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Morning sunlight filters in through the bay windows of Enrico’s bedroom. From the bed, Giorno can see the sun climbing up and above the horizon through the glass, a golden shine flooding the dewy green of the lawn. He watches as the sunshine continues to spill across the landscape until the glare catches his eyes and he looks away, withdrawing and instead fidgeting with the hairbrush clutched tightly in his hand.
He turns the hairbrush over and over again in his young-person-sized fists. It’s a bright red, plastic brush, painted strategically with black and white dots to resemble a ladybug. A single black stripe runs down the center of the body. Giorno runs his fingers along the tiny prongs, enjoying the low, reverberative growl the brush utters. It was a birthday present from the priest, a year ago for his eleventh birthday.
Enrico Pucci’s bedroom is, like the rest of his quaint and quiet bungalow, perfectly tidy. The wardrobe is organized, both by article of clothing and by color; the bed is always made the instant the priest is out of bed in the morning, even on the weekends, to Giorno’s eternal disbelief; the bathroom is sterile, and always has been, and always will be, if Enrico has anything to say about it; and the vanity is kept orderly and neat at all times, a clear distinction between lipsticks, brow pencils, and eyeliners.
‘Cleanliness is next to godliness,’ as the priest would say.
There is a framed photograph, a small one, of a golden-haired man on the vanity. He is smiling, and from the lines on his face it looks as though this kind of smile, this genuine smile, is something rare.
Giorno is smiling at the man in the photograph, and scrutinizing his own face in the mirror above for a resemblance in their smiles — something he has done many times — when the bathroom door opens. He looks up. His father appears.
“Oh. Good morning, Gio,” Enrico’s smile is as kind as always. As usual, Giorno wonders how he is so chipper in the mornings.
”Buongiorno,” the boy replies.
The priest's eyes shimmer. He swipes up a silken, purple ribbon from the bedside table and begins tying up his silver hair. He asks, “Did you sleep well, littlebug?”
“I told you to stop calling me that,” Giorno says accusingly. “I’m not a baby.”
“Ah, of course not.” Enrico successfully wrangles his hair into a low ponytail and gently accepts the treasured ladybug hairbrush from the boy on the quilt-clad bed. He sounds amused as he carefully kneels behind Giorno. “How foolish of me. Would you hand me those bobby pins, dear?”
Obliging, Giorno summons up Gold Experience, who retrieves the desired pack of pins and passes it to the priest. Enrico accepts it and smiles at the Stand as though it is Giorno, as though they are both in his care, his adopted children. In a way, Giorno supposes they are.
Enrico runs his fingers through Giorno’s hair gently, in practiced motions, separating the pieces evenly and beginning a single braid. “I believe a haircut is in order for you, Gio,” he comments as he inspects his work. “It’s getting rather long.”
“I like it long,” replies Giorno. “I’ll keep it for a while.”
The little huff from Enrico tells Giorno that he is smiling. “As you wish, piccolo.”
Giorno rolls his eyes, but adds nothing, and so the priest works in studious silence. The golden-haired boy watches his father’s serious expression in the vanity mirror. The ray of sunshine that casts over his face from outside makes the sharp white lines decorating his features seem almost incandescent.
The priest has dark eyes, so dark Giorno has never been able to tell what color they really are. When the light hits them just right, Giorno believes he can see tiny crosses in the shapes of his irises, shimmering when he smiles.
Giorno supposes this makes sense— Enrico is a holy man, after all.
When he does smile, the faint dimples of his cheeks deepen slightly. He has full, expressive lips. Enrico is not an old man by any means, but there are very few lines on his face, making him look younger, more boyish than he is.
Enrico is not a boy. He is anything but.
Giorno likes Enrico’s smile. He likes it more than he likes his own smile. Once he voiced this particular sentiment, but the priest only laughed and waved dismissively, telling him that it reminded Enrico of Giorno’s father’s smile. His first father, his blood father.
Perhaps the priest can see something in that photograph on the vanity that Giorno cannot.
