Chapter Text
A sharp jolt rattled the chassis, sending your head hard against a solid surface. Your eyes fluttered open with a groggy grunt, your hands instinctively rising to your forehead. “Ugh… what happened?” you mumbled, rubbing the sore spot.
“Sorry, tesoro,” Mista said, his brown eyes shifting to you with obvious worry. “You ended up falling asleep on my shoulder.” He immediately leaned forward, shouting toward the front of the van. “Hey, Giorno! Watch out for the potholes, will ya? You just woke Tesoro right out of her beauty sleep!”
From the rearview mirror, Giorno’s green eyes caught yours, his expression instantly softening. “My apologies, Dolcezza. I’ll be more careful with my driving. Please, try to get some more rest.”
“Thanks, GioGio,” you murmured sleepily, thoroughly enjoying the immediate flush that crept up his cheeks at the nickname before he looked away. “But I’m fully awake now; that quick nap actually did wonders.”
From the front row, Bruno turned around in his seat to face you, his expression uncharacteristically grave. “Fugo, Abbacchio, and Giorno explained what happened in the ruins. They mentioned you passed out from pure exhaustion after your fight against the assassin.”
You offered a small nod, your throat feeling incredibly dry. I just hope Fugo kept the details about my little negotiation stunt to himself, you prayed internally.
“However,” Bruno continued, his voice dropping to a serious tone, “there are matters regarding the events of today that we will need to discuss in private later.”
A sudden wave of panic washed over you. Oh god, what is it? Did Fugo tell him something? Or is Bruno still dwelling on how I froze at the boutique? Before the anxiety could take over, a sharp, burning ache spread across your ribs, forcing a sharp hiss through your teeth.
“Are you alright?” Trish asked softly. She hesitated for a fraction of a second before gently placing a hand on your shoulder.
Because of the shifting dynamics, the seating arrangement in the van had been altered from the original one. Instead of being isolated, Trish was sitting to your right, Mista occupied the space to your left, and Fugo sat in the single row directly ahead of you.
Right, you realized, this is the exact scene where Fugo would have accidentally groped Trish due to a sudden stop. But with the seats rearranged, that awkward mess won’t happen.
Forcing a wobbly smile, you looked over at Trish. “Giorno did a phenomenal job with the first aid, but I might need him to play doctor again,” you joked weakly, clutching your bruised side. “I swear, these assassins have a personal vendetta against me. That’s three in a row.”
You quickly mapped out the dates in your head to stabilize your racing thoughts. Koichi had arrived in Napoli, Italy, on March 29th, the same day you were dropped into this world. The final battle of Golden Wind happens on April 6th, 2001. That meant today was officially April 1st. It was going to be the longest, most brutal day of constantly fighting, Stand users. I have to save Pesci and Prosciutto, you thought, a cold determination anchoring your mind.
The thick silence in the van remained unbroken; nobody laughed at your attempt at humor. Instead, the boys simply stared at you with quiet concern.
“Seriously, I feel much better,” you lied, knowing that if you admitted you felt like you’d been run over by a bus, they wouldn’t let you fight the next assassin. “By the way… what happened to that assassin in the ruins?”
The men exchanged a series of brief, uncomfortable glances. Mista cleared his throat, subtly tilting his head toward Trish to signal that they shouldn’t discuss Stand fights and the lethal outcomes of fights in front of her.
You blinked, realization drawing. “Oh. Right”
“I took care of him, just like you said,” Fugo replied quietly, his posture rigid and clearly feeling conflicted.
You hummed softly in response, murmuring a quick word of thanks before leaning your head back against the seat. The thick quiet returned, lasting until Abbacchio’s raspy voice broke through the quiet hum of the engine and passing cars.
“Could you show me the key we obtained again? Narancia,” he commanded.
Narancia, sitting in the front passenger row next to Bucciarati, pulled the golden key from his pocket. He stared at it in awe for a moment before pouting. “Huh? Here.” Without a care in the world, he tossed the key carelessly to Abbacchio.
“Wait, don’t throw it!” Abbacchio snarled, his eyes widening as his hand shot out to snatch the key out of the air. He caught it, the key resting securely in his hand, and he glared at the teenager. “You bastard! What if the window had been rolled down, huh? Don’t ever do that again!”
A small smile appeared on your lips. In canon, Abbacchio’s hand would have been severed and hastily reattached by Sticky Fingers, leaving him unable to move his hand or catch anything without pain. I prevented that, you thought with pride. His hand is intact because of me.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. The window wasn’t even open. Stop being a drama queen,” Narancia dismissed with a lazy wave of his hand.
Abbacchio muttered a string of Italian curses under his breath before lifting the key to the light, reading the small text etched within the red gemstone. “I am grateful to you for protecting my daughter, Bucciarati,” he read out loud, “Go to platform six at the Napoli Station to the drinking fountain with the turtle. Use this key, and get on a train to take my daughter to Venice. PS. Your mission will be complete once you arrive in Venice.” He paused, lowering the key. “What’s at the station drinking fountain?”
