Work Text:
1- ruminate [ roo-muh-neyt ] / MISTA
Being a sixteen year old Mafia don….kinda sucked.
Not to sound thankless for the things he had, at least, because Giorno was proud of his new place in the world and he wasn’t about to give up the power and luxury for anything. Italy was almost a quarter way through the process of removing all the drug peddling and scum from it’s gutters, and whilst the weed that was narcotics would alway try to worm its way through any crack they could find, Giorno was sure his new teams and policies would take care of it.
Still, looking at the obnoxious pile of paperwork he’d allotted himself was overwhelming.
He’d been working at the towering stack since he woke up with the dawn, sat hunched over his desk unmoving, and it was well into the evening now. The stack had been almost halved, but it still stood taller and taller until it felt fifteen feet taller then Giorno himself. One small move, one wrong knock of the desk, and his tower could crumble down on top of him.
It definitely didn’t help that his aching hands were practically shaking, and his back and knees hurt enough that he was considering leaving his desk to find some painkillers.
His stomach also… wasn’t sitting right.
Which didn't make sense, he was fine, he just needed to get this work done and then he’d venture downstairs and find some leftovers or something, it was his fault he's not got all his work done yet so he didn’t deserve a full warm meal-
A sharp pain laces through Giorno’s arm, and he drops his pen with a clumsy thud, sucking a sharp blip of air through his teeth. The pen bounces on the table a little, before rolling off the back edge onto the floor.
Opening and clenching his fist a few times, he subtly chews at the inside of his cheek, looking around the ground for where his pen rolled off to.
A flash of gold ripples through the air as his stand’s hand reaches down, picking up the pen and laying it back on top of the current paper. The hand stays there, however, its fingers spread out over the pen and paper as Requiem emerges fully on the other side of the desk, its head laying down on its crossed arm and beady eyes staring Giorno down.
With another ripple Requiem’s visage melts away, leaving behind a familiar plating of gold and the sad, empty, sectioned eyes of his original stand.
The pen shifts under Gold Experience’s hand, and a single blooming Anemone flower pokes its way between his fingers.
Forsaken, sickness, fragility.
Giorno reers back, schooling his face blankly as he glares his stand down. “I'm not sick, or fragile, I’m just trying to pull my weight.” He hisses, pushing the flower off the table lightly with one hand as the other pulls a fresh pen out of the drawer to his side. “Go away, okay? I’ll eat when this is all done-”
“Uh, Giorno?” Mista’s voice calls from the doorway.
Giorno turns, seeing the sharpshooter’s head and shoulders sticking through the door. Mista’s hat is placed on his head sloppily, slightly twisted to the left, and he’s wearing a more casual vest top as opposed to his normal cashmere ensemble.
“Hey Boss- I knocked but I heard you talking so I wasn’t sure if you were just on a call- wanted to tell you me and Nara made focaccia, if you want any.” He goes on, swinging the door open more and leaning against the door frame. He’s wearing ripped jeans as well, definitely a casual day off.
Giorno glances back down at the desk, sees Gold Experience’s eyes barely peeking over the edge of the desk, and sighs. “I’m sorry, Mista, but i’m quite swamped with work at the moment.”
“I can just bring you a plate with some up, if you can’t break away from the desk?” Mista rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, but his face is kind.
Gold Experience picks up the Anemone flower from the floor, turning it back into a pen as it goes, so Giorno relaxes. The smile he aims towards Mista at the door is small, but thankful. “I’d be grateful, I'm sure it tastes excellent.”
The gunslinger laughs, turning around, jokes “Narancia nearly killed the yeast by dumping salt on it, so don’t hold your breath!” and closes the door behind him.
When Giorno turns back to the desk, the two pens sit next to each other and Gold Experience has vanished back into his soul. The ache in his knees and back isn't much better than before, but his hands have returned to a steady ache in his joints, and if he can just finish these last few papers about the Sicily territory dispute then he’ll have earned the snack Mista is bringing him.
He won't eat the focaccia until he’s done, he promises himself.
At some point Mista sneaks back into the room, silently setting the plate down on the edge of Giorno’s desk as he flicks back and forth between the first and last pages of the report, making feverous notes. With a broad smile he’s gone again, and Giorno puts the Sicily paperwork to the side.
He eyes the two squares of bread, and then the next paperclipped bundle on the pile warily. There’s only three pages in that one, he could get it done easily, then he can eat. Besides, the more he works the more he’ll deserve this, the better it’ll feel.
His stomach knots, a dull ache rattling his core. His hands are shaking again.
He grabs the next three loads of paperwork, laying them out as he gets back to work.
After those three are done, he grabs one of the squares, taking a small bite out of the corner. It's delicious, and he feels like he’s going to throw up, which is definitely because he hasn't deserved it yet, so he gets back to work.
By the first rays of morning, the paperwork is finally done, every single one signed and annotated, ready to be sent out to their recipients.
Gold Experience's eyes shine less in the morning light, a dull red tint seemingly overtaking them, and slowly it turns each and every stack into a striking Dove, which fly out the open window eagerly to deliver themselves.
And before the last dove leaves the room, Giorno eats the rest of the bitten into focaccia, feels his stomach unknot a little bit, and gives the rest of the other one as crumbs to the last remaining doves.
