Chapter Text
I.
Battered bloodied and bruised, her eye’s trail down to Mista. The couch she had taken refuge on, while the others fought, is currently occupied by him and a copious amount of blood. Unconscious and missing an arm, Giorno tends to his teammate’s wound without batting an eyelash. Frown deepening, Trish stretches out her cramped legs before returning her knees to her chin.
-Will he… Sparing a brief glace towards her, Giorno barely seems distracted by her presence. Mista’s hand cuts off the air supply on his wrist, but he either doesn’t appear to notice or care. It’s eerie, his composure. They were supposedly the same age, yet every time she meets his orbs, she feels crippled by fear, inexplicable, considering he’s here to protect her. Seafoam green, or turquoise (it changed depending on the light), he had already unwrapped all her secrets. -Is he going to be…alright?
-Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. Giorno’s answer is curt as he continues doing whatever he was doing. Still, she doesn’t understand any of their terminology (what do they mean by stands?) and still, she’s entranced by floating objects and sudden bullet wounds. Without a lantern on a stormy night, she’s been left in the dark about nearly everything. One thing she knows though, through all the hocus pocus bullshit: rapid aging and a room within a turtle, is that Giorno is on another level. A god perhaps; far removed from the level of even Buccellati. That wouldn’t be a stretch of the imagination. Mista had noticed. Even Buccellati had noticed. Now she had noticed.
-My father- Trish’s mouth forms an ‘o’, and her thoughts threaten to externalise themselves. Giorno’s eyes, placid eyes, bore through her, and she’s certain he’s reading her like a book with ease. Once again, she stretches her legs off the couch, tip toes brushing against the table side, before she folds them back in. Knees meet chin and Trish resolves to seal her lips shut and avoid those eyes. Had he noticed it himself? The uncomfortable feeling that settles in her stomach each time.
He doesn’t stop staring. Even as seconds pass, he does not blink or look away. She bites her nail with enough force to bend it but not enough to chip or break it.
-What’s going to happen to me? Giorno blinks, but not in surprise.
-You’ll be safe, I promise. It’s vague, just like everything had been for the past fortnight; a haze of confusion and ambiguity. He’d expected her question, he had already known the ideas that were stirring within the pot of her mind. Fear stemmed not from his answer but how long he had most likely been rehearsing his answer.
-You know that isn’t true, Trish calls him out on his bluff -I’ve seen what you people do. [What you child soldiers have done for a boss you’ll never meet] goes unsaid. How Giorno’s gaze pierces through Trish makes her feel like she had verbalised it. He is silent once again, searching carefully for his treasured answer, before he settles on one.
-I won’t let anything happen to you.
Reality laughs at her, mocking her naive expectations, however she struggles with not trusting him. The glint in his eyes, and the determination burning beneath them makes it hard for her not to believe in him. The voice in the back of her head says otherwise; the doubt that resides inside her overpowers the voice of any god. An interior force that shapes her actions and each and everything she does. Giorno may be a god, but what is god to an unbeliever? To those who seek to dethrone a king yet dine on the food he supplies, how can Giorno, no less Buccellati, compare to her father?
-He’s going to kill me Giorno… Like a warm blanket, she wraps her arms around her legs and pulls them closer, her teeth greet her nails again. Heat does nothing to subjugate the unsympathetic chill the concept of her father instils. Murder would be a blessing for her, she thinks, after seeing the way the mafia operates. If her father didn’t get to her first, what’s to say he wouldn’t just sell her limbs off to the highest bidder. The ones sworn to protect her are simply puppets, and her father pulls the strings.
-He won’t. She wants to believe in his words; trust every word that leaves his mouth. She can’t. His two word reply just makes her more restless, and her teeth finally break the nails she has been chewing on for the past minute.
-Why would the the organiser of a crime syndicate-? Her sentence is cut off as she struggles to complete her sentence. -What use would he have for me? There’s a quiet hysteria to her tone, a deafening loudness in the quietness of her voice. She is not screaming nor is she crying, yet her words tremble, and her breathing is erratic. She whispers, she wants to scream. -Giorno, I’m scared.
This surprises him, his eyes go wide and he pauses his actions. Open and shut, soundless words leave his mouth as he fumbles for an answer. Contrastingly to before, he does not have the answers; he can’t give a perfect response that will quell all her fears. In the sea of cries and mockery, he is nothing.
-GioGio… A garbled groan snaps Trish out of her hysterics and her posture relaxes as she closes off her emotions. She averts her eyes from Giorno, who’s still fishing for an answer and swiftly grabs the latest issue of Vogue. He legs are straight, her nails refined and face stiff.
-Trish… Giorno breathes out.
Through his pained gaze, Mista sends a concerned look to both occupants of the room. Even though his eyes are glazed, and he’s possibly concussed, he is still alert and ready to serve his purpose. He goes to reach for the compartment his gun rests in, only for Giorno’s hand to rest atop his.
-Just hurry up and heal Mista. How are you idiots supposed to protect me otherwise? Her response is robotic. Robots do, they do things with ease and perfection that humans wished they had. Her actions are only faults, full of mistakes and errors she must blindly accept. She is not a robot.
Neither Giorno nor Mista look convinced, but when she pushes her nose into the magazine, their complaints are silenced.
