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The slowly setting sun felt pleasant against his skin, the air fresh in his lungs as he breathed in. It was one of his rare off-days, where he would take some time to himself, away from his position and the hard task of carrying out his dream. It had been hell to wrangle out a day on his lonesome from his friends, with no bodyguards or mafioso whatsoever. Slightly foolish of him, maybe, but he had managed to come to a compromise in the form of both a disguise, and a trump card. He had a small satchel by his side, only containing one thing. In it, Gold Experience's hand was half manifested around the shaft of the requiem arrow, poised to use it at any moment.
No-one knew exactly what G.E.R did of course, not even his friends, only him, but they trusted his word when he swore that it would certainly be more than enough should he be attacked by even the most powerful of stand users.
He turned a corner as he wandered aimlessly through the slightly older districts of the city. He knew where he was, of course, and he would probably start heading back soon seeing as it was becoming dark. 'But not yet,' he thought to himself, merely content to wander and let fate lead him around.
It was when he was passing an old hole-in the wall shop that he noticed it. Lying there, pretty as a picture, was an old worn brooch, shaped like a bird's wing. There were small blue gems studded in it, nothing too gaudy, and it looked like it could use a good polish to bring out its shine, but otherwise it seemed to be fairly modest. It had no reason to catch his eye.
But it did.
Thinking back on that moment, Giorno wondered whether it was really a flight of fancy that drove him to purchase the brooch, or if it was something else.
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It was 2:25 a.m, approximately six hours after Giorno had arrived back to the mansion, steadfastly ignoring the growing pile of paperwork that he would despise catching up on tomorrow. He had decided to head to bed early, so as to wake up refreshed in the morning, and maybe actually get more than five hours of rest, without the burden of working late pressing down upon him.
He couldn't sleep.
At some point in the past hour, Giorno had drawn the brooch out of the bag he had bought it in, and was now holding it over his head as he lay improperly in bed, legs splayed halfway up the wall where his head should have been resting at. He really didn't understand as to why he was so interested in the small ornament, but figured there had to be some reason.
Oh well, if he wasn't going to be sleeping, then...
Giorno picked himself off of his -frankly massive, he had been in shock when he first saw it, and he probably went into actual shock when he felt how soft it was- bed. He strode over to the large ornate dresser on the other side of the room, mirror reflecting a slight ray of moonlight from a gap between his curtains. He sat down at the dresser and continued to stare at the brooch. He was not sure why his attention kept being drawn back to it. (Something in the back of his mind was set on edge.)
He glanced up at himself in the mirror, taking in the features he had grown into over the past few years since ascending to the position of Don. He had spoken to Kujo, his technically grand-nephew, a few times over the years, and each time they met, despite the man continuously acknowledging that he wasn't the man who sired him, the stoic man had always seemed on edge whenever they saw each other, before conversation with Giorno eventually lured him back into a sense of safety.
Giorno had gathered he had begun to look a lot like his father.
His father.
His father was a mass murderer who wore the corpse of another man like a full-body prosthetic. A frown tugged at Giorno's lips, although he was not sure if it was due to the thoughts of his father that he was having, or the fact that he looked like the man. He clipped the brooch to the front of his pyjama top, some black silk piece that had cost a pretty penny, but he had learnt to stop caring about being thrifty like he had in his youth because everything in the main manor cost more than he ever thought he would be worth. He glanced back to the mirror.
His reflection was wrong.
His head was bent down slightly, one hand still resting on the dull decoration clipped to his shirt, while his reflection was staring him dead on, eyes filled with the resolve he had only heard about second-hand from those who witnessed it. He jerked his head upwards. His reflection did not move.
The brooch, out of the blue, began to burn against his skin. He flinched at the sudden pain and his skin began to tingle, waves of pins and needles spreading outwards from where the brooch was pinned, reflection still remaining unmoving, staring at him with no emotion other than sheer determination. It reached out- and Giorno really should have kept the arrow on him rather than hiding it after arriving back at the manor, he thought, as his hand brushed against the mirror and his vision blacked out for a second yet he was still conscious and then he was stumbling-
The cobblestone under his feet felt freezing cold, a stark contrast to the pleasant midday sunlight streaming lightly against his skin. What?
What had happened? He was still wearing his pyjamas, he was still barefoot. One moment he had been in his room in the manor, the next he was- where exactly?
Gold Experience was by his side immediately, poised to strike at anything that came near him as he pressed his hand against an old stone wall, staring out from the mouth of an alleyway into a street that looked like something out of an illustrated history novel. The buildings had nothing modern about them, the people wearing clothing styles that seemed ancient to his modern -if slightly showy- fashion sense. There were carriages, for crying out loud!
