Chapter Text
“Hey, uh, guys? Where’s Giorno?”
The whole group freezes as one to the realization that their resident mafia Don has suddenly disappeared.
To be fair, it’s a crowded street. On the 12th of February, in the middle of this year’s Carnivale, the people have gathered outside, completely flooding Naples. Food, attractions, disguises, the constant rush of merriment is almost dizzying, making one’s head spin from how much there is to see and experience.
It was Giorno’s own idea to attend the Carnivale at least once. Just a small moment of both respite and excitement for them, after so much time spent working tirelessly for Passione. Of course, despite a few complaints and hesitations at first, they all agreed to the idea in the end — such was the power Giorno held over all of them.
And now, he’s just— vanished?
“Weren’t you supposed to hold his hand?” Fugo directs to Narancia, a frown already settling in his brows.
Narancia makes wide eyes at him, shaking his head furiously. “You know how he is about touch! I didn’t wanna make him uncomfortable.”
Abbacchio snorts. “He would have been touching people anyway, since this place is so damn crowded.” They’re off to the side now, in an area a little less dense with people, but they were in the brunt of it earlier. It was so intense that it felt like they could barely breathe. “Even that brat would prefer holding your hand to getting lost in that crowd.”
Narancia pouts but concedes. “Okay, sure, whatever.”
“He’s not answering his phone,” Bucciarati interrupts, holding his phone to his ear. It seems like he hasn’t even paid attention to them until now. “It’s ringing, but he’s not picking up.” Even after saying that, he dials the phone again.
“Should I let the Pistols search for him?” Mista asks, looking like he’s ready to shoot his gun to scare off the crowd if necessary.
“Using Moody Blues first would be better,” Fugo says, holding a hand to his chin. “When was the last time you saw Giorno, Narancia?”
“Uhh…” He tilts his head back in thought. “I saw this really pretty Colombina mask, right?” A white half-mask, with sculpted details painted gold. It reminded him of Giorno and Gold Experience, which was why he’d pointed it out to Giorno. “And I told him about it. After that, I don’t know.”
“You’re stupid,” Fugo says ruthlessly.
“Shut up!”
“Stop fighting, we need to— Giorno!” Bucciarati suddenly cuts himself off, holding his phone even closer. Had Giorno finally answered!? “Where are you!?”
Surrounded by the cheer of the festival, they all stand in silence, watching Bucciarati’s tense face, waiting for Giorno’s answer. They’ll rush over to him, and it’ll all end in laughing and Narancia being scolded again. Then they’ll go home, eat something, and eventually, all will be forgiven and forgotten—
“—What?”
Narancia’s thoughts are broken off abruptly.
“This… This is Bucciarati.” It’s said hesitantly, like Bucciarati can’t believe that he even has to say it. “Where are you? We lost you.”
Silence again. Whatever Giorno says, it makes Bucciarati look at them with a confused, disoriented expression.
“I, I know this is confusing,” he says slowly. “But I need you to stay where you are, alright? I’m coming to you. Don’t move.” Not hanging up, he directs the next words to them: “The next street over. Hurry up. Giorno, we’ll be right— he hung up!”
“He hung up?”
“He— Damn it!” Bucciarati starts running.
Heart suddenly going haywire, Narancia follows along as they all sprint to the location Bucciarati indicated, where Giorno supposedly is. The previously warming animation of the street now feels oppressive, knowing that Giorno could be in danger right now and they’re blocked off by the mass of people, having to worm their way through, not knowing what they’ll find on the other side.
“What’s going on!” Mista shouts over the overwhelming sound of the people around them.
“He didn’t recognize me!”
“What!?”
Bucciarati doesn’t say any more, focusing on getting through. Narancia’s heart starts beating so hard and fast that even the merry mass around him feels quiet.
They eventually break through somehow, arriving in a quieter part of the town: a small little dark alleyway. There’s no one there.
“He ran off,” Bucciarati bites out. “Abbacchio!”
With just the call of his name, Abbacchio already has Moody Blues summoned.
It quickly takes Giorno’s shape, morphing into a face of— huh?