Bucciarati kept his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. “The Boss is saying that he has a way for us to move without being seen. The station is risky, but we have to trust him.”
“Do you think the Boss is in Venice? According to what was written,” Narancia asked nervously, crawling slightly across his seat toward Bucciarati.
Your jaw tightened. Just one more day, and we'll cross paths with Diavolo. I have to change the outcome at the church, at San Giorgio Maggiore. I have to save Bruno from King Crimson.
Before Bucciarati could offer his canon response, you smoothly cut in, delivering his line for him. You were like Joseph, but you actively stole phrases. “You do not need to think about that. We just need to do as we’re told.”
You began rummaging through your bag, checking the lens of your camera. If the next event went similarly to canon, you wanted to be ready to capture a picture of the upcoming chaos.
The men turned to look at you, completely caught off guard by your sudden, sharp clarity.
Bruno offered a proud nod before continuing, “Yes, precisely that. We will take the express train to Florence that leaves in ten minutes.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the back. “Mista, any tails?”
Mista shifted in his seat, peering through the dark tint of the rear window. “Right now, we’re fine. But the problem is the station. Someone might tip off the enemy before we know it.”
Risotto is already at the station where Mr. Pericolo shot himself, you recalled grimly. He found that burnt piece of paper. That’s exactly how the hitman squad tracks us here.
Your eyes drifted over to Fugo, who was quietly watching Trish as she sat lost in thought. Despite the rearranging of the seats, the atmosphere felt remarkably consistent with your memories of the original scene.
Mista suddenly leaned into you, wrapping a casual, heavy arm over your shoulder and whispering into your ear. “Hey… look at Fugo over there.” He let out a quiet, mischievous chuckle, his warm breath tickling your ear. “He’s completely transfixed. But I can’t blame him, tesoro. I couldn’t help but wonder about her, too, you know? But you’re the one who’s talked to her. Tell me… what does she like? What does she think about all of us?”
You glanced over at Trish, clutching your camera tightly against your chest. Mista's physical proximity was making your face burn. “Hey, Trish,” you called out. Mista instantly panicked, his arm stiffening as he tried to pull you back. You subtly gestured toward the hem of her top; because of the way she was leaning, her top had shifted slightly out of its normal alignment, showing some of her cleavage. Trish caught your drift immediately, smiling gratefully at you as she pulled the skin-tight fabric back into place, leaning back.
Right on cue, Giorno violently overtook the car in front of him with a sharp turn, sending the van swerving sharply. You managed to brace yourself, but Mista went flying directly across the seat, tumbling straight onto Fugo.
Perfect timing, you thought. You raised the camera, snapping a series of quick pictures of the scene. Mista’s head had landed squarely against Fugo’s chest, his hands frantically gripping Fugo’s thighs and waist in a desperate attempt to balance himself. Their faces were inches apart; completely frozen in a mortifyingly intimate position.
A loud, genuine laugh bubbled from Trish’s throat; a surprisingly bright, beautiful sound. You immediately snapped a perfect picture of her smiling before Fugo and Mista could part.
Both boys turned a deep shade of crimson, Fugo violently shoving Mista off him with an angry snarl.
“Please forgive Mista, Fugo!” you pleaded dramatically, clasping your hands together before quickly sliding the camera over to Trish so she could hide it behind her back. “He didn’t mean to cross any boundaries! He wasn’t trying to grope you when the brakes hit! He definitely wasn’t trying to slip his fingers through the cutouts of your trousers! It was a sudden, uncontrollable impulse!”
Bucciarati and Narancia both whipped their heads around from the front row, their eyebrows practically raised so high they almost reached their hairlines.
Mista scrambled up from the ground, his face burning as he pointed a furious finger at you. “Hey! Knock it off! I just fell down, but you’re making it sound worse!”
You wheezed, completely ignoring his protests until Mista playfully yanked you by the collar of your trench coat. Finding yourself inches from his flustered face, you raised a finger and booped his nose. The unexpected gesture made him instantly freeze, his grip loosening enough for you to drop back down next to Trish, your face flushed from laughing hysterically.
“At the very least, delete the pictures!” Fugo demanded, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.
Tish carefully handed the camera back to you under the seat, and you tucked it securely into your bag. “I’ll let you look at them later, Fugo, but these are staying in the official team album. If you try to wipe the memory card, I will personally break your fingers.”
“Wait… you’re making an album?” Mista asked, begrudgingly sliding back into his seat beside you.
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I?”
“That’s… actually a really good idea,” Fugo muttered, his anger evaporating as he looked out the window. “It’s nice.”
“Exactly. Once this nightmare is over, not like taking care of you, Tish, is one,” you squeezed Trish’s hand gently, “I’m printing everything out,” you said softly, your tone shifting to one of quiet sincerity. And I am going to make sure every single one of you is alive to look through it, you added silently.
