Chapter Text
In between everything else, Giorno dreams.
She wouldn't call them daydreams, as they're not sweet, friendly little things that distract her from the toils of daily life. They're not her night dreams either, no, those are full of gristle and bone and the harsh voices of men given far too much power.
She doesn't dream in a usual sense, but perhaps she doesn't do anything in a usual sense. She's the fifteen year old daughter of a vampire and leader of the Italian mafia, after all. She doesn't have to do anything in the usual way. She's earned it.
She dreams about her father, her real one. Dio. God. There’s some kind of joke there, about being God’s child, having defeated the man called the Devil, but she’s still working out the punchline.
She dreams of the people she’s lost. She didn't know Buccellati or their team, not as she could have, as they had worked together for a week at most. Yet she knows she could have known them, and that potential energy still crackles in her brain, makes way for thoughts of the past.
She doesn't allow herself to entertain what-ifs. They're unnecessary and bothersome, and leave you caught up in webs of regret. Giorno doesn't regret things she can't change. There's no use wasting energy on such things. However, the past is solid and unchanging. There's no uncertainty, just recollection and dealing with the effects of the past. So she dreams of the past - not what could have been, but what has been.
---
By design, Giorno wakes up early. It’s something she learned when she was young, rising with the sun, that being awake for as many daylight hours as possible made her feel like she had more time and agency in the day.
However, this means as she steps into the shared living room in the apartment the gang has holed up in, planning to beeline to the kitchen, she catches a glimpse of something no one up at a reasonable hour would.
Buccellati and Abbacchio are normally careful about their relationship - it’s obvious they mean something more to each other, that there’s something precious and powerful between them, but they’re both wary of showing the vulnerability of caring for each other so deeply. Yet here, they’re alone together, and their comfort is clear in the relaxed set of Abbacchio’s shoulders and the gentle, sleepy smile on Buccellati’s face. Morning light is just barely peeking through the drawn curtains, casting the whole scene in a soft glow. Standing in the doorway, still unnoticed, Giorno doesn’t hear their words, but their actions are more than clear. They’re sitting together on the couch, Buccellati with their legs carefully tucked under themself, Abbacchio with her arms draped over their shoulders like an oversized cat. Buccellati mumbles something, and Abbacchio smiles, a rarity in and of itself. Her lips are free of their dark tint, and she has slight dimples. Giorno's never seen her without the black lipstick, and something about that is almost more raw and intimate than the moment of intimacy unfolding in front of her. It softens her appearance somehow, brings her down to earth and makes her look just a bit more human. Buccellati brushes a bit of Abbacchio’s long white hair behind her ear, and whispers something else. They leave a soft kiss where their fingers brushed, and Abbacchio turns a strange ruddy color, like she’s not used to blushing. Giorno wonders, suddenly, if she’s ever seen this kind of intimacy before, if she’d ever seen her father kiss her mother like that.
She knows she hasn’t, and the lack of something there makes her chest ache suddenly. She takes a subconscious step back and stumbles into a sleepy Fugo, who had gone unnoticed in her enchantment with the scene unfolding in front of her. He curses and glares at her, and anything special about the moment is broken as the lovebirds are alerted to the presence of others, and distraction tears her away from her pain.
Smiling apologetically, Buccellati gets up, presumably to properly start their morning activities. Abbacchio's face twists into a frown, but she stays lounging on the couch like an ancient monarch. The effect is somewhat ruined when Fugo, still partially asleep, slumps down heavily on top of her legs, and she yowls like an injured cat. Fugo ignores her until she kicks him enough that he gets up with no shortage of complaint, instead heading for the kitchen to beg coffee off of Buccellati. Abbacchio flicks him in the back of the head as he leaves, and he flips her off.
Giorno doesn't realize she's been standing in the same place until Abbacchio shifts her spiteful gaze to look at her, and practically snarls, teeth flashing under a curled lip. "You got a fucking problem?"
