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Giorno was nineteen the second time someone made a serious attack on his life. He had been fifteen the first time, still new and trying to prove himself a worthy boss to Passione. It hadn’t been surprising that some of the old guard would challenge him, but Giorno was ruthless. Bruno’s gang had been ruthless. Together, they hunted down those who would return to the old status quo, securing themselves a reputation that demanded loyalty and envy alike.
It was the latter that inspired the second attack during what should have been a casual lunch with Bruno. If it had been a simple shooting or even a bombing, the attackers might have succeeded, but Stand users were rarely so low key. They liked to boast. Liked to play games. Giorno and Bruno were old hands at such games and dispatched them, but not quickly nor without a struggle.
Giorno’s exquisitely tailored jacket was hanging off of him in shreds, blood and dirt smeared across his face. His braid, nearly to his waist, was coming unraveled. At his feet lay the body of his attacker. He looked, as always, magnificent in his victory.
But then he began to sway, overcome with exhaustion and Bruno sprinted to his side. Giorno couldn’t afford to look weak in public, not even after a fight for his life. He’d built up a reputation that depended largely on appearing invincible and the mythos had only grown in the last four years. So Bruno stripped off his own jacket, the front stained with blood from a lucky punch to his nose, and draped it over Giorno’s shoulders, using it as an excuse to offer his own strength. Giorno leaned against him, letting Bruno zip them safely out of sight and into the remainders of the cafe.
Only when they were alone did Giorno allow himself to collapse into Bruno’s arms and pass out. Bruno held him close and called for a car.
When Giorno came to, he was in the backseat of a sedan with his head in Bruno’s lap. He sat up slowly.
“We’re almost home,” Bruno told him, though what he really wanted was to ask if Giorno was okay. He wouldn’t do that with anyone else around, not even when it was Mista driving the car.
Mista, of course, had no such hesitations. “You okay, Boss?”
He might have been asking either of them—it happened often when Don and Sottocapo were both together and neither stood much on formality. Giorno was the one who answered, if a bit stiffly, “Fine.”
Bruno suspected pain rather than irritation for Giorno’s tone, and Mista seemed to do the same. He gave them a nod in the rearview mirror and drove a little faster.
Giorno slid his arms into the sleeves of Bruno’s jacket, his eyes lingering on the blood stains. He sat up straighter and stared wordlessly out the window. He appeared, to the casual observer, to be unbothered and in control, but Bruno knew better. He saw the tiny tremors in Giorno’s hands.
Reaching out, Bruno took one of those hands and squeezed gently until the shaking subsided.
Silence reigned the rest of the way home. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but the weariness was palpable. They were going to have to respond to this latest attack and more harshly than before. It was not something either of them enjoyed.
On top of that, it had been a close call—closer than anything they’d faced since taking over Passione. Without the adrenaline and danger thrumming through their veins, they were able to dwell on just how badly things could have gone. Just because one had made peace with dying didn’t make it any easier to dance so close to the edge.
At the villa, Mista parked the car while Bruno followed Giorno into the main house and upstairs to the master suite. No one else was home yet, leaving the place eerily quiet. The late afternoon shadows made the halls dim, appearing lonely and haunted.
“Giorno,” Bruno said softly, reluctant to break the silence. He closed the bedroom door for privacy. Just in case.
Giorno turned so quickly that his braid nearly slapped Bruno in the face. Without a word, he buried himself into Bruno’s arms. This time his shaking didn’t cease, even when Bruno hugged him close.
“I’m here,” Bruno said, though he felt useless. He had seen Giorno vulnerable—was perhaps the only one who ever had—but this felt different. He had never seen Giorno quite so desperate for reassurance. Hadn’t known he was capable of it.
Perhaps their enemies hadn’t been the only ones fooled by Giorno’s confidence.
“I thought I was going to lose you,” Giorno whispered, his words muffled against Bruno’s neck.
“Wha— Me? Giorno, you’re the one who nearly died!”
“But you’re the one they were targeting,” he looked up. “You, Bruno. And I let myself get distracted. That’s how they came so close to killing me.”
Bruno had never heard Giorno sound so shaken. So self-incriminating. He replayed the fight in his head, searching out the moments he might have missed that would suggest he was the true target.
“They thought it would make me weak,” Giorno said.
“They’re fools to think that. You’re the power behind your own throne,” Bruno scoffed. That made sense. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d faced such an assumption. Early on, some of the capos had believed Giorno was little more than a puppet while Bruno pulled the strings. Giorno had... convinced them otherwise. Thoroughly, in some cases.
“It would hurt me to lose you. Bruno… don’t you know that I love you?”
Of course he knew. He’d known it since the first time they met. There was a connection between them that Bruno had been ignoring for years. Consolidating Giorno’s power as the new Don had been more important than sorting out any feelings they might have had for each other. But Giorno didn’t need a mentor anymore and they’d been equals in all but title for a very long time.
“Don’t sacrifice yourself for me,” Bruno shook his head. “I’m not worth it. And I don’t want to become the boss because you died. And—”
He cut off any protests with a hand against Giorno’s face, stroking one blood and grime-streaked cheek with his thumb. Giorno leaned into it like a cat, closing his eyes.
“And how could I live without you?” Bruno finished. “Sometimes I think I’ve loved you since before either of us were born.”
Giorno smiled at that, the faintest trace of a blush coloring his cheeks. Tucked into Bruno’s jacket, his hair disheveled, he looked less like Don Giovanna of Passione and more like what he was: a young man in love.
“Me too.”
Leaning down the scant inches between them, Bruno pressed his lips to Giorno’s. It was a gentle first kiss, one tinged with blood and dirt and lingering fears. It wasn’t what Bruno might have imagined for them, but it was no less perfect in that moment.
Giorno drew away first, only to wrap his arms around Bruno’s neck and bury his face against him once again. Bruno held him closer, his heart aching with new fears and anger at the men who had nearly taken Giorno from him. Retribution could wait until morning, he told himself, and it would come swiftly and without mercy.
Tonight would be for life and for love.
~END~