Dessert drags out a sluggish pace, movements dulled by warmth and full stomachs. Heat cranking, sweet desserts, the sound of a mounting storm whipping outside is drowned by chatter. Everything has slowed—but that's not to say that talking has slowed, just that progression of events has. No threats, initial fears faded into obscurity, the family is at ease, and that same ease is reflected into the form of Giorno's very own bodyguard.
Still, Giorno doesn't let his senses dull. Knives sharp, if not needed. He thinks.
Giorno can hardly hear the surrounding clamor above the blood behind his ears and the tide of his thoughts. All scattered and miscellaneous and fleeting in a way he hates.
At some point someone breaks out a monopoly board and he takes to it like a fish to water. He helps set up the board, everything but Shizuka's abandoned cookie bowl moved—that kept because Shizuka's too full and now it's free hand-outs. Giorno plays monopoly. And it's not even entirely to get out of his own head. He actually likes monopoly.
Mista is not hesitant to prod this fact as he sulks in his bankruptcy. "Y'know monopoly was like, actually made to be boring. To simulate to painful slog of capitalism—Fugo said so."
Giorno chuckles lightly. He gathers up his two five-hundred bills and hands them to Jolyne, who had insisted on being banker. "Jolyne, a hotel, please." Then he shifts his gaze to Mista and allows a little smirk. "Mista, it reflects badly to act a sore loser."
The man in question whines. "Monopoly's boring anyway. And for boring old capitalists." He gives the remaining players—Jotaro, Joseph, Lisa Lisa, Shizuka—and especially Giorno, a stink eye. "Ew."
The blonde reaches across the coffee table to take the piece—contemplates taking a cookie on his way back, decides against it. Lightly pushes the companion hotel onto Parkway. "Mista, it's not my fault you bankrupted before the fifteen minute mark of a monopoly game."
"You put a hotel on Boardwalk in the first fifteen minutes!" Mista looks absolutely indignant. Shizuka giggles from across the coffee-table. "Who even does that?"
Giorno shrugs smugly. Passes the dice to Jotaro. Watches in utter delight as he lands on Pennsylvania Avenue and has to pay a total $1400. High risk, high reward, after all. Giorno decided that's how he'd play the game, so that's how he does. He'd initially teetered on the edge of bankruptcy, but now he's swimming in wealth.
It takes a minute or two for Jotaro to figure out the mortgaging, but he eventually forks the money up and hands it over with an almost-frown. Giorno distributes it into his stash and smiles—but Jotaro's still looking at him. Almost frowning. Giorno's skin pricks. He feels the shift of air and the scald of scrutiny. He checks over his expression, it doesn't feel wrong.
'Yes?' hangs on the tip of his tongue. He bites it back. Instead: "It's Joseph's turn."
"Yeah," responds Jotaro, and passes along the dice. A beat. Then, too Giorno, and he gestures to the cookie bowl, "You can take those."
He blinks, tilts his head a little. Skin pricks. "Excuse me?"
Shizuka's cookie bowl. In theory: free, in practice: no one else has taken any so. Well, Giorno isn't going to be the one to do so. Even though his sweet tooth is a bit strong, and he's finished his cobbler.
(He's Haruno and his mother is telling saying no, not yours you fucking brat.)
"You can have some," says Jotaro, tone steady and almost reassuring.
Giorno knows that. He doesn't need help knowing that. His skin crawls, bristles. He can take what he wants, he is capable—but there is no ill-intent seeping through Jotaro's frame. There is no ill-intent, even if there are undertones of babying. Giorno doesn't need that, but it's positively useless dwell.
"Of course," Giorno smiles, but it's practiced and forced.
...How had Jotaro noticed anyhow? Had Giorno been sending out signs? Did it show in his face, a twitch of his fingers? He hadn't noticed anything. Perhaps Jotaro is just perceptive? Nononono—that's not the issue. He shouldn't been sending any signals—
"C'mon," says Jolyne, and she's talking to him, "It's your turn."
Giorno blinks. "Of course," he smiles. Takes the dice, rolls, collects his two hundred, passes them on.
Just now, he had blinked out, drifted off, stopped paying attention, He's paid so dearly for his time, fought so viciously for his security, measured his faces and played his cards and he can't compromise that with blink-and-you'll-lose-it. He needs to seize these moments; grip them until he's melded them into his shape, played them into his palm. Giorno Giovanna can't be anything less than perfect, everywhere, but especially here.
He's lost his grip so many times already tonight, slipped into something lesser. It can't happen again.
(Haruno always, always let time drag on around him. Let himself sink in useless misery. And he can't do that, not here, not now—)
So he doesn't.
Shizuka is next to bankrupt, then Jotaro, then Lisa Lisa, until it's just him and Joseph. Figures, since the old man is one of the most successful real-estate investors in the whole of Northeast America. There is...an unexpected delight to winning against him. Something that tugs Giorno's face into its first real smile since the cookie-bowl-comment. This smile has sharp, gleaming edges.
Joseph loses in good faith, proclaims he was only playing half-strength, but there's no heat in it. And, Giorno notices (how could he not?)—He's looking at him. Strange expression, something nostalgic and faraway.
Giorno's skin pricks needles and knives.
(Haruno tries so hard to make himself invisible.)
There are locusts beneath his skin, wasps in his veins, leeches nesting worries into Giorno's mind. Think, rationalize, study. It can't be anything too bad. But then again, Giorno's smile had edges, sharp and pointed. He never knew Dio, but he imagines the creature's smile might not have been too much different. And Giorno thinks that this family doesn't mind too much, but there's still the possibility and he just wants to know what Joseph's thinking—
"You look like Jonathan," Joseph finally says, and Giorno feels the thrum quiet, only to rebound twice the volume.
"Oh," he says because he doesn't know what else to say.
Jonathan. The Englishman, Dio's nemesis, his...technically one of Giorno's biological fathers. Giorno has read a few scant sentences on him from the file given by the SPW foundation. Close friends with Robert E. O. Speedwagon, married to Erina Joestar...killed and body stolen by Dio Brando. Little more.
You look like Jonathan.
Jonathan died far before Joseph was born. Joseph shouldn't know his appearance. Meaning...there is at least one picture somewhere, he's sure of it. Something clenches in Giorno's chest—aches. Aches like years of speculation and hope and building a glass bridge of expectations that ends in the reveal of a bloody curtain and the shattering of every glass brick.
So, he's a little curious. Naturally, it's not as if he's...fixated on Jonathan, exactly. It is not a big deal. The man means nothing to him, he's never even seen a picture. But he's curious, if nothing else. Curious in a burning, all-consuming way that thunders through his consciousness like dry-wood flames.
They have a picture? They have a picture. They have a picture—
"Have you seen him?" His tone is steady.
"We have pictures," Joseph nods.
Pictures. Multiple. Even better.
He wants to see them, oh, he wants to see them. He doesn't need to but he wants to. Would it be presumptuous to ask? He isn't sure if they'd understand. They probably consider Dio his father—not that Giorno considers Jonathan his father. He has no father. But he is so curious and he has to bite back: 'May I see?' Because they could respond: 'Why?' And he'd have to to say, 'I don't know.'
Giorno hums.
Joseph holds his haze for a moment. Eyes blue and deep and contemplative. A beat. Then, "Would you like me to show you?"
Yes, he thinks. "I wouldn't mind," Giorno says.
"Great," Joseph says, eyes crinkling. The elder begins lifting himself out of his seat, with obvious effort, and Giorno finds himself getting up and wanting to extend a hand.
"Would you..." He doesn't finish the sentence. Is he being offensive? Giorno would hate being in the same position. His clothes suddenly feel too constricting.
But Joseph grins—immediately slumping back and saying, "Oh absolutely!"
So Giorno shoulder most of Joseph's weight, and Joseph directs them out into the hall. Giorno slides the rice paper door closed behind them, the clamor dulls to a loud buzz. Joseph flicks a light switch—a ceiling light bulb briefly flickers before shining the whole hall in a cozy yellow tone.
"Hmm," hums the elder, "We might get a blackout soon."
Giorno nods. If he listens beyond the common room's buzz, he can hear the blow of wind against the wooden walls, the tap of raindrops against rice paper, distant thunder. He wonders if it will impact his communication back to Italy. (Oh he hopes not, he cannot let this trip interfere with his most pressing affairs. The shame of anything going wrong while he was out for personal matters would make him claw the skin from his palms.)