Narancia certainly hadn’t expected that: Giorno’s face is pale and unsure, staring down at his hands. He looks uncharacteristically afraid and young, nothing like their usual Giorno.
They stand in a circle around Giorno’s imprint, all of them suddenly stricken by the sight, completely silent.
“P-play,” Abbacchio says suddenly, stumbling over his words. No one dares mention his hesitation, all too lost in their own bewilderment to say anything about his out of character behavior.
Moody Blues-Giorno blinks to life, but his fearful expression doesn’t disappear. The sound of a phone ringing, and he puts his hand up to his ear.
“H-hello?” he asks, breathing heavily. His back hits the wall, like he has suddenly lost strength, knees weakening. “Who— who is this?”
A tense moment. Bucciarati of the past must answer him, because Giorno’s eyebrows furrow.
“I, I don’t know…” He looks around, then finds the street sign hanging just a few meters above him. “S-spaesato street…? Who are you?” His voice picks up, becoming higher.
Whatever Bucciarati says in answer is not enough. Giorno removes the phone from his ear and hastily presses the hanging up button. His eyes are wide, staring at his phone like he’s expecting it to bite him.
His hand flexes and then loosens. The sound of two things falling comes — his phone disappears. What else fell? Giorno’s attention is briefly brought to it, but he quickly forgets about it. The skin around his eyes is tight, and he even brings up a hand to hide his eyes, like even just the quiet light of this alleyway is too much… a migraine?
“Bucciarati,” he says aloud, like he’s tasting the name, trying it out. No recognition comes to his face. His voice trembles: “I need… Coming here? He’s coming here?” he repeats. “I need— I need to go.”
They barely have time to understand the series of events, before Giorno is suddenly darting away, running away from them. The others curse and follow hastily.
Narancia lingers behind just a bit longer, searching for what else Giorno must have dropped earlier. Ducking under a plastic trash bag, he finds it: a white half-mask, with sculpted details painted gold. It reminds him of Giorno and Gold Experience.
The mask he pointed out to Giorno earlier…
Is that why they lost Giorno? Because Narancia pointed that mask to him and Giorno— that guy, he must have— he must have gone over to get it for Narancia, because he’s just… he’s just like that, always wanting to make them happy, to secure them by his side, as though if he doesn’t shower them in gifts and favors all the time they’ll run away and disappear forever.
Narancia’s eyes suddenly sting, his chest tight with emotion. Then, why did… Why did Giorno run away from them? Giorno, you’re going in the wrong direction, he can’t help but think, the need to say those words so intense that his throat hurts with it. We’re here, we’re right here. You just need to turn around and look.
But Giorno isn’t here. Narancia can’t tell him.
Holding the Colombina mask tightly with shaking fingers, Narancia hurries to follow the others, praying that they’ll find Giorno safe and well soon.
.
“If we just continue following him, we’ll never catch him.”
Bucciarati studies Giorno’s exhausted face. Even through Moody Blues, he looks like he’s about to crumble at any point. “He’ll have to rest soon.”
“He’s Giorno Giovanna,” Mista answers, only somewhat jokingly. Giorno Giovanna never falters (anymore), that’s something they can all agree on. But this time, they can all see how tired Giorno looks. “Shouldn’t we try to get the drop on him?”
Fugo shakes his head. “We don’t know where he’s going.”
“Better question yet,” Abbacchio bites out. “Why are we walking? If we’d just run, we could catch up to him in no time.”
Indeed, they have been walking alongside Giorno’s imprint for close to 20 minutes already. They’re far from the Carnivale now, closer to the residential and school areas. Giorno’s ghost-like figure has started to regain some semblance of strength. Contrary to his determined attitude, his eyes are almost panicked, looking around like he’s desperately trying to find something.
Bucciarati’s face is grim, expecting the worst. “He didn’t recognize me. There’s no telling whether he will recognize you either or not. Right now, the last thing we need to do is scare him off by being too intense.”
Narancia hesitates to interrupt, but in the end, his worry is too great. “So, like… Did he forget about us or something?”
The look Bucciarati sends over to him doesn’t answer anything. “I don’t know. It’s too early to tell.”
