Chapter Text
“AHAHAHAHA!! Is that it, Giorno? Is that all the pathetic resolve you got?!”
Giorno staggered to his feet, legs trembling as he attempted to stand and gun trained on the ice-clad stand user hunched some few metres away. His body was at its limit- he could feel the bite of countless bullet holes riddled all over him, some just barely healed with the skin pulled tight and thin over an open wound, others bleeding profusely, endless rivers of blood flowing down his legs. His opponent was just as worse for wear but no less threatening and, for the moment, safe behind a shield of impenetrable, floating ice particles.
The Eyes stayed floating by his head, distraught. Even as they “healed” the almost self-inflicted wounds of their user’s bullets, they could not stop the blood bath. It was futile; every hole they closed, transforming the bullet into new skin, sinew and tissue, it seemed two more took its place, erupting into still more fountains of blood. And yet, Giorno kept on; he fired bullet after bullet, then watched them ricochet back to him like a demented metronome set to bullet time.
And through it all, the stand user just laughed. He sneered and guffawed even with his body partially impaled on the pole behind him. A single well timed bullet could end it all that very second, sending the man staggering back and ending his pathetic life on the very thing keeping it alive at the moment.
But no matter what Giorno did, it was clear he simply could not compete with a stand like his. The frigid air stopped any and all life from sprouting anew in the bullets that Giorno fired, save for anything too small to matter at this point. They could never pierce the man’s icy armor, let alone make it past the wall of ice particles he kept surrounding him.
And so, it was here that Giorno, for the first time… felt his resolve waver.
“Giorno!!! You gotta stop!” Cried one of the Eyes, its little hands grasping at the barrel of Giorno’s gun. “Stop shooting- you’ll die before he does!!”
“N-No… I won’t.” But his own hand wavered, aim obscured by blurring vision.
“Giorno, if you continue I predict only a 10% chance of survivability!!”
“M-My resolve is-”
Another bullet ripped through Giorno’s torso, bursting out the back of his sweater in a shower of blood.
“Giorno… we’re fading…”
His head spun as if he was on a carousel, but he dug in his heels.
“Urgh! N-Not yet, not until he’s… he’s dead! As long as I still have resolve…!”
Giorno lifted his quivering hand up once again, gun cocked and ready-
Just think of the bottles…
-lined it up with his enemy’s head and...
Just think of the training.. the bottles-
The last bullet shot out of its chamber with one final resounding bang. Miraculously, it was projected point-blank at the stand user’s head. A clean trajectory, and if nothing else Giorno was sure the impact would be enough to shock the man into stumbling backwards, pushing the pole further into his neck and ending this awful, grueling night at once.
If only Giorno could have done something about the other bullet, the final one that had been ricocheting back and forth across the stand user’s ice field.
“Your head, Giorno!! It’s coming for-”
Too late- Giorno had seen it and had known what it meant, long before he accepted it in his heart. The last of his resolve had fizzled out with the smoke trail of his last attempt at the stand user’s life and with it went all of his remaining strength. His knees buckled and collided with the floor sharply, but Giorno was past the point of registering any pain. The sight of the enemy gurgling, spitting up fountains and fountains of blood as he writhed and twitched was enough for Giorno to accept his fate, eyes slipping closed.
But then, fate had other plans.
A sound, like bullet bouncing off metal echoed in his ears.
Giorno opened his eyes a sliver, squinting into the light of the new dawn. He saw a stand with its skeletal body hunched over him, its arm bent protectively over Giorno’s face. The pain he had expected, the dark spots in his vision he’d thought would soon fall over him like a black funeral veil, never came. Instead he was overwhelmed by a feeling of…
Resolve. Rushing back into him, like a tidal wave.
“Giorno, Giorno, Giorno…” Came Mista’s voice, growing gradually louder as he neared. “You are one crazy bastard, I gotta say!”
Mista was stooped over him now, his arms cradling Giorno’s mutilated body as his stand took a step back to guard its user. He took one sweeping look at Giorno and sighed, amused, and smiling all the while.
“Listen, dude, if I were you… just ‘cus my stand can heal me and all that jazz… it doesn’t mean I gotta mangle myself into swiss cheese every fight. Look at you, man- how are you gonna walk like this? You got bullet holes so deep I can see right through them. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you did do a damn good job carryin’ us here and taking care of that guy but- man, Giorno, we need to have a talk about self-preservation later!”
