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No matter what anyone told Fugo, this kid was not fucking Giorno. Because Giorno Giovanna would not be sitting absolutely drenched in Bucciarati’s car next to him with clothes way too big for him, giving him the sharpest stare he had ever seen.
No, this Giorno was like an entirely new breed. Not to mention the fact that his clothes were now 3x bigger than him and his signature golden donut hair was now completely non-existent.
“Does somebody want to explain what happened while I was gone?” Bucciarati’s voice flooded in from the front of the car. He knew Abbacchio was sitting in shotgun as well, but so far there hasn’t been a word from him the entire ride. Rain pattered down on the car, drowning out most of whatever awkwardness loomed over them.
“Well?” Bucciarati drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel and Fugo watched as the kid that definitely wasn’t Giorno Giovanna failed to hold back a flinch. Because Giorno didn’t flinch. Giorno didn’t falter.
“While you and Abbacchio were out scouting, we got hit by some guy just outside the building. Giorno managed to wind him pretty badly, enough to get him on the ground,” Fugo explained carefully, “But I guess his stand was activated by touch because he turned into...whatever this is.”
Not-Giorno had long since taken his eyes off Fugo and was now heavily focused on the black leather of Bucciarati’s seat in front of him. He didn’t know if he was trembling from the cold or something else, but Fugo felt pretty freezing, too. The fucking forecast didn’t say anything about rain.
“And you’re sure you know the fate of its user?” Bruno asked.
“You watched when I did a replay. That thing is totally fucking done for,” Abbacchio’s rough tone was enough to make anyone feel prickly, but Fugo watched as not-Giorno tensed up at the sudden sound of his voice.
“Shot his fucking brains out,” Fugo announced, ignoring Bucciarati’s concerned look and not-Giorno’s blank one, “I didn’t have to bring out Purple Haze. It's fine.”
The man sighed a sigh of relief and stopped at the red light, turned his head, and got a closer look at the kid who was definitely not Giorno sitting in their car. Curious blue eyes met sharp green ones and Bruno narrowed his in thought.
“Well, he certainly looks like he could be Giorno. Especially the eyes,” he nodded to himself, taking another look at the kid, “You are Giorno, correct?”
The kid didn’t answer, didn’t even make eye contact as he kept staring intently at the floor. Abbacchio growled and turned around as the light turned green and the car started moving again.
“When Bucciarati asks a question, you fucking answer it,” he snapped, “Got it, brat?”
The kid seemed to stiffen at that, sitting up completely straight and snapping up his lulling head from where it was bent down.
“I apologize, sir,” he stuttered out. Fugo could tell he was trying to be void of emotion, but the watery look in his eye said otherwise, “My name is Giorno Giovanna. I will answer any questions you ask me.”
Fugo froze. Now that—that sounded more like Giorno. Quiet. Compliant. Polite. He knew he shouldn’t be doubting himself when he literally watched Giorno’s clothes get too big for him and the little voice that barely responded too small for him, but he still remained skeptical.
“Leone, you’re going to scare him half to death,” Bucciarati murmured under his breath. Abbacchio growled something back that Fugo couldn’t hear. If this really was Giorno, he looked like he was barely holding it together.
“Can you tell us how old you are, Giorno?” The warm voice was back and Fugo recognized it so well; the voice he used whenever he would have some fit of anger, or when Narancia would wake up screaming or when Mista’s leg would bounce up and down at the sight of “the number that must not be named.”
“E-eight, sir.”
It was a bit adorable, the way this weird, new Giorno was calling them all sir, but little kids weren’t exactly supposed to do that. His parents were strict, but he never recalled being that polite to anyone even in such an aristocratic family as the one he used to be in. It made Fugo wonder what the hell Giorno was doing by the time he was eight.
“Can you remember the last thing you did?”
Giorno didn’t answer this time. Fugo looked over and his face looked mixed between pain and frustration. What the hell was he thinking about? Abbacchio tapped his foot impatiently. Giorno lifted his head up slowly.
“No, sir.”
His voice was surprisingly steady, despite looking like he might break down and cry any second. Abbacchio rolled his eyes and muttered something about “being no help” and Giorno stuttered out what sounded like an apology.
“If this was a de-aging stand, it must have affected his memory as well,” Bucciarati interjected quietly. Fugo knew he was trying to be quiet for the sake of this poor kid, but he knew that Giorno was listening intently to the conversation. Little Giorno had to be smart, right?
“Then how come I killed the damn guy and his stand still has power over him?” Fugo asked, leaning in towards the front of the car to continue his conversation, “Stand effects wear off after the kill, right?”
Bruno shook his head softly, keeping his eyes on the road. “We’ve encountered stands before that trigger only when their user dies. This could be one of them…” he paused, “...Or its effects could wear off in a few hours or even a few days. There’s really no way to know unless the stand reveals itself to us.”
Fugo bit back an irritated groan and leaned into the backseat. Giorno was supposed to play chess with him today. Or, he kept promising to do so, at least. He doubted this eight-year-old kid even knew what chess was, much less actually talk to him. He had barely said a word since they got in here.
“When I used Moody Blues back there, I watched the stand die when Fugo shot the user,” Abbacchio mentioned, “So whatever the hell this is, it’ll probably wear off.”
Giorno caught Abbacchio’s irritated gaze and shivered, hiding further in the sea of pink clothes that were now smothering him. They’d have to get him something more fitting when they got home. Narancia might have something old that could fit him a little bit, but Narancia was small and this little Giorno was smaller. He never thought that someone like Giorno could go from being so lithe and graceful to so fucking scrawny.
He was about to open his mouth again when he saw something shiny glint in the hand of the kid, then quickly disappear into one of the pink sleeves.
“Hey,” he said, probably more aggressively than he should have, “What’s that in your hand?”