When the van finally arrived at the station, the boys swiftly escorted Trish onto the train while you insisted on accompanying Bucciarati to the drinking fountain. You knew Pesci and Prosciutto were already hunting you down; if they spotted Bruno handling the turtle alone, things would go like canon.
Leaning casually over Bruno’s crouching form by the fountain, your eyes scanned the bustling crowd. Sure enough, two distinct figures caught your attention down the platform. Even from a distance, the sharp silhouette of Prosciutto and the lanky, jawless frame of Pesci were unmistakable. They were looking directly at you. You immediately broke eye contact, turning back to the handsome Capo.
“Hurry up, Bucciarati,” you whispered urgently. “We’ve got eyes on us. Two highly suspicious men are looking at us.”
From the open door of the passenger car, Giorno leaned out, his green eyes scanning the platform anxiously. “Bucciarati, Dolcezza! The train is about to depart. Is something wrong?”
Bruno slammed the key against a keyhole, his lapiz lazuli eyes scanning the metal plate on the floor. “There are no other drinking fountains on the platform, right? The key won't fit into this keyhole!”
Ignoring the men, you stepped right up to the edge of the fountain, your eyes dropping to the small animal resting inside the stone: the tortoise. You carefully scooped the creature up with both hands, turning it over to inspect the shell.
“Hey, stop panicking for a second and look at this,” you said, presenting the tortoise directly to Bruno and Giorno as you kept watching the two assassins in the distance. “This tortoise has a perfect indentation right on its shell that matches the key we have. This isn’t natural. Try to put the key in, now, that suspicious guy just separated from his partner and is walking straight toward us.”
Giorno and Bruno’s eyes widened in unison. “You’re right! It all makes sense now!” Bruno gasped, a look of profound relief appearing on his face. “Excellent observation skills, Dolcezza!”
“Yeah, praise me later; let’s get off the platform!” you urged, tucking the tortoise securely in the inner pockets of your trench coat before sprinting into the train.
The heavy thud of Prosciutto’s shoes echoed on the platform. Once safely inside with the rest of the group, you pulled the tortoise from your coat and held it in your hands. Bruno stepped forward, firmly pressing the key into the geometric chape on the shell.
The sensation was instantaneous and jarring, a familiar, metaphysical pull that was exactly like the feeling of touching the pendant for the first time. The space around you compressed, pulling your consciousness into a single space. You blinked, opening your eyes, and the entire team was standing inside a warm, hidden room, staring up at the polished red ceiling in absolute shock.
“There wasn’t a keyhole. There was a place for this key on this tortoise's shell.” Bucciarati explained, gesturing to the room. “When I put the key in, the turtle's ability turned on somehow, and the key became an entrance to this space. We were able to hide inside this tortoise.”
Narancia blinked, scratching his head. “Wait… the turtle is a Stand user?”
“Seems like it,” you mused, your muscles tensing as the reality of the situation settled in. "And it's a tortoise, not a turtle," you silently corrected.
Jotaro would be proud of me, you thought gleefully.
"Tomato, tomatoe," Narancia grumbled, dismissively waving his hand before reaching upward toward the ceiling; the moment his fingers breached the invisible boundary, his face and hands were violently expelled back into the physical train compartment before snapping back down onto the plush sofa with a sharp squeak. “Ouch! Okay, that actually hurt! But that was so awesome! This tortoise is like a spaceship!”
You walked over to a long velvet couch and sank into the cushions, letting out an exhausted sigh to mask your growing nerves. The Grateful Dead is coming, you thought.
Fugo ran his fingers along the beige walls of the room, his brows furrowing. “But this room isn’t an illusion; it’s a real room. The sofa and the furniture are real, too.”
Abbacchio opened the small mini-fridge in the corner, revealing rows of neatly stacked chilled beverages, mostly mineral water. “The drinks are cold.”
“The Boss is trying to help us out at this point,” Bruno noted, pacing around the room. “Tortoises like to find places to hide, and they’re not noisy creatures that hang around people. We can probably ride the train safely to Venice like this.”
“We still need to be on high alert,” you interjected, spreading your arms along the back of the sofa. “If I hadn’t secured that tortoise when I did, those two men on the platform would have ambushed us before the train ever left the station.”
“Exactly,” Bucciarati agreed, turning to look at you. “Did you manage to get a clear view of their appearance?”
“Yes,” you said, relying on your future memory while pretending it was just good observation skills. “One is a blond man with a patterned black and purple suit. He wears a necklace with a large golden letter ‘P’. The second one, the assassin who boarded the train, has an unusually long neck, no jawline, and green hair styled like a carrot top. He’s wearing a black patterned bodysuit beneath a beige trench coat.”
“Those are some really accurate descriptions; you have good sight,” Bruno noted, impressed.
Bruno’s eyes flashed with a deep appreciation. “Those are incredibly precise descriptions. Your observation skills never cease to amaze me.”
“I just kept my eyes locked on them while you were working on the fountain,” you lied smoothly, looking away to avoid all the intense focus that was on you.
“Regardless, it gives us a massive advantage,” Bruno concluded, crossing his arms.