Enrico takes good care of his hair, the same way he takes good care of Giorno’s. It’s fuzzy and shaved thin at the top for easy maintenance, and long at the bottom. His hair is almost always in the low ponytail he wears now, cascading down his back or over his shoulder and reminding Giorno vaguely of the elves in his storybooks. The purple ribbon, made of silk, is always his accessory of choice. Purple is, after all, the color most associated with royalty.
This, too, tracks, Giorno thinks.
The priest completes Giorno’s braid and tugs it snug, unfolding any awkward wrinkles in the blue ribbon and admiring his work. He reaches for the bobby pins and says, “Now for those pesky bangs of yours, hmm?”
It’s a long, complicated process, styling Giorno’s curls, and so Enrico commences each morning with absolute care. Nimble fingers weave through strands of thick, golden hair, gentle so as not to hurt Giorno himself. He places bobby pins meticulously in loose places and smoothes out any rogue baby hairs, and smiles at his handiwork. Whitesnake and Gold Experience materialize on either side of him and give their collective, but silent approval.
“That’s that, then,” Enrico says, smiling at Giorno in the vanity. He gets to his feet and smoothes out the fabric of his button-up. “Let’s fix you breakfast.”
Weekends, and the mornings of those weekends, are something Giorno can always look forward to.
Gold Experience is not allowed around other children, in case Giorno encounters another young Stand user. Curfew is five o’clock. Giorno may not leave the neighborhood, or go to the osteria without Enrico’s company. He is encouraged to check in with Enrico at the house as frequently as he can.
These are simple rules. Giorno follows them well— Enrico is lenient, but only to an extent.
Tonight is the second time Giorno has broken a rule, except now it is different. Now, he has not broken only one rule, but he has broken all of them. It is 17:45 in the evening, he is in the fields outside the neighborhood, and he has not checked in with his father since early in the afternoon.
Gold Experience has not materialized entirely, but he can sense the Stand looming over him, waiting for a command, and though Giorno is afraid to summon it, he isn’t aware of many other options.
Giorno is no stranger to scuffles, though. The other children in Enrico’s neighborhood are excitable and rowdy, all of them as ruthless as wolves. He’s seen some of their faces present at his father’s church on Sundays, and others he’s seen at the market or at the osteria in the afternoons and evenings. They leave him alone, for the most part, but he is the quiet, well-mannered and obedient son of the local priest. Rarely is he ever on the receiving end of lectures, and he spends his free time alone, away from the social bubble of children his age. He is an oddball and an easy target.
He knows this. Enrico, on the other hand, does not, and Giorno wants to keep it that way.
Giorno is not afraid of many things, but even entertaining the idea of a worried — or worse, angry — Enrico is enough to pierce his very soul with fear.
The child who now kicks experimentally at Giorno, looking solely to garner a reaction, is a boy with a gritty face and cropped hair. He goes to church with his mother, although Giorno does not remember his name. Giorno does not know why he has been picked as a subject of ridicule tonight specifically, but he is smart enough to figure he may simply be their current entertainment. Soon they will back off, and find something else to occupy themselves with.
The children don’t back off, however, and Giorno realizes that he is not just a distraction this time, but a target. They are trying to hurt him. Hands pull furiously at his braid and the bobby pins in his curls come undone. A foot strikes Giorno’s chest and sends him toppling, a muddy stain up the front of his shirt, the collar of which is grabbed and yanked. All Giorno can do without the help of his Stand is shield his eyes from the blows; there are simply too many of them to find an opening.
Somebody pulls off his shoes. His arms drop in surprise, and a shadow spits in his face. “Don’t get up, coglione.”
Giorno springs to life in retaliation, hoping to jump to his feet, but a fist collides with his nose and sends him spiraling again. Blood spills down his lips and Giorno hopes his sore nose is not broken.
Someone above him asks a friend who Giorno is. Giorno swallows, and in a twisted way enjoys the brief break from the punches, kicks, and various other blows. Blood is pooling in his cupid's bow.
“The priest’s son,” is the sneered reply.
“Would he have money?” The first child muses, and out of the corners of his peripherals Giorno sees the wicked faces of his attackers light up.
“His pockets! Check his pockets, he’s sure to have something in there.”
