Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Eternal repose given to them, O Lord, and perpetual light shine upon them. May they rest in peace.”

There are sparrows chirping outside. A sharp sound as their fleeting shadows pass by overhead, the silhouette through the raining down palette of the stained glass windows overhead of a darkened room. Cutting past the down-turned faces of their bowed heads. People sat in the pews, sparse and dressed in black. 

He has only been to a funeral once. 

His grandmother. One that he has never met. Only 4–years–old, and he had stood next to his mother. A tight grip on his hand as he took in her blank face staring at the sleek casket that was a matching black to the flowy dress she adorned. To the too large suit jacket he had been given to borrow from an older cousin. He remembers the fastly paced, rough, yet careful hands shoving his arms through the sleeves as his aunt muttered about his mother having not brought the proper clothes. His mother stared at the wall. Silent. She remained that way; subdued in a way that leaves a remembrance despite how young he had been. 

For months, she didn’t go out to party. She didn’t raise her voice towards him. Not a cruel word was given. A confusing notion of what he had long since gotten used to. Instead, she just...simply remained silent. There, but not fully present. Staring off at blank TVs and the peeling paper of the apartment walls meant to be fixed. 

He learned how grief makes one different. He is still learning it now. 

The church is silent, barring the scripture the pastor reads aloud. An echoing voice that is cold and detached. Just another service for him to a face and name he won’t remember. Wishing for eternal peace. 

Giorno Giovanna sits on the steps of the altar. With a silent gaze and a listening ear while through it; he doesn’t remember how he got here. His mind is hazy. A cling of fuzz to it as he sits front and center. Like an actor on a stage.

The only difference is no one pays any mind. Not a single head turns, nor a blinking eye that falls on him. There’s not a question for why he interrupts. His head had been bowed with them. A natural part of himself, waiting for the single word utterance at the end of the surface level prayer.

It’s a slow movement as his head rises, the room swirling around him. The words grew muffled, struck by a heavy feeling that he cannot place. He stares at steeled faces. Through ‌tilted heads or lifted gazes pinned to the casket. Some are familiar, while others are not. A small crowd makes it easy to tell, even so, he doesn’t know why they’re here. Why he is. 

Slowly, he rises. There’s not a rustle of his clothes. He turns, climbing the altar steps with feet that don’t make a sound. An absent click of shoes. 

The black casket rests in the center. Same sleek style and lying open just as his grandmother’s. He remembers walking to hers. Believes he felt his mother’s hand tremble in his with each step they took together. Giorno was small. Barely enough height, but he caught a glimpse. There she lied. Framed by heavy makeup that tried to hide a greying face, he met his grandmother for the first and final time.

She went peacefully, someone had told his mother as she stared straight down at her own mother's face. He had to wonder if they knew the meaning of the word when her face was tightly pinched together. They told him that she was asleep. Giorno remembers how his mother snapped. Jolting to the present as an icy voice told them that her child was not as dull as they were treating him as before she stormed off. With him in tow, stumbling feet behind her. For once, she clutched his hand tighter instead of pulling away and letting go like he were poison. 

Not dull. His mother knew that much of her child.

He had never been to another funeral. Yet, he could clearly recognize what was meant to be one. What they meant. 

Giorno takes another step forward. It feels so off. He glances back at the gathering. Unseen. 

With his spin, there’s a sudden glimmer of gold that gleams bright from out of the corner of his eye. His head swung around. Disarrayed curls bouncing against his shoulders. There’s a faint silhouette of his Stand hovering above the casket. He can’t see the face from here when blocked by Gold Experience, but he believes his Stand is cupping the deceased’s cheeks.

“Gold?” He whispers, stiffening when his voice echoes. No one moves. The scripture goes on. His stomach clenches at the gentle movements, at the near translucent form. Giorno has never seen such an appearance before. 

There’s not a response. No receptiveness to his call. He tries to step forward, approaching calmly.

“What is it?” He goes to look.

There’s a slam against his frame. His feet stumbled back as tight hands gripped his shoulder; radiating a sharp pain through the sunken flesh. He tries to pull away, but Gold Experience digs their fingers deeper into him. He grunts, and when he looks up, he finds that somehow even the most expressionless face appears destroyed. Twisted and devastated, and the pressure in the grip has a tremble to it. On the altar, Giorno balances on the edge of the step that his Stand is trying to force him to go down. He tilts his head, a flash in his eyes. 

“It’s okay.” He tries to say. Ignoring the pit that had opened deep in his stomach, alongside a spinning mind that was trying to find sense in the strange scenery. He remembers nothing. Only the image of the airport flashes to mind, but nothing further. 

His Stand doesn’t budge, forcing him down each step until he’s in the aisle. A single hand may slip from his shoulder, but it only does so to reach out, moving towards his chest.

“In baptism, Giorno Giovanna received the light of Christ. Scatter the darkness now and lead him over the waters of death.”

Giorno freezes. 

His name fell from the pastor’s lips. Polite, but monotone. His hands clasped together as he spared a nod towards the body resting in the casket. Gold Experience’s face drops further. Looking as if they want to speak. Trying to move him further away. As if that could take it back.

“Move!” 

Giorno pushes the arms off and away from himself. Pushing past before the congregation has a chance to stand. Behind him, he hears the low murmurs they share amongst each other. He snatches his arm away when a hand tries to grab his wrist. Vines crawled up the altar, aiming for his ankles. He knows the tricks and can easily step around.

His feet hit the raised platform of the catafalque where the casket rested. His eyes darted to the flowers scattered around. Perfectly posed with a sweetly fresh scent clotting the dusty air that comes from a church. The colours of the surrounding stained glass windows scatter from the sun hitting against their petals. A tint given to the altar. The gold mixed with a pink hue covers him. 

Feet moved from behind him. As they come closer, he takes his chance to look down. 

Eve was weak. Or so he has been told. His step–father in particular was a religious man. Or so he believed and claimed himself to be, but he only adorned a material possession of the cross–shaped necklace to show for it. His only connection that he thought had made him above it all. It was nothing. Eve was weak. Drawn to an item that remained not within her reach. The sense of power has always been tempting to humans. Will always remain so.

Giorno stares down at his own face. Boyish, with traces of baby fat still clinging to the pale features that hold a tint of grey to them. His veins are bright blue, a noticeable crawl the makeup can’t hide. Never could. As through it, the skin swells in scattering patches where the bruises remain deep. A sickening purple forming a ring around his neck. The suit, still just as ill–fighting as the one he wore at 4–years–old, can’t cover the broken bones that jut from beneath the cold skin. Jagged lines and bumps that paint a mangled picture.