He used Gold Experience to scout ahead of him in the street, partly because he was more vulnerable than his quick-moving stand, and partly because he was only wearing his pyjamas and the part of him deep inside that was still small shy Haruno flinched at standing out.
Everything seemed... normal. Well, as normal as it would be if everything suddenly reverted back to Victorian England, because he recognised the language they were speaking and silently thanked god for the fact Fugo forced English lessons on him -along with a dozen other languages- when he re-joined the gang.
Giorno wasn't sure what he was going to do, but as he retreated back into the alleyway, away from the slight stares he was getting at his attire, the first step popped into his mind. Clothes. Let it not be said that with his large dreams Giorno didn't know how to start small. And he was nothing if not adaptable.
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Giorno tugged at the short purple scarf tied around his neck. He had managed to, borrow, a period-typical outfit, discarding his previous clothing aside from the brooch, but the outfit he had on, with its mainly red colouring and purple highlights, was a bit eccentric. But he didn't really mind, as he had always had an eccentric fashion taste, one that he had seemed to have inherited from Dio.
He strode down the street with an easy confidence in his step practically dripping off him, something that warded off people away from his path, which was just as well, because despite the focused look that he always wore being present on his face, his thoughts were completely elsewhere.
Was he truly in the past? Had the brooch been under the effect of an enemy stand? Could he get back? Would his actions here change the present as he knew it? If he made a wrong move, would he stop existing? What if he ran into Dio? Would he everseehisfriendsagain? Whatif-
His internal monologue was cut off by a firm impact he made with a pedestrian that had walked directly into him, which was just as well as it had begun to become consumed by panic. He stumbled back slightly, but the other was much worse off, collapsing back onto the street with a huffed "oof", brown paper bags filled to the brim with various items scattering across the ground.
"Excuse me," Giorno said in barely accented english as he reached down to start picking up the large amount of bags. They probably hadn't even seen him. "Allow me to help you with that."
"Oh, thank you so much!" The person, a woman, young, replied as she picked herself off the ground. "I was distracted, and I'm afraid I didnt even see you th-" her voice cut off with a sharp inhale.
Giorno had begun to rise to his feet, bags in arms, when he paused suddenly as he took in the sharp stinging pain on the side of his face, his head tilted sideways. She had slapped him? What?
He looked over to the woman who had -slapped him, seriously?- and found himself slightly lost for words as he found himself looking at a face that was filled to the brim with fear. (She looked familiar. Had he seen her in a picture before?)
Giorno blinked. "Ex...cuse me?" He asked with a slight incredulous tone in his voice. "Why did you, do that?"
The woman before him clearly realised something, as the distant look in her eyes faded and she gasped, bringing both hands to her mouth. "Oh-" she started, "Oh God! I'm so sorry I mistook you for someone else I don't even know what took hold of me oh my-"
Giorno held a hand up to cut off the babble that was streaming from the young ladies mouth. He recognised that look that she had in her eyes, had seen it one too many times in the mirror after everything with Diavolo. "It's fine," he said, "I understand," and while he did understand he also didn't quite exactly, but he wasn't going to pry.
"Oh no, truly I am so sorry! Here, let me-" the other blonde motioned towards the bags, taking a few out of his arms. He held onto a good half though, as she looked like she might topple should she take any more. No wonder she had crashed into him. "My name is Erina Pendleton. I am so sorry mister...?"
Ah, that was why she seemed familiar.
Giorno, after learning of his bizarre parentage and his extended family who all technically ranked lower on the family tree than he did, despite him being one of the youngest, had studied his families history diligently, paying particular attention to the men who were technically both his father. Erina Pendleton was the name of Jonathan Joestar's wife. His concerns about accidentally erasing himself came back with a fury.
He wants to say so many things. He wants to ask about Jonathan, about Dio, about herself. He refrains. "Please, allow me to help carry these bags, at least." He says instead. "It's the least I can do, you seemed to be having trouble."
Erina quickly grows flustered, but eventually allows him to help her with her task. He decides to stick with her, as she is the only vaguely familiar landmark in this foreign land far in the past. They walk through London, sky hanging blue above them, and Giorno listens to Erina as she speaks about why exactly she had all of these bags. She means it as a nice gathering for her partner, Jonathan, (and Giorno's breath hitches in his throat,) and their mutual best friend, Robert. (And there's somehing about the way she says friend is that leads Giorno to believe that it isn't the case, but he's seen even his employees be unwilling to talk about such relationships they engage in in the 21st century, so he doesn't pry.)