You stood up, walking over to where Trish was sitting quietly on the floor, and extended a hand to help her up. She took your hand with a grateful murmur, sitting on the plush cushions of an armchair.
“Does anyone want something cold to drink?” you asked, swinging the mini-fridge door wide open. “We’ve been running on pure adrenaline since this morning, and staying hydrated is incredibly important right now.”
Especially since keeping your body temperature down is the only thing that will slow The Grateful Dead’s effects, you thought frantically. With Bruno’s silent nod of approval, you distributed the cold bottles to the rest of the crew before stepping toward Bucciarati with a cold glass of water.
“Here,” you said, handing it over.
“Thank you, Dolcezza,” Bruno said softly, his gorgeous blue eyes locking onto yours as his fingers brushed against yours. “But you shouldn’t exhaust yourself by constantly worrying about our well-being.”
“Why shouldn’t I look out for my team?” you countered, a fierce conviction in your voice. “And more importantly, why shouldn’t I look out for our Capo? You spend every waking moment carrying everyone else's baggage, Bruno. You need someone to check in on you when you refuse to do it yourself. Let that person be me.”
You deliberately used his first name, offering a warm, unconditional smile to show him you were standing by his side as a true friend, not just as a soldato following the chain of command. And in this business, you didn’t scoff at someone trusting you.
Bruno froze, his breath catching slightly as his determined expression melted into something profoundly touched and vulnerable. His eyes were visibly softening. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice carrying clearly across the room. “You are an indispensable part of this famiglia.”
“So are you,” you murmured. But as you turned on your heel to step away, his calloused fingers gently caught your wrist, stopping you in your tracks.
“We still need to discuss details of what transpired at Pompeii and the boutique,” he reminded you, his gaze steady and serious.
You let out a weak, relieved laugh. “Oh… so that’s what’s on your mind. You had me worried for a second, Bucciarati!”
He didn’t smile or laugh, but a soft, understanding sigh escaped his lips as he released his grip. “I will come find you when the train is near our destination, over the city limits,” he promised, taking a slow sip of the cold water.
“I’ll be waiting,” you replied, turning on your heel to carry the remaining cold water over to where Giorno was sitting at the far edge of the long red sofa. You plopped down beside him, letting out a dramatic sigh as you handed him the drink, all while you took a long drink from your own water.
Giorno shifted in his position, turning his head to look down at you with a shy yet warm look. “Tired? You can rest here if you need to.”
You knew you needed to stay awake and make a plan against The Grateful Dead, but canonically, the attack wouldn’t happen until most of the team fell asleep anyway. A quick nap using Giorno as a pillow is a dream come true, you thought, your heart fluttering.
“Yeah… all this running around has completely drained my battery,” you teased softly, leaning your weight into his shoulder as you looked up at his rapidly reddening face. “I hope you're comfortable, GioGio, because if I fall asleep here, you’re officially stuck as my pillow forever.”
“That is a fate I can easily accept,” he played along, a soft smile appearing on his face as he playfully nudged his forehead against yours, like two rams bonking their heads against each other.
To hide the intense blush creeping across your own cheeks, you buried your face directly into the crook of his neck. Giorno didn’t pull away; instead, he rested his chin gently against the crown of your head, his steady, even breathing and the calm rhythm of his heart slowly lulling your nervous mind into a sense of security and belonging.
The last thing you heard before the darkness took over was his low, almost melodic whisper against your ear.
“Dormi bene, mia piccola coccinella.”
(Sleep well, my little ladybug.)
And with that, you drifted into a deep, dreamless slumber.
The rapid clicking of a camera lens snapped you out of your deep sleep. You yawned, suddenly hyper-aware of a heavy warmth pressed against you, followed by the sound of muffled giggling and shuffling feet. A dense fog of exhaustion still covered your brain, but as you blinked against the bright lights of the cabin, you realized the sturdy “pillow” you were resting on was actually a who.
The memory of the train ride rushed back, and your face instantly flushed a violent crimson. Your first instinct was to panic and shove him away, but Giorno let out a soft, involuntary groan, shivering slightly as he buried his face deeper into the crook of your neck. The vulnerability of the action made you freeze.
Up close, you could see the faint dust of freckles across his sun-kissed skin. You rested your palm against his chest, feeling the steady, rhythmic thump of his heartbeat beneath your fingers. His golden hair was a mess, one stray strand resting right across his lips. With a feather-light touch, you gently brushed it away, your fingers ghosting over the curve of his cupid’s bow. His lips were slightly chapped, the result of how hard he’d bitten down while frantically trying to get you out of the mirror world. You wanted to trace them, but the sudden reminder of your audience made you keep your hands to yourself. His eyelashes fluttered, dotted with tiny drops of condensation from the big yawn he’d given before sleeping. Your legs were completely tangled up with his, your bodies pressed together in a tight embrace while he used one palm as a makeshift pillow against your shoulder.