"This way," Joseph says, moving down the hallway.
In the better lighting, Giorno can see that the entire wall is covered in photos and drawings. All framed. Josuke by the seaside, a backpack-wearing child recognizable as Jolyne, a painting of a vibrantly red coral reef signed in neat letters, Kujo Jotaro. But there is no Jonathan Joestar.
The air heavy, it presses down on Giorno's shoulders, it's thick in his lungs; rich in a way that makes it hard to breathe. From every side, there is a memory, a capsule of experience, a moment that ages with time and takes on new significance. The farther they traverse the hall, the older the photo's become—Jotaro's high school graduation, Holly's wedding—and now they're progressing into territory Giorno hardly recognizes. Yellowed pictures, black and white—Joseph Joestar and Erina Joestar 1950, Joseph Joestar 1938—strangely, this is a funeral photo—Lisa Lisa 1910.
Until, finally, there are only a few frames left.
The tap of Giorno's footsteps abruptly top at the final frames. They're black and white and worn with age but clearly recognizable. The air is heavy, gravity thick and legacy cloying. He can feel it; humming through the air, layering quilts of history over every step, shining bright and palpable under the burnt light.
Two photos, framed in ornate gold.
Erina Joestar and Jonathan Joestar 1888. They are back-dropped by a church, every corner is lined in roses, and in the center, there's them. She's wearing a beautiful wedding gown, a bouquet in one arm—the other wrapped around her new husband—Jonathan Joestar.
Jonathan Joestar is a giant of a man, easily Jotaro's height, but with more bulk. Still, he's far from brutish. He's wearing a sleek suit, and looks...not threatening. Giorno has stared into the rot of humanity, the bloody, the vicious, the violent and he finds none of it reflected in Jonathan's kind face. Instead, he sees a soft, joyful smile, Jonathan's features are defined, but not sharp, and his eyes are all crinkled up and looking slightly teary.
Giorno's stare lingers a moment, before he moves on to the next.
The Joestar Family 1880. There are three people, standing together in front of an old Victorian mansion. In the back, an elderly man, the Lord Joestar, Giorno presumes. In front, and Giorno's true focus: two boys. On the left, a small looking boy, his noble clothes somewhat ruffed, tie a little out of place, face mid-laughter. On the left, a wiry looking boy, hair white with glare, standing straight and almost managing to look fit for his noble clothes, his expression is stiff. Jonathan Joestar and Dio Brando.
And suddenly, all at once, Giorno can neither hear nor breathe. There is blood in his ears, buzzing and rushing and ringing—air catches in his lungs clots in his throat. Those are his fathers, the reason he's here, that any of them are here. And it is so much.
"—Grannie told me about him, Jonathan, she said he was the most charming, kind person she'd ever met," Joseph says, and Giorno immediately snaps himself back.
"Oh," he says, placidly, "...a nice person, then."
Joseph smiles, it looks far-away. "From what I've heard. He was straight laced as could be, prided himself on being a gentleman. Apparently he still cared for Dio, after everything he did. Grannie always told me Jonathan would be absolutely scandalized by everything I did."
"Huh," Giorno says, and wonders what the man would think of him. Jonathan Joestar a gentle giant, gentleman, lover of the underserving. (Because Dio is underserving, he knows that much.) Maybe that kindness would extend to Giorno, too. Or maybe not.
He looks at the photos, a little closer. Jonathan Joestar died young, he thinks. Too young. It is those young deaths that Giorno works so hard to prevent—with blood and knives and underhanded tricks, if it's needed. (And it is.) Giorno's features are sharp, frame small, hands forever bloodied.
And he wonders.
"It's your eyes," says Joseph, eventually.
"What is?"
"They're like Jonathan's...Grannie once described them to me—my eyes are too light. You...your eyes look exactly how Erina described."
Giorno blinks, tries to recall the exact shade of his irises. Almost reaches up to touch his face, doesn't. Briefly ponders if Jonathan would see himself in Giorno. Maybe. Or maybe not.
And he wonders.
"I see," he says, but he doesn't, not really. "There were never any colored portraits, huh."
Joseph chuckles, it isn't cheerful, but it isn't bitter, either. "Nah, once were. But they burned with the rest of the Joestar Mansion."
"Oh," Giorno says, again. Can he really not find anything better to say? "I would've liked to see them." Because yeah, he really would've.
He would've liked to meet Jonathan Joestar. He seems like he would've been easy to read. Giorno would've scanned his expression and come to a conclusion of their standings. There would be no uncertainty, no wondering, no...
Do you think he would've liked me? Hovers on the tip of his tongue, and he viciously bites it back. He would sooner cut off his tongue than ask something so pathetic.
He doesn't need the approval of some century-dead nobleman. He doesn't need that. He doesn't need reassurance, or approval, or the security that provides. He's built his own security. Gold lined halls, goose-feather cushions—he's burned himself down and built something better and entirely new from the ashes; his own security, with his own approval, and he doesn't need anything else.
(Mom?
'Fucking hate you brat.
Haruno never asked again.)
Giorno doesn't ask his question, and Joseph doesn't answer.
It doesn't feel like a victory.
It's fine, really—good, even. It would've been a pathetically needy question to ask, Joseph didn't need to hear it, and Giorno doesn't need an answer. And any want for one is mere curiosity.
They walk back down the hall and separate when they reach the common room. Giorno lingers, just a moment. Looks back. With the lighting turned off, he can't see much past the sparse light shining from the common room. The air is too heavy in this hallway—pressing on his shoulders, clotting in his lungs. History is something almost palpable.
Not his legacy, Giorno reminds himself, and slides the rice paper door shut behind him.
Immediately, he is hit by the noise. Chatter, loud and energetic and warm. A little nerve wracking, but warm. Josuke shuffles himself next to Giorno easily.
"Giorno," he says, but it's heavy with Japanese accent—which would be natural, of course, if that accent had been present in such quantities earlier, "Trish says karaoke."
The blonde looks at Josuke a bit harder, the teen is a bit droopy, a little unsteady, with a slight pink flush on his jawbones. Giorno blinks. Huh. Josuke is...not drunk, bit tipsy, an easy kind of tipsy. The kind that probably means he had just downed a glass or two and the rush is hitting him all at once—it'll wear off in a couple of minutes.
Giorno chuckles a little and raises an eyebrow at the teen. "What happened?"
Josuke catches his meaning instantly, groans a little. "Your friends! You didn't," and he slurs a little into Japanese, "they don't," a pause, "they don't get drunk. It isn't fair!"
"Josuke, they're Italian," he narrows his eyes a little, "you probably only started in high school. It's no wonder you can't hold anything to them."
"Actually," says Josuke, looking a little offended, and a tiny bit more steady, "I tried in eighth grade, thank you very much."
Giorno snorts and it's surprisingly genuine. "Any self-respected Italian drinks by half that." Granted, Giorno didn't really drink by then, but he's an exception.
Josuke giggles a little, then slings his weight onto Giorno's shoulder. There's a little beat where Giorno doesn't register what happened, then he feels the press and the weight and smells the scent of alcohol and promptly freezes over. Muscles to stones, edges harden, stilled, and suddenly he feels too small and too thin and there's someone touching him and—
(And it's Haruno's father and he's saying 'brat' and Haruno's curling into himself.)
—and it's also Josuke.
Josuke, and his breath smells like alcohol, but it's a fragrance like pomegranate and honey. A touch, but it's warm and not pressing and not sharp and Josuke. And Giorno's seen Josuke been weak, and he's felt Josuke's anxieties, and he's...not a threat. His touch is heavy but not suffocating, warm but not burning and Giorno isn't relaxed but he's also not manifesting Gold Experience.
A beat, and Josuke is off of him—wide eyed, a little surprised, a bit guilty. "Crap crap crap," he says, looks at Giorno with some concern, "I didn't mean to do that? You have that personal space thing right? Jotaro told me—I didn't mean—"
Giorno blinks. His shoulder is cold. He kinda...liked that, almost. He doesn't say nonono, you can come back, but he thinks it. Another blink. Josuke's words finally catch up—sinking their claws into whatever else he was thinking, and promptly bleeding those thoughts into oblivion. Because Josuke just said something kind of significant and he has to kick his lungs back into working if he wants to speak at all.