II.
When the haze clouding her mind dissipates, Trish screams. It’s indescribable, the pain, and the scream that leaves her mouth is unlike anything she has done before. A mere second ago, she was with Buccellati, her sweat coated hand clenched in his warm yet coarse ones. Now, however, that hand was gone, leaving only a gaping emptiness, and her ribs were being jabbed by a pair of wooden shoulders. Blood, snot and tears escape every possible crevasse, until they don’t.
Her back is against a solid torso, somehow teleporting from his shoulders to the gravel, and he stares down at her. Unlike Buccellati’s hand, the hand covering her mouth is frigid. Trish has no idea what’s going on, her body is twisting and turning without her knowledge. [It must be a stand], she thinks, and recounts the last few minutes. Giant holes were present in her memories, the effect existed, but she couldn’t identify the cause. [a stand…and teleportation…?].
She cranes her head the slightest bit and, when their eyes meet, she can’t see any resemblance. He holds no fear, no cowardice crippling his actions, only confidence and disgust. He speaks; the fear that clouds her judgement muffles his monologue, all without batting an eyelash. Then it hits her. Giorno is not a god, he is a mere mortal with a fancy aesthetic. He can do what other mortals cannot, but he is not a god. This is a god. Someone able to bend the fabric of reality; her father is a god.
From a pillar above, her father’s attention is caught. He glares at the rock and tightens the grip on her face, angling her away from his face. All she had seen were his eyes; she hadn’t even seen her own father’s face. Black fill the edges of her vision as the blood loss gets to her.
-You should just go home now, Bruno Buccellati. She jumps physically at the mention of Buccellati’s name and her father notices. -If you step out from behind that pillar, you will die. An icy embrace from behind chills her as he tightens his grip on her mouth- the puppet had cut the strings controlling him.
Propelled by fear (and a bit of determination) she bites the hand that feeds her hard enough for a metallic taste to tinge her tongue and elbows his exposed rib. Her unexpected action allows for a moment of respite, and she rushes towards the pillar Buccellati is residing in.
-Buccellati! I don’t want to die! Please, help-! A hopeful smile fights it way onto her face, if anyone could stop him, it could be Buccellati. If there was anyone, she trusted to protect her it would be-
Stinging; it burns.
-Trish!
-Buccellati! Her words splinter inside her, her lung previously filled with air now obstructed with blood. A liquid leaves her mouth instead of words, followed quickly by a solid. The fiery numbness increases. She looks down and sees a fist, planted snugly inside her chest. Blood, her blood, coated the clenched fist. It hurts. Burning searing, a volcanic explosion and the blood gushes out of her open wound as his fist leaves it.
When she blinks. Her face has already met the gravel, meeting it about five seconds ago. Like her father, the ground is like a patch of ice and the remnants of her chest pool on the ground beneath her.
To her horror, Buccellati is in the same position. A hole in his chest, face contorted in silent horror. It hurts to move, should be near impossible, but she trudges through. She lifts her hand, slowly reaching out to Buccellati. His injuries were seemingly more severe than hers, as he had already drifted away.
-Bucce… A violent cough racks her body and she her body loses more liquid.
Somewhere, she’s not sure where (everywhere?), her father speaks to her. Again, he is monologuing, and again, his words fly over her head. A man who was able to kill both her and Buccellati without batting an eyelash, that is a god.
-A stand…!
She catches onto his words briefly, wondering who he’s talking about, before she realises, she’s the only person (alive) he could be talking about is her. He winds back his fist, preparing to end her existence, before a shout interrupts his channel, followed by a cacophony of footsteps.
-Buccellati! It was Giorno, followed closely by the gang. Of course, it was him disobeying the boss’s direct order. That just screams Giorno Giovanna.
Then he’s gone. If not for the remnants of death staining the stone, it was like he was never there. The gang has already surrounded Buccellati’s corpse, confused as to when they had gotten there. Narancia is the first to scream, a gut-wrenching screech, worse than anything she’s let out. Abbacchio is quick to follow, falling to his knees. The reactions of the others are hard to gauge as the world around her flickers between black and red. Her hearing becomes submerged as she drowns in her wounds.
-Tri…! The pain she had previously felt was nothing compared to pain of her saviour dying. Maybe, if she was lucky, the two of them could meet again, in a better life.
Giorno takes extreme care when manoeuvring her body, careful to not…to what? She had a huge gaping hole in her chest, what exactly could he be avoiding? The pain doesn’t go away (her thoughts drift to Buccellati) although her wounds seal themselves shut. His eyes, those tranquil eyes, are marred by agony. Distinct from the others, his body trembles violently yet no tears escape his eyes.
-Sorry… She mangles through the blood clogging her throat, unsure if he can understand her. -If…it…wasn’t…for…me.
-Don’t speak! He hisses. His orbs travel frantically from her to Buccellati. He is long gone, and even through the begging of Narancia (-WHY AREN’T YOU HEALING HIM YOU BASTARD?), Giorno is aware. The pain burns like a raging inferno and she chooses to close her eyes. -Trish, wake up! She can’t. It hurts too much.
[Dammit]. Then her consciousness faded away to an icy numbness.