The congregation gathered for a look of their own. Shoulders and elbows are meant to bump into Giorno, but they phase right through him. Still, he acts as if they push him back. No one sees. They can’t. He hears gasps from his schoolmates. The whispers they share, he’s a spectacle, and it’s the first moment he realizes his heart isn’t beating where there should be a heavy, fearful beat to match with the shaking movements that threaten to send him collapsing against the church floor. 

Gold Experience hovers close to his side. Lips pursed together. The guilt is evident. Giorno stumbles into the middle of the aisle. Turning from the sight of his body. 

With a sudden pause, eyes land on the shadowed figure in the glass of the chapel doors.

Those were the eyes of then. The ones of now open to a familiar room. Where the light is dim, and he can hear movement from the connected bathroom. He sits up in the cot they said belongs to him. Staring forward. Only temporary.

“Buona notte.” 

It’s a quiet whisper that is followed by the small click of the door. Lamplight traveling against the motion. The man pays no mind. Hunched over his desk where black strands fall to curtain his face. Papers are scattered in a jumbled mess against the desk. Some are rumpled, others filled with scribbles, and a few have fallen to the floor. He doesn’t look up. Only briefly aware of Narancia coming and going, just to wish him a good night. Endearing in a sense, yet it passed by his ears easily. 

Bruno sighs quietly to himself. His eyes squeezed shut against the strain as his hand cramped. The clock keeps ticking on. 

The lamp flickers. Dimming ever so slightly. A blue glow seeps in, contrasting with the orange spot of warmth lighting his features. It lowers the temperature of the room with it. Bruno doesn’t have to wager a guess. Nor does he have to look up. For a brief moment, the grip on his pen tightens ever so slightly before it forces itself to ease. 

“Giorno,” He greets the spirit softly. 

He doesn’t receive a response. Didn’t expect one. Not in the sense that the boy is merely just quiet, but something more that has his stomach twisting in on itself. This bitter taste fills his mouth, and he refuses to look at him.

The simple answer is that the energy has long since faded from a worn out soul, and it shows when Giorno lies listlessly on the arm of the office couch. Head tucked into his arms, only the tangled hair visible. Curls that are frizzy and limp. He has long since stopped caring for it. When he speaks, his words are short. They’ve always been an echo, but now they are a mere wisp. 

Yet, he still appears. Insists on staying. 

Bruno flips a page of the paperwork. His soon to be title printed neatly in crisp black ink. His eyes don’t take in any of the words. They blur into unreadable squiggles pressing close together.

“Abbacchio is in our room, already preparing for bed.” He narrates in a low voice. Tone kept close to monotone. “You’re welcome to join him. He’ll probably make for better company.” 

Giorno shifts, green glaring eyes peeking over his arms. He says it as if Giorno doesn’t know. “I didn’t come for him.” He murmurs. The heat Bruno usually finds is lacking. 

He should have known.

The dust has begun to settle in the midst of their victory. Diavolo is gone. A factor that Bruno holds no knowledge of the reason for how, but the one unwilling to tell sits in front of him now. He shouldn’t be. That much he does know, as his eyes are cast away in avoidance of the translucent form. The ghost of a teenager was meant to pass on. That’s the way it goes when a spirit gets and makes its last act of peace. 

Though Giorno lingers, pushing himself past the norm in capabilities. 

He stays to hear the plans for the reformation of Passione. Either sitting on this couch, or laid on the small cot Bruno had set up for him in his and Leone’s room, he listens in silence. He used to offer his opinions, but they’re left with an unblinking stare that is unsettling. Dull from death and certain glint Bruno believes is envy.

He stays quiet. The motion of speaking is too tiring. One or two words he manages to get out as his eyes fight to stay open. The stare he gives them is pitiful as he nods along with each plan and notion Bruno intends to put in place.

He’s staying long enough to see him take the title of Don.

“I don’t believe there is anything more for me to add, Giorno.” Bruno says quietly, “Everything is being put into motion and coming together. All that matters now is the announcement.” The reverence. There’s a ring sitting in a velvet box on his vanity, waiting.

Giorno doesn’t say anything. Instead, he goes to rise, likely to look at the paperwork. His knees buckled beneath him, nearly sending him to the ground if it wasn’t for Sticky Fingers appearing in time to catch him. Taking his weight, though Giorno grunts and tries to pull away. Weak arms barely lifting enough to push.

“Giorno,” Bruno scolds. Waiting until there’s a huff, but the boy lets his Stand lead him back to the couch. Reaching out, he organized the papers, tapping them against the desk before he placed them into the folder.

He stands, coming over to the couch to take a seat beside him. He passes the folder to Giorno, allowing him a look. Shaking hands began to parse through the pages. Fingers struggling to properly grip them in order to turn. Bruno watches. His throat feels tight when he stays silent. His tongue bit. He takes in the way Giorno’s eyes sluggishly move across the page, slow to take in every word, sometimes darting back up to the top to restart.

His head is drooping until it rests against Bruno’s shoulder. Unable to hold itself up. The folder shook further in his hands. Bruno can’t hold back any longer. Slowly, he eases it from his grip. For a moment, Giorno doesn’t notice. His eyes are blankly staring forward. A face devoid. 

“You’re straining yourself, Giorno.” Bruno lets his Stand take the papers away, Giorno tilting forward as if to reach out. He steadies him. 

With a blink, Giorno shakes his head. “I’m fine–” 

“No. Stop it.” A mouth clicked shut. Bruno has to take a deep breath before he can go on. The topic has been uncomfortably lingering for the past few days. One never knew how to approach. “I know that it’s tough, but we…we have to discuss you moving on.” 

He stiffens. “Want to get rid of me that badly?” The other one grows prickling. Shutting down before Bruno can go on. There’s a furrow in his eyebrows. A face pinched. 

“Giorno–” Bruno knows how these emotions go. 

“Still a nobody? Like you said?” 

He’s careful, but Giorno’s intent on the lashing.

His posture deflates some. He knows now that Giorno had been lingering around him long before he caught his appearance. The boy had admitted it himself. He saw him in that church, standing by the chapel doors, paying his respects to the only relative Giorno had shown up. One he never met. An aspect that had only burned further with the realization that his mother and step–father were nowhere in the crowd. 

Giorno watched him leave. Pausing just outside the church. He tried to forget him, but the memories pulled and ate at his mind. In the days that followed, he lingered by his grave. Sitting against the stone, avoiding looking at the name etched in. The last act of finality, he believed. He kept his eyes on the fresh dirt. Sometimes catching the flowers left on the graves beside him. 