The kid looked frozen for a second before shaking his head, pulling his hand out of his sleeve to reveal it empty, “It was nothing, sir.”
There was something about the look in his eyes that made him want to believe him, but he fucking saw something in his hand earlier. The sun was nowhere to be found, it couldn’t have been a trick of the light.
“No,” he pressed on, “I saw something. Let me see your arm.”
He pulled forward, ignoring Giorno’s hard flinch as his hands went flying to his jacket. The impact shook the sleeves, and Fugo heard a soft ‘ping’ as a few shiny pin-sized items slipped out of his jacket sleeve. Confused, Fugo picked them up, along with an elastic.
“What—are these hairpins?” he asked aloud. Giorno sat up taller, but the look in his eye wasn’t fooling anyone. It was the look of someone who had just gotten caught.
“So the brat was scrawny and he was a thief?” Abbacchio chuckled, “Always knew there was something dirty about him.”
Fugo watched as Bruno’s eyebrows raised through the front view mirror and the kid's ears reddened at the accusation. He pulled back a bit, the seat belt digging into his neck. God, Giorno was short. Wasn’t he the one who drove them here before all this happened? That was a weird thing to think about.
“I saw them on the ground next to the dead man,” he said blankly, “So I picked them up. I apologize if they belonged to any of you.”
As surprised as he was, Fugo bit back a laugh, restraining himself from saying “They actually probably belong to you.” The kid was already confused enough, somehow trying to explain to him that his hair used to be golden and long would probably just hurt his brain even more.
An exasperated sigh came from the front seat. “Fugo, did you seriously shoot a man in front of a child?”
“What the hell did you expect me to do?” he snapped, “If Giorno touched him any longer, he would probably be a fucking fetus!”
“Language,” Bucciarati replied. Fugo rolled his eyes and Abbacchio chuckled from the passenger seat.
“What, you think he doesn’t know the word ‘fuck’ even though he can mention a dead guy so easily without a second thought?”
Bucciarati said nothing. Giorno resumed staring at the back of Bucciarati’s seat. Abbacchio muttered something about the rain and Fugo stifled a sneeze.
“Cold?” Bucciarati finally asked, frowning when Fugo nodded, “We’ll need to find Giorno some new clothes once we get home. It would be a nightmare if he got sick in this state.”
“He’s so puny, he already looks halfway to death’s door,” Abbacchio mumbled, ignoring Bucciarati’s disapproving glare. Fugo turned his head to Giorno, who looked really fucking cold.
“I’d tell you to take off your clothes, but I really don’t want to see you naked,” Fugo joked. Giorno gave him a confused stare before Fugo realized that this little Giorno probably had no idea who he was, “I’m Fugo, by the way.”
He outstretched his hand and the dark-haired boy shook it hesitantly. When their hands came in contact, Fugo took into account how much this kid was really trembling.
“Can’t you turn the heat on or something?” he asked Bucciarati impatiently, “He’s either freezing or absolutely terrified.”
“We’re almost there, but I’ll see what I can do,” was his muffled response. Fugo heard a soft flick and a gentle stream of warm air came flooding into the back seat, but it didn’t stop the kid from shivering. He’d seen Giorno tremble before when things went south or when he was truly terrified, which didn’t exactly happen often. He turned his eyes to the kid in front of him. He wondered if this little version was just doing the same.
“You alright?”
The trembling stopped almost instantaneously, but the terrified look in his eye still remained. The car ride was mostly silent after that, the soft rain pattering on the windows starting to die down a bit as Bucciarati turned a familiar corner.
“It would be best to drop me off here,” Giorno finally said. His voice sounded small, too small for someone like him, but Fugo supposed it matched his gaunt state right now.
“...Why would we do that?” Bucciarati answered softly, turning another corner. Abbacchio snorted but didn’t comment. The kid grew so quiet again that Fugo thought he might just not answer again, but he spoke up once again, albeit much softer than before.
“I know what kind of people you are,” he answered, much to their surprise, “I just witnessed a murder. I would understand why you would capture me in exchange for ransom money, but I can assure you that no one is going to pay.”
There was a tense silence that seemed to spread across the whole car and Fugo realized that they had practically kidnapped him, according to his logic. And the fact that he was so insistent that no one would be coming for him was...unnerving.
“You can trust us,” Bucciarati said to him, “We aren’t going to do anything to you. This might seem confusing right now, but hopefully things will make sense later. You’ll be staying with us for the time being.”
Giorno looked unphased.
“Do you understand?”
A beat of tense silence.
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
Fugo expected young Giorno to be...well...a child. He didn’t expect him to be so polite. Besides a few unexpected mannerisms, it was like the only thing about Giorno that shrunk was his size. A roll of thunder came from the distance and the rain picked up again, but Giorno didn’t falter.
Out of everything that had already happened this evening, the only things Bruno thought he would be thinking about were paperwork and dinner plans. But now they had an actual child on their hands, and a probably terrified one at that. So now Bruno had to think about babysitting, paperwork, and dinner plans.
What was one more thing added to his list?
The car quickly pulled into the long, winding driveway, the golden gate closing after their entry. He watched as the kid in their possession that was supposed to be Giorno stared out the window in awe. He didn’t know much about Giorno’s upbringing at age eight, but he’d probably never seen a house this big in his life. Then again, none of them really had before Bucciarati inherited most of Polpo’s belongings.
“You look freezing,” he said to Fugo as he turned the car off. Abbacchio was already out of the car and walking briskly inside the large home as the rain picked up harder. Fugo didn’t say anything but nodded admittedly. He bit back on saying that if he didn’t wear clothes with so many holes in them, he probably wouldn’t be in this position right now.
“Head inside and get changed. I’ll take care of Giorno,” he gestured to the kid sitting quietly in the seat beside him, fumbling frustratingly with the seatbelt. He wondered if this was his first time in a car.