2- nibble [ nib-uhl ] / NARANCIA
Giorno quite likes the car rides to and from meetings, especially the rides when all the team was cramped into what Narancia eagerly coined the “Buccimobile”- a somewhat plain six seater family van of some brand, with the two middle seats facing backwards.
On this trip, Bucciarati and Fugo sat up front with Fugo eagerly directing the older driver on a twisted road of fake turns and starts. Abbacchio had grumbled about sitting in the back with “the kids” and immediately slumped down with his headphones cranked so loud Giorno could hear it from where he sat, diagonal to the man. Mista and Narancia had been playing some sort of word game for the past twenty minutes, and Giorno still couldn’t actually figure out what the rules or point of it was- if there was any.
It was a shame Trish couldn’t be here, but as she wasn’t really a member of Passione there was really no point dragging her into meetings where she’d be undoubtedly miserable.
“Oh hey! Random pause, I gotta eat breakfast!” Narancia cries by his side, jostling Giorno from his thoughts, before diving down into the compartment between the seats and pulling out a handful of breakfast bars.
The selection was random, a mix of healthier fruit or cereal bars interspersed with sticks of sugary confectionery that make Giorno’s jaw ache just looking at them.
“No fair,” Mista whines, “You’ve just made me hungry.” He reaches over the gap, trying to grab one of the bars from Narancia’s hand, but Narancia lunges back in his chair and shoves his foot squarely into the center of his chest, pushing him back.
He sticks his tongue out, peeling open one of the sugary bars as Mista tries to bat his foot away. “Nah, dude, you had breakfast, your fat ass stand nearly made us late!” And then shoves the whole thing in his mouth.
Fugo perks up, looking back over the seat dividers. “Actually, Narancia, I didn’t get breakfast either, throw me one will you?”
“Do not throw it!” Bucciarati barks, eyes not leaving the road.
“I have to throw it, Bucciarati!” Narancia shouts back.
Bucciarati glances in the rearview mirror quickly, tone dead serious. “I swear to god, Narancia Ghirga, if you throw that and we crash this car i'm going to make you pay for it-” He mutters, before reaching back with one hand to grab Mista’s shoulder and pull him back into his seat. “Give Mista a bar and let him pass one to Fugo.”
Mista grins, wide and shit-eating as Narancia whines and grumbles to himself before handing over two of the less-sugary items, knowing Fugo prefers the soft cereal bar even if he’d deny it.
As Mista hands the goods over to Fugo and munches into his own treat, calm falls again in the car, and Giorno smiles a bit, used to the antics of his new friends by now.
A small tug on his sleeve makes him look down, and meet Narancia’s eyes.
“Hey Gio, did you eat breakfast?” he asks, wiping sugar from his cheeks, holding up what looks from the packaging like a soft grain bar with chocolate chips.
He didn’t, actually. Well, he had a relaxing cup of tea with Bucciarati and a barely-awake Abbacchio this morning while Bucciarati helped himself to some toast and leftover strata from a recipe he’d tried the night before.
And he did like chocolate… Giorno’s mouth waters and he feels his stomach heave a little.
“Thank you Narancia,” his voice sounds far away, echoey, “But I'm fine. I may have it later though.” If he was good. If he was perfect in this meeting.
Narancia shrugs, shoving the bar back into the compartment along with its uneaten brethren, and goes back to shouting random unconnected words back and forth with Mista.
Which is fine, it's perfect in fact, because all of a sudden Giorno feels a tad clammy as he watches the road outside the window. His stomach twists a little, and he finds his throat closing as pressure builds, feels a bead of sweat under his collar, running down his back, burying into his spine and twisting every nerve.
They close in on the meeting place, nearing the pre-agreed place for them to unload.
And just like that, he’s fine. No issues.
The car pulls over, and after a quick moment of conference in the front of the van, everyone starts to climb out- even though Abbacchio needs a sharp tap in order to get his attention first.
Giorno climbs out last, immediately bracing himself against a pleasant afternoon breeze and stepping forwards as the Perfect, Immaculate, Unwavering Passione Don; Giorno Giovanna.
After the meetings, in the car ride home, despite the agony he feels in his belly and between his eyes, Giorno once again refuses the chocolate bar.
3- masticate [ mas-ti-keyt ] / BUCCIARATI
It was raining. A pouring downfall that made its own thunder as it crashed into the roof and windows.
According to the glaringly bright alarm on the wall, it was also 3;26am.
In all honesty, Giorno felt awful.
His usual 6;00am alarm hadn’t gone off this morning, and the rest of his team wanted to let him rest so none of them woke him until nearly midday. He then realised about half an hour after getting out of bed that he could barely see and his congestion from the day’s pollen was just getting worse, so he took some antihistamines and threw himself into the shower.
The rest of the day had gone fine, he’d had a ridiculously sugar cup of coffee, done some paperwork and made some phone calls, and then took the evening off to play a new video game Narancia had convinced people to play with him.
He’d eaten as well, just a small slice of bread with some salami and cheese from the Sex Pistol’s evening snack. Five had come and sat on his shoulder while they all ate, insisting Giorno join in.
