Archive of Our Own

Giorno curled in on himself and fought back a whimper as his thoughts swirled, painful and virulent, in his head.

You’ve really fucked things up this time-

They hate you now-

You’re worthless-

An awful person-

They’re gonna get rid of you-

You deserve it-

It had been hours. Why couldn’t he stop shaking? Dark thoughts were nothing new. He should be able to get up, face his team, find some way to charismatically apologize and ensure that they’d let him stay. The use of manipulation was nothing new, either.

And yet, that very thought made the self-hatred surge. Scum.

All of this was his own fault. He hadn’t been in enough control of himself—if he’d just gotten a grip on his feelings, if he’d just hidden it better-

But he hadn’t, and so he’d frozen up after taking one glance at the beer bottle sitting on the table by Mista’s hand—in perfect position to grab and throw across the room—and it had immediately caught Bucciarati’s attention, because of course it had, the man could read him much too well sometimes, and he’d asked if Giorno was okay but of course Giorno wasn’t okay, because he’d thought nobody in this house even liked beer, he’d thought wine was the drink of choice, and wine was fine, wine didn’t remind him of his stepfather and the things he did when he got drunk, the anger he liked to take out on any living thing nearby, and Haruno was always nearby-

A hand had touched his shoulder. Giorno had panicked.

Normally, when he panicked, he chose flight.

This time, inexplicably, he’d chosen fight.

Giorno clenched his jaw and covered his ears with his hands—as if that could stop the sound of Bucciarati colliding with the glass pantry door and shattering it from replaying over and over again in his brain.

What he’d done was unforgivable. He’d put his hands on someone he’d promised to protect. He was just like his stepfather.

Fugo had yelled at him. “What the hell, GioGio!” He’d shoved his way past Giorno to help Bucciarati to his feet. His expression was decidedly cold when he met Giorno’s eyes again.

Not that Giorno deserved anything better.

But, of course, because he was broken, he couldn’t stop himself from imagining someone else standing in Fugo’s place. Someone who was always two seconds away from beating him senseless. Someone who never yelled for long before the blows started. He’d panicked again, and this time he did choose flight. He’d sprinted up the stairs faster than he’d ever thought himself capable, fighting back tears he didn’t know what to do with, and locked himself away where he couldn’t hurt anyone else.

It didn’t take long for the thoughts to start their punishment.

Try as he might, he couldn’t think of a way out of this. Even when he tried to think it over rationally, it never worked.

There’s no way to salvage things, was his main takeaway. Followed by, the only people that have ever liked me now hate me. The two fundamental truths of his rapidly-imploding universe.

They’d all seen the broken part of him, the part he had dared to hope he’d locked away forever. They’d seen Haruno. And Haruno had hurt the glue that held their family together.

Bucciarati was a good person; you’d be hard-pressed to find him being intentionally cruel to one of his own, even if that person was as unbearable as Haruno. Even though he now knew of Haruno and knew that Giorno was more trouble than he was worth, even though Giorno had hurt him, he probably wouldn’t kick him out immediately.

But it was coming. Bucciarati would only be able to handle being around someone like him for a limited amount of time before his patience would inevitably run out and he’d want nothing more to do with him.

All of them would.

Should I leave now—spare them the trouble?

I can still achieve my dream while living alone. I... I don’t need to live here…

There was a twinge in his chest; his throat grew tight.

Gold Experience’s fingers combed through his hair comfortingly.

I wonder what they’re thinking right now.

It didn’t really matter in the long run, of course. The outcome was inevitable. Everyone who had ever encountered Haruno had unanimously agreed that he was a waste of human life. He didn’t have to do anything more than exist in order to convince people of his worth—or lack thereof.

Giorno could be liked. Giorno was made of completely different materials, carefully crafted to be everything Haruno was not.

Giorno could belong to a family. Haruno could not.

And now Giorno’s potential family had seen Haruno, and, like a curse, he was destroying everything Giorno had come to love about his new life. Now his teammates would look at him and see only that wretched little boy, frozen in terror and then lashing out like a violent fool. They’d only see the part of him that was worthless. And people didn’t take kindly to worthless things.

It had always been that way. Everywhere Haruno showed his face, there was nothing but abandonment or abuse to greet him. Anytime he let his guard down, there was nothing but attack.