Fugo nodded and made a run for it towards the house, making it to the door just as Bruno stepped out of the driver's seat with an umbrella he found in the glove compartment. Giorno was still grabbing at the seat belt by the time Bruno opened the door.
“Let me help you with that,” he offered, freeing him with a single click before he could protest. The dark-haired child shuffled sideways to get out of the car when Bruno noticed how incredibly suffocated he was by Giorno’s usually well-fitting outfit.
“It might be better if I carry you. I wouldn’t want you to trip.”
Giorno looked hesitant before nodding awkwardly. “Thank you, sir.”
“Just Bruno is fine,” he laughed, bending down and setting the umbrella on the rain-covered ground momentarily as he picked him up. His clothes were soaked with rain and he didn’t miss the tremor in his shoulders as he lifted the child up letting him wrap his legs around his hip. He wasn’t just skinny, he was small. Bruno expected to feel the weight a bit more, but holding Giorno felt like holding a six-year-old rather than an eight-year-old.
“We’ll get you into some warm clothes as soon as possible,” he murmured, grabbing the umbrella off the ground and locking the car, “Are you hungry at all?”
By the time the pair got inside, Mista, Trish, and Narancia were waiting eagerly in the living room, their eyes widening when Bucciarati appeared in the doorway with a precious parcel practically drowning in pink fabric.
“Holy shit, is that actually him?” Mista asked quietly, his eyes glowing, “He’s so adorable…”
Narancia and Trish were silent as Bucciarati slipped off his shoes and closed his umbrella.
“From the looks on your faces, Abbacchio and Fugo must have already filled you in,” he said, placing a comforting hand on the head of the child he was still carrying, “But this is Giorno. He says he’s eight years old right now. He can’t remember anything that’s happened.”
They all turned to Giorno, who’s gaze was stuck fervently to the ground. Rainwater dripped from his jacket.
“Narancia, do you have anything that might fit him? Anything will obviously be too big on him, but you’re the smallest out of all of us,” Bucciarati asked. Narancia’s eyes lit up and he pried the kid from his grasp.
“Lemme take him! We’ll probably find something somewhere in my room.”
He was already halfway up the stairs with him before Mista and Trish could retaliate and run up after him.
“Don’t think you can hog baby Giorno all to yourself!” Mista said, catching his breath as they all reached the top of the stairs.
“Are you sure he’s eight? He looks five or six at most,” Trish narrowed her eyes at the young boy in Narancia’s arms, who nodded stiffly when Trish asked him about his age.
“Grab some towels or something,” Narancia said to Mista, who bolted off toward the bathroom. Trish followed Narancia into his room. It was a mess, which was no surprise to anyone, and Narancia carefully set Giorno down in the centre of it.
“I’m sure there’s something in here that’ll fit him…” Narancia said to himself, sifting through a pile of clothes spilling out of his closet. Trish sat cross-legged across from Giorno, examining his soaking wet frame.
“You think he dyes his hair or something?” she thought out loud. Narancia shrugged just as Mista burst into the room with an armful of towels.
“Get him out of those, he looks fucking freezing,” Mista commanded, throwing the towels in their general direction. Giorno’s shoulders tensed as Trish carefully pulled off Giorno’s too-large jacket and wrapped a towel around him just as he stepped out of his pants. The tenseness in his body quickly became a bit more relaxed as Trish grabbed another towel and started drying his hair.
“You probably don’t remember me, but you can call me Trish,” she said warmly, letting Giorno step a bit closer to her as he kept the other towel wrapped around himself, “Narancia is the one looking for clothes and the one with the stupid hat is Mista.”
Trish laughed at the muffled “hey!” coming from outside Narancia’s room as Mista put Giorno’s old clothes in the laundry.
“Abbacchio’s the grumpy goth one. Just ignore anything he says,” she added on, “And you’ve probably already gotten introduced to Fugo and Bucciarati, right?”
She watched as Giorno hesitantly nodded his head. Mista reemerged into the room and sat down right next to Giorno, patting him on the head.
“Calling you Giorno is kinda weird,” he said, ignoring the child’s confused expression, “You’re all little and stuff, it’s just weird. Looks like you’re just gonna have to be Giogio!”
Giorno nodded hesitantly, but the frown on his face didn’t disappear.
“Something wrong?” Mista asked. He was silent before opening his mouth cautiously.
“Mr. Bruno said you weren’t holding me for ransom. I’d like to know what you are going to do with me if it isn’t much trouble. If you plan on selling or killing me, you should think twice about it. I could be very useful to your team.”
He spoke so poised and politely, it surprised them almost as much as what he had actually just said. Narancia stopped searching for clothes and turned around to raise an eyebrow. They froze for a moment before Trish opened her mouth again.
“We aren’t...going to do anything to you. We’re just taking care of you. You’re staying with us,” she finally said. Giorno’s frown was replaced with a surprised expression before he stuttered out an “okay” and left it at that.
“Aha!” Narancia pulled out a pair of comfortable-looking shorts and scampered over to the group, “These are supposed to be shorts, but if we tighten the strings tight enough, he might be able to wear them as pants or something.”
Mista nodded. “We can try. You find anything for him to wear as a shirt?”
Narancia nodded and pulled out a baggy looking sweater with a large front pocket. “This shrunk in the wash a couple months ago...maybe it’ll fit him? Just a little bit?”
Mista shrugged. “Worth a try.”
The two of them left Narancia’s room and met up with Fugo outside, leaving Trish to help him if he needed it.
“I won’t look while you put on the sweater, but you might need help with tying up the pants,” she said, turning herself around and letting Giorno fumble with the large grey sweater. The sound of fabric was all she could hear besides the soft voices from outside the door, and Trish was about to ask if he needed help before a soft tug on her skirt caused her to turn her head.