No no no NO NO NO—
Muddy fists pull at the fabric of Giorno’s clothes, digging in the pockets and ignoring the boy's struggling. Someone grasps the chain around his neck and pulls on it, hard enough to break the clasp. The gleaming gold crucifix comes free from Giorno’s neck and he shouts.
“Give it back,” he demands. “Give it back, that’s my father’s, give it back.”
The boy who had procured the cross dances away from Giorno’s swinging fists. “No way. Finders keepers.”
Giorno snarls and snaps, “Gold Experience.”
He feels a comforting presence flicker to life over his shoulder.
“What did he just say?” A boy giggles, but Giorno is not paying attention anymore, even as the children advance once again, looking for more valuables.
Giorno’s hand finds a fallen bobby pin in the dirt. His fingers close around it.
His Stand’s name appears on his tongue, but before he can utter it again, thinking of something despicable (but small) to sic upon his attackers, someone is shouting. The boys above him have frozen, their grubby fists no longer reaching for Giorno.
Except for one of them. One of them is still staring at him, his eyes wide.
But he’s not staring at him, Giorno realizes. He’s looking up, above Giorno, at something lingering just over him protectively.
Gold Experience stares detachedly back at the other young Stand user, its eyes vacant but calculating.
The young Stand user, and him alone, turns, and runs. Smart. Giorno refocuses.
His father is walking towards them, the slim, lanky form of Whitesnake trailing behind. Enrico looks angry in a way Giorno has never seen him before, but the priest’s eyes look shiny in what remains of the sun’s light.
”Bambini,” Enrico snaps. “What on earth do you think you’re doing? Move. Get away from him.”
The boys do not move. Rage flickers across Enrico’s face, and his voice is dangerous.
”Now.”
The children jump obediently away from Giorno. Giorno tastes blood and bitter satisfaction.
“Go home,” continues Enrico, his voice now even, level. As Giorno slowly crawls to his knees, he realizes how often he forgets just how tall the priest really is. “Your mothers are worried sick.”
One boy begins, “Father Pucci, I’m—”
“Sunday, Matteo.” Enrico interrupts him. “You will apologize on Sunday. Now, you are going to go home and eat your supper, understand?”
Matteo nods, puts his head down, and jogs away. The other boys linger for a moment, and then they, too, scamper off under the priest’s withering glare.
The second they are out of sight, Enrico falls to pieces. He is on the ground, uncaring of the mud on the knees of his dress pants, embracing Giorno and crying like a sinner at the altar. His grip is strong, and his tears rattle Giorno to his core, but regardless, the boy hugs back.
“My Gio,” weeps Enrico, his arms only loosening to look the boy in the eyes. “What did they do to you?”
“I am fine, but, Father…” Giorno swallows. “They put a scratch in your crucifix.”
The priest makes an angry noise, and it startles Giorno, but it is not for the reason he thinks. “Lord, Giorno! Sometimes your perseverance is the most frustrating thing.” He laughs crazily and lifts a hand to cup his son’s cheek, letting out an exasperated sigh. “I care no more for that cross than I care which pair of shoes I put on in the morning,” he says. “Crucifixes can be replaced, but my son cannot. Are you alright? Tell me, what did they do to you? Tell me everything.”
Giorno tells him. He shows him what he can of the bruises, scratches and wounds— Enrico assures him that his nose is not broken, only tender, which Giorno believes, considering the priest is something of a hypochondriac himself. He repeats, once given the permission to do so, the names he was called, and the words that were used. He lists the things that were stolen from him or damaged, including his father’s crucifix, which he apologizes again for, to Enrico’s further exasperation.
When he’s done talking, Enrico lets out a long sigh. “I see.”
“I understand if you’re angry with me, Padre,” murmurs Giorno. “I broke your rules and time got away from me.”
Enrico blinks at him. The priest barks a laugh, then another, and then, to Giorno’s surprise, he dissolves into giggles. A tear runs down his cheek, and again he reaches for his son. Giorno returns the hug.
“Any other day there would be punishment,” Enrico promises him. “And so you would do well not to break those rules again. But for now, I am simply glad you are safe, piccolo.”