From there however it just seemed to grow. Minutes later Giorno found himself embarrassed at the sounds his stomach was making, and when the others had noticed they’d passed him more and more food.
And he just kept eating.
And eating....
Continuous small snacks seemed to pour themselves into his maw, until it became full sandwiches and then reheated leftovers from dinner and even after everyone else had meandered away to sleep, Giorno just couldn’t stop the greedy guzzling of whatever he could get his grubby little paws on.
Eventually he stopped himself, wobbling up the stairs to his bedroom in a way befitting a drunk person, and climbed into bed.
It was no surprise then that less than an hour later, after laying in bed with an aching stomach, Giorno found himself hunched over the toilet heaving, face clammy with sweat as the last few hours of gorging himself backfired tremendously. He tried to be quiet, not wanting to disturb anyone, but the door was open and out of his reach, and he didn’t want to risk moving away from the bowl and vomiting on himself or the floor in an attempt to reach it.
So he just sat there, heaving and shaking over the bowl, biting down his distress and any noises that may come with it.
A door down the hall unlatched, and quiet footsteps creeped down towards the bathroom. Giorno froze in place, watching the door from the corner of his eyes.
He was trying to be quiet, he didn’t meant to do this, he’s sorry-
Bucciarati’s face peers around the doorframe, eyebrows furrowed. He spots Giorno instantly, of course he does, and his shock is subtle but there in the twitch of his brows and the tightening of his hand on the frame.
“Giorno?” He comes closer, kneeling down besides the teen awkwardly. “What’s the issue? Did you eat something bad? I can get you a glass of water and some Plasil if you need it?”
Giorno’s eyes and head burn, and he takes a deep breath, nodding slowly. “I’d appreciate that, thank you Buc-” Oh, wait, there’s the next round of heaving. Through his distress, he hears a small pitied hiss, and feels Bucciarati’s hand softly rub his back in slow circles before the man gets up and leaves the room in a hurry.
His vomiting stops for now, and Giorno lays his head down on the cold front of the seat. He hears footsteps coming upstairs, a door opening and a round of hushed whispers, and then Bucciarati comes back through the door carrying a glass of ice water in one hand and an open box of nausea pills in the other.
He watches feebly as Bucciarati pops one out of the packaging, one handed, and tips it into the water- letting it dissolve before handing it to him.
“I couldn’t find the Plasil, but i found some Biochetasi in the cupboard.” He explains, as Giorno takes his first drink. “Remember; slow sips, don’t gulp it down or it wont work.” He keeps his voice low, returning his hand to tracing comforting slow circles on Giorno’s upper back.
“Thank you, Bucciarati-” He croaks out. He probably looks pathetic.
The two sit quietly for a moment, interspersed by slow sipping, the whir of the clock on the wall, and the occasional but subsiding gagging as Giorno’s nausea comes and goes.
“What brought this on?” Bruno finally asks, scooping the younger’s dishevelled blonde hair up and out of his face, retying it more securely.
“I must have eaten too much earlier. I don’t know what came over me.” It’d be useless to lie, and the concerned twitch in the older man’s face does nothing but to make Giorno feel worse.
There’s a quiet knock on the door frame, and they both look over to see a sleepy Narancia holding a bowl and a chilled compress pack. “I grabbed them,” He murmurs, passing them both to Bucciarati, “I hope you feel better in the morning Gio,” and then he shuffles back out the door, yawning.
Bucciarati smiles, picking up everything and getting up. “He was worried about you. Right, are you good to stand? Let's get you back to your room.” He flushes the toilet and closes the lid, wrapping his spare arm under Giorno’s shoulders to help him up.
The two awkwardly shuffle out the door and down the hallway to Giorno’s room. It takes less than a minute to get him tucked into bed on his side, cold compress stuck to the back of his neck and a bowl clutched against his stomach incase the nausea returns during the night.
As Giorno drifts off he watches Bucciarati place the water and pills on his table, well within arms reach, and his last thought is thankfulness as he feels Bucciarati’s hand squeeze his shoulder comfortingly as he leaves.
4- guzzle [ guhz-uhl ] / FUGO
His traitor hands were almost always fidgeting these days. If he wasn't working, wasn’t writing, wasn’t playing games with Mista or Narancia, or doing something to keep them occupied.
Now, when his hands were empty, they always found their way into his hair.
It started off small, twirling a stray strand that had fallen out or re-plaiting his braid or curling loose ends. He’d take apart and completely redone hairstyles just to give his hands something to move around.
Eventually, during the evenings he was comfortable enough to have his hair down and casual around people, he found himself running his fingers through the strands over and over again. He did it the whole evening, while the TV played and everyone relaxed to their own devices. Over and over, up and down, after his arm started to ache at the bones and his hair began to grease from the oils in his fingertips.
It was as everyone stood up to go to bed he realised his shoulder and lap were covered in loose hairs, combed out during his meticulous and unwavering pace.
He caught himself from then on, limiting the contact with his hair whenever he realised the trajectory of his hand. He didn’t want to ruin his hair, couldn’t look anything less than perfect.
Giorno had been working long hours the day he realised something, however.