Giorno leads them further into the school area, eventually reaching the Cancello Dorato Middle-High School area. It’s a really prestigious school (thus the name “Golden Gate,” like a gateway to a wonderful, “golden” life), one that even someone like Narancia would know about.
The school grounds are empty, perhaps due to the mess of people attending the Carnivale right now. Or perhaps they’re in class, or resting, or— whatever the reason is, Narancia is just thankful they can get in without causing a scene due to trespassing.
Not even taking a moment to study the place, Giorno heads directly towards the front entrance.
They start on the stairs, only to stop when Giorno suddenly falters. There’s a moment of confusion, as they wait for something to happen, but Giorno just stands there, staring.
Staring… at the handrail? What? It’s just a handrail, really. Painted white recently, it looks like, though the paint is chipping a little at the corners. Yet, Giorno is staring at it like it holds the secrets to the universe.
After a moment of tense silence, he inhales sharply and continues on his way.
“What was that?” Mista says, breaking the quiet. “Is there something wrong with the place?”
“Maybe he just realized…” Bucciarati begins, only to shake his head, never finishing his sentence. “Come on in.”
The inside of the school is just as formal as the exterior, nothing truly remarkable about it. Narancia, street rat at heart, feels like an intruder. At least there’s no one else here to point it out for him.
Giorno immediately heads to a range of lockers on the side of the hall. Or well, looking closer, Narancia suddenly realizes they’re just mailboxes. Maybe buying a large stack of mailboxes was too expensive or troublesome for the school, and they just chose lockers instead.
While Giorno stands frozen in front of the boxes, they study each mailbox, but find none with a familiar name.
“Who is he trying to find?” Fugo asks, frustration coloring his voice. “He’s just— he’s just standing there!”
As though he’s hearing Fugo, Giorno suddenly jolts, taking a step forward. His hand hesitantly lays on a mailbox in particular.
Giuseppe Maria . What? Who is that?
“Giovanna?” a disembodied adult voice interrupts suddenly, coming only from Moody Blues, through Giorno’s perception. “What are you doing here? Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I,” Giorno begins, looking lost for just a second. He gets back control of his expression quickly, adopting a blank face. Only the clenching of his hidden fist betrays his inner chaos. “I must have been daydreaming, my apologies, professor.”
“Huh?” Even the mystery professor guy sounds confused. “Oh, it’s alright. Have a nice day, Giovanna.”
Giorno waits until the sound of footsteps is fading into the distance to look back at the lockers. His expression grows complicated, hard to read. He looks lost, his world suddenly toppled upside down. His hand falls from the lockers.
“Not here,” he mutters. “I’m… not here anymore?”
“So he was searching for his own name,” Fugo realizes aloud, eyes flicking to the mailbox Giorno was so interested in earlier. So in the end, that Giuseppe person is unimportant? “Is… Did his memories get confused?”
“It would explain why he didn’t recognize Bucciarati,” Abbacchio says, studying the hall. “So he went to a school like this? Just how filthy rich are his parents?”
Bucciarati’s face is blank, studying Moody Blues-Giorno carefully. His eyes linger on Giorno’s. “Perhaps he got in through a scholarship.” He sighs. “Speed him up until he leaves.”
Abbacchio does so dutifully. It takes a full minute before Giorno finally moves again, whirling around and leaving the building with no more fussing. He stumbles at the door and almost falls down the stairs, eyes wide.
It’s disquieting, to see him like this. Hesitant and scared, confused. So far from his usual countenance. By reflex, they keep trying to support him and help him walk normally. They must make quite the sight from an outsider point of view, trying to hold the air.
About 5 minutes into their walk, Giorno suddenly turns into an alleyway, speeding up. His expression grows more and more harried with each step, only to become rigidly cold as he exits the alley.
Before they can even enter the main street, they hear a woman’s screams.
“Fuck off! Who wants you here!”
Then, Giorno’s voice: “Mom…”
“Don’t call me that! Leave! I… I don’t want to see your face here!” They finally rush around the corner to find a middle-aged woman, tears on her face, looking absolutely wretched, screaming at their Giorno. At the real Giorno. “Haven’t you done enough!?” she hisses, then slams the door close.
Giorno is left standing in front of her house, eyes wide. He stumbles back a little, only to flinch when he hits Bucciarati’s chest.