Giorno was pretty adorable already as a teenager, especially when he would accidentally fall asleep in front of them or do that thing where he would bunch up a whole bunch of blankets and let himself be absolutely engulfed by them during movie night, but little Giogio’s adorableness was unreal.
The baggy sweater reached his knees, too big no doubt, but it had a good fit on his shoulders. It should do for now. The kid hesitantly pointed to the shorts (which had basically become pants for him) that he was attempting to hold up and Trish laughed.
“Let me tie those up for you,” she offered, taking the two strings on the shorts and pulling them, “Too tight?”
He shook his head and Trish tied them together in a small knot. When she let go, they stayed on.
“Perfect,” she said, standing up and offering him her hand. He took it cautiously. “Let’s go find out what’s for dinner.”
When they opened the door to Narancia’s room, Fugo was outside talking to them, his hair still damp from the shower he had just taken and now dressed in more comfortable clothes.
“Fuck bro, that looks so cute,” Narancia said as soon as they caught sight of him, “Giogio can keep those clothes forever if he’s always gonna look that cute.”
“Giogio?” Fugo raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah! We’re calling him Giogio until things go back to normal,” Mista interjected. Still grasping onto Trish’s hand, the child backed up, hiding behind the girl’s skirt. Mista made a noise akin to both disappointment and concern.
“Is he scared of us or something?”
“He’s eight and he thinks we kidnapped him,” Fugo deadpanned, “What the hell do you think?”
Narancia bent down and smiled warmly. “Don’t worry, Giogio. We’re not gonna do anything to you. Promise. We’re just looking after you for a while, alright?”
The kid looked hesitant before finally nodding slowly. Narancia took his hand and led him down the stairs, “Let’s go see what Bucciarati is making.”
Trish stayed behind, bunching up the towels from Narancia’s room and throwing them into the laundry basket in the hall. Mista and Fugo stayed behind as well, and she listened silently to their conversation.
“-so he just turned into a little guy, then?” Mista whispered, sighing when Narancia and Giorno disappeared downstairs, “He seriously can’t remember anything?”
Fugo shook his head, “He has no idea who we are. The de-aging must have stopped when he stopped touching the stand and put him in the mindset that he was in at that age or something.”
“Did you kill the user?” Trish butted in, checking the stairwell for anyone trying to eavesdrop. Fugo nodded.
“Bucciarati thinks it’ll wear off after a couple hours. Abbacchio thinks we might have to trigger something in him to make it wear off. He said the playthrough with Moody Blues was weird. Well, weirder than usual, at least.”
Trish nodded thoughtfully, frowning when she caught a glimpse of Mista’s expression. When he caught her staring, he finally opened his mouth. “Don’t you think it’s kinda strange that he hasn’t said anything about wanting to go home yet?”
Fugo stiffened. “He actually told us that if we were holding him ransom, no one would pay.”
“Maybe he was an orphan or something. He was at boarding school before he came here, right?” Trish rationalized, “Or maybe he just didn’t have good parents.”
“He’s never actually spoken about them, has he?” Fugo hummed thoughtfully. It was a bit strange, how polite he was being and everything. Most kids acted like kids. Unless someone forced them not to.
“He’s...really small, too. Even for eight. Don’t you think that’s a bit weird?” Mista’s voice grew smaller and more concerned with every word.
“Narancia’s small too,” Trish countered. Fugo shook his head.
“Narancia was neglected. He was living on the streets when we found him. Barely at a-” he paused when he saw Mista’s expression and realized exactly what he was getting at. “...Oh.”
A feeling of dread loomed over them all. If their hypothesis was right, it would explain a lot. It would explain some of present-Giorno’s strange habits, as well. Barely spoke unless spoken to, barely ate anything, his sleeping schedule was a mess…
“I hope you three aren’t gossiping up here.”
Bucciarati’s voice flooded the upstairs as he began walking up to greet them in the dimly lit hallway. Fugo shook his head blankly.
“We were just talking about Giorno.”
Bruno nodded in understanding. “I see you managed to find him something to wear.”
Mista’s eyes lit up. “Doesn’t he look so cute?” Everyone’s heart melted when Bruno nodded sheepishly.
“This...isn’t exactly how I imagined him looking as a child.” he looked like he wanted to say something else, but shook his head. “Let’s head downstairs. Food is almost ready.”
“I can’t believe you left Narancia and Abbacchio alone with a child,” Fugo snickered. The long-haired man was probably sending the poor kid death glares from across the living room. Bucciarati held back a chuckle and started walking back downstairs. Fugo followed him quickly, but Mista held Trish back at the top.
“Let’s make sure he eats something tonight, yeah?” he whispered. Trish nodded and followed the rest of them downstairs.
Tonight was going to be a weird night.
Dinner was interesting to say that least. It seemed like Giorno was still in awe over the fact that they weren’t going to kill him. After making sure that the turtle and Polnareff were safe, they all crowded around the dinner table and ate whatever leftovers they had in the fridge. In this case, it was some kind of soup. Bucciarati sat down next to them and pulled out an envelope, passing it to the long-haired man sitting next to him.
“Abbacchio and I have to meet someone a couple blocks from here to exchange some information. We were going to wait until the rain let up, but…” a crackle of loud thunder answered for him, “You guys will be fine looking after Giorno, right?”
The four of them nodded their heads eagerly and turned to the kid, who hadn’t touched his soup.
“Not hungry, Giogio?” Narancia asked him, frowning when he didn’t respond. Bucciarati put a warm hand on his shoulder, which he replied to with a hard flinch and seemed to blink back into reality. His spoon fell to the floor with a loud clunk and his eyes widened as he scrambled to get it. Abbacchio rolled his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, hastily picking up the spoon and placing it back on the table, “It won’t happen again.”