In meetings all morning and most of the afternoon, then skipping lunch because he didn’t have the time, and throwing himself into overlooking the new drug legality charges he needed to propose the next day. His stomach screamed at him, as usual, but today the pain was overwhelming his mind. He was zoning out, re-reading over his latest page when a sharp tug at his scalp shook him out of it.
Realising his hand had subconsciously wavered up to his hair once again, before getting caught in a small knot halfway down, he huffed, untangling it gently and returning to the page.
A sharp pang in his stomach intensified, the background ache of his head almost noticeable. Pathetic.
A chill went down his spine then, and his hand tightened in his hair. He paused, leaning away from the desk as he slowly looped a small stand of hair from the side of his head around his finger and…pulled. Pulled. Pulled.
The pain in his head was euphoric, and the strand resisted for a moment before snapping. His head ached where the hair had been pulled out, the pain soft, fuzzy, and he smiled.
It wasn't often he’d do it, just when he felt himself zoning out or getting overwhelmed. It was grounding, sudden. A new way of making his body snap to attention.
Like pinching himself but subtler. The rest of his associates were used to him playing with his hair in their company by now. One or two strands of hair coming loose were normal, it was fine. Nobody would ever know.
It was perfect.
He didn’t actually want to harm himself, didn’t want anybody to know he was having troubles, he didn’t want scars or anything that could pose a risk to himself.
---
Except it wasn’t perfect.
After a week the pain of a single strand wasn’t enough to pull him out of it, and after two weeks he stopped feeling it entirely. He needed more, so he started grabbing a couple at a time, no problem.
After another week it wasn’t working.
It was almost addictive, the need to feel pain in order to concentrate. Like he needed a reminder he was still alive.
He couldn't risk pulling any more, he’d get a bald spot, people would notice how much he was losing. He wouldn’t be perfect anymore. He had to find something else.
---
An opportunity arose over the next “team dinner” that came along, like a miracle to Giorno’s mind.
It started peaceful, happy and relaxed with easy chatter as all meals did, and then the switch flipped, as it always does. Him, Bucciarati and Abbacchio sat in a demure quiet, the latter two talking occasionally between them. Narancia and Mista chatted, on and on, their ideas and facts growing wilder and less realistic as they went. Fugo, next to him, kept trying to correct them, getting tenser and tenser as the conversation went.
His hand gripped his fork, shaking, and then the arm went up. Up. Up.
He didn’t strike at his teammates though, his arm began on a path straight back down towards the table.
Inches away from Giorno’s hand.
Close enough… to…
At the very last second, Giorno shifted his hand over, just an inch, but it was enough.
The fork came down, angry and blunt and fast.
Two of its four prongs drove straight into the tender meat at the side of Giorno’s hand.
He squashed down a pained gasp, biting his lip and clenching his other hand on the table. Everyone around him froze. A rush of euphoria oversept him, the pain tangy and ripe, like the first bite of a peach and Giorno’s face showed none of the glee that was warming his body.
It froze over when he saw the look on Fugo’s, however.
And then the moment broke, everyone was talking, shouting, over each other and Bucciarati scrambled over to pull Giorno away from the table, carefully removing the fork and checking him over.
A distant voice, his own voice, talked smoothly and emotionless. Reassuring his friends he was fine, that it didn’t even hurt that much, he didn’t need to use Gold Experience and that a plaster or bandage would suffice.
His mind was stuck on the horrified face Fugo had the entire time, shaken and full of a familiar self-hatred. But also confused, angry. He watched as Fugo looked down at the table, eyes quivering, before he stood up in a hurry and excused himself to go to the toilets.
A quiet fell on the table, and Abbacchio shared a nod with Bucciarati before following him.
Giorno was quiet the rest of dinner, and when Abbacchio and Fugo returned they wordlessly swapped seats, putting Fugo in between Bucciarati and himself. Fugo’s hands were shaking as he clutched them close to his chest. The three communicated in soft whispers, and when everyone was finished eating they were the first to get up and leave.
By the time Giorno got home, his hand had stopped bleeding entirely, the first stage of a scab forming over the two small holes. He picked at it, his stomach heavy and grumbling as in the aftermath he’d barely touched his meal..
He was expecting a familiar rush, a warm happy feeling.
He only felt cold, empty, and full of guilt.
He never wanted to feel like that ever again.
5- ingurgitate [ in-gur-ji-teyt ] / TRISH
Trish was visiting today. He knew that. He’d known for a week, her arrival had been scheduled into his calendar as two days of time where he’d not work. He’d missed his friend, they all missed her, and he wanted to spend some well deserved time with her.
Except he wasn’t deserving of it, right now. He’d forgotten the date, left too much paperwork. There were still two paperclipped folders sitting on his desk, and Bucciarati would be back from the airport with the lovely Miss Una in less than twenty minutes. So Giorno was fucked.
He needed to finish these papers, they had a deadline and the Abruzzo capos had been waiting for his final say on their territory dispute for days now. Why were there so many territory disputes? Could these men not read a map? Giorno had better things to be doing than spending an hour on each paper detailing the limits of each Capo’s reach!
It was better to start, he could take a break when she arrived to welcome her, and then explain that there was some last minute work he needed to do so he’d see her after lunch, really sorry about this Trish, the life of an useless Teenage Don sucks.