"Jotaro....what exactly did Jotaro say?"
The teen shrugs, makes a vague motion. "That you, y'know? I get it." He pauses. "I haven't got what you've got but I've got stuff." He crinkles his brows a little, gathers his thoughts, smiles reassuringly. "Some of my friends have kinda similar issues."
Issues, Giorno wants to snarl, I don't have issues.
Sure, he doesn't really like too much physical contact but it isn't an issue. He can touch people if he wants. He just doesn't want to, and it'd be weird anyway. It is just a general dislike—he doesn't have some issue. He is over issues, they don't' bog him down, they've been left in the dust. Out with the rot. Giorno Giovanna doesn't have issues and he isn't afraid and he doesn't need pity over a misunderstanding.
(Haruno flinches.)
Instead, he says: "Ah, I see." A pleasant smile, he hopes. "Don't worry, I don't really mind. Jotaro must've misunderstood."
Josuke looks at him for a moment, a long, long moment. Giorno's skin crawls, itchy, clothing too tight, burning into itself. The teen breaks gaze, another beat— "Alright," Josuke says, "that's fine."
And he doesn't bring it up again.
Giorno watches him a moment longer. Almost says: you don't believe me—but there is no point in the statement. It is useless useless useless and Giorno long ago pledged against being such. Josuke trusts Jotaro's observations and—wait—wait, Jotaro's observations.
Somehow, Jotaro had sensed his aversion and that really isn't alright. Because first and foremost, he must be Giorno Giovanna, and it is unacceptable for Giorno to exhibit a weakness. He doesn't have an inability. He doesn't need pity—he can't have it. It would be disastrous if any gang member or politician sensed some kind of vulnerability in him and he just can't.
Instead, Giorno lightly waves goodbye and moves into the thick. Listens, observes, tries to process four different conversations. Then he hears Hamon, and his attention tunnels in. Towards the center-side, by the kotatsu, there is Trish and Lisa Lisa. The elder is sitting down comfortably, face unmoving steel when she says, "No."
Then there is Trish, sitting across the kotatsu with blatant frustration. Her body language practically screams it, all tensed up and hunched over but in a way that communicates less a cornered animal and more a crouching predator. Her hands are clenched, determined. "I can pay."
"No."
Giorno watches with tense interest. He is sure whatever disagreement this is can't be over something stupid—neither of them are fools. Hamon. The sunlight power.
"Then what can I offer?" Trish's lips are tight, skin flushed, fists clenched tight.
Lisa Lisa pauses. Giorno subtly shifts closer. A beat. "Why," starts the woman, low and textured but not aggressive, "should I teach you?" A moment, Trish says nothing, Lisa Lisa continues. "I have no want of money, I can protect myself, I am perfectly content. You are Giorno's family but that's no obligation of mine to offer such teachings."
Ah, so it's about teaching Hamon. Giorno hadn't known Trish would feel so strongly about learning something like that.
Trish is staring, brows furrowed, shoulders tense, and eyes burning. They are emeralds reflecting bright yellow and gold in sunlight, gleaming; intent. "You don't," Trish concedes. "I know it's a selfish desire, but I need it for more than just some anti-aging glamour—I need a larger skill set."
Lisa Lisa doesn't really change but she quirks a small smile and says, "Oh?"
Trish poises herself, panther in preparation. She is large, purposeful, eyes burning, and Giorno admires Trish so much sometimes. Like this, she is something to see—the plane to Sardinia, the coliseum, she radiates some kind of blinding vibrancy and Giorno sometimes looks at that and is blinded. It is so purposeful and fearless and strong, and sometimes Giorno looks at that and sees what he needs to fully and completely embody.
"Yeah," says Trish, grin quirking her lips, "I'm fucking terrified."
Giorno pauses at this, blinks, and tries to gather his thoughts.
"Hm," says Lisa Lisa, looking vaguely intrigued. There's a beat, but she doesn't say no.
Trish unclenches her fist, re-clenches, and back again—forced relaxation. "It's officially a secret but it isn't terribly hard, with a little digging, to uncover my Passione ties, and it's going to happen eventually." She pauses a moment. "Especially with me being a star debut singer, people will dig, and when it happens I won't be ready. My stand is flexible and powerful but it just isn't applicable for combat in the way many gang stands are." Something twists in her expression. "It's terrifying. I need something like Hamon."
Vaguely, Giorno wants to protest that he would protect her, but he can hardly hear those thoughts over the storm of Trish and, afraid. Because it just doesn't suit her, fear used to cling to her, before she met Diavolo, he had seen it in her defensive gestures and hunched back. But that had...disappeared. She had cast it off on the plane to Sardinia, emerged from it like spring from winter.
"There's more," Lisa Lisa states, "you aren't going to offer half your reasons, are you?"
Trish laughs easily. "Ah. Should've known I couldn't fool the century old—scusi—sunlight superpower user." But her expression isn't tense, and she isn't defensive. "Yeah, there's more, I wasn't really trying to hide it but," she side-eyes Giorno, "well. Didn't want bomb it on them," she jerks a figure at Giorno, and Mista watching a little dumbly from the couch, "but." She shrugs. "I'm like, really insecure—with them, since we're from totally different worlds, and still are and..."
The pinkette trails off. Giorno's mind reels, something like shock and something like guilt and something like I should've noticed. But also. Trish—insecure, even though he'd seen her cast that out—
"...I suppose Hamon seems like a cushion, or a bridge, something that would bring me to a level that I could doubtlessly stand beside them. Or something."
"Trish..." says Lisa Lisa, stern and old and wise, but also so terribly gentle, "power isn't a solution for that."
The girl laughs a little, waves her hand. "Don't worry don't worry, I know that, at least. Doesn't mean I don't feel it though." She grins. "Don't worry, soon as my positions a little more stable I'm jumping on those therapists."
Lisa Lisa hums. "So..." and it still isn't no.
Trish grins, but when Giorno looks at little closer, it's a nervous, jittery grin. "So...will you teach me Hamon? Because I'm terrified and want to stand out of the mafia's shadow, and am yeah a little insecure?"
Giorno looks blankly at the pair, and feels cockroaches beneath his skin. Because Trish is terrified which is wrong—(normally it wouldn't bother him so much, but he saw what he needs to be in Trish, and he admired that, and he wanted to be that. She can't...) And Trish is asking such a blatant and open and vulnerable question and Giorno hears that and it sounds like his question in the hallway. Which he didn't ask. Which still, and now more than ever, feels like a defeat. And he still doesn't know why—
(Jonathan is a founder and the starter of this legacy, and Haruno's so achingly used to rejection.)
—he should celebrate it, he had maintained Giorno Giovanna. Kept up his expressions, not asked something so stupid.
"Alright," says Lisa Lisa, "but I do have a price." A moment, but only a moment, the woman doesn't drag it further. "...You said you were a rising star, right?" She smiles warmly. "I do love music."
Trish's expression is broken by a grin that splits her face and brightens her eyes, pure and undiluted delight. "Oh hell yeah—" she raises her voice a bit, demands the attention of the whole room, "hey guys, free concert! Requests?"
"Pretty Woman!" Mista says hardly a beat later.
Trish makes a face. "Every time—alright, choice song from its soundtrack as third song—something else?"
"Queen?" Lisa Lisa suggests, slight smile.
Trish grins, "Your concert." And immediately starts herself on a note-warmup. Somehow, she is smiling the whole time.
Her expression is so happily genuine that it kind of hurts to see. Like looking at the sun. Giorno's face itches.
Trish's voice begins to roll over the room, deep and steady. Like the ocean, or liquid gold. Quietly, Giorno slinks towards the door to the engawa, slides the door open just a crack, and slips out into the night. It is loud outside, the air is humming with wind and scalding with rain. Still, when he leans against the thin wood and focuses behind him, he can still hear her voice. She's starting on Don't stop me now.
It is, perhaps, too much noise. The air hums with movement, too much, like a cup on the brink of spilling over. Or maybe that's him. Because his thoughts just won't stop. They brim and broil and bubble with apprehension. Because inside there's Josuke who looks just ask awkwardly placed as Giorno feels, and there's Shizuka and Jolyne who had both been crying this evening, and there's Trish who...
They are so open and so vulnerable and so weak.
(Haruno is cowering, again, because everything he is makes him weak.)