They all watched in confusion as the child closed his eyes, his lips pressed together in a thin line as he quickly held out his wrists in Bucciarati’s direction. No one moved a muscle, and the dark-haired boy cracked open an eye nervously.
“What the hell are you doing?” Abbacchio asked gruffly. Giorno opened both his eyes to a very concerned-looking Bucciarati and a silent table.
“You’re not going to-” he stopped himself as Bruno’s frown deepened. Giorno seemed to get the message and lowered his arms, “I’m sorry. I thought you were going to…”
He looked conflicted, and Bruno looked almost as devastated as he was confused. “I would never. Even if you did anything wrong, which you didn’t, I would still never. I thought I made it clear that none of us intend to hurt you.”
The child was silent for a moment before nodding hesitantly. Bucciarati grabbed him another spoon and urged him to eat, which he finally did, and the whole table erupted into conversation once more. Giorno sat silently.
Once everyone was finished eating, they saw Bucciarati and Abbacchio out and retreated to the basement to watch a movie. That was what little kids did, right?
“Okay...what’s something we can watch that he can also watch without getting absolutely traumatized?” Mista asked them, pulling out a giant box of VHS tapes.
“Spirited Away just came out, right? You think that’ll traumatize him?” Narancia asked, pulling out the freshly bought tape. They all shrugged.
“I mean, if he watched me kill a guy, some animated ghosts will be fine, right?” Fugo wondered aloud. Giorno sat in the middle of them on the couch, radio silent.
“Spirits!” Mista corrected. Fugo threw a pillow at him.
“It’ll probably be fine bro,” Narancia said reassuringly, but not so reassuringly because it was Narancia. They slipped in the movie and the iconic blue screen marked STUDIO GHIBLI came to life on the tv.
“Have you ever watched this movie before?” Trish asked. The child shook his head and awkwardly shuffled in his place on the couch. Trish pulled out a fluffy-looking blanket folded behind them and draped it over her, “The basement’s cold and this is the best blanket, trust me. You should get over here before one of those clowns takes a spot next to me.”
Giorno was hesitant, but the temptation of the warm blanket proved to be too much for him, and he settled right next to Trish as she carefully wrapped it around both of them. He flinched as he leaned into Trish’s warmth, but slowly and surely melted into it.
They were most of the way through the movie before Mista and Narancia both fell asleep and Fugo’s eyes had started to close halfway. Trish was still wide awake, Giorno now sitting on her lap, clutching the blankets beside him as the giant faceless monster chased Sen through the bathhouse. She felt the blankets around her rustle as the kid got up. Fugo opened his eyes fully.
“Need the bathroom?”
The child nodded silently, shaking his head when Fugo asked if he needed help knowing where it was. Trish let him go and they turned their attention back to the movie as Giorno quietly made his way upstairs.
He was alone.
Giorno Giovanna was alone and he couldn’t be more relieved. He had no idea who these people who had taken him hostage were, but he didn’t care at this point. All he knew was that they had a lot of stuff. Expensive stuff, at that. They seemed nice at first glance, but Giorno knew from firsthand experience that niceness never ended well. There was always a catch—always something that bit him back the moment he let his guard down.
He just had to make them think he trusted them. That he was some innocent-looking child that could be easily swayed by words and feeble actions. That he would do no wrong and sit patiently, waiting to get what was coming to him.
He wasn’t that. Not anymore.
Dinner was nice—it was nice to eat something, anyway. But he knew exactly who these people really were. People couldn’t be this rich and carefree in Napoli without a price. He had watched the blond one kill a man, after all. Even if he couldn’t remember it. He couldn’t remember anything that had happened to him, actually. But it was nearing dark now and Giorno only had a matter of time before going back home too late would be a death sentence.
The golden arched gates they drove through on the way here meant one thing to him; these people were rich. They had things, money, precious belongings. He just had to find them.
He couldn’t take too long. They would think something happened to him and go looking for him, only to find his hands dirty and his reputation as an innocent child tainted. Maybe they would kill him for real.
Giorno was not stupid. And sure, he might be absolutely useless and worthless in the eyes of others, but maybe his step-father wouldn’t care how late he came home if he did it with pockets full of cash. Maybe his mother would look at him again if he gave her a diamond ring. Maybe she wouldn’t go partying and work so much if she didn’t have to get her money like that. Maybe everything would hurt less if he was surrounded by a shield of gold.
Shrugging off his thoughts, he carefully snuck through the living room, eying anything that could be worth something. Paintings, vases, anything that he could pawn off for something good. Maybe then he could finally eat at one of those fancy restaurants. He had gotten good at stealing from clueless tourists, but this was the biggest jackpot he had found in awhile. He wasn’t sure how clueless these people were or how fake their seemingly warm aura was, but he wasn’t here to take any chances. He would hide what he found somewhere in the living room, wait until everyone was asleep later, and book it out of here.
A rather large duffle bag sat untouched on the living room couch, presumably belonging to someone in the house. Grabbing it quickly, he went room to room, grabbing anything that looked expensive enough to sell, which wasn’t hard as even the floors in this house looked like they were made of gold. After filling the bag up with stupid trinkets, small pieces of art, and a giant wad of cash he found sitting on the kitchen counter, he ran back into the living room and dropped it carefully behind the couch. Hopefully, no one would look behind the piece of furniture and find what he had gathered.
Eyeing the basement steps carefully, he slowly made his way upstairs. There had to be more up here.
He passed by a few rooms and stopped at the fanciest looking one. It had pastel pink walls and a humongous, golden-framed bed in the middle of it. He searched quickly for anything valuable and snatched a hand mirror and a few diamond-ingrained pieces of jewelry. He didn’t care if it was fake; it looked real enough to pawn off in this fucking city.
