Work Text:
The first thing that Giorno noticed upon his awakening was that his body was in agony. Through the veil of sleepiness, the pain wrung out loud and clear. Pins and pricks assaulted his side and his arm felt like it was on fire. Like the flames itself were licking against his wrist, leading up to his forearm. That was also accounting for the pain spreading through his side. His mind woke up slowly, trying to recollect the memories from before, when nothing hurt or was painfully throbbing. He went to move his wrist, but found that he just caused himself much, much more pain. That woke him up pretty quickly, causing him to suck air through his teeth.
When he opened his eyes, the first thing he noted was the muted, dull colors surrounding him. Light pale green walls, tan covers, white ceiling--this was his own room. Wasn’t ‘his’ room exactly, more like a room he occupied in Bucciarati’s house. But…
Before he could take a moment to really try and get under wraps why he was in so much pain, there was a knock at the door. He didn’t respond. His mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, throat ran dry like the desert sand had whipped it bare. The door opened up anyways and in stepped Mista, holding a tray. The man barely paid attention to Giorno, setting the tray down on the nightstand.
“Mista?” Giorno finally asked, voice scratchy.
Mista’s head whipped to the side, body jumping slightly. He seemed like he wasn’t expecting Giorno. “Oh, shit. You’re awake.”
“Mhm,” the blonde hummed. He lifted himself in the bed, just enough to sit up. Sharp, shooting pains stabbed through his side causing Giorno to gasp in surprise. Seeing Mista bringing a tray in hardened the fact he was injured. Looking down, the blond saw a wrap covering his wrist. It was kept in place, allowing no room for movement. He could guess his side was in the same situation. His mind was still hazy, trying to supply the details but only coming up with the simple fact he was in a fight. Giorno strained himself to think.
There was...a fight. They were walking home from dinner? They were jumped, Giorno questioned and then nodded to himself. He remembers the flaring of pain to his wrist and then...blackness. Someone was above him, watching him with dark blue and caring eyes before the memory cut out. Even from that, his head slumped against the pillow.
It seemed he was more tired than he originally let on.
“I should tell Bucciarati you’re awake,” Mista said. He gave Giorno a glance over, almost a weary look. It made Giorno unsettled and his skin crawl.
“No,” he muttered. “It’s fine. I’ll come downstairs--”
“--Uh, no. You’re hurt, Gio. You aren’t getting out of bed anytime soon.”
Giorno scoffed. “I have paperwork to do, I’m getting out of bed either way, Mista.”
“Nope, doctor's orders. Or, well, Fugo’s orders. Anyways, do you even remember what happened?”
“No.”
Mista groaned lightly and rightened himself. “Yeah, I’ll get Booch. Don’t move.”
The gunslinger walked out of the room, nodding to Giorno. The blond himself rolled his eyes. Don’t move? Giorno was a little offended by that. He was the team's medic, something he prided himself on.
There was work waiting to be done and he needed to do it. Some sheafs of paper that he didn’t finish that had a deadline. That wasn’t counting for the whole stack of papers today. But he would work through it, as he always had and always will. To prove to Bucciarati and the gang.
He threw his legs over the bed and went to stand. Agony spread through his body, reigning clear. Giorno’s vision blacked out for a second, causing his clear sight to dot and speckle. He grit his teeth through the pain. This was nothing. He would heal this, be fine, and do work.
Calling out Gold Experience was the next feat. They usually came out with only the small price of energy. The shimmering being sprouted in existence by his side. It was clear that he was running low on energy.
Gold Experience placed their hands on the wound on his stomach and a burst of light erupted. Instantly, he was hit with utter exhaustion. Eyelids drooped akin to heavy sandbags and knees instantly gave out from under him. His vision blacked out for a moment and his brain went blissfully blank.
When he opened his eyes, Bucciarati was staring down at him. The Capo’s hands were on his side and arm, attempting to right him, it seemed. Giorno wasn’t even aware he had fallen.
And he was still tired. The bone deep exhaustion that gnawed at him. But...his side hurt just a little less now, thankfully. A spark of pride formed for doing just that, healing himself. Bucciarati didn’t seem to share the same feeling.
“Why would you do that? Your wrist is shattered, Giorno. You know you can’t heal correctly without your hands,” he scolded. “C’mon, let’s get you back into bed.”