Giorno blinked and shook her head, quickly, unused to being caught staring. She was good at blending into the background, watching, coming up with solutions from a distance. She liked people-watching, made somewhat of a profession out of it, really - it was remarkable the difference in demeanor tourists had, and respectfully how much easier it was to swipe their wallets. However, she wasn't often caught staring, pinned to her place with sharp eyes like a butterfly against a corkboard. It made sense that sitting and watching didn't really fly in a gang: it was suspicious, and at the very least annoying enough that most gangsters would blow their top. She'd only been with the gang for a bit over a day, and it was truly remarkable how quick almost all their tempers were. It wasn't as if she hadn't met those with anger issues before, but she felt as if it would be a drawback, acting without thinking like that.
Speaking of acting, she should really get moving before Abbacchio's cold gaze gave her frostbite. She'd taken one step before the older woman spoke. "Hey. If you wanna get out of your fuckin', dream world or whatever's going on in there, take Mista and Narancia with you." She frowns, perhaps realizing the obliqueness of her words. "Go wake those two monsters up, I mean. Tell them if they're not here within three minutes they get no breakfast."
Waking Mista up is relatively easy: all she has to do is lure the Sex Pistols out, then let them know that they have two minutes to get breakfast. They immediately set to swarming Mista like bees, pulling on his hair and wailing about missing meals. He swats at them half-heartedly and shoots a glare at Giorno. She smiles innocently and leaves him at the mercy of his six little gremlins.
Narancia's a harder case. He's a sleepy teenager with a knife under his pillow and a bad attitude, and she's beginning to see why Abbacchio sent her to do the dirty work. She maintains a careful distance, not particularly interested in being at the business end of Narancia's switchblade. Instead she turns his headband, laying haphazardly on the nightstand, into a frog and watches as it hops directly onto his face. He groans and slaps at it, but succeeds only in slapping himself awake. She allows herself a small smile, proud of her devious little plan. "There's breakfast in the kitchen for another..." She tilts her head, pretending to think it over. "Fifty-five seconds or so, if you're quick."
Narancia reacts much faster to the idea of food than to a slimy frog landing on his face, which showcases his priorities quite clearly. He bundles himself in a blanket and tumbles outside, and both she and the headband-turned-frog follow with a hop in their step.
With the addition of Narancia, the volume in the kitchen quickly increases. Giorno leans delicately on the counter and watches as Narancia burns his fingers attempting to grab a waffle straight from the iron, complaining as Fugo slaps his hands away in a rough show of care. Abbacchio remains in the living room, ignoring the ruckus with the practiced air of one who has ignored many, many, violent outbursts from her companions. Mista's preoccupied with making sure he's not getting the fourth waffle, and Fugo's given up on Narancia and is instead fighting with the coffee maker. Giorno internally wrestles with the fondness that's making itself known as she watches the scene. Somehow, she doesn't feel annoyed by the noise; rather, a quiet smile forms on her face without being asked as amusement bubbles up behind her lips. She's remembering why she enjoys people-watching so much.
Eventually, everyone is served, and Giorno is quietly grateful she distracted Narancia quickly enough that he hadn't had time to grab his knife. There were a few moments that seemed almost ready to culminate in a fight; however, Buccellati’s presence seems to keep outright violence to a minimum. Giorno’s had respect for them since their very first fight, but it increases as she watches their mere presence keep a gentle rein on each member of the team. They’re clearly a good leader.
She takes a delicate bite of her own breakfast and tunes into the conversation happening around the table. Narancia's repeatedly attempting to take a bite of his waffle, despite cringing away at the heat each time. Mista's staring openly across the table at Abbacchio, who raises a dark, carefully shaped eyebrow. "You need something, punk?"
Mista shrugs, the picture of disinterested innocence. "Just wondering how in the world you can stand eating a cold waffle without even any syrup on it."
The corners of Abbacchio‘s mouth turn down. “Well, I wonder how in the world you can stand eating that thing you’ve drowned in syrup, but some mysteries remain unsolved.” She replies airily.