Of course, it didn’t help that the last week had been spent in a haze of floating non-existence, his brain unable to focus on anything in front of him. He’d taken to consuming more and more coffee as the week went on, growing to hate the taste as he needed it blacker and blacker just to take effect.
Yesterday he’d drank it black straight from the pot, to the disgusted grimace of everyone around him. Not that it helped, it felt like his entire body was tired and wilting around him.
So he threw himself into writing, rushing through the paperwork as much as possible whilst still doing a thorough job. A door slams downstairs, and voices echo up, but he keeps going.
His office door slams open.
“I hope you weren’t planning on holling up in this room the entire time i’m here!” Trish calls, stepping into the room with as much bravado as she normally carries these days. Murdering her bastard father really did a number to boost her confidence.
Giorno pulls away from the desk, ignoring the dizzy spin in his head, meeting her halfway across the room with open arms. “Goodness no, I just need to finish some last minute papers and then I’m all yours for the next two days!” He beams at her.
She snorts, pulling him into a tighter hug. “You work too much, y'know. It’s okay, Abbacchio wanted to have a spa day anyway, figured we’d try and clean Mista up a bit.” She pauses, arms tightening for a second. “You’re way too bony, have you put on any weight since my last visit?”
“What can I say, it all goes to my brains and my height.” Giorno jokes back, pulling away from the hug.
Trish just raises an eyebrow, looking him over. “I’d believe that if you ever actually get taller.” She shakes her head, “Please take a break, come have lunch with us and then you can get back to work.”
“...I can’t, Trish, these need to be done today.”
She frowns, looking over at the desk “You can still get it done today, even if you take a break for some food. Bruno said you didn’t eat any breakfast. You must be hungry.”
“No, but I'm fine. I just need to get these done.” Giorno pulls away, moving back to the desk, but Trish grabs his arm as he turns.
“Cut the crap, what's the real reason you don’t want to eat lunch with me?” She snaps. “I was trying to be nice, Gio, but you look like real shit. I’ve never seen bags under your eyes before today, you look exhausted.”
“I’m just-” He takes a breath, weighing his words. “I’m a bit stressed, it's been a hard few weeks and I’ve been overwhelmed with everything going on. I promise I’m not trying to avoid you or anything-”
“I know that, but I’m worried about you Giorno.” Trish’s features soften, and she lays a hand on his arm.
“Well you don't need to be.” He snaps back, tone harsher than he meant it to be. “I’ll see you after lunch.”
Her face twists in anger, and she drops her clenched hands down to her sides. “Yeah, okay,” she mutters, walking out the room.
The door slams behind her, deafening in the quiet of the room.
Giorno stands there, frozen, as his chest squeezes tight. He stumbles back to the desk, lips pressed thin and hands shaking.
He starts writing. It's all he can do. He’s so tired.
He writes until the sun hides behind the clouds and buildings, and the doors downstairs thump open and shut again. He’s stacking the papers back into their sealed folders when there’s a knock at the door.
“Come in.” His voice doesn’t shake, it can’t, he won't let it.
It opens, slowly, and Trish pokes her head through. She’s slow to meander over to his desk, hands behind her back, and the two stand about a foot apart.
They both open their mouths to speak, shutting them with small smiles.
“You can go first,” Trish whispers, like it's some conspiracy.
And Giorno smiles back, wavering and small. “I’m sorry about earlier, I didn’t mean to be so harsh.”
“It’s okay,” she pulls her arms forwards, holding a small take-away container, “I’m sorry for getting angry at you, I know you’re working really hard. We brought you some of the lunch back, if you’re hungry.”
“Thank you.” He takes the tub, pushing back the ache in his arms and behind his eyes, linking their arms together. He smiles wider. “Lets go downstairs, has Narancia shown you the new video game he bought?”
6- imbibe [ im-bahyb ] / ABBACCHIO
“Why are all our conversations done in the fucking kitchen?” Abbacchio snaps, washing plates in the sink before leaving them on the rack to dry. “Look, ‘Days of Future Passed’ is the best album ever released, hands down. Every song on it was a miracle of creation.”
“I’d be happy to move this debate anywhere else, as I can assure you that ‘The Gold Experience’ is far superior,” Giorno quips back, smiling, “but you’d then have to leave the washing unfinished, and you know Bucciarati would most certainly do it himself.”
“Yeah, point taken, I know Bruno as well. But, you’re just saying that cause you named your Stand after it.” He points a soapy hand at Giorno, his small smile sharp at the edges.
“You named your stand after that album’s band, you are aware.”
“Oh my god, eat shit Giorno-” Another plate on the rack. Abbacchio pauses, turning his head to look at the other over his shoulder “Hey, brat?”
Giorno hums in acknowledgement, watching the coffee maker work it’s magic.
Everyone had eaten dinner and scampered off to do their own thing, leaving only Giorno, who wanted a coffee before going to finish the last few papers, and Abbacchio, who’s turn it was on the rota to wash the dishes after dinner.
“Why didn’t you eat anything today?”
Giorno’s brows furrow and he looks up, matching the intense gaze pointed at him. “What do you mean? I sat and ate dinner just like everyone else. You saw me.”