And so he’d created Giorno, the perfect mask. Giorno was confident, beautiful, charismatic, unaffected by the violent storms thrown his way. He was the one that earned people’s respect.

But masks could only hold up for so long, and when he thought he’d purged himself of Haruno completely, all he’d truly been doing was wearing the mask nonstop for months, wearing it down until it was threadbare—a disaster waiting to happen. He should’ve known pieces would fall off sooner or later, showing a watery eye or a bloodied lip to anyone who cared enough to look closely.

And of course those were the very people he had so desperately wanted to fool.

It felt like he was in mourning. The deep melancholy that had settled deep in his soul once the panic gave way was stifling. He would miss all of them as he used to know them—the way they were before they knew.

Did they even know how much they meant to him? Probably not. Giorno was superior to Haruno in every way, but he wasn’t flawless—yet. He’d been working on it. Some things were hard to get over, though: the others were so open to touch, so he assumed he should be too, but he was hardwired to be wary of all but Gold’s. The others shared their thoughts so freely, sometimes without regard for how it could be received, and he envied their courage but couldn’t bring himself to try emulating it. One wrong word and he could lose everything.

Too late for that.

With a pained whimper he squeezed his eyes shut and was alarmed when a tear slid down the side of his face. His control was slipping entirely, and that scared him more than he liked to admit. Crying was useless. Tears solved nothing.

Another tear escaped. Pressure was building up behind his eyes, his face was so warm, it hurt to fight it. He wanted to cry.

But he didn’t deserve that luxury. He wiped at his eyes with his sleeve and bit his lip to keep the sobs from escaping.

How did this team of completely random people come to mean so much to him? At what point did they become so indispensable that he couldn't bear to leave them behind? He’d lost people before. It had always been his fault, of course, and this time was no different.

So why does this have to hurt?

He’d gotten too attached. He should have known that Haruno wouldn’t stay dead—and that his ghost would be vengeful.

Worthless. That’s all you’ve ever been. You really thought changing your name would make you different? You thought leaving him behind would change anything about you? Fool. Worthless fool.

And you wonder why everyone has always hated you.

There was a small sound, a terrible sound, and he wasn’t sure what it was at first, only to realize that it had come from him. He was shaking hard enough to rattle the mattress.

Wallowing in his misery in this room—this room full of reminders of everything he didn’t deserve—was slowly killing him. He needed to get out of here.

Sometimes, when he got overwhelmed, Giorno liked to take walks through the woods that took up most of the property. He knew the winding pathways by heart, knew of every plant that had put down its roots there and had made friends with plenty of the wild creatures he encountered. He’d never gone so late at night before, but it was the only thing he could think of that could help clear his head, make him feel more like himself again.

With stumbling movements he tied his hair into a messy ponytail and pulled on his walking boots. The boots made a fairly loud clunk sound with each step he took, so he had to exercise great care as he snuck down the hallway, past everyone else’s bedrooms, and then down the stairs. He knew Abbacchio was a night owl, so he paused at the bottom of the staircase and peered around the corner cautiously. Luck was on his side—the living room was abandoned and the kitchen was dark. He crept to the backdoor, disengaging the locks and making his way out into the blissfully chilly night air.

Instantly his heart felt lighter, a wave of relief washing over him with such force that, in its dizzying wake, he was almost giddy—high on the promise of escape. The wind pulled at his hair and clothes like the eager greeting of an old friend, beckoning him further out into the darkness, and he couldn’t help the smile that stole across his face.

He’d always hated the dark, but only the man made kind—the trapped-in-a-small-room or lights-off-curtains-closed-Mama’s-gone kind. Right here and now, with only the moon’s light to guide him, he felt almost at home in the darkness—it was vast and wide open and freeing. He could go anywhere and it would cover him, keep him safe.

He hardly needed to pay attention to where he was going once he reached the treeline, even if he could barely see—he had this area memorized. With little care he stepped over a protruding root, ducked under a low-hanging branch, dodged where he knew a large spider’s web to be, and, just for the hell of it, kicked up a loose pile of leaves so he could listen to the pleasant sounds they made. He came upon a creek and dipped his fingers in, enjoying the soothing chill of the weak current as it wrapped around them and the sound of toads jumping into its depths. If he squinted he could just barely make out the scales of the tiny minnows that fled from the intrusion.