For once, Giorno does not turn up his nose at the pet name.
Fridays, to Giorno, are special, because Enrico makes octopus salad.
Other reasons include it being the end of the school week and also grocery shopping day, but dinnertime on Friday is by far the highlight of Giorno’s week— he’s told Enrico on more than one occasion that he would gladly attend school on the weekends if that entailed having his favorite dish every day.
Today is Friday, and as little Giorno indulges in his octopus salad as per usual, he believes he has reached full enlightenment.
However, he is, admittedly, distracted. The priest has not joined him for dinner, and his own plate, sitting opposite Giorno on the dining table, is untouched.
Against his prominent instinct, Giorno leaves it that way. He puts his fork down and gets up to investigate. He cannot enjoy his dinner without Enrico’s company— something he is less inclined to admit aloud.
The living room is empty, but Giorno knows the priest has spent his day here— open envelopes are scattered across the coffee table, containing what Giorno assumes are confessions from anonymous churchgoers, and a pen has been left uncapped. The lamps are off, but there’s been a fire in the fireplace today. Giorno wrinkles his nose at the smell, and puts the cap back on the ballpoint pen before exiting the room.
Giorno’s own bedroom is also unoccupied. The priest’s artwork decorates the far wall, and Giorno gives the array of painted ladybugs and landscapes a brief once-over. The rest of the room has not changed much— figurines still litter the floor in a variety of dynamic poses, a few worksheets are spread across the desktop underneath the spillage of Giorno’s pencil case, and a couple books lie open on varying surfaces, on the same page Giorno left off on.
Truly, the only thing that has changed is Giorno’s bed, which has been made. Otherwise, everything has been left completely alone, as though Enrico did not want to disturb Giorno’s kind of controlled chaos. Giorno moves on.
The hall to both the priest’s bedroom and the bathroom is also decorated by Enrico’s artwork. It’s been hung in artistic rows, framing mostly paintings, with the exception of a couple pieces done in oil pastels or pens. Giorno loves it all.
His favorite piece is a painting of the solar system, kept in a rich, black frame. Hands, done in black and white, grasp at the planets and at the stars, encapsulating them all in their palms. The hands pull the solar system in its entirety down with them, their grip gentle but adamant.
Giorno knows it is Enrico’s favorite, too. He has asked the priest why exactly it is his favorite, and wondered about the inspiration behind it, but he has never gotten a full answer. It is special to Enrico in a way he perhaps cannot explain to his son, and Giorno shall understand until he is ready to open up. Again, he moves on.
He finds Enrico’s bedroom door open, and the priest himself sitting on the bed inside. Giorno blinks, surprised, and stops in the doorway. Enrico's eyes are screwed tight, his legs drawn up to his chin, and his knuckles are pale, fingers clasped tightly together. Droplets of sweat or tears bead on his cheeks.
He’s counting aloud, in a way. His voice is hoarse, trembling.
“5… 7… 11… 13…”
Giorno closes his open mouth, and is silent. Prime numbers, he thinks. Solitary numbers that are only divisible by one and themself.
“17… 19… 23… 29… 31…”
Giorno knows the meaning of the words coping mechanism. He recalls his meetings with his school guidance counselor and their discussion of the things. Giorno himself is unsure of his own coping mechanisms, but he knows that prime numbers, for some reason unbeknownst to Giorno, are special in some way to his father. They are, put simply, his comfort, and counting them his own coping mechanism.
“37… 41… 43…”
Giorno waits patiently in the doorway, completely silent and looking politely at the floor, though Enrico has not noticed him yet. It takes the boy a moment to realize that the priest is fighting back tears, and ultimately failing.
“43… 47…”
Enrico inhales. “53,” he gasps. “59… 61…”
His eyes flood over. He buries his face in his palms and his shoulders begin to shake. Giorno notices that the priest’s treasured photograph, the one of the smiling, golden-haired man, is no longer on the vanity, but on the bed beside Enrico.
Now is not the time for questions, he reminds himself.
Instead, he says, “67. 71, 73, 79.”