He didn’t glance up when the steps approached, assuming they were meant for another. They stopped by him. A teardrop pattern was found on the pant leg outside the corner of his eye. He left something at his grave. Not speaking, barely glancing at his headstone before he turned away. Giorno felt something crack inside himself. 

This low rage that would only continue to grow. Stirring at the disrespect. It burned inside him, twisting deep. He followed after his murderer. 

Watched how the man destroyed himself when he believed there were no eyes on him. He took notes of his routine as the anger burned brighter and the pain never dulled through the cold seeping through his bones. That man had muttered to himself late in the night, flipping away from the news stations he could never draw his eyes away from. Told himself that Giorno was a nobody. He never knew him. That he would be weak to keep putting all his focus on this. This. Like he broke an object. Like he wasn’t human by Bruno’s definition. Never was one in anyone’s book.

His own mother viewed him as a parasite infecting her life. 

Bruno stares down at him. Wrapping an arm around him to pull him closer. Giorno doesn’t fight it despite the previous bite that was in his voice. He leans into him, allowing for his head to be tucked beneath his chin. His skin prickles, but he fights to ignore it, desperate for the sparse bit of warmth that comes from contact such as this. 

“You’re everything to me,” Comes the whisper against his hairline. “You are the only reason any of us have made it here. The reason we survived that mission. My words are not me trying to get rid of you for my own convenience. It’s me wanting to ease your pain.”

“I’m fine.” 

There’s a non–believing hum. “You’re tired all the time. You can barely move.” Even now, he is slumping heavily against him. Allowing him to take his weight.

It’s a cruel truth, even Giorno can recognize that. He shakes his head all the same. Feeling Bruno’s chest lift with a sigh.

He pulls away, avoiding Bruno’s eyes. His disappearance from the room is only another tactic of avoidance. Another is the way he tries to pretend he’s asleep on the cot when Bruno enters his own bedroom. Leone’s sitting against the headboard with a book on his lap, smirking slightly as Bruno avoids his eyes. The older can reason a guess from the attitude of Giorno.

“Good talk?” 

Bruno shoots him a look. “Zip it.” There’s a snort. 

He lingers in the middle of the room, staring at Giorno’s turned frame. There’s more he wants to say, but Giorno won’t let him. A part of himself wants to push, to figure out Giorno’s plan, to figure out what is holding him back, though he figures he should know. The answer is so easy. 

Death strikes fear hard into any person’s heart. A brush will always make them waver when you feel the edge. What comes next? One has to wonder, but no one likes to answer. Some use religion as a comfort, others believe there’s nothing but the brain shutting down and consciousness slipping. A startling factor is that one minute you can be here, the next you’re aware of nothing.

Giorno has to be terrified.

So, he steps back. Climbs into the bed beside his partner and lets the topic drop. Believing it’s the kindest thing he can give Giorno through this all.  

Leone spares a glance between them. His eyes are thoughtful, but he doesn’t speak any further on the matter. Though his expression remains as tight as his. He waits for Bruno to settle. The bed shook with his movements. 

“Are you nervous?”

Bruno blinks, leaning back against the pillows. “Excuse me?” 

“Tomorrow,” Leone shrugs loosely, gesturing towards the vanity with his book. The dark shade of the velvet box almost blends with the wood. 

He sighs. “I wish I could say it will all run smoothly, but I know better than to believe it.” They share a chuckle. “Nothing ever does.” 

Giorno shifts on his cot. Lidded eyes stare at the wall as the light conversation blurs around him. His ears were ringing. He tried to bring the blanket tighter against himself, but it did nothing. His face scrunches; the pain is sharp, and the cold aches. He can’t remember how his body felt before his death. Giorno can’t tell Bruno any of it. He’ll prove him right if he ever admits that he feels the pull on his soul wanting to let go. A talk he’ll have to endure. So, he ignores it. 

Stretches himself thin despite the way he finds his limbs twitching. The night passes on. He hears the voices fall silent with quiet breaths. Only then does he flip onto his back. The colours in the room blurred into one as it swayed in his vision. His body tilts to the side when he sits up. Giorno swallows harshly. The clicking lamp’s closure of earlier bathed the room in dark blue with sparse silver streaks of moonlight. He sees Bucciarati’s head resting on Abbacchio’s chest, whose arms are wrapped around his waist, keeping him pulled close.

Giorno stares before he slowly rises to stand on shaky feet. A restless feeling coursed through him, but pacing isn’t a feasible option. He only takes a few steps before he’s collapsing into the chair of the vanity. His limbs feel rigid despite their shaking. Another reminder of death. Reaching out, Giorno pulled the velvet box toward himself. A small click rings in the room as he flips it open to stare at the jewels that are so perfect for the man. Giorno feels his shoulders deflate.

He knows that Bucciarati is right. That’s what cuts deep. He lets the box slip from his grip, his head lifting to stare forward at his caught reflection in the mirror. There’s no light left in his eyes, and the bruises remain against grey skin holding a blue glow that has only grown more faint in the days that followed Diavolo’s defeat. It’s a form he is struggling to hold on to. The control slipped between his fingertips like sand.

Giorno doesn’t have much longer. He’s not dull enough to avoid logic.

With a silent nod to himself, he reached out towards the hairbrush, dragging a hair tie with it. 

His hands trembled as he tried to run the brush through tangled curls, feeling the harsh tug as he tried to remember the last time they were cared for. His arms are shaking from exertion like Giorno is holding a weight. They droop, his fingers unable to pull at his strands as he tries to do a simple braid that he’s done time and time again. He lets them drop. The brush hitting the floor as he curls into himself. 

He just needs one more day. One more morning, if that’s all he can get, but the pain is unbearable. It never fades. 

He tries to bend down for the brush. It phases through his fingers; Giorno stares down. That’s never– It didn’t– Oh. The picture is made clearer. A sense of reality clicking further. The ringing in his ears grows. Giorno has to straighten himself.

“Need help?” 

He startles at the sudden, deep, scratchy voice. The world feels slow with the turn of his head. Abbacchio is sitting at the edge of the bed, adjusting his ponytail as he gazes at Giorno with a lifted eyebrow.

Giorno shakes his head. Opening his mouth, but the man beats him to it.

“Don’t bullshit me. You can barely lift your arms,” He says it in mocked disdain, with a clench to his jaw at the stubborn refusal and the lie.