After carefully infiltrating each room, he crept downstairs with four wallets, a wad of cash, and a shit ton of expensive-looking jewelry all shoved in the giant pockets of his loose-fitting pants.
As he eyed the living room for the last time, he spotted something shiny on the ground next to the coffee table. As he crept closer to it, he squinted in the dark to find it...moving? He grabbed at it, only to find that it was a beautiful golden key with a single red gem at the top of it.
They even have their pets decked out in jewels, he thought snidely, quickly grabbing the key and walking towards the couch to empty his pockets behind the couch. He was stopped short as he heard the jingle of house keys and muffled voices coming from the front hall. They were back.
He froze as he realized he had nowhere to go as the nice man and the grumpy man emerged into the living room. He quickly pocketed the key into the large sweater pocket he’d almost forgot he had just as the pair noticed him standing there. The long-haired angry-looking man narrowed his eyes at him. Giorno shivered. Even though he knew the man probably wouldn’t do anything, his voice and demeanor reminded him of things he wanted to forget.
“What the hell are you doing up here?” he asked aggressively, “Where is everyone else?”
He felt himself freeze at the sound of his voice. This man didn’t seem like he could be swayed easily, but the nice man standing next to him—Bruno? Bucciarati? Whatever his name was, he looked like the type to believe everyone’s words.
“I’m sorry,” he put on his quiet voice. Tourists always loved the quiet voice. Everyone loved when he was quiet and cute and innocent. “Everyone is downstairs watching a movie. I came up to get a glass of water, but I got lost.”
He watched as the nice man’s face softened. The long-haired man remained skeptical. Hopefully he would be able to break him by tonight. Then he could just get the hell out of here and back to the house and-
“Thirsty? I’ll show you to the kitchen,” the nice man said, beckoning him down the hall and towards the spacious kitchen. The grumpy man stayed behind and sat on the couch and Giorno prayed for him not to look behind it. His pockets jingled slightly as he tried to catch up with Bucciarati, and he arrived slowly but carefully into the kitchen just as the man was running a cup under the sink.
“If you need anything, just ask one of us. We’re happy to get anything for you,” he passed him the water, and Giorno almost felt guilty for ransacking his house. Almost. They had more than enough money. Even if they were nice to him, he doubted they were really good people. Anyone could be nice to a child.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, praying that the man didn’t hear the jingle in his pockets. The smile was short-lived, however, as he frowned at a spot on the counter. An empty spot.
“Did I not place the money here?” he asked himself quietly. Frowning, he craned his neck and spoke loudly to the other room. “Leone, you watched me put the money down here earlier, right?”
There was a muffled response from the other room and Giorno watched as the man exited the kitchen briskly. “Did you put it anywhere?”
“Maybe one of the brats took it,” the grumpy man replied from the other room. Giorno froze. He had it. Panic coursed through him—he couldn’t let them find out.
“I don’t think any of them would—Leone, where did Polpo’s golden vase go?”
Both men were up now, scouring the hallway as they pointed out more and more missing things, “And some of the art is gone, too. Am I going insane?”
“They were here before we left,” the grumpy man grumbled, “They must have disappeared while they were all in the basement.”
Both pairs of eyes locked on to him, and Giorno felt his pockets start to weigh down on him.
“Did you see anything suspicious while you were up here?” the nice man asked. He froze. They were going to find out. They were going to find out and they were going to kill him.
“—I saw a monster,” he blurted out, immediately covering his mouth with his hand. Why did he say that? Everyone was bound to know he was lying now, they would have his head and—he had barely begun school, he had so much he wanted to do. He felt existential dread fill him as the eyes staring holes into his head didn’t falter.
This was it. He was done for.
“What did it look like?”
The nice man’s voice sounded so serious, and Giorno realized that they believed him. He struggled to find an answer and he thought back to whatever movie they were watching.
“It was like an evil spirit-” he stammered, “-Like a ghost. It was black and shadowy and it didn’t have a face.”
To his surprise, they kept staring at him as if he were making perfect and coherent sense.
“Can he really see stands at this age?” the man murmured to the long-haired one, who shrugged and started looking around the room cautiously. Giorno thought he heard the sound of a zipper and the nice man stared at him intently.
“Can you see this? Can you see him?”
He pointed to a spot of blank air, and Giorno realized then and there that these people were actually insane.
He nodded anyway. The man’s expression didn’t change.
“He can see stands,” he turned to the other man, “Get the others up here.”
The gang congregated in the kitchen as Giorno sat silently in one of the chairs, staring at the ground. Most of them already had their stands out, but Giorno seemed completely unphased by this fact. Maybe he was already used to seeing stands.
“What, so a stand user is snatching things from the house?” Mista asked. Bucciarati nodded.
“Yes, but it might have other intentions. We need to spot it next time it tries to take something.”
The group nodded. So far, the stand didn’t seem that dangerous, but they had been proven wrong before. Giorno slowly and quietly walked out of the room, brushing past Narancia as he bolted into the kitchen.
“Uhm...guys?” he asked nervously, his voice a couple pitches higher than usual. It only dawned upon them what he was so worried about when he held up the turtle. “Where’s Polnareff?”
It only took them a couple seconds to get out of their seats and start searching around the house.
“Is he trapped in the turtle? Is he in the key?” Mista asked hysterically, looking under the kitchen table and bumping elbows with Narancia as they ripped open cupboards, “Is he still fucking alive??”
“Don’t fucking say that!” Narancia whined, “We’ve gotta find him, he’s gotta be fine!”
They continued searching room after room until they heard a loud voice come from the living room. “You’ve gotta be kidding me right now, fucking ungrateful brat!”
They rushed in to find Abbacchio standing in the living room, looming over Giorno.
