open your eyes, just a little bit. Through the open window, the sound of sparrows calling trickles in.
A small groan leaves your lips. Burying deeper into your unfamiliar blankets—(soft, clean, fit for a king; you don't feel like one)—you try not to think about what the day entails. It's not hard, but there's something unappealing in the thought of having to go about another day of being—pretending to be—more than you really are.
But the alarm goes off, beeping loud, and you peek to your bedside table. Right, it's fine. That's fine.
Mista groans awake at four thirty in the morning, pulls himself up—looks your direction and goes from sleepy to sharp in an instant. "It's early." He states, glancing at the clock, back to you. "When'd you sleep, anyway?"
You shrug. "Early enough." The man throws you a worried glance. Sighing, you send the subject away. "I'm fine, what about you, though? No matter how luxurious that couch is, sleeping on it can't be healthy." You say, settling down into your desk and sipping from your coffee.
You clutch the golden keys to Italy tightly in your palm, like you owe the responsibility to someone.
Blonde hair and sharp eyes, concealer and foundation caked to your face; concealing every blemish—it doesn't feel right. The makeup is itchy and the eyes that glue to your back feel accusatory. You continue on, anyway.
It's your big first appearance, the time you finally give a face to your rein. It's not just paperwork, after all, you need to reach the coat expectations you placed on your own shoulders.
You never planned to take this position, but Buccellati died. Buccellati didn't have the responsibility to have to take up this mantle anyway; he never wanted to be a part of this. You chose this yourself.
So with that in mind, you let the afternoon sun that trickles in from the tall, large, cathedral windows light up the trails of golden hair that spill over your shoulders. You open your lips, close your eyes, and let the words you scripted last night flow.
It feels a bit dirty to use Buccellati's funeral as a public spectacle, but it's worth it when, by the next day, the streets flow with news of Italy's new 'golden prince, finally out in the public eye!'
Right, you decided on this; decided from the moment you announced the ambition of killing (you never thought of it too hard until the moment you first had to kill) the former boss.
The golden key weighs heavy in your grasp; feels like it wants to drop from your fingers—feels like you could lose grip any second.
The gazes from beyond your walls burn holes in the coat of expectations you already donned. But it emerges from the fire new and shiny, larger and heavier.
The view from the villa balcony is nothing short of breathtaking, all of Naples glowing gold and painted rosy red and burning orange in the dawn.
The thoughts of every citizen that thinks of you as their head makes a distinctly undefinable kind of nausea rise in your throat. It was only so long ago that you were essentially nothing. And now you're everything.
You'd say your coat was made of phoenix feathers.
"Hey." Trish says. It's one of those rare weekends that she can visit. That's good; it's good she chose to leave the mafia at the first chance. "Isn't this all too much?" She says, causally breaking the question, carelessly thudding a bag of cookies on a free patch of desk.
You shake your head, carefully placing down your pen. "I'm not sure I understand what you're implying."
Trish sends you an unimpressed look. "Mhmm. Yeah," she shakes her head, "no. I didn't come here for the unsubtle dancing."
The urge to glance out the window comes; you push it down, instead opting to meet the girl's emerald green eyes. "Unsubtle dancing?" You question; leaning back in your too-large chair.
She snorts. Her curled pink hair rustles when she tilts her head up. "Mind games, avoiding the question," she flicks her painted nails, "the like."
You smile. "Haha."
There's a moment of silence, before Trish finally speaks. "You know," she looks out the window, briefly, before returning your gaze. "I hit instant success when I finally entered the pop industry those few months ago." She pauses. "It's been a lot, you know." She twirls a nail through one of the loose curls of hair. "But, it's not close to the amount you have."
The words are uncomfortable, and you need to resist the urge to bite at your lip.
"So," she continues, "you tell us, you know, rest, or something."
There's a silence as you internalize the words. Your lips open, brittle, quiet voice, "...Why would you think that?"
"It's obvious." Trish states, like a slap in your face. "Every time you look like you'll topple, like a tree under too much weight."
"Ah." You say. "When?"
The teen raises a perfectly cut brow. "All the time, every day. Every time Fugo looks at you like the incarnation of Apollo."
"I don't..." You breathe, weakly.
Trish sends you a look, and you feel a little smaller than usual.
It's nearly a year since taking crown that you crack you mask, and the cracks spread until it shatters on the floor and there are tears burning white and hot in your eyes. You aren't alone when this mask takes a fall.
Trish says that's good. And you aren't sure, but you think you might half-agree. Maybe sobbing into Mista's shoulder wasn't as bad as it could've been. He doesn't see you differently from before and... Perhaps, just perhaps, it isn't so bad.
So maybe it's a little hard. Maybe the golden key weighs almost-too-heavy in your hand; like it's been gifted with gravity thousands of times its size. Maybe you don't get enough sleep. And maybe it's okay to say it isn't really all okay.
Obviously, I'm sure you can tell, but this is another one of my experiment pieces. My ela teacher and I were talking about second person POV and I thought I wanted to experiment with it. So, witout further ado, what'd ya think/feel? Anything really, I don't mind even if it's something as simple as 'I couldn't get into the experience, second person with the POV being giorno was offputting, I just couldn't feel much of anything' or the such.
This'll be my first time writting a second person POV on an actual character afterall. It was strange for me to write, too. It feels unnatrual in a context outside of a direct reader-insert in which 'you' is the most preferred term.