Using Gold Experience he scanned the surrounding area for life, delighting in the thousands of little flames he could feel. He was just another one of them. He could blend right in, pretend he lived here too. He wasn’t Giorno and he certainly wasn’t Haruno—just another soul in a sea of them. Life in the forest was much less complicated, he was sure.

He lost all sense of time as he explored the woods, appreciating every one of nature’s little wonders he encountered. For now he was hidden within something much bigger than himself, making his problems entirely insignificant. Hardly worth remembering.

It was the closest he’d felt to peace in a long time.

“Wha’ the fuck, Bruno...”

“Get up.”

“Yeah, I heard ya the firs’ time. Jus’—why?”

Bucciarati tightened his grip on Abbacchio’s shoulder, not at all intimidated by the man’s murderous, sleepy glare. “Help me find Giorno. He’s missing and none of the cars are gone.”

Abbacchio groaned. “It’s-” he squinted at the clock, “six in the morning. God. ‘dju check the basement? Or… have Narancia look? He’s prob’ly jus’ hiding…” He pulled the blanket up to cover most of his face, swiftly falling back asleep.

Oh no you don’t. Bruno gave his friend’s shoulder another hearty shake. “I’ve looked everywhere and I don’t want to worry Narancia about it. Meet me in Giorno’s room in five minutes or I’m showing the kids that picture from the Christmas party.”

One purple eye snapped open and stared deeply into his soul. “You wouldn’t.”

“You know full well that I will. Now get up.”

Four minutes and thirty-three seconds later found the two of them in Giorno’s vacant room, shrouded in darkness but for a solitary lamp on the bedside table. The desk was untouched, but the bed was a mess of tangled sheets.

His gut twisted with worry, his chest tight. Considering the state Giorno had been in yesterday...

His mind was wandering to dark places.

He’s in a bad place, he conceded, but not that bad. I… I would’ve noticed a sign. I would have…

Beside him, Abbacchio wasn’t annoyed like he’d been minutes ago; wrapped up in a black robe, hair unbrushed, face free of makeup, eyes heavy—he just looked exhausted. He often got this way when he was plagued with worry.

They observed in silence as Moody Blues took Giorno’s form and curled up in the fetal position on the bed, hands clamped over his ears and face red. His chest heaved like he was drowning.

It was a painful sight, one that made self-loathing rise up in Bruno. This is what he was going through, and you left him to it. You didn’t try harder to stay and comfort him.

He’d come after Giorno last night, right after everything had gone down. The boy’s door had been locked. In response to his knocking, Giorno had called out, “Leave me alone!” which was such a stereotypical teenager thing to do but was also the furthest thing from what Giorno would do; it only worried him more.

But, no matter how Bruno tried to convince the boy to let him in, no matter how many times he said he was uninjured and wasn’t mad, Giorno would not be moved.

This wasn’t a situation where Bruno liked to make use of his Stand—he never used it to invade someone’s privacy if he could avoid it, and he wanted to respect Giorno’s boundaries even though his instincts were screaming at him to bust in there and try to comfort. To try and get answers.

Eventually he’d had to admit defeat. Telling Giorno to come to him if he needed anything at all, he’d finally left.

He’d left him to suffer.

Because he was alone, Giorno didn’t bother hiding what he felt, and they watched as fear, grief, and loathing cycled over his features over and over again. Sometimes his eyes grew wet and he trembled violently, and then something invisible (Gold Experience, they guessed) would move his hair with gentle pats or caresses and he’d start to calm, allowing the cycle to restart.

It took every fiber of Bucciarati’s self-control not to rush forward and envelope that miserable figure in a hug—he had to remind himself over and over again that this wasn’t the real Giorno.

I knew he was hurting… but I never realized how badly…

It was difficult to watch.

What’s tormenting you so much?

The hours continued to pass. The boy never let out a sound besides a few whimpers that slipped past his defenses. He never actually broke down and cried.

