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It’s the quease that’s most unpleasant, when Diavolo’s talking to Giorno.
Diavolo understands the churning in his stomach and knows eventually he’s going to expel its contents, but he doesn’t know exactly when. He hopes it’s not until the conversation’s over, to retain whatever dignity he has left, but he’s had to run to the bathroom before in the middle of business.
He is not a talkative man by nature, but he knows talking to a specific person doesn’t make people vomit, normally. If there’s anyone he doesn’t want to seem weak around, it’s Giorno Giovanna, man of a soft voice and small smiles that nobody but him understands.
So he holds it in, whenever they meet in person. He is a controlled man, and his body is going to shut up and sit down until he allows it to do what it wants. His stomach is quivering unpleasantly but that’s alright, that’s harmless. He’s almost getting used to it happening, with the frequency in which he sees Giorno. He can usually tell when he absolutely has to go find a toilet to retch into, and make it there in time.
Today he does not.
Today he is particularly frustrated. He was in a bad mood before this meeting and seeing Giorno’s face certainly does not help. He feels sick but it’s hardly a footnote among anger and fear. Even as the quease grows, it’s not what Diavolo’s paying attention to, up until he starts to gag and Diavolo knows he’s pushed it much too long.
“Excuse me-” he manages, standing up. Then he vomits onto the table, heaving two or three times until his stomach is completely empty.
The contents of his stomach are whitish-yellowish, probably from the pasta they’d just been having. He can pick out the occasional piece of vegetable, but overall there isn’t enough green to suggest bile. Good. He’s been much more familiar with what healthy vomit looks like recently.
A cough reminds him that he shouldn’t be looking at the table right now.
Giorno, sitting across from him in direct line of fire, is splattered with a good deal of vomit, over his face, shirt, and hair. He is wiping up as best he can with a napkin, but this restaurant’s napkins are not up to the task of absorbing so much.
Diavolo knows he just threw up onto the rising star of his company and what he really should be doing now for the sake of his career is apologizing profusely… but all he can feel is some kind of vindictive pleasure. Fuck Giorno Giovanna. He hopes this happens to him every day.
A waiter has noticed their predicament and come over. “Sirs-” he says.
“Some towels,” says Giorno, weakly. “And the check, please.”
“We will take care of cleaning up,” the waiter says, and hurries off to alert staff.
Giorno and Diavolo look at each other, mostly to avoid looking at other customers who must be staring at them.
Diavolo wipes his mouth. “I suppose I should cover the check.”
“Yes,” says Giorno. “I would appreciate it.”