Except Trish isn't weak. He knows she isn't. There is something so intrinsically wrong with the notion that it's impossible to write off or brush aside. She isn't, and that is a fact. That he can be sure of. More so than with Jolyne or Shizuka or Josuke, he knows Trish. And Trish isn't weak. He thinks.
Because the fact still stands, Trish is insecure and terrified and weak—but she isn't. But Haruno was. Haruno Shiobana was insecure and terrified, dependent and weak, and Haruno was miserable. Giorno decided he would be none of that. He would take every aspect that made Haruno and become its inverse.
Giorno Giovanna would be steady and brave, independent and strong.
The wind howls, rain blows onto the engawa, begins soaking into his shoes, pelts his hair. He chews the inside of his cheek, shifts a little. Like a parasite, a memory crawls. Joseph saying Josuke is brave, that fear is the definition of bravery and it doesn't make sense. Giorno hates not understanding things.
Giorno shouldn't worry in the first place, shouldn't be obsessing over something like this. Giorno Giovanna is the embodiment of strength, he functions independently, he wears dreams like clothes, he functions as a pillar and statue. He is steady, unshakable, fear-less, and brave.
Giorno Giovanna cannot be anxious, hesitant, afraid, weak.
He nearly fiddles with the hem of his clothes, doesn't. Blinks a little. Focuses on Trish's voice, bleeding through the thin walls, it's deep and steady, thrumming against the back of his skull. Chews the inside of his cheek, molars grinding against the lines of scar tissue.
(Haruno chews his nails.)
So, Giorno isn't afraid and isn't nervous and isn't anxious, he can't be. He feels like he's drowning, lungs malfunctioning, the air is too thick, too humid, he can't breathe—and it's so stupid, because there isn't even a threat. No gun, no Diavolo, no—so why is he so—
(Haruno curls up and drowns in his own fears.)
—but he isn't. He said he wouldn't. Said he can't, not anymore, Giorno is past that.
He closes his eyes, opens them. His eyelashes are wet with rain. The sky is churning with dark blues and swirling blacks, the moon is full and half-behind the clouds. The wind is too loud in his ears. He straightens a little. Chews his cheek. Leans back, just a bit. Trish's voice seeps through the thin wood, deep and steady.
"Tonight I'm gonna have myself a real good time,"
Giorno is concerned, a little uneasy, measuring possibilities—consequences, drawing scenarios and weighing them. He has that. He thinks. He can't be anything else, perhaps...before. Before he was Don Passione, maybe he could curl into himself and allow a little worry but that had been alright because he hadn't completely been Giorno Giovanna yet. He was an awkward in-between. Taking measured actions, but not significant ones, working towards his dream, but slowly. Yes, he had been Giorno, but...
He had needed—still does—to be Giorno, for himself, and for others, but also because Haruno means misery. But then...
(When he is fifteen, his hair turns gold, and he grasps the abilities to finally begin his way up the ladder of crime. Flowers curl open and bloom beneath his fingertips. Power shines gold and metallic behind him; wraps its arms around his shoulders. He offers an opportunity, and Buccellati takes it. He kills Diavolo. He makes his first actions as Don Passione.
Giorno Giovanna crystallizes. Solid, gold, and palpable. He takes his dream, holds it, and lets it burn him away into something better. He is reborn. Haruno Shiobana is out with April. Spring cleaning; his responsibility—it lays thick like too much silk on his shoulders. A little heavy, but that is expected.)
See, he must be Giorno now, it is expected of him, it is a responsibility he chose. If he starts to falter here—which he won't and can't, because he is Giorno now—then his gold-silk web will come shattering down around him. Like Illuso's mirror world, if it could break.
Before, he was a bud, now Giorno is the bloom. Before, he was gold, now Giorno is ingot. He cannot be afraid or anxious, cannot be weak—
(Haruno trembles.)
—but Trish isn't weak.
The wind is too loud, shrieking in his ears, pelting rain, sky swirling. It must be the beginnings of some ridiculously huge storm. Japan isn't unfamiliar with storms, but this must be one of the biggest in years. Churning, twisting, inky and black—his fingers are numbing. Cold. He chews on his cheek. Focuses on Trish's voice seeping through the thin wood—deep and steady.
"I feel alive, and the world—I'll turn it inside out yeah,"
Trish isn't two people—that was Trish, saying she was afraid. Giorno knows her. That was Trish, just as much as everything else is Trish. She is strong, but afraid, and they're both the same girl that he saw on the plane to Sardinia. Who stood up to Diavolo in Rome, who took the mafia in...maybe not stride, but she didn't break under the strain. She stretched,and gave, and bounced back. And now she's rebounding again, she's deciding to learn Hamon.
...And that's the thing isn't it? This happened back in Italy, too. Pushed into a corner, shoved against a wall, and she bounced back. Before Spice Girl, threw them through the sky, she had crawled into a corner—she's always been afraid. She was anxious when she stepped onto San Giorgio Maggiore, she was afraid when she walked on Sardinia, she was terrified when she stood in Rome.
She continued the crusade anyway. Went along just like everyone else—everyone but Fugo.
Something shifts. Rumbles in the sky, brief flashes of white against the dark, and Giorno tastes iron. Clenches his half-numb hand, unclenches it. Listens to Trish's voice seeping through the wood—deep and steady.
"And floating around in ecstasy,"
Trish's fear propelled her; she turned it into a trampoline. Fugo's fear held him; he was bound by it.
Then, with all the clunking precision of clockwork, gears turn in Giorno's head. It's slow, at first, with the memory of how he hadn't asked that fucking question. And then how he hadn't asked his other questions, and how he never truly stepped into this house of his own full willing. That had been Trish, had been Holly. He has...is... Then, his memories cascade into a flood; crashing, thrashing, and unstoppable.
A clink, a chink, the twist of a gear. And, he realizes, with just a hint of horror, that he has been lorded by his fear.
(Uselessuselsssuseless he is useless—)
Which has been exactly what he's been trying to avoid, for so long. Before, it had been obvious; Haruno had dwelled in it and nearly drowned in the misery of it all. Now...well, there is a reason that Giorno has ripped the cover off Italy's rot. Rot underneath the rug is still rot. Swept beneath the carpet it festers.
So, he's been weak and simply been ignoring it. Which is unacceptable. He hasn't been taking action and he hasn't been asking his questions and he's been fucking cowering and—he—Giorno can't—what would they—and all of a sudden, he can't breathe.
(Haruno slinks away from confrontation and bows his head and cowers.)
He is so fucking afraid. And he didn't even know it—he can't eradicate a problem that he refuses to even acknowledge.
Air catches in his lungs, thick, stifling, and heavy. Too humid. There isn't enough to breathe. He can't breathe—he goes, abruptly, stock-still. Closes his eyes, opens them. Takes a deep, ragged breath.
Trish and Mista have never said fear is bad, he thinks. And, like an creeping ivory, Joseph's words crawl up through his mind.
That fear is bravery and anxiety is strength and....it is his dream to be strong.
Rain soaks through Giorno's pants, seeps into his socks, soggy. His hand is cold and shaky. When he cuts red crescents into his palm, he can hardly feel it over the cold and the numb. He unclenches his fists. Takes a long, shaky breath. Listens to Trish's voice seeping through the wood—deep and steady.
"So don't stop me now, don't stop me,"
Trish, he reminds himself, is not two people. She is strong and afraid and has never criticized herself for it. He pauses a moment, blinks. Oh.
Back on the plane to Sardinia, he has always thought of it as Trish having cast off her fear, her weakness. Like a monarch from a cocoon. Strong, powerful, and entirely new. But that's not entirely true, is it? She hadn't so much...burned away her fear, as bounced off it. A trampoline, right.
Fear, Giorno thinks, is not terrible in on itself.
If it rules...if it governs...then...yeah. Bad. But that isn't what Trish has done, that isn't what Josuke has done. Because right, Josuke too. Josuke is also...the same with Jolyne and Shizuka. They had all...built on it, like a foundation. He thinks.
He...has a dream.
(Haruno Shiobana will burn, and from the ashes would emerge Giorno Giovanna; strong, happy, and entirely new. There would be a small period between Haruno and Giorno, a bud, of sorts. Where he would build his plans and build his dream and make the scaffolding for his security. Giorno would be the bloom.)
But that's the thing isn't it? It is impossible. Giorno Giovanna, he realizes, is a wish. Not a dream.