“What happened?” Mista asked, out of breath. Abbacchio leaned over and picked up something from behind the couch. As he held it in his arms, the lumpy thing proved to be Narancia’s duffle bag. They all watched in silent shock as Abbacchio unzipped it and dumped out the contents on the couch; money, art, the vase...everything was there.
“How did it…?” Fugo’s question was answered as Abbacchio pointed an accusing finger at Giorno, who stiffened in fear.
“Brat is a liar and a thief. Bet he can’t even see stands, yet.”
Giorno said nothing, just stared wide-eyed at the ground. They thought they could see a slight tremble in his shoulders as he stood there. Bucciarati was silent.
“Empty your pockets,” Abbacchio barked, “NOW.”
The child stepped forward shamefully and dug everything out of his pockets.
“Is that my jewelry?” Trish asked quietly, the way Fugo’s fists clenched at the sight of his golden pendants not going unnoticed.
“The sweater pocket too,” Abbacchio snapped, groaning in disbelief when all Giorno pulled out was a familiar-looking key. Narancia and Mista snatched it from him quickly and placed it back into the turtle where a confused Polnareff emerged, not looking happy. No one had any words, so Abbacchio took the liberty of taking the kid by the hem of the shirt and pulling him closer to them.
“You’ve been giving us a hell of a lot of problems today, so you’d better explain what the fuck you were thinking,” he growled, ignoring the terrified look he had in his eye. The group all nodded slowly, waiting for Giorno to open his mouth.
“I didn’t mean t-”
“-Bullshit! You knew exactly what you were doing! Don’t try to play innocent with me, kid. It’s not going to end well for you.”
Giorno stood tensely, staring at the ground in shame. They could all feel the guilt coming off the kid in waves. He finally spoke up, lifting his head to face Abbacchio.
“I didn’t-”
The tense air was penetrated with a loud SMACK and the child in front of them stumbled back on impact, falling to the ground with a hard thump. Bruno stared in horror at Leone, who seemed shocked at his own actions. Mista stepped forward slowly.
“Gio-”
He was interrupted by a quiet-sounding hiccup. The kid hadn’t made an effort to get back up, just sat with his legs splayed in front of him, a small shaking hand making its way to where his cheek had been hit. His breath hitched again and they watched as the boy’s green eyes filled quickly with tears. His breathing grew more and more uneven and his gaze looked off somewhere that wasn’t here. It was almost as if he had forgotten where he was and who he was with.
Bucciarati moved forward without a second thought, as did Trish and Narancia. They all crouched down in front of him just as the first few tears had begun to slip from his eyes. He sniffled as his breath shook uncontrollably. Fugo gripped the turtle angrily and Polnareff was silent as he watched, confused at whatever was going on in front of him.
“Giorno-”
Bucciarati tried to console him, but he—they all were pulled back as a loud poofing sound pierced the air, and the area around Giorno was covered in a thick blue fog. And just like nothing had ever happened, the fog cleared as quickly as it came, and Giorno was Giorno again.
The sweater fit him properly now, if not a little tight, as did the shorts. Golden hair reached his shoulders, now messy and unmade, and they watched as tears still slipped messily down his face. He was still crying.
The blond stared in silence at the shaking hands in front of him as if he were trying to remember something, his chest still rising and falling too quickly. As if a switch had suddenly flipped on in his brain, he stared up at the crowd of people around him and his eyes widened as one of his trembling hands wiped a tear off his face.
Bruno opened his mouth to say something, but Giorno was already off the ground, pushing past him as he wrapped his arms protectively around his chest. Mista reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, only to find a soft hand pushing it off weakly.
“Don’t touch me,” he sniveled quietly, his uneven voice wavering as he spoke. Giorno's breath hitched loudly and he made a quick break for the stairs, flying up them in a matter of seconds.
No one said a thing.
Abbacchio’s hand felt like it was on fire. His eyes burned as he watched Giorno disappear upstairs, leaving the living room in an awful, guilt-ridden silence. No one would even look at him. He thought to open his mouth and say something, anything, but Bruno already beat him to it, walking over to him with clenched fists and bared teeth.
“You never hit a child, Leone,” he growled. The devastation in his voice was enough to make him want to cry himself, “Ever. Especially if they’re barely eight years old.”
The swell of emotions in his voice made him feel all the more guilty about it.
“I know,” he said quietly, feeling his chest start to tighten at the looks of disbelief around him, “I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have fucking done it.”
He sat numbly on the couch for what felt like hours. He could feel the anger coming off everyone in strong waves. No one dared move.
“Jesus,” he muttered to himself, “I’m sorry. I’d take it back if I could. I swear it.”
“We’re not the ones you should be apologizing to,” Mista said quietly. Bruno nodded and sat next to him on the couch.
“Someone needs to go check up on him,” he said quietly, “You need to talk to him. I think you need to be the one to do it.”
Abbacchio nodded, but it didn’t stop the dread building up in his chest. The gang was silent as he walked past them and reached the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll sort things out.”
...
The walk up the stairs felt like hell and Abbacchio felt guilt take him over the moment he found himself standing in front of Giorno’s bedroom door. There was nothing but silence coming from his room, and Abbacchio wondered if he was even in there until he heard rustling and a quiet sniffle. He couldn’t avoid this forever.
Sighing deeply, he knocked softly three times and awaited a response. There was more quiet shuffling on the other side before he heard a muffled, “Yes?”
“It's me.” Any sign of noise on the other end had gone radio silent. Leone thought he heard a sharp inhale on the other side of the door, but ultimately ignored it. “Can we talk?”
He thought he would never get an answer, but the sound of slow, uneven footsteps as Giorno finally opened the door proved him wrong.
“Abbacchio,” he said quietly as if it was a statement rather than a greeting. Giorno had already changed into his own clothes, golden hair still unbraided and falling messily down his back. Leone noticed quickly how puffy his eyes were and the way his cheeks still glistened with wetness.