The boy doesn’t answer. Not for a long moment before there’s a silent nod. One Leone returns as he rises, coming over to bend down to grab the brush. He takes the hair tie from Giorno’s hand.

At the lift of his curls being moved back, Giorno struggles to not flinch at the sensation of the roughened hands. Leone sees it all the same. Decides not to draw attention. He eases the brush through his hair, pausing between to ease his fingers to slowly pull apart knots. The touch remains light. Giorno watches through the mirror. It's everything he tried to do. Doesn't that just burn? 

“…I wanted to look nice before I went,” He whispers. There's no heat in his voice. It couldn't hold. 

He meets Abbacchio’s eyes through the reflection. Watching any shift in his expression.

“Today’s the day?” The man elects to ask. Likewise, watching his expression. Narrowed eyes toward one another. 

Giorno’s don’t hold for long. Drifting down as he nods. “It seems fitting.” He says. An even tone. “I’ll see Bucciarati wear the ring. That’s enough, isn’t it?” 

“Is it?” 

The temperature in the room dropped. Remains expectant and waiting. Giorno can’t answer. It makes sense. It’s final. A start of a new era he knows he will never be a part of. He can’t keep lingering. So, he’s decided, and yes, it’s enough. Only those words don’t fall from his lips. Nothing does.

“Kid?” 

He’s shaking. 

“I don’t want to go.” Is what falls instead before his mind can catch up. “I’m–” What is he doing? He’s terrified. More than he can make known, but he can’t admit it. It’s too honest and raw. He’ll break because the man will see through him.

The brush pauses, hovering in the air before it’s placed down. It’s too late. Abbacchio’s hands rest on his shoulder. “I can’t take that fear away.” He whispered the devastating truth quietly. There’s nothing that can. No words, no actions will come close. Giorno has tried to make peace with it.

Before Giorno knows it, his eyes burn. Tears bubbling to the surface, and he feels appalled. Hateful towards himself when he can’t hide them. A quiet sob passed between his lips just as the tears began to fall. He shakes his head. He hates himself. A feeling that worsens under the gaze of an audience.

It’s not fair. None of this ever was.

Leone stares down at him, sighing quietly to himself. He has to do something. “Kid, we–…We can be by your side when it’s time.” As if that could ease it, he wants to scoff when it’s a weak consolation, but he wouldn’t be alone. 

Giorno shakes his head. “No. I–” 

He realizes then; he doesn’t want to go at all. He’s not ready no matter what they do to make his passing on easier. 

He’ll die at 15–years–old. Gone before his life could truly start. Gone when he finally escaped the abuse. Gone when he was beginning to find meaning and purpose for himself. It all meant nothing in the end. 

What could Giorno truly expect? In some ways, he always knew he was fated to die young. Making it to 15 was luck in itself, he used to believe, when he fantasized about death from various ages. When he was starving at 5–years–old. When he was beaten at 6–years–old. Between his parents' fights, where their breaths were heavy with alcohol, their frustrations turned to him; to the needles and drug paraphernalia littering their apartment. Escape and healing felt too far away, like it could only be a dream, that the bottle of pills he snagged from his mother and kept in his bedside drawer looked interesting at 13–years–old. 

Giorno thought that one way or another fate would catch up to rid the world of the parasite. He was right. 

Oh, how the tears fall faster. A pitiful, disgusting sight that Leone decides he doesn’t like nor want to see. He pulls him up from the vanity seat. Not a word, only this harsh tug. Giorno looked up at him, confused. Leone doesn’t explain, doesn’t make anything known when he pulls him to the door. His heart pounds with what he’s about to do.

For the second time in the night, Giorno finds himself standing in Bucciarati’s office, watching Abbacchio rifle through drawers and cabinets. Muttering to himself words he’ll never catch. The answer becomes apparent when there’s a sudden, certain thrum beating underneath his skin that feels like it’s crawling. 

The arrow is set on the desk. Its point is sharpened by the moonlight.

Giorno’s legs feel frozen in the middle of the room. His eyes can’t tear themselves away. It’s not out of the blue. An opportunity that was given before. One he didn’t take for a reason he refused to explain to Bucciarati when questioned. 

Leone leans against the desk, letting his hair fall from its ponytail and curtain his face. He doesn’t have to say it for Giorno to know. The offer is once more placed on the table.

“I can’t ask you to trust me wholeheartedly.” The man murmurs. “Not with what you have been through, but I need an answer. One that you’re sure of. If you turn around, we’ll drop it. Neither of us will say anything.” 

He waits. 

“Or, you can give me an inch of trust and let me borrow Goldie for a moment, but I’m not making this decision for you. This has to be on you, Giorno.” 

There’s an expectation that this could be easy. Giorno feels the way his body wavers. Nearly slipping to disappear. A way of avoidance when he struggles to find an answer. The war was waging in his mind that he couldn’t discern. Abbacchio is watching him with an expression that is passive. Not demanding. Somehow that worsens the thought. The choice is once more given, and shouldn’t it be easier than before?

He steps back. If his heart were still beating, it would be pounding. Isn’t that the point of why they're here? 

As quickly as he steps back, he draws forward. He doesn’t stop. One foot in front of the other until he stands in front of the desk. Gold Experience peaks over his shoulder. Two hands move forward. The arrow in between.

A decision solidified. One that the two won’t be able to hide.

The door rattles against the frame. A low noise through the knob wiggling. Trying and failing to properly grip to turn. Faintly, he stirred. Shifting in a bed he hadn’t realized had begun to grow cold. Bruno curls deeper into the blankets. A low buzz emitting from his mind that he can’t name. It comes and goes as the brief consciousness tries to slip.

Striking the wall with a fast–paced slam, a boom ricocheted around the room. With scrambling hands, Bruno pushed himself up in a daze. Feeling the way his heart leaped into his throat at the loud shuffle of footsteps. He threw himself from the bed, Sticky Fingers appearing at his side. As he swirls around to face the intruder, preparing to launch an attack, there’s a thump against the bed. The springs creaked. 

Bruno feels his heart stop, shakily reaching up to brush his hair from his face. As if that alters the sight. The wheezing breaths are ringing in his ears. They don’t match with the blonde hair sticking up from the laid down frame. 

“How–?” The words can’t form. One said in a heaving breath before his voice died, caught in his throat trying. He feels his lungs burning. 

He watches Giorno Giovanna’s chest rise and fall in a room that is for once not lit by a second–motion, thought to be ever so permanent, blue glow. His knees buckle. He could nearly fall to the floor. Bruno stumbles instead, his hand reaching out to grip the dresser behind him. The bottles of perfume and misplaced makeup products rattled with the bump. 