Enrico’s hands fly from his face, and he blinks wildly at his son in the doorway, mouth agape. Tears spill down his cheeks. “Giorno—”
Giorno ignores him. He’s concentrating. He’s half-grateful for his maths class, and his drill sergeant of a teacher, but only for a moment. His voice firm, he continues, “83, 89, 97, 101, 103…”
He trails off, looking expectantly at Enrico.
The priest stammers, composing himself enough to continue the strand of numbers. “107, 109, 113, 127, 131… 137… 139…” He takes a deep breath. “1… 149…”
Giorno counts with him. “151,” he reminds Enrico. “157.”
“Yes,” the priest agrees, smiling weakly. “157, 163, 167…”
The golden-haired boy approaches slowly, climbs atop the bed, and sits next to his father. Together they count the primes slowly for something like five minutes, before Enrico’s eyes no longer water, and his posture is relaxed. Relaxed, but perfect— the priest values manners as he values Giorno, who carefully wraps his arms around his father, where he lays peacefully for another ten minutes. Until the panic attack is over.
Eventually, the priest speaks. His voice is quiet. Clearing his throat, he says, “Giorno, when did you learn about my primes?”
My primes, Giorno notes. Not the primes, but Enrico’s. The question is odd, but Giorno knows what he really means.
“I hear you counting them when you’re stressed,” Giorno tells him honestly. “Mostly when we’re in a crowded place or when you have an important meeting. They’re a coping mechanism.”
Enrico laughs at that, softly. Giorno furrows his brows.
“What?”
“Your intellect,” explains the priest. He leans his head back, sighs. “You are truly wasted on your teachers, GioGio.”
“I don’t think Signora Russo would agree with you, Father.”
Enrico rolls his eyes. “Of course she wouldn’t,” he says, darkly. “The Tyrannosaurus Rex wasn’t so much made for agreeing with things as it was bloodlust.”
Giorno giggles. A brief silence settles between them before Giorno asks, hesitantly, “Are you okay, Padre?”
The priest looks at his son, and smiles gently. “I am now,” he says. “Thank you, Gio.”
Giorno nods. He opens his mouth to ask another question, but pushes it aside.
Sating his own burning questions — no matter how fiercely they did burn — after seeing Enrico so upset, was an intrusion. Giorno could wait.
“Father?”
“Yes, piccolo?”
“Dinner’s gonna get cold.”
Enrico startles. “Heavens, it is! We had better go eat, then.”
He moves to get up, and Giorno follows suit. Together they walk out of Enrico’s temporary lion’s den.
Giorno puts the framed photo of his golden-haired father back on the vanity as he leaves.
It’s a lazy, post-dinner-school-work evening when Enrico finally tells Giorno the story behind his favorite painting.
Though Enrico isn’t the relaxed type, it’s certainly a rightfully lazy evening— he’s had meetings to attend and multiple errands to run all day, but most importantly, today was Giorno’s first day of high school.
It had gone well, according to Giorno, better than the boy had expected. The only thing he had to complain about was the assigning of homework on the first day, which, despite his own feelings about discipline, Enrico has to agree is a tad much.
Giorno is completing it now, though, curled up in the chair across the living room with a pen and a graphing calculator, his brow furrowed in intent concentration. Enrico enjoys a spark of pride; he’s never once had to order Giorno to do his homework.
The priest smiles to himself, setting his current paintbrush aside and replacing it with one of a different size.
‘Pride brings a person low’, his foot.
“Telling yourself jokes, Padre?” Giorno is smiling at him, the end of his pen pressed against his lip. There is something in his son’s smile, in the glint of his eyes, something so familiar that makes Enrico’s heart ache, though he loves it regardless.
He has your smile, Enrico thinks, wistfully. What were you ever worried about? The mark on his back? That is insignificant, compared to his smile, his conviction, the way he carries himself— he is your son, no doubt.
“Just thinking.” He tells Giorno. He fixes his gaze on the canvas before him and resumes working. He comments, amused, “It’s particularly difficult, painting an ocean without any blue.”
“Make it a sunset,” suggests Giorno. “Oranges, yellows, and greens. No blue, not really.”