Suddenly, at around three, a red-eyed Giorno got up, tied his hair back, pulled on a pair of boots and made his way out of the room. They followed the Stand as he crept down the hall, crept down the stairs, crept to the backdoor. Bruno’s heart sank as he realized what had happened, realized there was really only one place he could go from here; he watched numbly as nimble fingers made quick work of the locks, allowing the boy to finally step outside. They followed him onto the back porch and then Abbacchio paused the playback.

“Look.” He ran a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose and letting out a resigned sigh. When he met Bucciarati’s eyes, his expression was carefully blank. “He could be out there for a number of reasons,” he said soberly, gesturing to the dark expanse before them that was the forest, “several of which you wouldn’t want to see. I can go find him, drag him back if he’s… if he’s fit to come. You wait here and keep the others from following, okay? … Okay? Oi, Bruno!”

But Bruno was no longer listening. He’d circled around to face the Stand that was still frozen in Giorno’s form, the date and time stamped across his forehead. For just a moment it felt like his breath had been stolen away.

“Hey, what’s wro- oh.”

At his side, Abbacchio had stopped short too. He knew he too was staring.

The wind was pulling at Giorno’s ponytail, making it levitate like a golden flame. The boy had his face upturned, arms spread out just slightly to each side as though embracing the breeze, and he was smiling.

It wasn’t a typical Giorno smile, either—there was nothing polite about it, nothing controlled or forced. His face had come to life; his eyes were crinkled at the corners and his lips were pulled widely, baring his teeth in a way Bruno had never seen from him before. His mouth was slightly open as if he were about to laugh.

It wasn’t just a smile, it was a huge smile, a spontaneous one—it was completely genuine.

He almost looked like an entirely different person.

How, in the state that he’s in, is he able to smile like that?

Bucciarati was more confused than before, but the swell of affection that bubbled up inside at the sight overpowered everything else. If anything, this just cemented his resolve—if he could just help the teen overcome whatever issues plagued him, whatever made him so afraid to open up, maybe they’d see this side of him more often.

He turned to Abbacchio. “I’m going to go find him on my own. I need you to hold down the fort here.”

Abbacchio blinked, quickly looking away from his Stand as though the image hadn’t captured his attention in the first place. “Didn’t you hear me? You don’t want to see what he could’ve done to himself, Bruno. He’s all fucked in the head.”

Bucciarati crossed his arms over his chest, trying not to imagine exactly that. “That’s not why he came out here,” he insisted, gesturing to Moody Blues as his proof. “And if he has done something, I’ll deal with it. Just trust me.”

He couldn’t explain why, but this new piece of the puzzle had given him hope. Like Giorno had just told him something important.

Leone seemed conflicted, putting his hands on his hips and staring into Bruno’s eyes searchingly. Bruno stared right back, shoulders straight. For a few long seconds they sat in silence, bathed in the pre-dawn light slowly taking over the sky.

Finally Abbacchio sighed, backing down. “Fine. How’re you gonna track him?”

Unfortunately, it couldn’t be helped.

“Ask Narancia to locate him on his radar—don’t say anything to worry him, though. Call me and tell me where to go.”

“And if he doesn’t show up on it?” A final challenge, issued with a raised brow.

Bucciarati chewed on the inside of his cheek, again trying not to let that idea get the better of him.

“We’ll deal with it if it comes to that.”

The sky was getting lighter, he noticed. He didn’t bother wondering how long he’d been out here, instead burrowing closer to the trunk of the tree he was sitting in, one hand held up to his face to examine the tiny creature perched on it. It was a brown spider, tiny and compact with giant eyes—a jumping spider.

It was awfully cute, he thought. He watched in amusement as it explored his fingers, wiggling them every once in a while just to see what it would do. If he moved too quickly the poor thing would jump from one finger to the next, shooting a little safety web in its wake, but if he was careful he could coax it to perch just so on the tip of his nail.

Gold Experience grabbed his elbow and yanked. The movement was too sudden for his little eight-legged friend, who immediately abandoned ship for the stability of a nearby branch. Giorno sighed.

“Now look what you’ve done,” he mumbled, resting his head against the trunk, eyes going half-lidded with exhaustion.

Gold said nothing, tightening his hold on his arm. He gave another small tug, dipping his head dramatically in the same direction he’d been gesturing to for a long time now—the direction of the house. He was insistent that it was time to return.