Barely audible through the horrid wheezes, as irregular gasping makes these wretched snorting sounds from a brain that has been deprived of oxygen. Trying to work out the blunder. They pass through blue lips.

On the other side of the bed, he met his partner’s eyes.

It’s brief. Only a flash before Leone’s head is tilting away. Forcefully focusing on reaching for the blankets. Steady hands pulling it to wrap around Giorno. Bruno feels sick. Slowly, he approached. Reaching out to the limb not yet tucked in, fingertips pressing into the pulse point of his wrist. It’s faint, but he feels the beat. He lets Giorno’s hand drop with a thump against the mattress. The younger’s face scrunching as a small noise interrupted the unsteady breathing. Akin to a grunt, but it lacks the strength. 

Giorno shuffles in the bed, eyebrows pinched with irritation. Leone readjusts the blanket, making sure it’s covering him entirely. It doesn’t ease the expression. Worsens it, truly, when Giorno thrashes. 

“What did you do?” Bruno finds his voice. Why is he like this? “Leone, tell me now.” 

The man straightens himself. Eyes still not meeting him. “The arrow.” He says simply.

A relaxed tone as if it’s nothing. As if it doesn’t turn Bruno’s blood to ice. It’s uncaring. Emotionless. Dismissive in a way that turns the ice cold blood into boiling.

“You had no way of knowing.” He says in a low seethe. Bristling when he receives a scoff. Brushed off like his words are meaningless.

“Do you think I would have let him do this if I hadn’t put any thought into this?” Leone asks blankly. “I weighed the pros and cons.” 

Properly. He wouldn’t have let Giorno get his hopes up if it logically couldn’t have been done. He listened to their explanation of a Stand evolving into a Requiem. Had spent days thinking it over despite Giorno’s refusal the first time the option was given. Mentally, Leone played out each way it could go. From the hopeful result to everything that could have gone wrong. He kept silent about it. Wondered if he could bring it up, or if would be digging into the wound. Seeing the fear in Giorno’s eyes ‌made the decision easy for him tonight.

He played his cards right.

There’s no use in focusing on what could have gone wrong when Giorno lies in front of them now. Pale and in pain, but he’s alive. They can get through the rest easily. 

Bruno is shaking his head. “This–”

“He will be fine.” His shoulders tense when Leone reads him wrong. His partner’s voice drifted so softly to reassure him, believing he’s merely scared for the child. 

“He’s supposed to be dead.” 

There’s not a trace of worry to be found in voice or face. It’s anger. He feels the way the room grew cold. Leone freezes. 

“What?” He asks quietly.

“He was meant to pass on, Leone. You had no right to interrupt that process. No right to change fate!” 

There’s disbelief reflected. One that Bruno doesn’t quite care for. In fact, he finds it more insulting when his position is right and simple. There are certain notions that you can’t control. Certain aspects that you can’t change. That are better to be left alone. You can’t play God, and isn’t this what it is? 

Slowly, Leone comes forward. As if to reach out like Bruno is a wild, scared animal who needs taming. He backs away. The glare doesn’t falter, and the man pauses in response. Staring forward with an expression Bruno can’t name. Pity? Ashamed? Like that betters it all. With a sigh, Leone sits on the edge of the bed. 

“He wasn’t ready.” He says simply, running a hand through frazzled hair. Dismissive. Horribly Dismissive. 

The barking laugh that escapes him is bright and burning.

“And what am I supposed to do?” Bruno’s voice is growing louder. “How do I explain him to the rest of our team?! With how power hungry that boy is, he’ll expect the role of consigliere! How will that appear to the others who have been here longer and will look at him as the new guy who had nothing to do with our takeover of Passione?”

They have no idea how much he contributed. He can’t tell them. He never wanted–

“I wasn’t thinking about Passione.” Interrupts a flat tone. 

Hands slam violently against the bedside table. Palms reddening with the harsh sting. He feels the vibrations against flesh as he hunches over. His breathing is harsh. Growing strained.

“That should have been your first thought!” He teeters on the edge of a shout. Gathering every ounce of control to keep the words kept low when anyone could hear them this late in the night. “You bear responsibility to Passione, first and foremost!” 

“He wasn’t ready!” This time it’s Leone who shouts. Never been one able to lie down and take it. He stands then, walking closer. “Was I supposed to look him in the eye and tell him to die when there was a solution?! I was trying to help him–” 

“Don’t give me that.” Bruno spits. He storms forward. Backing him up with each word. “All that this is, is you trying to live out your self–righteous fantasy. You still want to believe you have a sense of justice the way you did when you were 17 and chose to be a police officer!”

Leone’s face falls. Fast and quick before it builds itself out of stone once more, but the normal scowl is of no use when Bruno knows him. He can figure out every tell. See it all. He always will. 

His back hit the wall. Bruno continues. “Then and now, you’re only good for taking orders.” Like a dog. “It’s better that way.” He destroys everything built otherwise. 

Even through a heated gaze, Bruno sees the way his partner looks as if he’s been struck. He turns away.

“You were the one who brought up the arrow first.” 

Bruno doesn’t respond. “What am I supposed to tell them?” He whispers in repeat. His eyes cloud over with the mental thought process. He crossed his arms, feeling the heavy feeling in his chest.

Leone presses tighter against the wall despite Bruno stepping back. With a posture still strong, but he somehow manages to still feel small. “You can lie.” 

There’s a sharp huff, edging on a humorous laugh, but it holds no strength. “Lies will always find a way to unravel.” He spits. “They will learn eventually. Why make it any harder?” He shakes his head to himself, turning away. “Mista comes home from his investigation this morning. I’ll pull him aside. Fugo and Narancia too. Before the rest of the capos arrive and I take over as–...” His chest stutters. “I’ll break the news while Giorno is still recovering.” Bruno finishes simply.

“I’ll stay with him.” Leone says.

“That was non–negotiable.” He hisses. It is his mess. Bruno will not be doing the clean–up. “I’ll get you when it’s time.” Only to save for appearances as he takes on the position of Don.

The silence is made of tension. Fragile. Like glass ready to shatter at one wrong step, perhaps one wrong word, and through it, neither will know how to come back. 

He leaves it like that. Walking past Leone to exit. Briefly, the older man sees the light of early dawn shining down the hallway before the door clicks shut. Somehow it’s worse than the slam he had expected. 

He feels himself deflated. Releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. There’s a shuffle from the bed. Giorno never stopped tossing and turning. The blankets have fallen. 