They both stood there awkwardly for some time, Giorno refusing to meet his gaze before he finally cleared his throat awkwardly.
“Can I...come in?” he asked, softer than he meant to. Giorno’s head snapped up as if he had been shaken out of some kind of trance and quickly opened his door wider, disappearing into the confines of his room. Abbacchio followed awkwardly and found Giorno sitting stiffly on his bed, arms crossed and staring intently at the ground.
“Sit anywhere you like,” Giorno offered, his voice coming out as quiet as a whisper. If he didn’t know better, Abbacchio thought the kid still sounded like he was eight.
Awkwardly taking a spot next to him on the bed, he sighed. They couldn’t just sit like this all day.
“Do you remember everything that happened?”
A stiff nod. Leone didn’t know if he would feel more or less guilty if Giorno had somehow forgotten what he had done.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” his hands found their way into fists, “I shouldn’t have slapped you. I’m never going to do it again. Ever. I’m sorry.”
A small “thank you” was all that came out of Giorno’s mouth, and Abbacchio watched as the kid started to curl in on himself. He still looked like a complete mess; from what he had done or from the exhaustion of being de-aged for so long, he didn’t know. Either way, he felt sick thinking about it.
“I’m sorry for my outburst earlier,” he said quietly, “You just reminded us— me —of someone. I thought you were him for just a moment. I apologize.”
He frowned at the use of us, but didn’t dwell on it as he felt dread fill his chest. “I did?”
“Yeah,” was the choked answer he got. It didn’t look like he was going to elaborate, and Abbacchio didn’t know if he wanted him to elaborate. He was selfish. He didn’t want to know about the man Giorno thought he was, even for a glimpse of time.
There was a beat of silence before Abbacchio opened his mouth again.
“Are you okay?”
That seemed to break whatever facade they were both trying to hold up against each other, and Leone watched as Giorno slumped forward, his shoulders starting to tremble.
“It felt like I was him,” he said bitterly, “When I was on the ground. It felt like I was him again. It still feels like I’m him.”
His voice wavered ever-so-slightly, but he kept going.
“I thought I was done being him. I thought I finally—” he spoke quickly and stopped himself, swallowing the lump in his throat in frustration, “I thought I was over it. But it still feels like I’m—”
Leone had a feeling that this wasn’t just about stands anymore.
Giorno’s breath hitched and Abbacchio watched as the blond’s chest rose and fell in uneven intervals, as his face scrunched up in frustration, as his eyes welled up with something familiar.
Certain questions popped into Abbacchio’s head like “why were you stealing things?” or “why were you so polite?” or “why were you so small?” but he was afraid that he already knew the answer as he watched the kid practically break down in front of him.
“Giorno,” he started slowly, regretting every minute that he’d ever made fun of him for anything. He was cut off as Giorno seemed to shrink into himself. He was having a full-on breakdown. Or a panic attack. Or something.
Whatever it was, he wasn’t just going to leave him here. Not after all that’s happened.
“Can I touch you?”
There was a teary nod in reply, and Abbacchio took that as a yes as he inched closer to him on the bed and placed a hand on his shoulder, grounding him.
“You are you. You’re not you from 8 years ago anymore, you’re here now,” he said, his tone growing softer with every word. He didn’t know if that was intentional or not. He supposed he didn’t know a lot of things. “I need you to breathe with me. Can you do that?”
He shook his head and Leone was about to open his mouth to tell him that he could do it, that he would be okay, when Giorno looked up at him and he looked so fucking sad. Abbacchio barely even noticed as he opened his arms and Giorno practically fell into them.
He could feel a spot on his chest already growing damp as Giorno buried his face into his quickly warming embrace, his shoulders shaking as Abbacchio’s arms closed in on him and squeezed him tightly.
He didn’t even know what he was doing. He knew he was awful at this—he always was—but that didn’t stop him from running his fingers gently through his hair and pulling him closer as the teen’s entire frame trembled in his arms. If anything, Abbacchio would think that Giorno never really grew up at all. Or maybe it was the opposite. Maybe he had to grow up far too quickly.
He didn’t know if it felt like minutes or even hours passed, but Giorno’s quiet sobs eventually died down to the occasional sniffle, and Abbacchio had only realized when the room had filled with absolute silence that Giorno had fallen asleep. A hand still running through his blond locks, he maneuvered them carefully to the front of the bed and set the kid down, his head gently hitting the pillow. He would have been surprised that he didn’t wake up upon impact, but he looked absolutely exhausted to begin with.
It wasn’t long before the door to Giorno’s room opened quietly and Bucciarati slipped in, carefully shutting the door behind him when he noticed that the blond was asleep.
“Is he alright?”
“I don’t know,” he answered honestly, shuffling to the side to make room for Bruno to sit on the edge of the bed with him, “I think he’s still wearing off from the effects of the stand power. He didn’t seem like himself.”
“What do you mean by that?” Bruno asked curiously. Abbacchio nodded his head.
“His brain just seemed jumbled. It didn’t really feel like he was entirely there yet.”
He decided not to go into detail about what exactly happened earlier, but Bucciarati nodded in understanding and didn’t press further. “We should let him sleep. He’s probably worn-out from everything that’s happened.”
Abbacchio snorted and nodded. “No shit. He looked awful when I came up here.”
There was a moment of silence before Leone spoke up again. “I’m never doing it again. You know I didn’t-”
“-I know.” It was crazy, the way Bucciarati could read his mind sometimes.
They both turned and looked at the teen sleeping behind them. Bucciarati lifted his hand and brushed away the curls pressed against his face. They would only really know if the effects accurately wore off until he woke up, but there was a clear difference this time as opposed to eight years ago. They were here.
Whatever he was when he woke up, they would be there for him no matter what.