“They don’t want me to come back,” Giorno argued tiredly.

There was another tug, more demanding, Gold’s lips pursed harshly.

That’s not true, he knew the Stand to be saying, and you know it.

A groan wrested itself from his mouth and Giorno sat up fully, facing his spiritual companion head-on. It wasn’t a move he usually liked to pull, no matter how frustratingly stubborn Gold could be—it made him feel like his stepfather.

But right now he found that he just didn’t care. He felt oddly detached from the strict rules he usually held himself to, and maybe that was a bad sign, a sign that he’d snapped, but again, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

And so he turned on his Stand and held his head high in an attempt to tower over him even though they were exactly the same height.

The dominance he was trying to establish was clearly not lost on Gold, but it had little effect, the Stand still holding onto his elbow with a painful grip, and it stirred anger in his gut.

“Just stop,” he snapped, jerking his arm out of his grasp. “The minute I step foot in that house again, everyone will be on my back about all the trouble I’ve caused. I hurt Bucciarati! And now they know about him... I’ve been such a burden and they’re going to send me away and I can’t—I can’t face that right now.” He lost steam the longer he spoke, and by the end of it his shoulders had slumped. The shame was back.

He was almost amused by the spike of indignance he could sense from Gold at the word ‘burden’—his Stand had always had issues with that sentiment, even back when he was young and his mother would yell at him for being useless. Giorno found that ironic, considering that was the only word Gold could say.

Warm arms grabbed him around the shoulders and he was pulled to his Stand’s chest. Gold hummed comfortingly and it was just like old times, when the humans in Giorno’s life hated and hurt him and the only one willing to make physical contact with him was an extension of his own soul. It brought a sad smile to his lips. How many bad nights had he spent like this? How many times had he relied so heavily on Gold to make things seem alright again?

But things won’t be alright. They hate you.

“They hate me,” he whispered, laying fully against his Stand. He’d never felt so tired.

Gold Experience’s chin came to rest on top of his head. He hummed again, this time in the negative.

“They do. They should.”

“Mm-mm.” Not true.

“It is.” He pulled back just enough to look the Stand in the eye. “You know it’s true.”

There was silence. Giorno clenched his jaw, bringing his forehead back to rest against Gold’s chest with probably too much force. The arms around him tightened.

He sighed, closing his eyes.

Why couldn’t he return to that peace he’d found? Why did his mind have to constantly work against him? Sometimes he wondered if most of his problems in life were only problems within his own head.

Of course it’s something wrong with you.

With a quiet whimper he burrowed closer to his Stand.

He was so tired.

Giorno awoke to the sound of birds chirping in the distance. There was an uncomfortable stiffness to his movements as he sat up and stretched his arms, but what was even worse was the incessant pounding of his head that nothing could seem to help. Another reason he hated coming close to crying—the pressure inevitably made his head hurt.

Finally able to open his eyes more than a sliver against the harsh sunlight filtering in through the foliage, he took in his surroundings, curious if anything had changed while he was asleep. Gold had vanished at some point, moving him to rest against the tree trunk before going dormant. On the forest floor below, various wildlife darted about with an energy he wished he could have, an energy he used to have.

His gaze locked on the patch of yellow wildflowers growing at the base of the tree and his heart skipped a beat when he found them to be trampled—they had been perfectly intact earlier and he’d made sure not to disturb them.

Something big had walked on them. Someone.

Alarmed, wondering why Gold hadn’t detected and warned him of a possible threat, Giorno whipped his head around to see if there were any other clues—and froze. His blood turned to ice in his veins.

Seated on a branch above him, legs crossed primly, was Bruno Bucciarati.

The man’s kind face split into a careful smile. “Good morning, Giorno. Feeling any better?”

Giorno couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that someone would come after him. He wasn’t worth coming after. His many nights on the streets at the tender age of eleven had more than proven that fact.

For once in his life, he had no idea what to do. How… how was he meant to respond? Honestly? Was he meant to brush it all off and return to the house? Was that even what Bruno wanted? Or was he out here to punish him? Yeah, that had to be it. That made sense. Nobody could intervene out here.

Finally his tongue came untied and he could force himself to speak.

“I’m sorry.”

When in doubt, always apologize.