You had always found Giorno attractive. Even if he wasn’t the favorite JoJo for a lot of the fandom, you admired that he was the only protagonist with a concrete, unwavering goal from episode one. His growth was quiet and subtle. But this version of Giorno didn’t feel like a character on a television screen anymore. He felt completely human, real, and incredibly alive.
You wanted the quiet safety of this moment to last forever, but a loud voice shattered the illusion.
“Oh my god!” Narancia squeaked, leaning against the nearby wall next to Mista. At the sudden noise, Bruno and Trish shifted their attention to you, their eyes widening at the sight of you two completely wrapped around each other.
And a blinding camera flash went off, forcing you to look away. Mista was standing there, holding your precious digital camera with a massive, shit-eating grin.
You frantically checked your bag. It was empty. Scowling, you shot him a sharp glare. “Give that back right now!” you whisper-yelled.
“Consider this payback for the photo you snapped of Fugo and me in the van,” Mista snickered, placing a hand on his hip before dangling the camera out of your reach. “Not to mention the yacht one with Narancia.”
“I thought we had an understanding! Hand it over before I force Sex Pistols to detonate a round right in your face!” you threatened, your voice rising. Beside you, Giorno stirred, and you instantly went rigid.
“Hey, keep it down, tesoro. You don’t want to wake your pillow, do you?” Mista teased, raising his eyebrows. “You two looked awfully cozy.”
“You are going to regret this, Mista,” you hissed, narrowing your eyes into small slits. “I am going to orchestrate a prank so devious you’ll never pull shit like this again.”
He merely waved off your threat with a lazy chuckle. “Sure, sure. Whatever you say, tesoro.”
“Honestly, we thought you were going to kiss him. He had to capture the moment,” Narancia added, defending the theft.
Defeated, you mentally commanded Mäneskin to intervene. The sleek Stand manifested for a fraction of a second, smoothly swiping the camera out of Mista’s grabby hands and dropping it securely back into your bag.
Turning back to Giorno, a sudden knot tied itself in your throat. He looked completely different; thick streaks of silver and grey were rapidly overtaking his luscious golden hair, giving him the appearance of a handsome silver fox, dare you say a dilf. The skin under his green eyes was beginning to sag into dark bags, and his hands were becoming increasingly veiny and spotted. Despite the horrific effect of The Grateful Dead, he was aging like fine wine.
The Grateful Dead is already active, you realized, your heart hammering against your chest. Am I changing too? No… Prosciutto is deliberately suppressing the aging effects on women to avoid hurting Trish. But thanks to the cold drinks I distributed, the process is significantly slower than in the show.
Looking across the room, Narancia was sitting in a chair, idly peeling a banana while flipping through a fashion magazine.
He let out a long sigh, his voice laced with a strange and deep nostalgia. “Doesn’t this just make you sigh? It makes me feel relaxed. How beautiful.” He ran an index finger longingly across a photograph of a green landscape. “Basking in a garden like this would take me back to my childhood.” He lazily licked his finger to turn the page, letting out a long yawn.
Mista stood nearby, completely oblivious to the fact that Giorno, Fugo, and Abbacchio were rapidly aging around him.
“Hey, knock it off! Licking your finger to turn the page is dirty!” Mista complained, crossing his arms in disgust.
Unbelievable, you thought, extremely amused despite the tension. Who would have thought that Mista, the guy who literally eats lunch out of his boots, thinks a little saliva is where the line is drawn?
“Oh? Did I do that? I did? I don’t believe it–” Narancia muttered sleepily, waving a dismissive hand toward Mista.
“Yeah, you literally just did,” you countered. You subtly pulled Giorno closer against your chest, trying to hide the gray hairs that adorned his head from Mista’s line of sight. Mista caught the movement, merely raising his eyebrow suggestively. You rolled your eyes in response.
Before Mista could utter another joke, Narancia suddenly coughed violently. A thick and mushy red fluid spilled from his lips, and with a sickening click, a loose tooth dropped from his gums, hanging by a thread of tissue. In the anime, the body horror hadn’t been censored, but now you wished it had been, because experiencing it in real life was a nightmare. Your entire body involuntarily shuddered. Mista saw the reaction, his teasing expression instantly hardening into deep concern.
Narancia slowly went back to peeling the banana, his face noticeably drooping by the second.
“Hey… something is dripping off your face. That’s gross. What is that? Hey…”
The bloody tooth finally detached, hitting the floor with a soft thud.
You swallowed the lump in your throat, pointing a trembling finger at the prominent gray streaks in Narancia’s dark hair, though they were notably less than in the original show. “I think his teeth are falling out, Mista… Look at Giorno. Something is happening to him, too.”
Pretending to be caught off guard, you gently cupped Giorno’s face, tilting his chin upward so Mista could clearly see the deep wrinkles, the dark eye bags, and silver hair.
“I don’t think I can eat this banana,” Narancia rasped, his voice dropping lower as he coughed again. “It’s gone completely stale. It’s stiff as a board.”