He laid Giorno’s body gently down on the pavement. Grimacing, Giorno felt his limbs collapse like jelly onto the hard surface, and he swiftly found himself rather unceremoniously sprawled out and prone in front of Mista. Quite an embarrassing state of affairs, but he didn’t have any snarky remarks to say about it this time, accepting that he had, well, lost this one. For now. Mista was right, but it didn’t mean he was right right. If Giorno hadn’t done what he’d done, they’d have lost the disk and along with it, Giorno’s chance at meeting the boss. But, if Mista hadn’t had such impeccable timing… well, it was safe to say Giorno’s chances were also dashed in that scenario. Because he’d be dead.
He wanted to stand but decided against it when just the thought of lifting his leg shot a spark of pain up his thigh. Instead, he raised his head up minutely, groaned when that, too, hurt and as such, only caught a glimpse of Mista picking up a disk off the stand user’s body. Not longer after, Mista returned, elated, face shining brighter than perhaps even the sun behind them.
“Well anyways, we won!” Mista said, peering down once more at Giorno’s aching body. “And all thanks to you, buddy. That’s some crazy resolve you got there!” He knelt down beside Giorno, his smile faltering slightly. “But don't do that again, ya hear? I mean it! Now hurry up and heal yourself, the others should be here soon.”
Now, Giorno should indeed be inclined to patch himself up, as he was very quickly losing a worrying- as in, mere minutes from dying worrying- amount of blood, but as it were, he was preoccupied with other matters at hand. It was a thought spared on his condition; with his arms and legs spread out as far as they could go while he laid face up on the ground, exhausted as can be from both the bullet wounds and exertion from fighting, Giorno thought he looked as close as he could to a starfish. It may be a strange thought for one to have at that moment but like many things surrounding Giorno, there was a smidgen of logic to it. In many ways, Giorno sometimes wished he was a starfish- physically, mentally, perhaps even spiritually. For one, he wouldn’t have, or even need a stand, thus sparing him from their inane chatter as they buzz around in his head, imploring if he was okay (of course he was fucking okay, he’s alive isn’t he?!). Starfish did not have the mental capacity to even consider the practicality of a stand, after all. More importantly, however, it meant he could spare himself the ordeal that was “healing” himself with Goldeneye, if only he were a goddamn starfish that can just regenerate limbs- then all he’d need was a very sharp knife and a bit of time to hack his arms and legs off. Or forget the knife, maybe Mista’s stand can prove useful here, it’s probably strong enough to do a little amputation, or two, or three… and then he was off to the races! As soon as his limbs grew back of course, but then again he wasn’t literally off to the ra-
“Hey Giorno! Come on man, ya gonna bleed out if you just lie there!”
…right, of course. Only in such cases of extreme blood loss as he currently found himself would Giorno’s mind dare to wander towards... starfish, of all things. Or maybe he just wanted to delay the inevitable as much as he possibly could. He shuddered, bringing a trembling hand up to his chest, gingerly touching a spot where a bullet had lodged itself particularly deep.
"S-Sure, Mista. I'll… get to it… it s-seems you never fail to look after me, despite my best efforts.. as much as I’d like to take all the c-credit in this fight… I appreciate your help back there. Once again y-you’ve proven how capable your stand is to me.” He brought the hand back down to his side, clenching it. “N-Now… one thing you should know… is that Goldeneye’s ability is not to heal, p-per se.”
As if on cue, the Eyes made themselves known, quickly taking their places atop the worst of Giorno’s wounds.
“I-It can give life to the bullets embedded within my body t-to replace blood vessels and organs, but the process is VERY-” Giorno swallowed down a cry that ripped through his throat as Goldeneye’s torturous therapy began. “-PAINFUL. N-Now, please just sit over there and EUGH!”
Whether Mista responded or not mattered little to Giorno as soon enough, the pain was leaving him thrashing his limbs all about and writhing like a fish left beached on the shoreside, eyes screwed shut and mouth wide with agonous cries. It was as if the bullets were being ripped out of his body and replaced with a multitude of knives entrenching themselves into the gulf they left behind in their absence; a sensation so deeply painful, Giorno felt his brain flatline- consciousness was quickly slipping away from him, his screams all that he heard in the echoes of his brain.
Oh truly, would he have loved to be a brainless starfish at that very moment…
But in between his thrashes, in still moments where perhaps Goldeneye had deigned to spare him a thought or to let him catch his breath after all that screaming, one idea did ping pong itself around in his head, gone in the throes of pain, and back again as it receded.
It was something that Mista had said which caught Giorno’s ear; he’d mentioned the boy’s resolve. According to Mista, it was thanks to Giorno’s golden, unshakeable resolve that the two of them were able to come out on top. Giorno wasn’t one to gloat but he’d admit that this one comment did get to his head, a bit. Sure, he had to be bailed out at the end there, but- he’d told Mista, hadn’t he? Coupled with this resolve, his stand was…
Well…
Not all that unbeatable, it seemed.