Mista bristles, but Giorno can read him well enough she detects no actual anger behind it. This seems to be normal conversation for them, their way of shooting the shit. Buccellati’s clearly listening, but remains buried in the newspaper they’re pretending to read, businesslike. (It’s open to the crossword section, and their expression is likely deep in thought about the winner of the 1997 World Cup, not the current events advertised on the front page.)
Narancia pipes up, mouth full of waffle from where he’s clearly overridden his better judgement and burned his tongue. “I don’t get how you can eat that stuff cold, Abba. That’s so gross! It doesn’t taste right if it’s not the perfect temperature.”
Fugo mumbles something mutinous about ‘the perfect temperature’ apparently being akin to the temperature of lava. Narancia’s attention doesn’t move from Abbacchio, but Fugo hisses in pain and it’s clear he’s just been kicked under the table. Abbacchio’s stare remains level. “I don’t really taste it anyways, so it doesn’t really matter. Also, I told you to stop calling me that.”
Narancia swallows his bite of waffle and sticks his tongue out at her. She makes a rude gesture back. Giorno represses another fond smile (since when was she so prone to smiling?) and returns her attention to her own breakfast. As she cuts carefully along the line of the waffle, making sure the syrup stays in its little cup of dough, she catches herself almost wishing she could have more mornings like this. It’s a strange, hopeful thought, and she pauses with her fork impaled in the center of her waffle.
Giorno doesn’t wish, really - it’s a foolish thing to do, and even if granted there are thousands of loopholes in wording that can lead a wish awry. More than anything, really, they get your hopes up, make it feel like a situation will go the way you want it to; and just when you feel safe, something will go wrong.
She doesn’t wish, doesn’t prepare herself for anything but the worst possibilities. It sounds nihilistic, but it’s just rational; and if she’s wrong and things go perfectly (however rare that is), it’s a pleasant surprise. If things go badly, well, she’s just as right as always. It gives her a little sense of pride, perhaps.
So when she looks at the gang around her, bickering passionately, she doesn’t wish for this moment to last forever, or something equally cheesy, knowing it’s futile. Instead she half-closes her eyes and lets their dynamic wash over her, warm and careful. A family she’s never had, a captain she already trusts more than she trusts her parents. Said captain breaks off from scolding Narancia and catches her eye, and smiles, so kindly.
Something warm and friendly blooms in Giorno's chest, like Golden Experience has turned her heart into a sunflower, and in her surprise at the feeling she turns the napkin under her hand into a frog.
Narancia, who had been sulking about something or other, immediately takes notice of the little creature and makes grabby hands across the table towards it. Giorno mindlessly directs it towards him, from which he grabs it in his rough hands (there's scars on his fingertips from knife slips, she notes) and grins brightly, like he's a fisherman with a rare catch.
He shoves the frog in Mista's face then, and the latter recoils, citing that no, he's not afraid of frogs, they're just so slimy and jump WAY too far and Narancia if you don't get that away from me right now I'm gonna flip shit, I swear.
Giorno knows this won’t be forever, nothing is; but she basks in the moment, saves a little snapshot of sunlight and coffee in her heart to hold onto later.
---
It’s these snapshots she views through the lens of memory, later, reclined in the library after a particularly stressful meeting with a particularly obtuse capo. The warm feeling in her chest makes itself known just as it did that day, and she finds herself with the same fond smile she had tried to fight back.
Rationally, she knows it’s a bit ridiculous to relish in such menial things. She’s spent the better part of her life alone, what’s the difference now? Yet having been given a shot at connection, selfishly, she wants more. Much more.
There’s little left of the team captured in her memories; half of them dead, their leader a shambling corpse for far too long. Yet her desire remains, the ghost of connection close over her shoulder.
If she knows anything, she knows herself, and Giorno Giovanna knows that ghost won't be leaving anytime soon. She sets her head back against the window behind her, and resigns her thoughts to planning how to mend what remains of Buccellati's team.
It's the least she can do for their memory, if anything.