If Giorno is the bloom, than fear, he thinks, must be the leaves, or the roots; a system of support.
Giorno, to be strong, to be complete, to be right—needs those weaknesses. He thinks. Giorno cannot be without Haruno.
(Giorno leads, Haruno supports. It can be co-dependency.)
But perhaps that isn't quite right, either. Because it's not that Giorno cannot be without Haruno, it's that Giorno cannot be without himself. Isn't that right?
No, he wants to scream, no, you said you wouldn't. No, you said never again. You know it's miserable like that; you don't want to be that misery. You don't, you know you don't.
But Giorno is a realist.
Objectively, misery is just an emotion. In his case, it was caused by the fear and stress and neglect of his childhood. And then...
He hesitates a little. Chews his cheek. Tastes the blood. This wouldn't be his first time doing a psychological analysis. He does it all the time. Even more so since taking the crown of Don Passione—he had snatched up a book on psychological trauma the instant Mista started having mental breakdowns. He has never put himself under such scrutiny.
But Giorno hates not understanding things.
And so...He supposes that he associated most everything from his childhood with that bone-deep misery. His name, hair, Japanese blood, situation—his every emotion.
And he isn't entirely selfish, but he isn't selfless, either. He never wanted and never wants that misery again.
Giorno blinks, shifts, feels ice on his skin. Tastes blood on his tongue. Hear the wind, too loud, too much. Curls his fists, uncurls them. Leans back a little. Hears Trish's voice seeping through the wind. Falls into it—deep and steady.
"'cause I'm having a good time,"
Alright, he thinks, taking a deep breath, okay. He can deal with that. He can figure that out. Yeah. Okay he's got some psychological issues. Maybe. That's...something.
Giorno bites down on the flesh of his cheek, hard. The blood is nauseatingly thick with iron. He clenches his fists, unclenches them. Fingers hurt from the cold. A little numb. He's shivering. The wind whips too loud and it's too humid and the rain is ice on his skin. Trish's voice seeps through the wall, deep and steady.
He stays there a bit.
Eventually, her voice fades to nothing, and there's a round of clapping. A chatter of compliments cascades like butterfly clouds and Giorno can practically touch the sincerity in holly's voice when she says it was beautiful. And all of a sudden, like a kick to his lungs, like someone trying to claw through his chest from the inside out—Giorno wants so much and so deeply to be there.
Not here, with the cold and the rain and the wind—in there, with the warmth and the food and the people—
Giorno straightens a bit.
So he turns around and faces the door and pulls on a face. Because Giorno doesn't think he can take anything less than a mask right now. He's too brittle and too frail and it's terrible but it's also how he feels. And he'll accept that, even if it's a bitter pill. He'll be honest to himself, if no one else. He needs to mask, at least right now, he thinks.
Giorno goes back in with a blank face because he doesn't know anything else. And he will be vulnerable for himself, but no one else.
The common room is warm. Loud, rowdy, and Giorno can't decide if he loves it or hates it but it's something. After a small moment, Mista jostles himself over, weird kind of look, watching. Giorno feels his skin crawl—already rubbed and raw and he isn't sure if he can really handle scrutiny tonight.
"Hey Giorno..."Mista finally says, "You alright?"
The blonde raises an eyebrow. "Of course. Why do you ask?"
The man shrugs. "'Been out for a bit...Jesus you're soaked."
Giorno laughs lightly. "Yes, Fugo said there'd be a storm...I don't think he thought it'd be like that though."
Mista pauses a moment, strange kind of expression. The face shakes in a moment, though, and Mista gives him a grin. "Well," he shrugs, "what can ya do? Nothin 'bout that but anyway we gotta have your take on something..."
It kind of amazes Giorno how Mista seems to be able to just...put things aside like that, not ignore them, not pretend they don't exist... Just put them away and take them out again later, at a better time.
"Hmm," he hums, "with what?"
Mista grins, large and prideful. "I'm tryna tell'em," and he points to Josuke and Polnareff by the table. "That my," and he makes a loose gesture to his hat, "my hair is best."
Giorno blinks.
"I..." he looks at Mista a moment longer, "what?"
"They said it didn't even count," whines Mista. And seriously, what?
"You..." And Giorno proceeds, very, very carefully. "Are saying that your...hat, is the best hair."
Mista smiles brightly. "See, 'knew you'd get it!"
"Uh," says Giorno, and he thinks of saying what, but decides on: "What language is this."
"Italian," Mista easily replies, and then jerks his head towards the coffee table and proudly proclaims, "See guys! Giorno agrees!"
Giorno coughs a little. Josuke fucking chokes.
"He did not."
"Nono," Mista says, gesturing to Giorno, "he gets it, like, my hat's basically my hair so it counts."
"What," says Giorno, at the same time that Polnareff says, "No."
There's a moment, and they look at each other, and...It feels nice. And comfortable. Light a warm bath. But it's also novel and new and different. It makes him nervous, he thinks, in a way, but it's also thrilling. And it could be the warmth or the thrill or the clench in his chest but Giorno ends up quirking a small, cat-that-ate-the-canary smile, and saying: "If we are discussing hair rankings, surely we'd agree mine rules the competition?"
He thinks Mista is going to protest, and Josuke is definitely going to argue, but then, from the armchair, Jotaro leans up.
"You know," says Jotaro, face perfectly straight, "I have hair and hat, as a unit."
"No," says Polnareff, "You can't do that."
"Yes," measures Jotaro, "I can."
Really, Giorno doesn't know what it is but there's something about that Jotaro in that voice talking about that subject, that makes something click and loosen and swing out of lock. Because Giorno isn't sure exactly when it happens but all of a sudden he registers that his shoulders are shaking and his stomach is beginning to hurt and there's this terribly loud kind of laugh spilling out of him.
"A unit," he echoes, as soon as he can speak again.
Jotaro nods, very seriously, "They come as one."
"Okay," Giorno agrees, "alright."
Polnareff glares, it has no bite. "I hate you all."
"You know," Josuke says, "I think I second that."
Giorno, in that moment, feels that he could really just melt onto the ground. In a—good way. Like a piece of chocolate. Because it is so warm and so comfortable and it feels like, after everything, he's being held together by this and only this.
And then his phone rings.
It beeps insistently in his pocket. There are not many people who have his number. His inner circle only. In Italy.
Far away, in Italy. It is a dawning horror in the back of his throat, and a rising nausea, and Giorno thinks that shit, there might be trouble back in his country while he's all the way in Japan for personal matters.
But it rings and rings and problems don't go away by ignoring them.
Very, very carefully, Giorno picks the cell from his pocket. Mista starts to say something, the blonde silences it with a look. He raises a finger to his lips. Outside is far too loud, so Giorno settles on the corner of the room. When he leans up against the wall—storm rumbling behind it—he has the attention of all the room. It is terribly quiet when he hits to receive the call.
The line picks up with static, a few bits of broken sounds, and then, "Boss?"
"I can hear you," Giorno answers, sounding much more calm than he feels.
"Oh thank—"more static, a few curses, "I'm sorry I—I didn't want to have to call you. I know you're..."
"Fugo," Giorno cuts, very sharply, "what's happening?" Or happened, Giorno doesn't really want to think about that.
Fugo sighs. "Politicia switched her alliances." Stress is obvious and straining in Fugo's tone. It's immeasurably frustrating that Giorno can't read anything more than that through the chips of thick static.
Giorno grits his teeth, chews on his cheek. "And then...?"
Politicians switch alliances all the time. Yes, they have sunk a stupid high amount of money into ensuring Politicia, but normally it wouldn't be nearly enough of an issue to alert the Don of, especially at a time like this.
"Ah..." An audible sigh, a break of static. The connection is worse than a normal international call. Because of the storm, probably. "You remember that branch of Passione that broke off a few months ago?" Fugo pauses. "They've joined together...they're..."
A pause, a large break of static, the sound of rain taptaptapping on the roof.
"Yes?" Very, very slowly.
For a moment, there's static, and then, "They..." Fugo pauses beat, "They kind of captured Venice."
There is a beat of silence. Rain taptaptapping on the roof, wind howling outside, static on the storm-torn connection. A silent room. The rush of blood behind his ears, the throb of a headache pressing against his skull. For a moment, he cannot think. And then, "What?"