To be fair, however, it’s not like Giorno expected a stand like this one to exist. Nor could he have imagined the exact circumstances that stand landed him in. Neither could he have…
Excuses. All of it was excuses. The truth of the matter, that he didn’t want to admit, was this: he needed Mista’s help. He’d run off ahead, leaving Mista to languish behind in their car, only to stop just short of death’s maw. And as Giorno fumbled around in the dark, gun in hand and shooting headlong into the proverbial abyss, Mista was lighting the path ahead all along- the path they were to take. Together.
Giorno had cut it extremely close, and it could have all been prevented if only he’d… allowed Mista to help him in the first place.
Because in the end, it was their resolve, together, that pulled them through today. Not Giorno’s, not Goldeneye’s, not even Sex Bomb’s.
And if he wasn’t to admit that freely to himself, he knew he’d only inch closer and closer to his own self-destruction.
–
–
A little later, once the gang had all reconvened inside the turtle, Narancia would come up to Giorno with a question on the quirk of his lips and confusion clouding his big, saucer-shaped eyes; none of which were encouraging, but Giorno wasn’t in the mood for mustering up any sort of annoyance at the boy right now. He couldn’t even move his arm. So instead, he elected to listen as he laid sprawled out on the couch, an ache in every single bone, joint and muscle.
As the story went, Narancia had originally rode up his boat to the dock while Giorno was… well… “patching himself up,” as he decided to put it. The boy had called out to the pair with a frantic wave, only to dismiss himself promptly at the sight of Giorno screaming whilst flailing all over the floor. Standing next to him was Mista, who reciprocated the wave but not much else, his face looking like he’d taken great pains to express as genuine a smile as possible.
But, at the very least they were, relatively, okay and that’s all that mattered.
Narancia carried on. He’d informed the group of the current state of their companions, a big emphasis being on Giorno’s… behavior, only for Fugo to scoff and claim “that’s just Giorno.” He himself was apparently familiar with these antics and assured Narancia there was nothing to worry about. Abbacchio, meanwhile, made some other disparaging remark that Narancia didn’t quite catch (though knowing Abbacchio, the smile he held on his face meant it couldn’t be anything positive) and Bucciarati… sat in the corner holding his head in his hands. Narancia had thought this was funny and remarked that their capo reminded him of a turtle in that state (Bucciarati in the present, still in said corner, cast a reproaching glare in the boy’s direction at this comment).
To round off the roll call was Trish- the new girl, Giorno reminded himself- and her contribution was to file off her nails as this was all happening, looking as miserable as ever. Maybe they should have bought that magazine she so desperately wanted earlier.
So through all of this, what had Narancia wanted? He’d forgotten completely, lost in the entertaining novel he was spinning to Giorno. But that was alright with him, Giorno was half asleep anyway. He was nearly depleted from his prior escapade and would like it very much if the universe allowed him at least one break. Just one. A single, momentary break from the bizarre misadventures of Giorno Giovanna that this journey turned out to be.
As sleep claimed him more and more, he hoped that they could just drop off the girl and be on their merry way, no further bumps in the road.
He hoped, hoped, hoped but knew all too well what that “hope” always amounted to.
–
–
The stench of mold hung heavily in the stagnant air, filling Giorno’s nostrils with rot.
His eyes were fixed to the sky, watching with trepidation a helicopter hover just out of reach of his gun, the deafening sound of its blades drowning out the familiar hustle and bustle of the city of Roma and Giorno’s racing thoughts. If the stand user kept up their madness any longer, what remained of the city would soon only be the buildings and the memories of the people who once inhabited them. It was absolutely imperative that they did something but… high above them, the enemy was out of the range of any of their stands, including his own foul, flesh-eating mold. And down below, to make matters worse, another stand user swam the concrete canals of Roma’s streets like a shark through open water. They were trapped on all fronts.
But Giorno knew what needed to be done.
“No! Mista, Giorno, we’re in trouble!” Cried Bucciarati, his voice muffled by the roar of the helicopter’s blades. “The mold will just keep spreading until it reaches the man in the colosseum! We need to stop it before we lose him, too!” He turned to Giorno. “Giorno, are you absolutely certain your gun can’t reach the helicopter? Not even close?”
“Bucciarati, surely you are aware of how much I hate repeating myself?”
Bucciarati’s face turned sour. “This isn’t the time for your-”
“My gun is a hunk of steel and aluminum. It’s not a stand, it’s just a normal gun like any other. There’s absolutely no hope of a bullet from this thing getting any further than that lamp across the street over there-”
Giorno cast Mista a glance from the corner of his eye, the man’s face growing similarly sullen the longer he spoke.