Because of course they are, staring at the closed house with narrowed, suspicious eyes. Even if Giorno no longer has any memories of them, even if he called this woman “mom,” who does she take herself for, to mistreat their Don and teammate like this?
Giorno whirls around, quickly putting space between them. Bucciarati lets him go without a word, their attention shifting to him at once.
“Who…”
“This is Bucciarati,” their leader says, quiet, simmering rage barely hidden under a forced politeness. “I called you earlier.”
Giorno’s back hits the wall. Despite his calm expression, they have all long since learned to study the way his body acts—his fists are clenching. Is he scared? Unnerved? “You followed me here?”
“Do you not recognize me?”
He jerks his head to the side, jaw clenched tight. “Why would I.”
They all turn to Bucciarati, waiting for him to take the decision on how to approach this. Bucciarati visibly takes a moment to gather himself, his eyes studying Giorno with the sort of quiet intensity that usually characterizes his actions.
Giorno looks like a hurt animal, backed into a corner. If they don’t approach this right, won’t he just run away?
Bucciarati shows a pitying expression, then says: “Giorno, have you perhaps… lost your memory?”
Without a single word needing to be said, Giorno’s lowered eyes are enough of an answer.
.
With nowhere else to go, both his childhood home and his teenage habitations no longer considered his, Giorno is forced to go with them.
It’s obvious that he’s uncomfortable with the idea of willingly following strangers to their homes, but it’s not like he has any other choice. Narancia feels for him; it’s always uneasy to go from one situation to another, especially so suddenly. He can still feel the whiplash from living at home to being in prison, even now, years later. He can barely imagine how weird it feels for Giorno.
He takes it pretty well, all things considered. He doesn’t even avert his eyes while they steal a car, and doesn’t look too discomfited when they have to cram into it on the way back home.
They don’t… really talk, though. Giorno’s silence is a weight too heavy to bear. Narancia doesn’t have the guts to question him. If it were anyone else, he would be badgering them endlessly about what they were like at this age. But with Giorno, it’s different.
Giorno is quiet about his past. He doesn’t like to talk about it. Narancia doesn’t want him to regret anything he says while in this state.
It has to be temporary, right? They can’t have just lost their Giorno. Not like this. No.
No, no. Of course not. He’ll come back.
He can’t… He can’t just leave them.
The Colombina mask is heavy in his pocket. Just because of Narancia’s stupid wish… Giorno, he…
Narancia suddenly realizes that he’s been staring at Giorno. Who is staring back at him.
Abbacchio, driving, has turned on the radio while he was lost in thought, so Narancia takes the opportunity to shuffle closer to Giorno. “Are you OK?” he asks in a whisper.
Giorno stays silent, just long enough to unnerve Narancia. He looks like he’s studying him, trying to figure out what his intentions are. “I’m fine,” he answers, voice terse. “...Can I know your name?”
“Oh! Uh, yeah, sorry. I’m Narancia!” He considers offering to kiss Giorno’s hand like all the Capos do, but reconsiders quickly. There’s no way Giorno will accept—kissing hands is super weird. “Uh, you know Bucciarati, yeah? The others are Abbacchio, Mista, and Fugo.”
Giorno looks at him blankly.
Fugo interrupts, making a noise of frustration. “He won’t know who you’re talking about if you just say our names like that.” His face softens as soon as he looks at Giorno. “My name is Pannacotta Fugo. You… usually call me Fugo.” He glares when Narancia snickers, but it’s really his fault for being so flustered over Giorno calling him ‘Panna.’
Mista peers over his seat to look at them, looking at Giorno with a nonchalant smile. “I’m Guido Mista! We spend a lot of time together,” due to the fact that he’s Giorno’s main bodyguard, “so don’t hesitate to call me anything you want.” He winks.
“Ugh,” Abbacchio says eloquently. “Abbacchio. Don’t call me anything else.”
“Leone,” Bucciarati chides softly. Sitting in the front passenger seat, he looks over his shoulder to offer Giorno an almost-smile, still a bit tense from seeing Giorno evade him with fear earlier. “My name is Bruno Bucciarati. You tend to call me by my last name, however.”