Leone stares. At least their yelling hadn’t woken him. 

“Keep the blankets on, Giorno.” He snaps at the unconscious body. Harshly tugging the blankets up. There’s a groan. Sluggish hands try to push it away. He doesn’t let him. Giorno remains so cold to the touch, he needs any ounce of heat that he can get and maintain. Despite the agitation stemming from a brain that isn’t fully aware of the body’s condition.

Eventually, Giorno settles. Only then does Leone back away, sitting on the cot across the room that the boy once occupied. He supposes he’ll take it for the night, seeing how restless Giorno is moving in his sleep. He’ll fall within a minute if he moves him to the cot. Not that he particularly wants to have to carry him. Kicked from his own bed, but it’s easier this way, he’ll concede.

He stares at the wall. Giorno within his sightline out of the corner of his eye. As he thinks to himself, he’s making a mental checklist. The kid has nothing. Came to them with only that pink suit. 

He’ll need clothes. More than just the pairs of Bruno’s old clothing that he’s moving to pull from drawers. He’ll need toiletries. His own room, of course; he’s a teenager, not an infant, he can’t keep bunking with them now that they won’t be hiding his existence. He thinks of all the furniture needed for the room, believing the bed and desk of the guest room won’t be enough.

Leone tries to settle his mind. Keyword when he remains staring at the wall. The sun raises higher behind the curtains.

It’s sudden as the door creaks open some. He startles, believing that it’s Bruno. It’s not. He sees Narancia’s head peeks in some. Eyes falling straight onto Giorno. He’s silent. In a way that Leone knows his mind is forming multiple questions he doesn’t know how to word. So, he doesn’t demand any answers yet from Leone’s sat form in the corner. His face is only questioning as he gives a small hum to himself. With Bucciarati’s explanation and the way it proves true when the evidence is right in front of him, he’s making this quiet mental peace.

Until he’s yanked out. His body slammed against the doorframe from the force. Leone rises some, hearing Fugo yelling at the older. The following smack echoed in the hallway before their voices faded away.

He swallows harshly. Just as another figure comes into the doorframe.

“The capos will be arriving soon.” Bucciarati doesn’t look at him. Much less spare a glance to Giorno. 

He nods silently. No one speaks to each other in the office. Bucciarati sits down. Mista and Leone behind him on either side. Mista’s eyes are pointed down when Leone steals a glance. His eyebrows knitted together, looking conflicted. Differs from the cold expression Fugo adorns as he stands near the window, watching for arrivals. Narancia’s in a seat next to him. His cheek is red, but he smiles at Leone when he feels his stare. 

He gives him a small nod. His eyes catch Bruno opening the ring box. He looks forward. Counting the time.

Leone’s the first one to leave when they’re dismissed. He feels eyes on him. One thing had changed in the time he’d been gone.

There’s a shuffle that comes from the bed when he opens the door. A low sound emits from the bundle underneath the blanket. Green eyes are a haze when they crack open. Barely able to hold as he goes to look around the room. In his pain, the fear can’t be hidden from his face.

“Right here.” Leone says before he can think.

Giorno doesn’t respond. He’s trying to push himself up. Breathing heavily. Still strained. Still puffs of air passing between blue lips. Arms give out beneath him. He collapses into the mattress. The springs are bouncing.

Leone hesitates, but comes to sit on the edge of the bed. Staring down at him. He sees a flicker in Giorno’s eyes. His expression loosens some.

“It worked–?” His voice is a croak.

Leone grabs for his hand. Harsh enough that Giorno stiffens, confused until his flat palm is pressed against his chest and held there. The man doesn’t say a word to him. Doesn’t need to when he feels it. The rise and fall. A steady beat underneath. He released a shaky breath. Low.

“It worked.” He repeats. For once he doesn’t find it useless either.

Leone stays silent. Giorno looks around the room again.

“Bucciarati?” He asks quietly. His head tilted to the side as he stole a glance at the door, like the other would appear any moment. His eyebrows furrow when Leone’s hand stiffens against his, still holding on before it drops. 

How does he explain? For a mere moment, Leone wants to come up with some lie, thinking he’ll spare him, but it’s the one thing he agrees with Bruno on out of their entire conversation. The truth will always find a way to be known. It won’t spare him.

So, he tells him. When he finishes, Giorno only gives a quiet nod. He lies back down, turning away from Leone. 

It’s how the days that follow go. Silent. Despondent. He tries to cover it when he sleeps through the majority. The colour begins to come back. His breathing begins to grow stronger. Bruno moves into the guest room for the time–being. Coming in to gather his items when he’s sure that Giorno is in a deep enough sleep. He doesn’t say anything. Only stealing indifferent glances that Leone can’t read through. Neither spoke a word to one another as the Don packed silently. Leone has to try not to tense each time the door shuts and the space inevitably grows between them.

He stays by Giorno’s side and through it starts to see the impact the longer Giorno’s able to stay awake. Eating is a difficult notion. Everything is a difficult notion when Giorno doesn’t seem to hold an interest in anything. He stares blankly at the wall.

Leone sighs, placing the plate down. He is trying, but trying is barely eliciting any type of reaction. The food goes untouched. Clothes he tosses his way go ignored until they fall off the bed. The hairbrush placed in his hand hits the bedside table without a grasping grip. He can’t tell what Giorno is thinking. 

He turns around, brushing his hair back from his face. Giorno doesn’t blink. He doesn’t know how to spark a reaction. Hadn’t quite imagined what would come after. That’s further on him.

“Abbacchio.” 

He looks up. Fugo’s in the doorframe. Arms are crossed with a folder pressed against his chest. 

“I need you for a moment.” The consigliere says. A title Fugo struggled to accept, and still hasn’t. He just came back. Bucciarati finding him in an instance. A discussion solely between them long. Meant to make the wounds hurt less, but Fugo didn't want his cowardice to be let go so easily. The role was undeserving. He felt Abbacchio or even Mista would be a better fit, but Bruno only shook his head. Long before…this all happened. The two are capable, but their abilities sway elsewhere. So, he’s left with a role that makes him dread waking each morning.

Leone nods, moving to follow after, but Fugo doesn’t step away. He’s staring at Giorno.

“Go on.” Fugo says to him stiffly. “I’ll meet up.” 

Alarm bells begin to ring. 

“Fugo,” He tries. Only receiving a cold glare. 

“Watch it.” The kid growls. “Go on.” He repeats.

Fugo steps in as he steps out. Listening for the uncertain footsteps to fade. Fugo meets Giorno’s eyes. His movements are slow as he simply stares him down. There’s not a shift in either expression. 