“I mean, I saw you sit at the table politely, take intermittent bites and then slowly give the rest of your food to Narancia, Mista and the Sex Pistols so it looked like you were eating more than you did.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about-”
Abbacchio barks a laugh, shoving a plate into the drying rack and turning around. “Don’t even try that, I may not be a human lie detector like Bruno but I was an officer once. We were trained to see this kinda shit, not that any of those fuckers ever did anything good with it.”
“Yes, we’re all aware of the deep-rooted issues plaguing the systematic institute, but I assure you I’ve eaten fine today.” Giorno huffs back, crossing his arms. “I simply wasn’t as hungry as I usually am, and didn’t want to make a fuss.”
“You’ve stopped playing with your hair too.”
“It’s a bad habit, I kept making it unbelievably greasy.”
“And whatever the fuck happened with Trish her first day.”
“There was a misunderstanding, we both got upset over things we didn’t mean.”
Abbacchio sighs, turning back to the sink. “You’re insufferable.” He snaps.
“You do mention that, quite often.” Giorno finally quirks a smile. “Look, Abbacchio, I appreciate the concern but I really am fine.”
“Oh Okay!” Abbacchio starts, plate dripping in one hand as he waves his arms. “I see how it is; last week when you were winning at scrabble I was ‘Leone’ but now when I’m grilling you over being healthy you it’s ‘Abbacchio’!”
“What on earth are you two talking about?” Bucciarati chimes from where he's paused in the doorway, brow raised as he hefts the laundry basket over his hip.
“Giovanna hasn’t been eating enough-”
“I really have, I just wasn’t that hungry today. If I feel like I need to, I’ll get more food later.” Giorno jumps in, shooting Abbacchio a small glare. He himself thinks back to the absolute awful night a few weeks back where Bucciarati had found him in the bathroom, and flushes with shame.
Bruno’s eyes furrow, and he looks Giorno up and down. “I trust you to know what's best, but please make sure you are eating carefully, Giorno. Also the washing machine is empty, if either of you need it.” And then he walks away.
The coffee maker beeps, and while the silence in the kitchen isn’t as stifling as it could be Giorno can see the tension in Abbacchio’s shoulders from the corner of his eyes. He thought he was being subtle, but apparently he failed to keep his habits as private as he wanted. Useless.
A chill runs through him as he cups the large mug of coffee in his hands, shivers running up his spine. A subtle glance at the heating shows that the house is at a steady 22° today, as it had been almost the entire week. He was still cold, despite the thick jumper he’d taken to wearing during his casual hours. He’d been cold all week.
He’d also noticed that, for the first time since he was a young child, he’d stopped feeling hunger. The subtle rumble no longer registered in his brain until he noticed the weak shaking of his hands, the aching pain in his stomach, the pain behind his eyes.
He remembers, fuzzily, being a small child in an empty home, where he’d wait and wait for a dinner that never came from a mother who wasn’t there. Eventually he’d stopped expecting food, stealing little bits when he could and eating ravenously when he was given it, but never feeling hunger until it was too late to even push his frail body into trying to get it.
He remembers laying on a too-small bed, age seven, a rattling ache in his stomach as he first realises that the reason he wasn’t being fed was because he didn't deserve it, he wasn’t a good enough kid, wasn’t pretty enough like mommy, he was too lazy and weak to do things for himself, he’d starve to death on his own because he was pathetic and worthless-
“Oi Giorno-” Abbacchio snaps, a large wet hand gripping his shoulder where he slumped forwards, looking down at a smashed and leaking pile of ceramics. “Don’t just stand there, sit down and get away from the shards.”
Giorno startles, backing up and bumping softly into the table as the older man’s hand falls away. There's a wet patch on his jumper but the chill barely even registers. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened-”
“It’s fine, kid, we all get those moments, I just gotta-” Abbacchio shucks off the washing up gloves, flinging them into the sink and grabbing the towels.
Giorno watches him, shaking and shivering down to the core as he sits restlessly in a chair. It doesn't take long, but Abbacchio picks up the larger pieces of ceramic carefully, dumping them into the bin and laying down towels where the coffee had spilt. Soon enough he’s wrestling the hoover from the cupboard, wringing out the coffee-drenched towels in the sink and vacuuming up the smaller shards. Other than a slight dampness to the tiles, it looks like his mistake never even happened.
The vacuum is unplugged and stuffed back into the overflowing supply cupboard, and Abbacchio huffs out a breath.
“See, no harm done, just go on the next grocery run and buy a new mug.” He turns back to Giorno slowly, before falling ungracefully into the chair next to him. “Shakes gone yet? I’d stay here until they are, unless you want to run into one of the others looking like a vi- uh, electric toothbrush...”
Giorno smiles a bit, clasping his hands together in his lap. They’re still shaking just a little bit, but he doesn’t mention it. “Thank you, I believe I owe you one for this.”
“Eh, whatever,” Abbacchio blows a hair out of his face, it had come loose from the high ponytail he wore it in today. “Just admit that my album is better than yours and I’ll call it even, yeah? Also…take one of the Sex Pistol’s sandwiches upstairs with you, if Mista has a problem we can blame Narancia for taking it.”