Giorno takes a moment to study them, but then focuses on Bucciarati. Has he already recognized Bucciarati as the leader (at least while their true leader, Giorno, is… incapacitated)? That’s fast!
“I see,” he says plainly. “It’s… nice to meet you again.” He tilts his head. “I suppose I don’t need to introduce myself. You seem to know me well.”
“Giorno Giovanna,” Bucciarati begins. “Age 16, though I suppose you might think yourself 15 and under. You used to attend Cancello Dorato High School. Did you live in the dorms too?” He pauses. “You… Do you know about Gold Experience?”
What? Wouldn’t have Giorno recognized Bucciarati if he already had his Stand? Bucciarati said he was the one to introduce Giorno into the gang, which meant he didn’t have a Stand when he first met Bucciarati, right?
But, surprisingly, Giorno tenses. “You—…” His entire body has gone tense. He looks ready to either fight or, uh, flight? “Do you also…”
“We all have Stands here,” Bucciarati says.
Sitting so close to him, Narancia can feel Giorno’s erratic heartbeat. He looks like he’s trying to melt into the backseat, plastered against the seat and the door, fist clenched tight. Narancia wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to break the glass window to jump out of the moving car. Or maybe he would turn the car into a plant or something. Or maybe he would just attack them.
His fear is— almost disgustingly obvious. He’s afraid, plain and simple. He’s afraid of them .
Bucciarati’s face shutters and closes off, but his heartbreak can still be felt—how can it not be, when they’re all feeling the same; even Abbacchio’s grip on the wheel has turned tight enough to make his knuckles white.
He sighs and turns back to the road. “You don’t have to worry,” he says, voice quiet. “We won’t hurt you.”
Giorno’s expression is enough to tell how dubious he finds that promise, but thankfully he doesn’t say anything else. Silence falls back in the car. Narancia curses himself for even trying to speak in the first place.
Miraculously, the house-slash-mansion is not too far away, and they manage to reach it before something else inevitably happens. At the very least, they get to see Giorno’s incredulous expression as they park in front of the ridiculously expensive mansion.
“This place is…?” are his first words, after everything that happened in the car.
“It’s where you live,” Bucciarati answers, apparently having been designated as the main Giorno-talker. “As for the rest of us, we don’t always live here, but it’s not out of the ordinary for us to be here.”
Giorno’s shock is enough to make his tongue loosen: “I agreed to live with you?”
Bucciarati’s expression turns dry. “You’re the one who invited us here.”
Giorno looks like he doesn’t believe that at all, but thankfully he doesn’t freak out again. He doesn’t protest and only follows them inside, looking around curiously. Is he finally accepting the situation?
They’ve barely gotten inside when the sound of footsteps appears. As she comes downstairs from her bedroom, Trish’s voice comes: “Are you finally back? I thought we were supposed to have lunch together.” She stops short when she finally reaches the bottom of the stairs, faced with their grave faces. “What’s with those faces? Did something happen?”
“Giorno has amnesia,” Narancia blurts out, then slams a hand over his mouth, giving Giorno a guilty look. “Um, I mean… yeah.”
Trish barely has time to process his words. Giorno is already taking a more domineering attitude.
“Who are you?” he demands. “Why are you here?”
Trish takes the situation in quickly, and falls back on old habits: she gives him an unimpressed look. “Trish Una. Did they not explain all of this to you? Just how much do you remember?”
Perhaps due to the sparks already lighting in between Giorno and Trish, Bucciarati interrupts before anything else can be said. He lifts up a hand. “Let’s head to the living room. We will be more comfortable here.”
Giorno needs to be guided here, of course. Not a single inch of recognition comes to his face, placid as it is. He barely seems to tolerate the fact that they stay so close to him. Narancia has a feeling he’s reconsidering even coming with them — perhaps homelessness would have been better than following a bunch of strangers to a weird, rich house.
They all crowd in the living room, sitting down on the couch and the armchairs. Both Narancia and Giorno stay standing, one due to the unbearable tension and the other because it will allow him to flee faster, if need be.