“-on its own.”
He twirled the gun out of his pocket and into his hands as his teammates’ faces fell further, into utter confusion. Oh, surely, Giorno thought, if they were lost now, he wasn’t gonna win back their approval with this next speech. He needed to choose his words wisely.
“Mista, your support earlier with that ice stand user inspired something within me. It ignited a resolve in me that I’d nearly forgotten, one so bright as to illuminate a clear and unbroken path to our imminent victory.” Slowly, so as not to betray his current state of being linguistically challenged, Giorno loaded each bullet into their chamber. “I see this path now, as clear as the dawn breaking over the horizon, as… brilliant as the sun’s reflection on still water, a path that-”
“GIORNO, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING ON ABOUT NOW?! We’re gonna fucking die, man-”
Finally, he flicked the cylinder into place with a resounding click. “-my bullets will take, to stop that helicopter in swift order.”
“Wha… What?!”
Giorno raised his gun. “Mista-” Brought it to eye level. “-call out your Sex Bomb. As you did before.” Then cocked it, lined it up- his hands steadier than they’ve ever been.
“Let’s show them our resolve.”
Bewildered still, Mista nonetheless called out Sex Bomb, the stand taking a solemn stance beside Giorno and placing its ghostly hand over Giorno’s own, gripping the backstrap.
The effect was immediate. As Giorno’s eyes zoned in on his target, so too did Sex Bomb’s- the stand providing an entirely inhuman precision to his actions. It felt almost like an invisible set of crosshairs were giving him guidance, showing him exactly where his bullets were to land. Giorno briefly wondered why Mista never carried a gun, himself- he was a gangster, wasn’t he?- his stand was that precise.
But that was a thought for later. Giorno wasted no time in firing the gun three consecutive times, all three shots landing squarely into the brick and mortar of a towering building, just short of the helicopter.
“N-No good, Giorno! Sex Bomb can aim for you all day, but your wimpy gun’s not gonna reach! No way in hell!”
“Giorno-” Bucciarati spoke up, finally, his bewilderment giving way for an odd, yet not unforeseen despair. “-please tell me this is part of some strange plan of yours… please, for God’s sake-”
“My bullets did reach! They have hit the mark far better than I could have ever done, with silly bottles or otherwise!” Giorno pointed at the building, more insistently when his teammates continued looking at him like lost sheep. As they turned their gazes toward the imposing structure, large creeping vines and branches grew out of the crevices of the crumbling brick, verdant and charged with the will to live- to climb and climb all the way up to the unsightly helicopter, now threatened with the prospect of losing its mobility entirely.
“N-No way!”
Satisfied with his work, Giorno emptied his gun of the shell casings and stashed it away. “Bucciarati- Mista and I will take care of the man in the helicopter. I trust you can handle the other stand user? …Bucciarati?”
Bucciarati said nothing. Giorno turned to him and waved his arm out in a plea to get his attention, but both of his teammates were currently busy making their best impression of a tree- standing, arms out with their heads propped high towards the heavens in their own plea for life. Giorno dropped his arm with a sigh.
“Dude… you really are one goddamn crazy bastard,” mumbled Mista.
“R-Right, yes, v-very good. I suppose that- that’s settled then.” Bucciarati startled out of his apparent daze, shaking his head like he was willing his brain cells to work again. “I will indeed take care of our underground foe. You just go on ahead with Mista, Giorno. Please. Leave.”
Giorno gave him a half-hearted salute before trotting down the street, Mista following not long after (but not before tripping a few feet over some imaginary loose gravel). As much as he would have liked to stay and gloat, this wasn’t the time nor place, clearly. He wasn’t yet done here. He really needed to turn his attention to the user of the mold stand before he could catch his breath.
But even so, his mind was instead racing with other, impudent thoughts, one such as:
Phew! I can’t believe that actually worked. The alternative was just to jump in the canal again and see what happens this time. It looks like Mista’s stand has come in handy for me twice now. Hm. Maybe there’s some truth in this ‘teamwork’ schtick after all. Though, it’s not like I’ll ever let Mista know of this. Never.
His thoughts aside, however, and unbeknownst to him, there was a small but brilliant glimmer in Giorno’s psyche, ignited by the recent events that unfolded this very week; a glimmer that could only be founded on the notion of familiarity and camaraderie.
As the helicopter came more and more into view, so too did the glimmer grow and blossom into one that future Giorno would only begrudgingly call… fondness.
And thus arose the beginnings of Giorno Giovanna’s very first “friendship.”