Mista’s eyes darted from Giorno’s silver hair to the bodies of Fugo and Abbacchio, who were rapidly aging on the far side of the sofa. He gulped, his dark chocolate eyes widening in terror as a cold sweat broke out across his forehead.
“W-What? Are you joking around with me?” He forced a wobbly, terrified laugh from his lips, pointing between you and Narancia. “You’re starting to scare me. Is that really a tooth? It’s grossing me out so much, I can’t even laugh at your joke.” He took a hesitant step toward Narancia, pointing to his own jaw. “Something was hanging out of your mouth.”
Narancia cupped a wrinkled, spotted hand over his ear; his dark hair had prominent white streaks, and his arms were noticeably skinnier. “Huh? Did you say something else?” He looked up, his clouded eyes landing on Mista and then you. “Mista… Dolcezza…”
Despite the horrific transformation, your hydration plan was working. Instead of looking like people in their eighties, the team was currently physically looking like people in their late fifties, or in Narancia's case, late sixties.
Mista completely froze, his legs visibly shaking under his weight.
“You’re speaking too softly. I couldn’t hear you well,” Narancia drawled, his movements sluggish. “I told you, this banana is crumbling apart. I can’t eat this. The fruit here is completely stale.”
“What… What’s wrong with him?!” Mista stuttered, taking a panicked step back toward the couch.
“I don’t know, Mista, but this has to be an enemy Stand attack!” you shouted, intentionally raising your voice so Bucciarati and Trish would intervene.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Narancia mumbled.
“Something is wrong with your face?! Why is Giorno's hair gray?! What the hell is happening!” Mista screamed, panic taking over him as he pointed a trembling finger at the teenager.
“In that case… I’ll say it again loudly, okay?!” Narancia rasped, forcing himself up from his chair, his banana breaking apart in his wrinkled palm. He took a shaky step toward Mista, who immediately retreated.
“Narancia, you’re—”
“I said I can’t eat this banana. Look, it just cracks and falls apart! This banana is old!”
You wanted to stand up, but you kept your arms wrapped around Giorno. He needed the support, especially in this state. You owed him that.
“Bucciarati!” Mista yelled, his voice cracking.
“I know,” Bruno growled, quick to his feet, his jaw clenched in serious resolve. “Dolcezza is right. It’s a Stand attack.”
“The enemy must be on the train,” you interrupted, “And I bet it’s those two men who were tracking us at the terminal.”
Narancia stumbled toward Trish, a single strand of white falling from his scalp. “Huh? What is this white thing? I pulled this from my own head… What is this?!” he wheezed.
Trish gulped, her hands trembling in fear as she backed away.
Suddenly, Giorno shifted against your chest. Nuzzling his head into the crook of your neck, his voice came out in a deep, incredibly raspy tone. “What… What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
Despite the warm breath tickling your skin, you maintained your composure, face serious, biting your lip to pretend to be shocked.
“They’re growing old!” Bruno gasped, watching Fugo’s strawberry-blond hair rapidly turn silver while Abbacchio’s long mane faded into a chalky white.
“Giorno started changing a few minutes ago, but I thought the lighting in the room was just playing tricks on me,” you said loudly. Giorno opened his eyes, his pale face instantly flushing with embarrassment as he realized he was still holding onto you. He tried to stammer out an apology, his words slurring.
In his attempts to untangle his limbs from yours, he accidentally headbutted you.
“Ow!” you groaned, rubbing the sore spot, while Giorno winced, doing the same as he frantically apologized again.
The awkwardness of the scene momentarily broke the terrified tension in the room. The rest of the team simply stared at the two of you with varying expressions of annoyance, confusion, and disbelief.
Narancia was currently staring at his reflection in the surface of a metal bowl. “Who is this? You’re kidding… this can’t be real!” He cupped his wrinkled cheeks, tears prickling in his eyes. “This is me?! What is happening?!”
Giorno stood up abruptly, and you quickly grabbed his elbow to stabilize him. His jaw dropped as he touched his sagging cheek, his green eyes wide with shock as cold sweat dripped from his wrinkled face.
“A Stand that makes you age?!” Mista exclaimed. The corners of his own eyes were beginning to wrinkle, and a dull gray color was creeping into his eyebrows. He whipped out his pistol, pointing the barrel at the ceiling. “Did they find out we’re inside the turtle?”
“Calm down, Mista!” Bruno commanded, his powerful voice wavering slightly, “If they knew we were in this turtle, they would have attacked us directly.”
Mista’s eyes widened as he noticed the first distinct wrinkles forming around Bucciarati’s eyes.
“The fact that they haven’t attacked means they haven’t found us yet. Most likely, the enemy only knows we are somewhere on this train, and to find her,” Bruno turned to look at Trish, whose eyes were wide with terror. “They’re attacking the whole train indiscriminately.”
“In other words… they are racing to find us and involving the passengers, too?”