"I know," Fugo starts, words blurring into each other, tone strained, "I know—I thought too, the Venice team was fucking useless. They aren't very combat oriented they tried their best but Venice is well—they, a lot of their strength came from connections in Rome and you know what happened with Rome and all and well—the traitors had a Stand with water. It was high tide and flooding and there wasn't...still isn't anywhere without water. Going is suicide, they—"
"Fugo," cuts Giorno, voice sharp, and the room is very, very quiet, "What are their demands?"
Across the line there's a long, shaky breath. "Your presence, they want a meeting with you. 'Said they nothing but this worked so now you have to meet them. They want in-person by tomorrow afternoon."
Giorno takes a moment to—think. Or feel, maybe. Because there's a beat and a hit and suddenly it occurs to Giorno that this feels wrong. Not because this situation is entirely new or unprecedented because he's been dealing with gang matters for the last however-long. But. It feels wrong now. It feels wrong because he isn't in Italy and he hasn't been the Don tonight and there is just something so...
It feels wrong because he is in Japan in Holly's home with warmth in his fingertips and he hasn't been the Don since he left Italy nearly a day ago. It is wrong because there's cold dread festering in his blood and gang issues cutting through his thoughts and there is a time for that and place for that but it doesn't feel like here and it doesn't feel like now.
He feels the Joestars' stares on his skin—it is a burn and a balm.
There is cold in his veins and something terribly heavy sinking in his chest. Disappointment, he thinks. Giorno takes a deep, deep breath, "Alright. I'll...leave in few hours then."
There's a beat of silence—and then more, and in that stretch of time Giorno feels unease bloom in his veins like poison ivy. Creeping, crawling, and needy.
"Ah," Fugo says, eventually, and there's a moment of static. "About that."
"...Yes?"
The storm-torn line breaks moment. "Ah, um, well." Fugo pauses. "The storm will make take-off impossible in...probably about an hour. No flight possible until morning."
From Japan to Italy is seventeen hours.
"Ah," says Giorno, "I see."
But he doesn't, not really. Because the words are just barely sinking in. An hour. No leaving after everyone's asleep and breaking off with quiet goodbyes. No tucking Jolyne and Shizuka to sleep. No finishing dessert. No game of Go Fish. Nothing. All of this—gone. Because to takeoff within an hour he needs to leave in maybe ten minutes. There will be time to hastily scoop up their stuff and hurry themselves out of the house.
Giorno glances up.
They are all there—Jotaro and Holly and Joseph and Josuke—and—they are looking at him. It burns on his skin—it's a balm. There is Lisa Lisa at the kotatsu, he remembers the warmth in his veins and the feeling in his chest and the sensation that he could melt at any moment.
He clears his throat, 'let's go' hovers on his tongue.
But there's Jolyne, staring at him, frame tense, looking worried. And there's Shizuka, big brown eyes. And Josuke. And—and everyone. There's something very, very delicate in the air, in the moment—in the taptaptap of rain on the roof, and the storm rumbling outside. There is something very breakable in this. Something here and now.
There is an opportunity here, Giorno realizes, with something akin to wonder. There is an opportunity here, burning, glaring, and bright. A seed—and it would be so terribly easy not to nurture it. It would be easy, to slink back to Italy and leave this behind. It would be routine. He has responsibility elsewhere.
He thinks about Lisa Lisa saying he doesn't have a grandmother yet, of Josuke and that feeling of I understand, of Jolyne and her sobbing because Jotaro is never there. And he isn't family yet but he could be.
There is an opportunity here; a seed that Giorno can grow. And Giorno doesn't know if he wants to grow that seed, but he knows that he doesn't—doesn't not want to.
Giorno looks at them all close and warm and the thought of leaving now is a kick in the teeth and a stab in the gut. It is cutting off his fingers and breaking his ribs. It is dread in his blood and ice in his chest.
"Alright," Giorno says, tongue thick, throat dry, "tell them," and he closes his eyes, "that the Don will see them the day after tomorrow, and that every civilian harmed is a broken bone, and every scratch to a cultural landmark is a torn-out tooth."
There's a beat of silence and a break of static and, "Oh," it sounds a little lost, "you aren't—you're trusting me with—alright." A beat, and Fugo is a little louder this time, with a bit more of a foundation to his voice, a little stronger, "I will. We'll handle it. I'll make sure to inform them all of your trust. I...won't let you down."
Giorno smiles faintly. "Thank you, Fugo." And hangs up.
Jolyne is there the instant he snaps his cell closed and slips it back into his pocket. The girl runs up to him with a tight, worried face. She looks at him for a moment, eyes shiny, like sea glass.
Then, something breaks, and in loud, garbled English, "Shizuka said you were say'in 'bout going! You aren't gonna go, right? Please?"
Giorno blinks. Pauses a moment. "Oh..." he says, and feels kind of breathless. Because Jolyne's so worried and so sad about him leaving. They aren't—they don't, they aren't family and yeah they've talked a little so it'd make sense for Jolyne to like him. Be a little attached. But Jolyne looks like she's going to cry at the prospect of him leaving. And somehow he just hadn't...hadn't expected that.
"You aren't, right? Right?"
Giorno leans down, almost hugs her but doesn't. "Of course not Jolyne. Not tonight."
"Really?" But she's already looking better.
The blonde nods. "Really."
"Oh," Jolyne says, "thank fucking god."
"Hey," says Josuke, coming up from behind her, "Jotaro said not to say that."
Jolyne puffs a little, sticks out her tongue. "Well that fucker says it all the goddamn time so I don't give a shit."
Giorno blinks a little. That is...something.
"Ugh," Josuke groans. It sounds resigned. "Go tell your Dad that."
"Oh I will," Jolyne giggles with suspicious delight, "And I'll tell him you said to say it!"
"Wai—" but Jolyne's already off. Josuke sighs, rubs his temple. There's nothing bitter in the movement. It's...a little exasperated, maybe, and a bit amused, Giorno thinks.
Giorno chuckles lightly. Mostly because Josuke's obviously here to talk to him, and he wants to get on with it. But also because he's a little amused, maybe.
"Ah," says Josuke, "right." The teen is looking at him, a little concerned.
The blonde hums. "Yes?"
"Just...I couldn't really hear everything but that seemed kinda serious..." Josuke trials off, looking a bit lost. A little embarrassed. "Is everything alright?"
"Hmm," Giorno hums a bit. How should he phrase this? Actually, he isn't sure if he should touch on the subject at all. He could just dodge the question entirely. It would be easy. But Josuke is there, sincere, and honest, and Giorno can't actually think of a reason to hide it. "Domestic issues. Venice has been captured by broken-off Passione unit."
Josuke blinks.
"Uh," he says, "isn't that kind of serious?"
Giorno nods sagely. "Very much."
"Has been....like...it still is," Josuke says, very slowly. "The situation isn't resolved."
"Not in the slightest," the blonde confirms.
"Oh," and the teen looks kind of faint, "Do you need to be there?"
"Well," says Giorno, and pauses. Has to bite back a stab of guilt because yes, he should be. "I've...given the situation tone of my inner circle, for now."
Josuke nods, looking relieved. "Must be...a lot huh. I'm glad."
Giorno blinks. "Glad?"
"Oh! Um," and Josuke looks kind of embarrassed again. "That you have someone that can help you with all that, I mean. Y'know? Seems kind impossible to manage alone."
No, Giorno wants to says, no, I've been doing fine. But doesn't.
"Fugo is capable," the blonde eventually says.
And yes, Fugo is capable, but that's still a whole lot of responsibility to give someone who isn't himself. He is worried about it; he does feel bad about it. But.
But Josuke is smiling lopsidedly, and saying something that registers vaguely as 'I'm glad you could stay,' and Jolyne isn't crying, neither is Shizuka. Holly's still smiling, and Trish and Mista have gone back to fooling around. Jotaro is looking relaxed, conversing quietly with Joseph and Suzie.
Giorno feels warmth in his fingertips, and feathers in his chest, and he can't quite bring himself to regret his decision.
There's something here, he knows it. An opportunity, a door, a seed, and Giorno doesn't know if he wants to grow that seed but—
—but that isn't quite true, is it?
He's lying again.
If he hadn't wanted to nurture that seed then he wouldn't be here, here'd be outside in the wind and the rain, rushing to reach Italy. He does want to grow it. He wants to place it carefully into a pot of soil, water it, and watch it grow into a rosebush. He wants to hold its petals in his hands and drink in the fragrance, he wants this. He wants the warmth in his fingertips and the feathers in his chest, he wants this.