Narancia tries to keep his expression approachable, thinking of how Giorno must be feeling right now. The others all show a tense face, looking at Giorno like he’s— like he’s dead or something.
Surprisingly, it’s Giorno himself who breaks the silence. “Are you… criminals?”
Abbacchio snorts, looking surprised at his own amusement. “What on earth would make you say that, huh?”
Giorno’s eyes flit down to Mista’s waistband, where— oh. Right. His gun. Narancia has gotten so used to seeing it there that he didn’t even think twice about it. That’s enough of an answer. “Mafia?” he asks.
“Yes,” Bucciarati nods.
Like this, Giorno looks really weird, like he’s both ready to fight and wanting nothing more than to escape. His posture is strong, arms at his sides like he’s so confident that he doesn’t even need to prepare for a fight… yet his eyes keep fleeting about, and his legs are tense. Like he’s torn between two worlds, not yet sure which approach will be best with them.
But he’s been trying to figure it out, hasn’t he? All his meticulous, hesitant questioning, and his weird silences… It’s like he’s testing out which attitude he should adopt in order to make them talk, which things make them tick — just like his sudden confrontation with Trish, just a few seconds ago.
He’s trying to see where their limits are.
Narancia’s throat feels tight. He wants to tell Giorno that there are no limits, that he can just kill them if he wants to and they’ll just accept it, but he can’t find the words. How can he properly communicate their care for Giorno in just a few words?
Has Giorno been thinking that they will hurt him? Does he think that they brought him here to kill him?
Giorno visibly steels himself for his next question: “And… who am I to you?”
Bucciarati exhales softly. “You are… our Boss. Our Don.”
Astonishingly enough (or perhaps not), Giorno doesn’t look that surprised by this revelation. “I see. How old am I?”
“16.”
Giorno closes his eyes, and blinks when he opens them again. Is that relief on his face? Happiness? Pride? What is this sudden influx of positive emotions? Ah, maybe he’s just happy that he hasn’t lost that many years.
“You’ll turn 17 this year,” Fugo adds helpfully. “This is— We’re in 2002.”
Giorno nods. He suddenly looks a bit tired, the skin around his eyes softening— or, wait, no. Actually, maybe he just looks a little bit less tense. “You didn’t answer my question properly. Even if I am your Don, this does not explain why we would,” he gestures vaguely to the house, “live together.” He pauses. “On a… relationship-value. Who are you to me?”
“I can’t say what your feelings towards us are,” Bucciarati says softly, “but you are important to us. That fact is undeniable. We… all worked together to promote you to the position of Don.”
“Yes, surviving near-death experiences together,” because of course getting to the position of Mafia Don would include near-death experiences, “tends to make people bond.” Giorno nods understandingly. “You don’t seem to be lying.”
Bucciarati’s mouth twitches like he wants to smile.
“Very well,” Giorno continues, putting a hand on his hip. “Do you have a plan going forward?”
.
With Giorno having left them, now in the hands of Fugo, to figure out what his obligations as mafia Don are, the rest of the team stays in the living room, somehow still reeling from all of this. How come they’re more shocked than Giorno himself?
“Did you see him?” Narancia says incredulously. “Did you see? It was like, ugh, like when he was all,” he makes gestures with his hands, “yeah? At the beginning.”
Mista, the only person who ever truly understands him, nods seriously. “Yeah, he’s gone back to his weird act from the beginning.” He sighs, leaning his head back to look at the ceiling. They can hear Fugo and Giorno walking upstairs, just above them. “I thought he was gonna try to drink the, uh, tea again.”
“The tea?” Bucciarati lifts an eyebrow. “We’d have to brew some first.”
Abbacchio is glaring at them as he answers: “No need. It’s true that the brat has gone completely cold again, though. Defensive, actually.”
“He looked like he was expecting you to hurt him,” Trish says mildly, always so good at figuring out normal, human emotions. She’s very skilled. “Honestly, considering what I’ve understood about the situation, I’m not surprised he thought you might be enemies.”
Bucciarati sighs, looking away. “I could have handled this better, certainly,” he admits. “What worries me is what he will do from now on. If he tries to leave…”
“Why would he?” Abbacchio waves his hand dismissively. “Isn’t this his dream?”