“You know I hate repeating myself, I’m not hungry-”
“I know what happened at the restaurant the other week.”
Giorno freezes, gaze fixed on his hands. They’re trembling again.
“After your fight with Trish I knew something felt off about it, so I replayed that entire evening. You barely ate then, too, which is why I was watching you tonight.” Abbacchio sighs, resting his chin on his hand. “Mainly, I saw you move your hand and you were watching Fugo the entire time; you knew what you were doing.”
The hand not supporting Abbacchio’s face moves to rest heavily on the other’s shoulder.
“I’m gonna be blunt: That’s fucked up, Giorno, not just because you hurt yourself but you really hurt Fugo. The kid was almost crying.”
Giorno feels like crying now, if only he could. His leg rises, thigh flush against his chest as his arms wrap around it. He wants to bury his face in the knee, to hide, but keeps his head up.
“I felt awful, still do,” he admits, voice small, “but I don’t know how to apologise without making him feel worse or upset at me. I didn’t want to admit my faults.”
“Yeah, god knows I can understand that, but you really need to talk to him and apologise. He’s back to being terrified of hurting people again, and me and Bruno have been working so hard on helping with that.”
“I will, next time I can talk to him alone I promise I’ll explain the entire thing.” Giorno’s gaze remains fixed on the floor tiles, glistening and damp, but from the corner of his eyes he sees and hears Abbacchio sigh once more and stand up.
“Thanks, but I also want you to look after yourself too. You may not want to hear it, and god knows I feel weird saying this, but you’re important and this team needs you. Passione needs you, Don Giovanna.” He opens the fridge, grabbing a freshly wrapped cheese and salami sandwich, and holds it out to him. “I won't say anything to Bucciarati yet, but if you don’t clean up your act I make no promises. Talk to someone and soon.”
Giorno bites his lip, stomach flipping, nods and takes the sandwich.
The conversation ends there, and Abbacchio turns back to the sink to finish washing the dishes. After a moment, Giorno retreats back upstairs and gets back to work, eying the sandwich every few minutes.
Eventually he gives in, unwraps it and takes a small bite. It tastes delicious, as all of Mista’s cooking does, and it almost feels good to eat it. After another bite he puts it down and returns to work.
By the end of the night, he’s eaten over half of it.
+1 support [ suh-pawrt, -pohrt ]
He tries to talk to Fugo, he really does. The problem is that every time Fugo sees him his eyes get wide and full of fire, and if the two end up alone in a room together he runs out of it faster than a hurricane.
It would almost be funny, if it wasn’t just frustratingly sad.
The one time Giorno does manage to get Fugo into a room with him it’s when they’re talking about paperwork, one of the specialist teams asking for a personnel extension because they’re low on numbers.
They finish the conversation, and as Fugo’s standing to leave and Giorno has his chance.
He calls out Fugo’s name and the older boy freezes in place, turning slowly.
It's not your fault, I manipulated you, it's my fault I got hurt, you’re not dangerous, you’re a brilliant friend and I don’t deserve you - but what makes his way out of his mouth is, “You did great today, I’m proud of you.”
At least that works a small smile onto Fugo’s face, but he still speedwalks out of the room like it’s on fire.
Abbacchio’s stink-eye over the next week or so gets more and more disappointed each day, flicking between him, Fugo and Bucciarati like a ritual.
Giorno also starts finding little bits of food scattered around the house for him, like a small sandwich on his desk when he comes back from a meeting or a breakfast bar next to the coffee maker some mornings, and even once a yogurt on his bedside table when he heads into his room.
He ignores them the first couple of days, dumping them back into cupboards and the fridge when he passes through the kitchen.
It's on the third day when he finally gives in, a migraine overtaking his mind as his cold body is wracked with shivers. The cramping, shifting pain in his torso is just the icing on the cake, and when Giorno’s fuzzy gaze passes over a plastic-wrapped plate of Mista’s home-made Taralli on the edge of his desk, he’s finally had enough.
He eats a few, the salty snack almost addictive to his palette, and after a few minutes he feels the sharp pain in his stomach lessen a little bit to a dull ache.
He stops resisting as much, and eats the random snacks a bit more often. Neither Abbacchio or Giorno mention it to the other, but one time the older man walks into his study to find him eating from a small bag of Vinelli and at Giorno’s small, embarrassed smile he just rolls his eyes.
Giorno does think he saw a small self-satisfied smile on the man’s face as he leaves.
The small, daily snacks do help a little, as awful as Giorno finds himself feeling afterwards. He knows this is just him being weak, but the ache in his stomach lessens and lessens until one morning he wakes up to find he feels... Good.
There’s no migraine- just a small achy pressure, no cold shakes, his fatigue is diminishing.
He feels less good when he walks downstairs to find everyone sitting in the living room, grave expressions on their faces. Abbacchio makes eye contact with him as soon as he hits the last step, sees Giorno’s soft smile diminish for a look of confusion, and a grimace crosses his face.
Bucciarati stands up, and walks into the kitchen, coming back out with papers and a snack bar. They’re both pushed into Giorno’s hand, and he looks through them.