Enrico hums appreciatively. “Smart,” he says, moving to rearrange his palette, which today looks suspiciously more like a plastic plate than an actual artist’s slab. “Thank you, Gio.”
“Sure.”
A few minutes pass. Giorno finishes his maths homework and resolves to watching the priest work on his piece, something he’s done frequently since a much younger age. He sits and watches intently, his chin propped up on his hand.
After a while, he remarks, “You’re painting over an old piece.”
“I am.”
“Why?” Giorno looks at him curiously. “Why get rid of it?”
“It no longer makes me happy,” says Enrico, simply.
Giorno frowns. “But you worked so hard on it. I remember it— it was the one of the churchyard.”
Enrico smiles. “I’m surprised you remember that.” He rests his paintbrush on the palette for a moment, thinking. Giorno is so full of questions; it doesn’t surprise Enrico, knowing his father: ever-curious, ever-answer-seeking.
“That painting no longer represents me as an artist,” says Enrico. “The colors no longer please me. I’m turning it into something that will make me smile, the way the old painting once did.”
The golden-haired boy ponders this. He sits back in his chair. After a long deliberation, he says, quietly, green eyes bright, “That painting of the solar system in our hallway… would you ever paint over that one? Even when it’s our favorite?”
Enrico’s voice is firm, his answer immediate. “Never.”
Giorno seems startled by the priest’s adamance. “Why not?”
Enrico smiles at him. He says something he’s meant to tell his son for years, and finds himself surprised by how easily it slips off his tongue. “That painting is a memory of your father.”
Giorno seems unfazed, but Enrico recognizes from the way the boy sits up straight that he’s taken a match to the candle of Giorno’s curiosity. Giorno asks, wax burning, “Will you tell me more?”
Enrico complies.
“That painting represents something your father said to me, once,” says the priest, setting down his things and leaning back in his chair, far too lost in some kind of nostalgia Giorno cannot imagine to even bother picking the dried flecks of paint from his slender fingers. “Something that sticks with me even now. When he died, I knew that I had to immortalize him, however I could.” Enrico smiles ruefully. “I believe I have, in many ways.”
“You say you have love for everyone,” says Giorno. His hands are clasped tightly together; Enrico knows he’s been looking for the answers to these questions since long before now, and is surprised to realize that he does not mind answering them. In fact, he wants to. “Did you love my father?”
Enrico’s smile is bright, broad. “Does the moon love the stars? I cherished your father as I cherish my life. He was so— so beautiful. God could not have created a more wonderful man— God could not have blessed a man as He blessed me to have met your father, Giorno. My love for him was boundless.”
Giorno’s throat hurts. His eyes feel as though they are stinging. “How did my father die?”
The priest’s smile does not disappear. Instead, it becomes sad, wistful— but still, in a way, happy.
“I think he knew he had very little time left,” he says. “Through some miracle, he knew. He did not tell me much, looking back, only that if he was to die that he trusted me, and me alone, to care for his son.” Enrico takes a shaky breath. “I believe he told me so little in the hopes that I would be spared of the guilt, but it crushed me. It still crushes me, some days, although I know I could not have prevented what happened to him even if I had known. I miss him very much.”
Enrico looks at Giorno with stark, bright eyes. The outlines of crosses flash in his irises. “It pains me to know that you will never have the opportunity to meet your father, Giorno,” he says. “But it soothes that pain, knowing that if you could, he would be very proud of you.”
Giorno blinks at the priest, his lip trembling, and then, for the first time since he was much smaller, the golden-haired boy begins to cry.
And Enrico is there to hold him.
They succumb to embrace each other, and weep tears of joy. For a few minutes, though it feels like an eternity, the two souls who are closest to the distant memory of Dio Brando hold each other in their arms.
And then, afterwards, all is calm. Enrico Pucci holds Giorno Giovanna-Pucci, his son, in his arms, and though he has relived countless painful memories just to tell Giorno what the boy now knows, he is unmistakably happy.
”Padre?” whispers Giorno, when the tears have subsided.
“Yes, piccolo?”
“Do you think it was by God’s will that you found me, or a miracle?”
Enrico thinks. He smiles.
“Neither,” he says. “For you and I are bound alone by gravity.”