“You’re the reason Bucciarati betrayed the boss.” He says quietly. It doesn’t hide the heat in the slightest. “At least partially.” Trish is another at fault. He felt his lips curl in disgust. 

There’s not a response. Fugo walks around to the side of the bed he’s closest to. 

“You almost got my family killed.” He stands directly in front of him. Giorno has to lift his chin to keep eye contact. There are dark circles under his eyes. His cheeks are sunken. Fugo could still mistake him for a corpse despite the pinkish hue of skin slowly crawling its way back. “God, this is just pathetic.” A thought he says out loud. 

He backs away. 

“Did he tell you?” 

He pauses at the rasp. “Everything. The whole truth.” From a broken neck to the arrow. 

Giorno says nothing. 

“Abbacchio’s kinder to you than you deserve.” Fugo continues on. Unbelieving the behavior of the man. “I believe it’s only out of guilt. Or perhaps he feels as if he owed you one. Whatever it is, it’s not true care. You think he’ll go through this trouble if you die once more?” 

Fugo believes they both know the answer.

“He only did it because he yearned for the man he was before. He’ll act as if that man is dead, but he still digs through the buried grave to find him. It’s not about you, Giorno.”

He lingers for a moment.

“You were there. In Pompeii, weren’t you?” Nothing. “You saw Purple Haze. What he’s capable of?” He doesn’t need the nod. Giorno’s eyes say it all. This specific glint. Not fear. Not quite interest either. This quiet stir that he cannot name. “I want you to know, Giovanna, that I won’t risk losing my family again.” 

He walks out. Giorno watches the door slam shut. He’s not scared. The threat was almost childishly humorous. Stirred by pure emotion. Still, he doesn’t quite know how to feel. Just knows that he hears the words clear and allows for them to sink in. There’s a shadow in the window. Giorno catches sight of a bird. He watches it perch on the window sill outside, pecking slightly. It’s then that Giorno sees the sight of himself in the reflection of the mirror. 

He almost doesn’t recognize the image he sees. 

Abbacchio made himself at home in the teenager's office, lazing against the armchair as Fugo came around his desk. A certain tension in his jaw, but he tries to swallow everything back. Trying to remain professional–

“You’re getting too close.” He can’t hold back.

Abbacchio hums. “I don’t agree.” He watches the scarlet hue grow. “Fugo, I respect your title.” He’s proud of him, in all honesty. No longer that 13–year–old he met. The kid won’t believe it, but he does deserve this. Despite how the betrayal of the previous Don went. “He’s your age.”

He won’t heed the warning. For a moment, he sees Fugo falter. Not out of anger, but this certain type of fear that he knows well. Of course he does. He held this kid on some of his worst nights. Talked him down from the anger that tried to swallow him whole and through the panic attacks that made him feel broken. He allowed him to take anything he needed. 

“Are you going to give me your orders already?” He asks.

Fugo scoffs. Hearing what he’s trying to say and mean. A reminder that he’s still here.

Giorno’s sitting by the bookshelf when he comes back. Flipping through the pages of a book. He’s dressed in clean clothes Leone laid out days ago. His hair is still damp and smells floral from the shower. Probably used his shampoo, he rolls his eyes. Half of the food on the plate has been eaten. His eyes drooped from the energy it had all taken, limbs shaking from the exertion of what’s considered small and regular movements, but it’s a change. The two won’t say anything about it. Yet, Leone feels his shoulders lose half of their tension.

It’s a start. 

“Abbacchio?” 

There’s more to come as the days steadily pass.

God, he hates how soft that voice is. The lack of strength found in it. Makes him want to scream, but Giorno doesn’t deserve to bear a lashing, even if that never stopped Leone before from being nasty towards the others in the midst of frustrations or wanting to feel something. 

He mentally makes an exception for this blonde hair brat and doesn’t fully know why.

“What?” He asks. Voice still manages that gruffness that shows he isn’t too soft.

“Are the others home?” 

He pauses slightly. “No.” He confirms. “Just us.” 

He saw the glances everyone took at one another when he declined to go out. Small. As if not to be caught. Bruno stood in the background, staring him down. Eyes growing cold before he turned his head. 

He sees how Giorno perks up slightly. His head tilted towards him from the vanity seat. The hairbrush is hovering against golden strands. Leone glances over his book from the armchair in the corner, feigning annoyance at the pause. 

“What?” He asks gruffly, receiving a small hum.

“I want to go outside.” He says.

It makes him fall quiet. “You think that’s a good idea?” 

Giorno glares slightly. Leone rolls his eyes.

“Fine. Only if you can walk. I’m not carrying you, brat.” He already had to help him to the vanity when he stumbled. Limbs still exhausted. A body still figuring out how it works in this state it should have never found itself in.

Giorno smiles at him. 

The late spring finds itself humid. Grass, a bright green, in the expansive backyard. An overgrown garden area, where not many plants remain; flowerbeds tangled with weeds. The flowers that do remain, whether planted or having grown naturally, have not received their proper care. 

Giorno lies in the grass. Blonde hair fanning out around him. His eyes have slipped shut. There’s not a crease to his eyebrows or a pinch to his face. He simply feels the ray of sunshine on his face. 

Leone sits near him. Still reading. Sparing glances. 

“Kid?” He startled at the sound of his own voice. 

Giorno hums. Not opening his eyes. 

‘Do you regret it?’ Are words that float in his mind. Words that he wants to ask.

‘Is it difficult?’ Are another set. He can never tell what Giorno is thinking. 

‘Would passing on have been easier for you?’ Is close to, ‘Did I overstep?’ He keeps quiet. It’s not on Giorno to bear those questions. He lets the boy relax. There’s a sliver of a smile pulling at Giorno’s lips. Finding a sparse moment of peace. 

‘I–’ He doesn’t say it. Finds that he can't. The words are too much for his mind that they disappear within a blink. He takes a breath. Stays silent. 

Giorno doesn't question it. How can he? He knows how it feels to know the words, but finds yourself unable to say them. He leaves it be. Leone feels relieved. 

There's a screeching noise. 

"What the hell?" The older huffs.

He glances back at the sudden noise. Narancia is standing near the back door. Mista’s figure is in the frame. Both watching and staring at Giorno. The older’s face is twisted. He goes to turn away, reaching out for Narancia, but his hand is shaken away.