It's...a nutrition chart, and a month long meal plan. It’s filled with different, timed meals, each with long nutritious lists of ingredients full of things like nuts, dried fruits, eggs, milk and cheese, granola, chicken and fish, he even spots an avocado in one or two of them.
There’s a note at the top that reads “Eat dry food in the morning, such as toast or crackers, to avoid nausea”.
“What...is this.” Giorno grinds out, keeping his gaze down.
“Abbacchio told us...about what he saw with Moody Blues. How you’ve been starving and hurting yourself.” Bucciarati explains, voice even. “And I remembered the time you made yourself sick from eating too much when unmonitored. We talked to a dietician, and they gave us this advice.”
Giorno raises his eyes, but Abbacchio avoids his gaze. The rest of the gang are staring at their shoes too, apart from Fugo who’s glaring at him.
“You shouldn’t have worried yourself, really, this is all grossly exaggerated and I can assure you I’m doing fine-”
“Giorno, stop it. Just stop.” Mista snaps, “We’re worried about you, man. We’ve all noticed it, even if we didn't want to admit it. We wanted to trust you on this, but it’s gone too far.”
Next to him, Narancia sniffles, and buries himself in his knees.
Bucciarati lays a hand on Giorno’s shoulder, “Please don’t push us away, Giorno. We can help, it’s okay to ask for it. You’re allowed to not be perfect, because you’re always going to be good enough for us.” He gingerly takes back the papers, but leaves the younger with the snack bar.
“I’m-” Giorno slams his mouth shut, fists clenching into his sleeves and crushing the bar. “I don’t-This is-” Shut up, stop stuttering, calm down.
Fugo stands up, hands shaking by his side as he finally explodes. “Why?! What is so wrong with us- with you- that you have to do this to yourself?” The rest of the gang try to calm him, but he keeps going. “You think we don’t understand hurt? Don’t understand hating yourself?”
“Fugo, I’m sorry-” Giorno chokes out, taking a step back.
“I’ve hated myself my whole life,” He bellows, “I’ve accepted that I’m dangerous, that I can’t do anything except hurt people, and that I don't deserve Bucciarati’s help! But I took it anyway, so why can’t you?!”
“Because I’m just a fucking failure.” Giorno snaps, jaw clenched.
Everyone in the room freezes at the outburst, expressions wavering over the glassy look in his eyes, and Bucciarati takes a small surprised step back when Gold Experience bursts out of its user like a firework.
The stand’s arms wrap around Giorno like a vice, one arm resting around his shoulders and the other cupping his head to its chest. Its purple eyes seem to glisten, and in its grasp Giorno wilts. His numb hands grasp at his stand’s arm, and something in him breaks. His breath hiccups, and his view blurs. No tears fall, but this is the closest to a dam breaking that Giorno has ever felt.
Narancia however does cry, his eyes bursting as he rushes up off the floor and wraps his arms around Giorno’s waist. He’s shaking, forehead resting on Gold Experience’s arm where it’s wrapped around his shoulders.
Everyone else springs up then, moving towards him carefully and whispering loving words. How much they love him, how he should never feel like a failure, how he’s always been good enough for them no matter what. They want to help, they want him to be happy, please let them know what they can do-
Abbacchio hangs back, not keen on physical affection, so Giorno smiles a wet smile at him and the small twitch of his lips back is all that Giorno needs. Bucciarati laughs, surprised, when Mista pulls him by the arm into a big group hug, and Fugo- not forced into the hug either- puts a hand over Giorno’s where it rests on Narancia’s back.
“We love you, man!” Mista blubbers, “You’re so important to us all Gio, you’re the best bitch we got!”
Later that night, when everyone’s calmed down, eaten a small dinner and they’re all watching TV, Fugo shuffles over so he can sit down next to Giorno on the large two-seater.
“I really am sorry.” Giorno mumbles, “I felt so awful and I immediately wished I could take it back.”
“I know, and it’s not okay but I forgive you. I understand feeling so...horrible, like you needed to hurt yourself just to function. But we’re stronger than that, yknow.” Fugo holds up a bag of crisps. “I used to be the same, yknow, with the eating.”
“I never realised.”
“Yeah, only Bucciarati really knew. It started after he recruited me, I started feeling really awful about whether I was doing enough or whether I was just going to lose it and kill everyone. It used to stress me out so much I just lost all appetite, even when I was starving. Trying to force myself to eat just made me feel sick.”
The bag opens, and the two take small handfuls, nibbling on them together.
“How did you fix it?” Giorno whispers over the emotional climax of the actors on screen.
“I didn’t”, Fugo laughs, “I talked to Bucciarati about it and we figured out a way to make it better. We considered seeing a therapist but mafia business and stands aren’t easy to explain.”
“Guyys!” Narancia whines, “You’re talking over the good parts!”
Fugo reaches his leg over, kicking him in the shoulder. “Shut up!” he snaps, only to yelp when Narancia grabs his leg and yanks him down off the sofa, only for him to land on Mista’s back and make him throw his drink in the shock.
Hell explodes around him as the three start shouting. Abbacchio groans over them, grabbing a throw pillow and shoving in over his face as he lays down along the sofa, Bucciarati next to him giving him a reassuring pat on the back.
Giorno and Bucciarati make eye contact over the noise, and burst out laughing.