“There’s no saying whether he truly believes us,” Trish counters. “Imagine, you suddenly lose 1, 2 years worth of memories and there’s someone telling you that you’ve somehow achieved your greatest dream. Would you truly believe them?”
“Of course I wouldn’t,” Abbacchio continues. “But Giovanna isn’t exactly the most rational person. I wouldn’t be surprised if he truly believes us.”
“He knows that I wasn’t lying,” Bucciarati says, voice quieter. He sighs again. “But he might think we are still hiding some things, or that I myself have been misled. Anything to invalidate my words, truly.”
Mista groans loudly. “What are we supposed to do then?”
“Just tell him the truth,” Narancia says bluntly, suddenly finding his voice. “Giorno’s able to see when you lie and stuff, so if you just tell him the truth — eventually, if he has enough evidence to prove that it’s all true and that we’re not lying, he’ll believe us, right?”
There’s a moment of silence as they all contemplate this. Bucciarati gives Narancia an encouraging, approving nod.
Trish hits the top of the couch suddenly. “Why are we acting as though he’ll never find his memory back…!? Is there something you’re not telling me? Did he get attacked by a Stand user?”
“It’s possible,” Bucciarati replies calmly, in clear contrast with her aggression. “We don’t know enough as of yet; we’ll need to interrogate him later.” He grimaces a little. “Trish, you…” He sighs, then faces the rest of them, giving each one a serious look. “We need to be prepared for the possibility that Giorno… never remembers.”
“No way!” Mista and Narancia immediately protest, as one voice.
“He’ll remember!” Narancia continues, standing up and waving his arms, trying to convey his trust in Giorno. “He has to! We went through so much together… Bucciarati, you can’t give up on him like that!”
“It’s not a question of trust,” Abbacchio snaps, always on Bucciarati’s side.
Bucciarati’s jaw is clenched tight. “Don’t act like this — I want Giorno to remember just as much as you do. I’m just saying that, in case it doesn’t happen… we can’t hold this against Giorno. It’s not his fault. This situation is just as if not more uncomfortable for him as it is for us.” He sighs, passes a hand through his hair. “We need to continue to trust and believe in him, even if he doesn’t believe in us anymore.”
Narancia falls back down on the couch limply, unable to believe what he is hearing. Isn’t this the same as abandoning Giorno? Just… just giving up on everything they went through together, just — just acting like nothing ever happened. Aren’t they abandoning the old Giorno for a new one?
“You can’t hold his reactions against him,” Bucciarati continues, words rushing out. “He doesn’t know us. He doesn’t know that we care for him — you saw him earlier, ready to fight for his life… Just, please, be patient with him.”
There’s no clear person he’s saying this to, but Narancia can’t help but direct his gaze towards Abbacchio anyway. He already knows that the rest of them will do their best to make Giorno comfortable, because they already did it before, but it’s different for Abbacchio.
Abbacchio makes a grimace, but nods, severe. “You don’t have to look at me like that. I know already.”
Bucciarati looks guiltily relieved. “Thank you.” His face hardens again. “But this message goes for the rest of you too. Don’t get frustrated with him because he doesn’t remember or doesn’t know something — it’s not his fault,” he insists again.
They all nod, Narancia following along mindlessly, trying to keep a calm face.
But inside, his heart is in turmoil.
Having to be so careful around Giorno, treating him like he’s some porcelain doll… it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
.
After Fugo has finished showing him around the house, Giorno comes back downstairs, just in time for them to start on preparing dinner.
They don’t always prepare their meals together, but just this once they’re all here — either actively helping or just speaking in the background, watching on. Mista, their “head chef,” suggested the idea in order to show Giorno just how solid they are together. Bucciarati agreed, so they just all went along with it.
When he sees it, Giorno doesn’t seem surprised — which, of course. He doesn’t know that it’s not what they usually do. To him, this is just another surprise; and faced with so many new things to take into account, it isn’t even really surprising anymore, is it?
He approaches Bucciarati first. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Bucciarati visibly considers it. “Do you know how to cook?”
“I cook for myself.”
“Right,” Bucciarati says, sounding a bit surprised. “I’d forgotten you lived alone.”