“Pretty much,” you interrupted, smoothly stealing the line once again. You reached out and beckoned Trish closer. She hesitated for a fraction of a second before scrambling to your side; faint smile lines and eye bags were beginning to appear on her youthful features as well. You kept a firm grip on Giorno’s hand to comfort him, mindlessly tracing circles over his wrinkly and veiny knuckles. “They’re desperate, too. They’ll do anything, and they’ll do it calmly.”
“That means we have two options…” Bucciarati said, stepping closer to you and Trish, offering a silent nod of agreement with your analysis. “One: we take Trish and leave the train. Two: we first find and take out the enemy, not knowing his attack range.” He held up two fingers, slowly curling them into a tight fist.
Mista stepped up to Bruno, their heads nearly touching. “Two, of course.”
You squeezed Trish’s hand firmly before speaking up. “I agree. I know what those two assassins looked like from the platform. We should eliminate the threat first; after all, the Boss expects Trish to arrive in Venice alive. If we try to escape now, they’ll track us down, and I’m certain they have backup waiting for us.”
Mista nodded aggressively, looking over at you, “We’d have to stop the train to escape with her, just like Dolcezza said; the risk is too great.” He expertly cocked his pistol, the cylinder clicking into place as he held the gun at a sharp and dramatic angle, striking a pose. “Execution is more certain. My sex pistols are suited for assassination.”
Bruno nodded, his face serious. “That’s true, but we don’t have any time. They’re aging at an incredibly fast rate.” Even as he spoke, the wrinkles under his eyes deepened, a few silver strands catching the light in his dark hair.
Narancia’s knees bucked, and you and Giorno quickly caught his shoulders, lowering him gently onto the velvet cushions. Despite your hydration strategy, he was still aging the fastest because he had only finished half of his glass before the attack.
“Bucciarati…” he whimpered, staring down at his hands. “My hands…My hands are crumbling!” He held his palms up; thanks to the cold water, his nails weren’t tearing away like in your memories, but the dead skin was flaking. “They’re breaking apart!”
“You’re right, Bucciarati! There’s barely any time left!” Mista urged, his eyes wide.
You took a cautious step back as Giorno and Trish subtly tugged at the fabric of your trench coat, their instincts warning them to keep Narancia from touching you with his hands.
Mista slammed his boot on a nearby chair, his hand reaching toward the red ceiling, ready to go. You were about to follow after him, but Giorno’s hand grabbed your wrist with surprising force; even in his aged state, his strength was superior to Narancia's.
“Wait… Mista, Dolcezza,” Giorno rasped, his voice dropping into a dry gravel. “It’s still too early to act.”
“What nonsense are you talking about, Giorno?!” Mista snapped, his voice pitching up with panic.
“I’m saying don’t go yet.”
Mista stepped down from the chair, pointing an accusing finger at Giorno, “We’re in a race against time here!”
In unison, both you and Bucciarati barked, “Wait! Hear him out.”
You and Bruno exchanged a quick look of mild surprise before the capo cleared his throat, turning back to Giorno. “What do you want to say, Giorno?”
Giorno leaned against the sofa, keeping his arm securely anchored with yours. Beside him, Fugo and Abbacchio had completely passed out from the rapid drop in their stamina, out like a light. On your other side, Trish was clinging tightly to your arm, warm body pressed against yours as her breathing turned shallow.
Giorno rested his chin on his knuckles, his brilliant green eyes still glinting with genius despite his physical age. “Our speed of aging…Why do you think we’re aging much faster than you?”
Bruno’s breath hitched. He looked down at his hands. “Mista and I have comparatively fewer symptoms. Dolcezza and Trish even fewer.”
Trish touched her own cheek. Aside from a few faint lines around her eyes and a stray gray hair, she remained entirely unaffected.
“Why is that? The aging process is different for each person! I’m going!” Mista insisted, reaching for the ceiling again.
“No. If the enemy is indiscriminately attacking everyone to kill them, then to do so, Trish would be in danger of dying as well.” Giorno countered, his voice determined.
Yes, there’s the clever strategic Giorno I fell in love with, you thought, awed by his intellect. Without your future knowledge of the series, reaching that conclusion with only a few hints needed a lot of cleverness.
“There must be a condition for the speed of aging,” Giorno announced.
“Like sex?” you chimed in, acting like it was a sudden realization. The men all turned their attention to you. “What if the assassin is slowing down the effects on women to ensure Trish doesn’t accidentally get killed before they can secure her? That would explain why Trish and I are fine.”
Giorno nodded, a proud smile appearing on his wrinkled features. “Exactly. Dolcezza’s hypothesis aligns with my theory. I think the enemy is distinguishing between men and women through body temperature.”
Bruno’s chest tightened, and Trish looked at Giorno with intense curiosity. “Women have more body fat, so their body temperature doesn’t change much compared to men,” Giorno explained, his eyes scanning the room. “I read that somewhere before. It’s a theory to explain why women age better and live longer than men. Did you notice the room felt a little hotter? By just a small change in body temperature, the enemy can distinguish the speed of aging. The men age quickly, but if it’s slower for her, that’s fine.”