They make it outside London city, taking a carriage to the countryside because apparently victorian nobles are just that trusting in random strangers they slap on the street, and Erina leads him to a frankly beautiful spot on top of a hill, under a large tree that casts a shadow upon the area Erina starts to set the picnic up at.
"You must stay," she tells him, back yet again on the tangent of making up her previous actions somehow, "I insist, really."
He's uncomfortable, he knows who he looks like and he thinks he knows why Erina had slapped him earlier, he doesn't wish to dredge up unpleasant memories in Jonathan and company during the short period between Dio being defeated and his death- (Giorno's breath catches in his throat as he realises that this lovely, pleasant girl is going to go through heartbreak in just a few short months,) but Erina is just so insistent and he's starting to think that maybe this is what the brooch brought him here for, so he agrees.
It is to the scene of Erina and Giorno chatting away that Jonathan and Speedwagon arrive upon, Erina is rambling on and Giorno is sitting in the shadow of the tree, away from the sunlight, unintentionally drawing parallels that have Jonathan freezing in his tracks as his mind is thrown back to Wind Knight's Lot, and Dio is here again and he's next to Erina and his legs tense up, ready to sprint forward and-
Speedwagon rests a hand on Jonathan's shoulder, and he glances back to look the other man in the eyes. He looks slightly wary but- nothing on his face that he would certainly have if Dio had come back from the dead for- what, a fourth time?
Jonathan forces himself to relax as he keeps walking, and as he approaches, despite the similarities in the outfit and features this person shared with Dio, there are also a wide array of differences.
Where Dio held himself with a cocksure arrogance, this man holds himself with a quiet resolve, assurance. Where Dio was muscled, this man is more wiry. Where Dio had light blond hair, this man has a vibrant golden colour. There were differences, and with each one Jonathan noticed he calmed down.
Erina noticed them when they were but a short distance away. "Ah, Jonathan, Robert!" She perked up, "Let me introduce you- this is Giorno Giovanna, he helped me earlier on and I asked him to stay."
Jonathan blinked down at the still-seated man, who seemed to be unsure at to whether or not to pick himself up, and found himself staring into sea-green eyes. Another difference from Dio, then.
"A pleasure," the young man said as he rose to his feet. He couldn't be any younger than eighteen, which contrasted greatly against the confident way he held himself. Jonathan looked into his eyes and saw a mixture of things that confused him. Apprehension, hope? Anxiety? "But I should probably be leaving."
"Oh no, please stay!" Erina begs, and Jonathan is torn between allowing the young man to leave the situation should he wish it and siding with his Girlfriend. Then Erina gives him the puppy-dog eyes, and the resolve he possesses crumbles. "I need to make up for striking you earlier."
Jonathan pretends he didn't hear his girlfriend admit to bitchslapping a stranger, and smiles down at the young man, who is starting to appear rather disoriented at the height difference. "Please, Mister, Giovanni, was it?"
"Giovanna,"
"Of course, my apologies. You would be welcome to stay."
Giorno was torn. He fiddled with the winged brooch, lying deep inside his pocket. Something inside him wanted to leave. (Something inside him wanted to run.)
"Alright." He eventually said.
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Despite agreeing to stay, Giorno didn't really participate in the conversation, except to maintain a level of politeness, and to answer questions. ("So Giorno, You are from Italy?" "Indeed, from Naples." "What brings you to England?" "Uh, visiting family.")
He felt like a voyeur, peering into a relationship dynamic that he had no hope of understanding. All three of these people were long dead by his time, which arguably made it worse. He pretended not to see the glancing touches between the three of them, the lingering looks filled with nothing but happiness and acceptance. Something twisted in his chest.
He should probably leave.
He didn't leave.
He stays until the sun is starting to set, and the sky is stained beautiful hues of orange and crimson and pink, and Erina says "Oh my, it seems we should start to pack up."
He volunteers to help alongside Speedwagon, and Jonathan has fallen silent for some reason. As Giorno picks up the plates and packs them back into the basket Erina had brought along, he leads her into the forest, claiming that they would be back in a few minutes.
"You're a criminal," Speedwagon comments idly as he takes a plate from Giorno and wipes it clean. Giorno blinks up at him from where he's crouched.
"I could say the same for you," he responds, overtaken by a feeling of caution, because here stands a man that would one day become one of the most powerful people in the world, leaving a legacy that spanned across the globe in the shape of the Speedwagon foundation.