He's—afraid, again, he thinks. Of the possibility that he tries to nurture it and it withers in his hands. Of the chance that he lets it grow and it forms itself into thorny brambles. That he'll try to touch it and will bleed in consequence.
"Giorno?" He jolts. Josuke is looking at him, concerned, waving a hand in front of his face. There's such genuine emotion on the teen's face that it's kind of hard to look at. Because it's for him.
"Ah," he says, "nothing."
Josuke blinks. "You...sure?"
Giorno looks around the room and it's all so genuine. Sincere. No smoke-and-mirrors. Something warm and orange and glowing; an opportunity, a door, a seed. And yes it could become a thorn bush but it could also not. And he wants this so, so badly.
"No," says Giorno, before he can think better, and before he can bite off his goddamn tongue, "not at all. Can I, can you, help me for a moment?"
Josuke immediately flares in alarm. Giorno can't really blame him. That was really, really out-of-character. The teen nods. "Yeah!" there's a kind of awkward beat. "With what? Anything."
"Uh," says Giorno, because he really hadn't meant to say that. "With getting everyone's attention, if you don't mind?"
By that he kind of means, be here and, hold my hand. But it's not like he can just say that. It's kind of embarrassing to watch Josuke call up everyone's attention. Giorno could do that. He's an expert at commanding attention. It's part of his job description.
Josuke does it anyway. Maybe it's a relief, to have less things to do. Maybe.
It takes a minute but eventually he has their attention. Eyes from the chairs and the couches and the floor and Giorno knows what he's going to say, mostly. He's used to making speeches but not—not like this, with them, about this.
"I have a request," he finally says, and it's a small relief that his voice only trembles a little.
Holly nods in unconditional understanding. "Anything."
Anything.
Can he really...?
There's a moment where air catches in his lungs and words hitch in his throat. "It's...a lot," Giorno finally says, carefully as he can manage.
Jotaro shrugs from his armchair. Which is the closest thing to 'whatever, ask anyway, can't be that bad,' that'll come from the man.
"...It's selfish," Giorno tries, again.
Jolyne just looks at him. "Welcome to the world."
"...You're going to regret this," he finally says.
"Kid," says Lisa Lisa, from the kotatsu, "say it."
Giorno wants to say 'I'm not a kid, don't call me that' wants to say 'you don't understand' wants to say anything but what he needs to say. But he knows a diversion when he sees it and he—he doesn't want to say it, but he's also never wanted to say anything more in his life. There's electricity beneath his skin, wasps in his veins, and he wants very distinctly to bite off his tongue.
"Alright," he says, but it's quiet and more to himself than anyone else. He looks at them all and it's like looking at the stars. Bright, brilliant, warm, and outside his reach. He molds his face into gold and irons his edges and says, with all the confidence he doesn't feel, "Let me take everything."
There's a little bit of tension in Jotaro's frame, something hard and sharp. The air is too thick, too warm. There's an opportunity here, a door, a seed. And Giorno's so afraid that it'll wither between his fingers, bloom into brambles, but he's even more afraid that it'll slip through his fingers.
Giorno bows, just a little—places his fingers over his breast. Lifts his eyes. "Let me take your home, and take your warmth. Let me claim the security here as my own, give me truths and sincerities and let me take everything."
Breath hitches in his lungs, and it takes all his effort not to break eye contact. Not to start trembling on the spot. There's something terribly heavy in his stomach and it feels like it's trying to rip him apart. His skin is static and his veins are electricity. He wants to bite off his tongue, doesn't.
"And," he says, and there's a terrible lump in his throat, "don't expect the same from me. Expect me to try—to try to match your giving and your light and your sincerity, but not succeed Don't expect me to—" and his voice falters terribly, "to give back, in the same way." He pauses, and the confession comes out terribly quiet. "I can't. Not yet."
There's agitation running knives through Giorno's skin, pressure curving around his head and gravity pressing him down, anxiety bubbling in his veins. Tension runs tight-strung strings through the air.
A beat of silence. Giorno doesn't break eye contact, but he also doesn't read their expressions.
Then—with the effect of broken glass or scissors through string— "Good grief," Jotaro says, and adjusts his hat, "you already have that, kid."
Giorno blinks. Something clicks, slides into place. His legs are numb, shaky, and they crumble beneath him. There's warmth in his fingertips and feathers in his chest and he tries to maintain eye contact, he does, but he can't. There are blobs of orange and yellow and stars behind the blur. He can't—can't see. Giorno shakily touches a finger to his eyes. It comes away wet.
Giorno blinks but the world is still blurry.
Oh, he thinks, and with something akin to awe, realizes that his first tears in over a decade are happy ones.
Giorno never wanted to cry again, never thought he could, never even touched the possibility that he could because of something like this. The room is a blur, blobs of orange and yellow. But there's warmth in his fingertips and feathers in his chest and he wants more.
"Lisa Lisa," and his voice comes out a little watery, "it's a little soon, but does your offer still stand?"
He hadn't taken it outside, he hadn't known how, hadn't known if it was alright, and hadn't wanted to accept that he might've wanted it. Hugs had been unacceptable to him.
Lisa Lisa's blob shifts, he wonders of she's smiling. "Never too early," she says, and then she's in front of him, and offering a hand. And he's taking it, and she's pulling him into her chest and there are bands of warmth wrapped around his back and Lisa Lisa is shouldering most of his weight.
It's kind of weird, in a warm, fuzzy way. He hasn't had a hug in—in—ever, actually. He's given a few, to Mista, after Diavolo. But those were—were one way. Not like this. Very, very hesitantly, Giorno wraps his arms around Lisa Lisa. Feels warmth beneath his fingertips, and, before he knows it, he's clinging to it.
"Thank you," Giorno manages, kind of breathless. "You," he turns his head to the side, facing all of them; "you didn't have to."
"Honey," says Holly, voice terribly full of affection, "you deserve it."
Giorno doesn't really have a response for that, so he doesn't try. Just closes his eyes, relishes in the warmth in his fingertips and the feathers in his chest. At some point someone claps so Giorno lifts his head again. Joseph is grinning wide, a proud, jolly expression.
"It looks," and the elder's voice is light, "like it's about time for photos."
Holly returns to expression with even more sunshine. "Aaa! How could I have forgotten? Jotaro, honey, can you get the camera from storage?" She waves her hands a little. "I'll set everything in order."
Jotaro nods, rising from his armchair. Looks ready to leave, pauses a moment. "Jolyne," the man says, very slowly, "do you know how to work a tripod?"
Jolyne tilts her head a little, looking suspicious. "What's that?"
"Camera," answers Jotaro, "I'm getting it, from upstairs."
And he doesn't say 'come with me,' but he also doesn't leave until Jolyne's bounced her way to his side. Giorno remembers, vaguely, that a few hours ago he couldn't read Jotaro at all. It isn't easy, now, but it's easier.
Eventually, Giorno breaks away, faces Holly. "Can I help? With setting up, I mean."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
She smiles at him, hums a little. "Just clear the area a little, bits of trash and food."
It feels startlingly natural. He and Josuke go about clearing things up, Holly and Lisa Lisa move around the furniture, clearing an entire wall. Jotaro and Jolyne eventually scamper back hauling a large box. Giorno waits, leaning on the wall, as they set up the camera.
Beside him, Josuke shifts. "They weren't like this before, y'know."
Giorno hums a little. "Jolyne and Jotaro?"
"Yeah."
"That's good," Giorno absently replies, before freezing because wow did that come out wrong. "Wait—not, I didn't—I mean it's good they're better now."
Josuke laughs, it's a full sound. "I know bro don't worry I—wow." And Josuke's looking at him, strange kind of expression.
Self-consciousness faintly creeps into Giorno's cheeks. "What?"
"Um," Josuke says, looking startled. "Nothing, just. You stumbled your words—it was a bit unexpected I guess."
Giorno nods sympathetically. "Yes, I'll do better."
Josuke groans. "Not like that. I do that all the time, more, all my friends do."
Now it's Giorno giving him a strange look. "Are we friends?"
The teen blinks. "I think so. Unless you uh, don't wanna be?"
"Um," Giorno pauses, blinks, feels something curl and bloom in his chest, "no. We are friends. Thank you."