“I cooked for myself even when I lived with my family.”
They all quiet down at Giorno’s words.
Giorno… doesn’t really talk about personal things. Before today, they never even knew that he had a mother, let alone the fact that she was alive. And as far as Narancia knows, only Bucciarati knew that Giorno attended that prestigious Middle-High school. To hear him suddenly open up like that, even with just a sentence, feels wrong.
Narancia can’t see Giorno’s expression like this, can only see the fluttering of his eyelashes and the tiniest bit of tension in his jaw, but somehow he still feels like this is yet another test.
Bucciarati inhales slowly. “Is that so,” he says. “You don’t have to help us, but if you want to, we appreciate the help.” Having said that, he continues on his path to the sink to wash the tomatoes, keeping his composure deliberately open and relaxed, like nothing is wrong.
There’s no mention of Giorno’s revelation, no mention of his family, no mention of his childhood, of why a child would need to cook for himself.
It seems like that’s the right thing to do. As Giorno follows Bucciarati’s path with his gaze, Narancia is able to catch a glimpse of his wide eyes. It’s quickly hidden from view, Giorno’s ruthlessly cold mask falling back into place, but just that second of seeing Giorno’s true feelings again is enough to reassure Narancia’s wavering heart.
If just this little smidge, this little bit of trust and affection is enough to make Giorno’s barriers break… then…
Then maybe, even if they never get their old Giorno back… it’ll be alright.
The dinner itself is a bit of a sad affair. Giorno looks ready to fly out of his seat at any second, despite his best efforts to look unaffected. Narancia can’t really blame him. He, too, wants to leave as soon as possible.
Dinners in this house are usually accompanied with screams (of pain or joy) and peals of laughter (of hysteria or joy — it’s always the same drill with them). But tonight, barely a sound is made. Abbacchio and Mista took the time to move the TV closer, so that the sound of it can cover the silence, but even that is not enough.
Narancia tries to launch a conversation a few times, and he can see that the others try to follow along, but — there are just moments, where they’ll pause, expecting someone to interject, then look over and find Giorno’s pale, hesitant face instead of a teasing, mischievous smile.
It just… it’s just kinda heartbreaking, is all.
Giorno once again offers his help after dinner, as Fugo and Narancia are supposed to help with washing the dishes. Bucciarati refuses it for them.
“I’m sure you’ve already had an exhausting day,” he says as an excuse. “Why don’t you head to your room and rest?”
Thankfully, Giorno doesn’t protest any more than that. He heads to his room, wishing them a good night and saying his goodbyes for today. It’s all to be polite, of course, but something in Narancia’s heart still warms up at that.
That first night, Giorno stays in his room. The house is quiet, not a single sound emerging. Narancia feels his skin crawling with unease, unable to sleep.
He thinks about what Giorno must be thinking, what he must expect of them. What realizations he must have come to.
He’s realized that he’s at least a little bit important to them, right? Not even talking on an emotional level, but just for the sake of Passione… He has to know that they won’t just make him disappear. Right?
He tries to imagine what he would be feeling if he were in Giorno’s position. Suddenly surrounded by enemies-slash-allies-slash-whatever… Forced to stay in a house filled with strangers who call him by nicknames and who expect him to be someone he’s not (not yet).
Is he laying in bed, right now? Is he staring up at a ceiling that should be familiar but is not?
Or is he unable to sleep, instead observing his bedroom? Or standing at the balcony, taking in fresh air?
Is he able to calm down? Or does his heart still beat like it’s trying to run away? Earlier, in the car, when Narancia was so close to him — his heart had been beating so fast that it’d scared him. He thinks about holding Giorno’s wrist, feeling his pulse jump, erratic and afraid.
He doesn’t want that.
He doesn’t want Giorno to be afraid of them, he wants— he just wants Giorno to smile at them.
He wishes Giorno had just come back with that stupid mask. Narancia would have worn it even though it wasn’t intended for him, the others would have laughed and made fun of him, and Giorno would have that soft look on his face, like he’s treasuring every instant, every second with them.
And instead, just because of Narancia’s greedy wish for more—
“Giorno,” he whispers into the dead of the night. “Please come back.”