Bruno shook his head and hopped down to stand on Giorno’s branch, not reacting when Giorno instinctively shrank away. “You don’t have to apologize, Giorno. You did nothing wrong.”

Why would he say that when it was provably false? Giorno had hurt him. That was the definition of ‘wrong’. Shame bubbled up in his stomach like acid and threatened to choke him. God, he was unforgivable. He was the worst. He’d hurt the person who deserved it the least.

When he didn’t receive a reply, Bucciarati’s brows furrowed and he carefully lowered himself to sit beside the teen. Giorno watched his every movement but couldn’t meet his eyes.

“... Giorno, you do know that I’m not angry at you, right?”

That just… wasn’t possible. There were so many reasons to be angry at Giorno, to hate him, to punish him-

“You have to be.”

Why the fuck would you say that, you fucking idiot-

Disagreeing would only make it worse. Why couldn’t he just say the words Bucciarati wanted to hear? Why did his throat close up at the prospect of lying to his face as he’d done so many times in the past?

Why, at Bucciarati’s confused look, did he have to open his mouth again?

“I did something bad. You have to be angry. I deserve to be punished.”

Shut up shut up shut up-

Letting Haruno take over yet again. Pathetic.

Bruno’s expression smoothed out, but not in a good way—he looked horrified, dark blue eyes boring into Giorno’s soul in a way that made his skin crawl.

“Giorno… I-I… I’m not mad at you,” he said, voice warbling with an emotion Giorno wasn’t sure he’d seen from the man before. “You did nothing wrong. It was an accident. Please don’t be so harsh on yourself; you don’t deserve any punishment whatsoever.”

I wish I could believe you.

I wish I didn’t know better.

He shouldn’t have been arguing with him. He should have been profusely apologizing in the hopes of relieving the heavy, intense shame he carried on his shoulders. He should have been grovelling at the man’s feet, begging to be allowed to stay. Arguing would make it worse.

Inside, Haruno was screaming at him in the voice of self-preservation. He needed to wait for Bruno to tell him what to do, he needed to stop talking, he needed to stop causing himself and everyone else so much trouble. He wasn’t worth this.

And yet he couldn’t seem to stop diving into it headfirst.

In fact, something akin to frustration was rising within him, something he found simultaneously empowering and terrifying; where had this feeling been when he’d really needed it, and what could it make him do if he wasn’t careful?

Sitting up straighter, Giorno looked Bruno in the eye and said, “You’re wrong.”

And for some reason, telling the truth made him feel better, even as he grew jittery with fear of what the man’s reaction would be.

Bucciarati didn’t rise to the challenge like he expected—instead he set his jaw, but his eyes grew softer, somehow. Like with each disrespect he was somehow feeling more sympathetic for Giorno. It made no sense. Where was the fire, the brimstone, the pain?

“How am I wrong, Giorno?” he asked evenly.

Giorno swallowed thickly. He had started to shake. “I put my hands on you. I promised I wouldn’t and I did, and I hurt you, and you should be angry at me. I deserve it.”

“Again, Giorno, it was an accident. I won’t be angry at you over an accident—besides, you never made any such promise to me.”

“I promised myself.”

“Promised yourself what?”

“... That I would never become like him.”

Bruno’s lips pursed and then he was reaching for Giorno, but his movements were so slow and careful that the teen didn’t feel the need to cringe away from that trusted hand. It settled on his shoulder and he hated how comforting it was.

“Like who, Giorno?” Bruno asked gently.

Giorno bit his lip, head ducking. I have nothing left to lose. What’s the point of lying?

He’d never told anyone before. That man hadn’t only filled him with pain and fear and self-hatred, he’d instilled in him the words “I can never tell anyone.” Who would believe him, anyway? What could they possibly do to help, assuming they wanted to? It meant dealing with Haruno instead of Giorno, and no one wanted to do that.

But this was Bucciarati. He didn't want to lie to Bucciarati. The thought made his stomach twist uncomfortably.

Nothing left to lose.

It took all of his mental fortitude to say, “My stepfather.”

Bruno nodded upon receiving his answer, expression controlled. He gave Giorno’s shoulder a squeeze. “Thank you for telling me. I give you my word, you haven’t become like him. You panicked and lashed out, which is unfortunate but not your fault. You don’t hurt people, Giorno—that’s not who you are.”