Mista scoffed, pointing a frantic finger at Giorno as he hugged his own torso, his voice whining in frustration. “That may be the most likely reasoning, but then, why are you and I aging differently?” Are you calling me a woman?”
You noticed Trish was deep in thought, her brows furrowed as she nervously bit her lip. You gently squeezed her arm. “Hey, don’t hesitate to speak up, Trish. Is there something you noticed?” you asked softly. In the anime, her hesitation to contribute hadn’t been explored, but you wanted her to have her moment to shine, just like she would have originally.
“Yes… How did you know?” she asked, her voice timidly low.
You casually shrugged, “I’m good at reading people. Go ahead, tell them.”
She nodded, her voice carrying clearly across the room. “Change in body temperature. Come to think of it… We were cooling our bodies down. We were drinking something cold. Narancia was the only one who barely drank half of his glass.”
The men turned to look at her in sudden realization. You stepped forward, handing her Narancia's discarded glass, where the ice cubes had almost completely melted into the water. She took it, briefly confused by how quickly you had anticipated her train of thought.
“The aging is clearly only a physical effect,” you analyzed, taking the original idea further. “It doesn’t affect the cognitive state or intellect at all, which is why Giorno can still think of a strategy; it must impact the emotional state, which explains why Narancia suddenly became overwhelmed with nostalgia.”
Trish immediately knelt in front of the sleeping form of Narancia. She firmly pressed an ice cube against his drooping cheek, and suddenly all the wrinkles around his eye and jawline vanished, revealing Narancia’s young and fiery purple eyes underneath.
“It’s exactly as Giorno explained!” Mista yelled, rushing over to the mini-fridge and taking a tray of ice cubes from the freezer. “Because our bodies are cooler, the speed of aging is slower.”
Giorno nodded, a faint smile on his face.
“Trish, pour the remaining ice water down Narancia’s throat. I’ll take care of Giorno,” you commanded. You grabbed Giorno’s unfinished glass of cold water and slid onto the sofa right next to him while Trish carefully opened Narancia’s jaw to give him the cold water.
“You don’t need to do that; I can manage,” Giorno murmured defensively, his shoulders sinking back into the plush couch as you leaned closer into his personal space.
“Just let me take care of you, GioGio,” you said softly.
You both knew he was very capable of holding the glass himself, but he simply let out a quiet sigh, giving in to your stubbornness.
You pressed the cold rim of the glass against his chapped lips. His hands instantly came up, wrapping warmly over yours, holding both your hands and the glass in the same grip. You carefully guided the cup, helping him drink the cold water down. “Slowly, try not to spill it. You’re doing great,” you murmured, your ears burning a furious red. Giorno used the base of the glass to hide his own flushed face.
A few droplets spilled down his chin, and you quickly wiped them away with the hem of your trench coat. He stared at you, completely dumbfounded, his green eyes locked onto yours as the gray streaks in his hair and the deep lines across his face began to rapidly reverse.
The intimate moment was broken by Mista’s loud shouting. “Then we should all cool ourselves down with ice!” He held up the half-empty plastic tray.
“Wait, Mista!” Bruno interrupted, his voice sharp and commanding. “You must take that ice with you!”
Mista looked down at the remaining ice cubes, his jaw dropping. “Is this all that’s left?”
“Our plan to take out the enemy has not changed,” Bruno commanded, placing his hands firmly on his hips. “Mista, you’re going to take the ice and defeat the enemy before the ice melts and your Stand and stamina disappear!”
You cleared your throat intentionally, stepping away from Giorno and walking over to stand between Mista and Bucciarati. “I’m accompanying him. I know what the targets look like. I’ve already cooled myself down, and since I'm a woman, I'm aging slowly. It’s our safest bet; we are dealing with two experienced Stand users, not one. It makes sense for two people to go.” You planted your feet firmly against the floorboards, meeting Bucciarati’s gaze with a determined expression.
“Dolcezza,” Bruno warned, his voice low. “Even if your sex gives you an advantage, you’ve been fighting assassins all day long without a break. You’re running on air; you’ll exhaust yourself. If your stamina and Stand disappear, you’ll be completely defenseless.”
“I am well aware of the risks, Bucciarati,” you countered smoothly, “But we both know this is our only viable choice. Mista is aging faster than me. He might have the ammunition to take down one target, but he won't make it back. And the hitman squad won’t risk hitting me with full force because they cannot risk accidentally killing Trish.”
Bruno hesitated, staring at you for a tense, silent moment before letting out a defeated sigh, pressing his fingers against his forehead. “Fine. But the exact second you get hurt or your stamina drops, you come back here immediately. Capito?”
“Capito. Thank you, Bruno!” you said.
Without wasting another second, you turned and followed Mista, who had already left the tortoise. Reaching your hand up toward the red ceiling, the physical room violently compressed. The world twisted and bent around you, a sickening wave of vertigo hitting your stomach as you were thrown back out into the train.
It’s time to execute my plan, you thought, your jaw clenching as the train cabin began to become clearer around you, stabilizing.