He stalks forward, coming to sit beside Leone. He doesn’t say anything to Giorno, doesn’t introduce himself or ask him any probing questions the way he did to Mista when he joined and to Abbacchio when they met. Solely begins to ramble about the movie to Leone. Yet, he sees through him, knowing that it’s meant for ‌both of them. When his eyes flicker, Giorno’s head is tilted in their direction. Listening. 

“Oh, and Abba–” 

The door from behind slammed shut. Mista storms through the hallway, taking a fast turn into the kitchen. He throws open the fridge door, a tight grip reaching for the can of pop, before the door is thrown forward. A vibrating rattle lingering throughout the room. His face is red.

“What is your problem?” He hadn’t noticed Fugo sitting at the kitchen island, papers spread around him. Just got back and he’s already back to work. He rolls his eyes. A motion he couldn’t see, as his eyes remained downcast, cheek resting against the palm of his hand.

“He left the room.” Mista spits out.

That’s all that needs to be said when Fugo’s head snaps up. Mista gestures toward the window. Fugo’s face twists the same as his seeing the patch of blonde hair. Messy and undone. A disgusting sight.

“He must have done something.” Mista’s voice is strained as he leans against the counter. “More than just killing Luca for Bucciarati to lash out like that, you know?”

Fugo doesn’t answer. Bucciarati was truthful, but sparse in the deeper details. It was a clinical retelling. He knows he won’t get anymore than what he’s been told. That the words Bucciarati and Giorno gave to one another will be kept under lock and key. They’ll never truly know.

What they do know is the savior behind the man. That’s what matters the most. Important to remember. Fugo questioned his judgement once before, faltering in his loyalty. He won’t do that again. Won’t come anywhere close to.

“And now you have Narancia trying to buddy up with him!” Mista goes on with a sneer. “How stupid is he?” 

“Just ignore him.” Fugo snaps, scrawling on the packet of papers. “I’m not going to pretend he’s a part of the team.” 

Mista huffs. The can of soda is cold against his palm. He looks back at the window. 

“I know Bucciarati more than him.” Fugo whispers. 

There’s silence, then Mista gives a small chuckle. 

“Now I know why Trish left so fast.” He mutters. Why she looked scared of being in a room with Bucciarati. With any of them. “She knew.” 

“She doesn’t know him either. Not really. The fear made her ungrateful when you all put your lives ‌on the line for her.”

Mista smirks. “God, her bitchy attitude was entertaining, though. I’ll miss that.”

“I won’t.” Trish is barely ever a thought in Fugo’s mind. He doesn’t miss her. Doesn’t care for where she is, how her life is, anything about her. Trish’s disappearance was enough and relieving. “Narancia is naïve. Always has been. He’ll learn eventually.”

They’ll make sure. As his friends. His family. 

Begrudgingly, Giorno is a part of Passione. A part of their team. Bruno has to look him in the eyes at each meeting. With each order he gives, him those green eyes stare blankly back at him. Nodding along, carrying out everything he says without a word that he knows he wants to give. 

Bruno sees it so clearly: the hesitation in his feet each time he moves to turn away. The way his features flicker. The hand that stops on the doorknob of his office. 

He never says it. Bruno doesn’t ask. They both turn away. 

There’s dust lingering in the bedroom. Gathering in the plenty of empty spaces when it remains barren. His own bedroom. If it weren’t for the crumpled sheets, you couldn’t tell that someone resided in this room. Abbacchio tried, he’ll give him credit, but Giorno supposes at the end of the day he only needed a bed. He doesn’t take more than he’s given. Believes he’s done it enough. The notion of decorating is useless. 

It’s not his home. 

Giorno stares straight forward as he feels the wounds heal. Invisible motions of the skin smoothing itself together. It creates a low sting. Gold Experience hovers over his shoulder. He won. The mission went in his favor. He gave his reports to Bucciarati. The man stared at the bruise on his cheek the whole time. Giving a wordless nod and turning back to the computer to feign the notion of swamping business pulling him away. 

He knew the truth. The words are on his tongue. Switching between quiet questions to burning accusations. Both pull painfully at him. He always purses his lips together and straightens his posture. Suppose that he takes it laying down, and doesn’t that burn his soul further and make the desire grow? Yes. 

“Thank you, Gold,” Giorno mutters underneath his breath as the cuts close. “You can go now.” 

His Stand hesitates. Only another similar aspect. Giorno turns, glancing over his shoulder. Giving a gaze that’s meant to be of comfort, but it’s dull. Gold Experience flinches back, and Giorno wonders if his Stand will ever forget his lifeless face and the cold, stiff body that resided in the casket. Giorno blinks. He breathes. Moves on his own and maintains the warmth of the sun that beats down on him in the days he spends out in the garden. Alive. Will that ever sink in?

There’s a small nod. His Stand disappears. 

He sits on the edge of his bed. Feeling his body curl in on itself as he looks at the floor. A motion that pulls at the still lingering aches and bruises. 

Giorno Giovanna has got his dream. At least partially. He may not be the Don, but he’s part of his line–up of top men. When it comes to the sake of Passione, Giorno and Bucciarati agree, much to the irritation of Fugo. Who watches their back and forth, the way they listen to one another and for a split moment appear in sync, and Fugo grips his pen tighter. Feeling the creak beneath, ready to spill the ink. 

He got his dream. Isn’t that enough? Giorno has long since known to stop expecting. That he’s selfish for wanting anything more.

He knows better. Watches his place. The way he always has. Giorno keeps his head down, stays silent, doesn’t get too close because trying is noticed by Mista’s gun. The older one watches him. A hand resting on his hip, and Giorno doesn’t need to guess when the metallic of the weapon glints under the lights. He does it when Bucciarati isn’t looking, but Fugo is smirking. As if in pride. 

The garden stays overgrown. It feels like a waste of such a space, but Giorno doesn’t touch it. Doesn’t have the right to. The only disturbance to the escape comes by the use of training. Learning Gold Experience’s full potential, becoming used to their being, was cut too short. The adrenaline borne from their mission didn’t do justice in that knowledge. He seeks to right it now. Taking his time to know everything his Stand is capable of. Through it, he feels his heart beat harshly. Not from the physical exertion, but something more he can’t name. It makes his sweat cold and his hands shake. 

Narancia leans against the back door, watching without a word. A glimpse of interest shining in his eyes as he watches Gold Experience. A motion Giorno can admit that he shares when seeing Narancia with Aerosmith up close brought a certain spark that made him lean closer and eat up each way Narancia and Aerosmith interacted. In–tune and confident. He watches how they interact with the others’ Stands. 

He looks back at Gold Experience. They’re getting there. Time isn’t limited.