"Uh," says Josuke, looking away, "don't thank me."
The blonde tilts his head, just a bit. "Why? You're doing me a favor."
"A...favor," Josuke echoes, voice sounding strange.
"Yes."
Josuke looks like he's going to say something, and he almost does, but then a little head a green hair bounces her way between them. "C'mon guys!" Jolyne grins, "Picture time!"
"Ah."
People quickly begin sticking to the empty wall. Holly shuffles them all around. Against the wall, Lisa Lisa is placed beside Joseph and Suzie. Next to Suzie, Holly stands beside Jotaro. In front of Joseph is Josuke, and beside Josuke is Giorno. Jolyne and Shizuka grin proudly in front of all of them. Polnareff is cradled tightly in Jolyne's grip.
"I'll take the photo," Mista readily offers. He and Trish never made a motion to join them.
Holly frowns. "Nonsense," she makes a gesture, "come over here!"
Mista blinks. "Eh? M-Ma'am?"
"We have stands for that, Jotaro," she glances at her son, Star Platinum manifests easily. "So, join over!"
"I wouldn't want to intrude," says Mista, at the same time that Trish chips, "Okay!"
Holly sighs. "Your Giorno's family, so come over."
"Oh," Mista says, letting himself be pulled over by Trish, at the same time that Giorno says, "Oh," but significantly more breathless.
Because yeah, they are his family, aren't they? Trish settles in right beside him, pressing easily against his side. Mista is soon to follow. Giorno blinks a little. Yeah, he decides, they are.
"Polnareff too," Giorno says, very quietly. "Can I hold him?"
Polnareff makes a very, very startled kind of sound. A little choked.
"Oh," Holly says, voice full of something, "Of course, Jolyne, give Giorno your uncle, will you?"
"Aw," she says, frowning a bit, but then she looks at him and grins, "'Kay!"
"Kid," says Polnareff, sounding faint, "you don't have to."
"I don't," Giorno says, taking the turtle into his arms, "I don't have to do any of this, either. I want to. Are you..." he hesitates a moment, perhaps he was wrong, maybe—but he's made his decision, "Do you disagree?"
Polnareff looks at him, wide-eyed and startled. "Not—not at all! Kid I..." he trails off, "Thanks. I...me too." And it sounds a little choked.
Trish sticks out her tongue. "'Long as you don't start expecting us to call you Dad, we're cool."
"Dammit," Polnareff replies, mock-despair, "how'd you know?"
"She always knows," Mista says, very seriously.
And Giorno really just—just can't help it. His shoulders start shaking and there's warmth in his fingertips, feathers in his chest—and he's laughing with the click of a camera.
"Second shot's the funny one," Holly tells them, and gestures to Star Platinum behind the tripod.
It doesn't even take half a second for Trish to be making bunny ears behind his head. "What," Giorno groans, "are you doing?"
"Gotta be silly for you if you won't do it yourself," Trish tells him, straight faced, "Mista, double bunny him."
"You know," and Josuke turns to Giorno in wonder, "your family's brilliant. Holly get Jotaro."
Holly giggles. "Already on it!"
"Jolyne," Jotaro says, voice flat, "when you grow older, keep your dignity."
The girl laughs in his face. "Fuck no."
The camera clicks, the moment is captured—embarrassing bunny ears and all.
It could be worse.
"Alright," Holly waves them all away. "Cleanup and then bedtime. It's getting late."
"Ugh," Jolyne says, "it's early."
"It's almost midnight," Holly corrects.
"Early."
Giorno agrees with her, but he has a vague suspicion that Holly wouldn't really appreciate him saying that. He quietly resigns himself to sleeping early. Inconvenient but—
It could be much worse.
He watches passively on the sidelines as furniture is dragged back into place. Studies how Jotaro carefully laminates each photo. Observes how Holly delicately tucks the pictures into Maplewood frames. Sees them disappear quietly into the hall, presumably to hang the pictures up with the rest.
"Glad you came?" Polnareff asks, almost gently, and Giorno's dragged from his observations.
Giorno looks down, grips the turtle a bit tighter. "Ugh," he says, in very pointed agreement.
"Aww," Polnareff coos, "no problem! Thanks for the words of appreciation."
Trish bounces over. "Did I smell Giorno-directed sarcasm? I did! I agree. Giorno I'm so glad you finally know you should always do what I say."
"I hate you," Giorno says, but there's no bite, "so, so much. Even more when you're right."
Trish pauses, looks at him, wide-eyed, "You just said I'm right."
"Don't make me repeat myself," says Giorno, and before she can respond he's shoved Polnareff into her arms and made a dash for the hallway.
This time, when he slides shut the door behind him and steps into the hallway, it doesn't feel as terrible as last time. The light is on already, dim and flickering but doing its job. The air is still heavy with history, and thick with legacy, but it's a bit easier to breathe.
The hallway is empty bar him and the photos. Giorno can vaguely hear Holly and Jotaro chattering up the stairs—probably to get nails, or string. Giorno's footsteps are loud against the silence. The pictures stare down on him and it still feels like he's an intruder, like he shouldn't be here, like this isn't his.
He stops, finally, at Jonathan's photos.
"Hey," he finally whispers, "I wonder, if you were alive, if you'd accept me into this." He gestures to the wall. "I was afraid, to ask, earlier. I didn't."
Because that's a lot of what he'd really meant. This family is Jonathan's legacy and Giorno wanted so badly to get accepted from the root. There is no blood in this family, but there is legacy, it was started by Jonathan. Even if Jonathan is long dead, and it is an impossible question.
He sighs a little. "This is useless, I know. I just," he pauses a moment, "Thank you. For starting this."
Giorno doesn't know if he's ever not going to feel like an intruder here. But he looks down the hall and sees his framed photos waiting idly to be strung up, and he can breathe a little easier. Giorno closes his eyes a moment, feels the weight of history and the press of legacy and hears the bubbling noise of his family-to-be and knows he wants this.
(There's opportunity in the air, a door, a seed. Giorno cradles it with care and lets it bloom into possibilities.)
---
It is...very strange to be writing this note, knowing this is the final chapter, and probably the last of this series.
I suppose...before talking about the whole series, about this chapter: I know it's terribly late! This time has been very chaotic for me so.. Just how it happened I guess.
This chapter felt...kind of incoherent? I tried my best to tighten it up in editing but I'm not sure if everything is clear. Especially the entire Haruno monologue oh my god I hate practically a paragraph-by-paragraph outline for that yet it still came out weirdly confusing. Welp. At least I'm (mostly) sure this chapter doesn't have terrible pacing.
can you tell I love Trish? dslbskubf she got a lota stuff this chapter but I literally couldn't help myself. Also Fugo, I really didn't meant for that interaction to focus on fugo at all but oops?? I couldn't resist?? ahaha
Also Josuke! interactions came out of no where man...I hope all the random fluff didn't drag the pacing too bad though. Also, the ending. kdubskub I hate it but I literally don't know how to make it better?? I don't think it's the worst ending but something about ti feels a little off. but i cannot stand thinking about it a second longer so.
Oh yeah. Okay so I really loved writing the speech scene but honestly?? I dunno how it turned out. Like?? IS IT CHEESY. I--uh, It's a kinda important moment so I really hope it delivered and wasn't cringe cause. While reading ti over I honestly couldn't decide if it was cringe. or too short. or badly paced, or?? geh.
I just. Hope this chapter delivered. I hope you enjoyed. This series...Over the course of making it a lot has changed. Originally It was supposed to be a 4k long oneshot, can you believe that? But then when i started writing it realized nonono I need more from this and it turned into this.
This fanfic was really the first fanfic I outlined from the beginning. It was...a. somewhat loose outline (proven by prolly 70% of the scenes not being in that original outline,) but it was something. It made me know where the story was going, and not get lost. It...really changed how I write, I think. It made my writing much tighter and more compact.
I just, love this a lot. It is so self-indulgent and honestly I never expected it to get the response it did. You're all really, really goddamn amazing. Every comment has made me really happy, every bookmark, every kudo. Really, I can't express how nice it is to know that you guys are enjoying this piece,
maybe, sometime in the future, I'll add a post-part-6 oneshot to this au, but for now, this is it. +
Honestly, I'm not sure what else to say. Just. thank you again, and please don't feel shy to leave constructive criticism or a comment. :)