And the nothingness morphed back into that strange anger—he’s breaking the rules—and Giorno couldn’t stop himself from snapping, “How would you know?” Because, honestly, if even Giorno himself couldn’t figure out who the hell he was, how could someone he’d known for a handful of months possibly know something like that? How could he so flippantly give his word?

“I know because I’ve seen who you are,” Bucciarati simply replied, unoffended. “You’re someone who went out of your way to plant Trish’s favorite flowers within view of her window. You’re someone who catches spiders with your bare hands to release them outside instead of killing them. You're someone who put your life on the line to help thousands of strangers. You’re someone who values life so much that the extension of your soul is powered by it. You’re someone who heals, not hurts.”

“But I hurt you,” Giorno argued, desperate for Bruno to understand, to hate him, to follow the rules. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. He didn’t know how to deal with this. “I hurt you, and now you know how awful I am, and there’s no way you can be—be okay with that! Everyone hates me now, and you—you should too.”

“I don’t understand why you’re so convinced that you’re awful. It’s the last word I would use to describe you.”

How can he say that? He’s seen-

Giorno brought his knees to his chest, feeling more vulnerable than he’d felt in years. He couldn’t brush off the words as well as he wanted to; he wanted to say, well, Bruno simply didn’t know enough about him to realize the truth. But Bruno had seen Haruno at his worst—cowardly, useless, detrimental to everyone around him. Haruno had shoved him into a glass door. If Bruno could still say such nice things after seeing that…

He couldn’t speak. He hid his face in his knees.

Bruno sighed softly, hand moving down to rub gentle circles on his back. It was so nice, it was something he didn’t deserve.

“You’re a good person,” he said resolutely. “You said that to me once. And at the same time you were saying that, I was coming to the same conclusion about you. You’ve only ever proven me right in that regard, and not once have I regretted bringing you onto the team. I care about you—we all do, even Leone. You’ve become integral to our little family and we wouldn’t change a single thing about you. The only person who hates you is you, and you’re wrong to do so.”

It was too much. There was too much there for Giorno to even fathom trying to unpack it. He could barely come to terms with the fact that Bucciarati had come after him, let alone that Bucciarati thought he was a... good person. And there was no way he would even consider that he could be right. He had too much evidence, too many years of experience stating the contrary, to believe that that could possibly be true.

But, all the same, he found that panic’s death-grip around his chest was loosening with every word from Bruno’s mouth, relief flooding through him at the reprieve. The man spoke with such certainty that it was hard to doubt his sincerity.

He couldn’t be right about any of that, but maybe... he wasn’t necessarily wrong? Maybe, at the very least, he believed in what he said? Maybe, despite having so many reasons not to, he believed in Giorno?

Perhaps Giorno couldn’t agree with the kind words, but… just having someone else who did… well, perhaps that could be enough.

For the first time since this confrontation began, Giorno felt like he could breathe.

The lucidity this brought him allowed his heart to slow, and his thoughts to slowly but surely come back to reality. He began to feel like himself again, miserable though he still was.

God, I’ve really fucked up this time. I dragged him all the way out here because I couldn’t handle the consequences of my own actions. I’m such an idiot.

He should have just bottled this up, kept it to himself, stayed inside. Eventually it would’ve sorted itself out.

Now he had even more consequences to deal with.

Would they ever look at him the same way again? Maybe they did hate him after all the stunts he’d pulled in the last twenty-four hours. They wouldn’t be wrong to.

“I’m sorry,” Giorno said, shame bubbling up again. “I’ve made such a mess.”

Bruno was suddenly sitting right beside him, his arms snaking around Giorno’s shoulders before the teen could react. He pulled him close.

“Listen to me,” he said. “Nobody is angry at you. You’ve done nothing wrong. We love you.”

And maybe it was the exhaustion, or the overwhelming emotion that rose up in Giorno at the sensation of being truly hugged for the first time in his life, at the utterance of those words that he'd never been told before, or both—but when Bruno said gently, “Now why don’t we head home?”, tears sprang to his eyes.

Instead of fighting it, like he would have done any day before today, Giorno buried his face in his dear friend’s shoulder and sobbed.