The other man barks out a laugh, long curled hair catching the light in such a way to make it seem like it's glowing. "I'm practically a two-bit crook," he responds, "But I've met your type before. Tell me, what is The Mafia doing in London?"
Giorno tenses, because the way Speedwagon had said mafia was not lost on him. The man knew he was a gang leader, just not which gang. "I assure you, it was entirely by accident." He says, and he was going to continue when a loud female scream echoes from across the trees.
He is already sprinting, Gold Experience by his side, and Speedwagon is running after him as he manoeuvres through the trees, snapping off a branch and turning it into a snake in his hands ready to attack when he breaks into the clearing Jonathan and Erina are in and sees-
Jonathan on one knee, a small box held up towards Erina, who is crying. Oh. The snake turns back into a branch in his hands. His face flushes red so strongly he feels it in his ears.
Speedwagon bursts through the foliage beside him, hands on his knees as he mutters some choice words, and Giorno is reminded of Mista whenever he's forced to run after Giorno and Fugo, and his constant mutterings of "fucking blond twinks why are they all so fast what the shit."
The man quickly brings himself up from his knees to look at the scene before him, and his face practically lights up in glee. Not for the first time, Giorno feels like an intruder. Not for the first time, Giorno feels like this is a family he missed out on.
The brooch is vibrating in his pocket. He takes it out and it looks normal, except for the fact that ever since he arrived back in time it had been shiny and bright as if freshly made. A wave of pins and needles travels down his arm.
"Congratulations," he finds himself saying, and the smile on his face is genuine. "Miss Erina, I would like you to have this as a thank-you for your kindness today." He hands her the Ornament, and he is practically screaming internally as he gives it away, because he needs that to get home, but the pins and needles continue even after he stops touching it and he calms down somewhat. "I hope it serves you well."
Erina smiles bright at him, through the tears of- joy that are streaming down her face. "Thank you," she says to him, and Giorno wishes he could have known her, this woman so entwined with his families history. He smiles.
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They parted ways shortly after, Giorno wandering back through the streets of London as the waves of pins and needles became progressively more pronounced, more frequent, more powerful.
He trips over his own two feet, and people around him gasp, and then he suddenly finds himself jerking up violently from where he sat at his dresser. He checks the clock. 2:27 a.m.
He wonders, so briefly, if all of that was one bizarre fever dream, but he knows it wasn't, because he is missing the brooch, and he is still wearing the victorian era outfit that he had stolen to blend in. He feels a brief spike of annoyance at the fact his pyjamas are now forever lost in the victorian era, but he pushes it aside in favour of more important things. Namely, sleep.
He barely finds enough energy to kick off the boots he is wearing and collapse into bed, eyelids drooping with exhaustion and he realises he has been up for much longer than a full twenty-four hours, even if the time hadn't actaully passed for most of it.
He closes his eyes and drifts off into a dreamless sleep, for once, content with where he had ended up in life.
He's awoken by a finger poking at his cheek, and the worried visages of Mista and Fugo hanging over him. "Boss?" Fugo asked, "Are you alright? You overslept, you never oversleep." The man looked far too concerned for Giorno's wellbeing, as he always did, and also slightly confused. At what? Oh right, the outfit.
"Yeah," Mista chimes in, "And I know you act like an omnisexual victorian aristocrat when drunk but... are you just going to start dressing like one now, too?" A pause. "Moreso than you already do?"
Giorno snorts and covers his head with a pillow. "It's called fashion, damnit." He mutters, and Mista laughs.
(He enjoyed this.)
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It's a beautiful gift, Erina thinks to herself, but she only ever wears it twice.
Once at her wedding, as it went so well with the dress she had picked out.
A second time at her honeymoon cruise and- everyone knows how that turned out.
The years pass, and she isn't able to look at it without thinking of the day Jonathan proposed to her, of the Italian stranger, and the day Jonathan died.
(And she thinks to herself, about how much the boy looked like the monster that took her husband away, and she feels it is unfair to the youth but-
She can not stop thinking about it.)
Robert is there for her. They both loved Jonathan just as powerfully, both felt it in their hearts when he died, both grieved in their own ways.
They stay together, only as friends, not wanting rumours or gossip to start up when they did care dearly for each other, but not as lovers.
Eventually, Erina Joestar sells the brooch, trying to rid herself of painful memories.
It bounces from shop to shop, until it eventually ends up in a small dusty story in Italy, where it catches the eye of a young blond on one of his rare days off.