“No. I’m good to work. Give-Give me a moment.”
Bucciarati scoffed in his face. He rolled his blue eyes. “Work? You think you are in any condition to work?”
Giorno looked up spitefully. He felt a pang of betrayal. “You think I’m incapable of working in this state?”
“I know you are. Let’s get you in bed, Giorno.”
“No. Why do you assume I can’t work like this? I’ve done it before,” he said. Bucciarati didn’t understand. The need to work and block anything else out. He was being rude and bitchy, maybe even disrespectful, but that’s only because Bucciarati wasn’t getting it.
“You just keeled over, Giorno. Plus, if you haven’t noticed, your dominant hand is the one that’s shattered. You should sleep off the injury, okay? It’ll heal itself eventually. Just not now. If you strain yourself, it’ll be worse.”
“I have to work, Bucciarati.”
Bruno’s gaze hardened. “You don’t have to. You will take a week off to heal. Me, Leone, and Fugo will take over the work—the work you have been stressing yourself over and pushing your limits to.”
“I’m not pushing my limits, I’m doing paperwork and my job.” His frustration was steadily rising. Normally, he was able to keep his emotions locked in a steel cage but it felt as though the bars had turned to paper and dust. He was letting out too much, words spilling from his mouth and he couldn’t stop them.
“Paperwork that should’ve been divided up between us! Why did you insist on doing that huge stack all by yourself? You never should have to do that much, Giorno. We are happy to take the load off. Remember, you are still only 16, a child. You deserve the chance to act like one.”
“My age doesn’t matter,” Giorno hissed. He wanted to tell Bucciarati the chance to act like a normal child was stolen from him long ago, leaving only an empty shell of a teenager. He was focused on work and work alone, leaving no time for play and games. “I am the Don and I am responsible for doing each sheaf of paper that comes across my desk. You shouldn’t burden yourself with that, it’s my job and mine alone. Now, if you would let me—“
Bucciarati’s face went red. He looked distraught, a vivid mix between stressed and angry. “Why do you insist on overworking yourself?! There are times you don’t come downstairs for hours on end. I just assumed you were in your room—no, you were working and working and working. You—“
“—because I need to be useful!” Giorno screamed. He gasped for breath, emotions that should have never reached surface level bursting free. “Because I need to show my worth in your gang or I’ll be kicked out and shunned. Because I promised I would take this job and whatever stress came with it. Because you shouldn’t have to worry yourself over papers that are assigned to me when you have a husband and take care of the gang like a father!”
Giorno’s chest heaved breaths after his rant. The words rushed out quickly and the frustration behind them was raw. It had been almost desperate in nature.
He noticed his fault instantly.
Bucciarati’s expression went from exasperated to horrified. The color around his cheeks vanished. His hands holding up Giorno’s body from the ground hesitated, hands locking up.
Giorno’s heart sank. The awful dread creeped up his neck. They weren’t supposed to know. Nobody was. And he let it slip.
‘Fuck,’ the blond thought. ‘Fuck.’ The humiliation and embarrassment settled in his stomach. His face went red with self hatred for himself. Giorno couldn’t keep it down and hidden. He always had but now, he made a mistake. A horrible one that would no doubt stay with him, one that weaseled it’s way into his chest and made it painful to breathe. His heart felt like it was being crushed between a strong fist.
He had kept his feelings hidden for so long, so why now? Giorno didn’t talk about his emotions. When his emotions and feelings fronted, he was Haruno, and nobody liked Haruno. Haruno got hurt for being vulnerable. And now Bucciarati had seen him, the real him, the terrified child who never had the chance to grow up, never allowed to show his emotions or pain and suffering would follow.
“I-I’m—It’s…I—“
“—Giorno. Look at me.”
Giorno wanted to do everything but look at Bucciarati. There was nothing he wanted less to see the disappointed eyes. His only positive parental figure and he had fucked it up. As he always had.
“Look at me, okay?”
Turquoise eyes floated from the floor up to the designer shoes, to the teardrop suit and up Bucciarati’s face until finally they met his eyes. He didn’t look infuriated nor were they disappointed. In fact, he looked frustrated, hurt and confused. And somehow, that hurt Giorno more.
“I’m not...not going to kick you out, okay? I don’t value my members based on their ‘worth’ and even if I did...You’ve shown your worth so many times. Whether it be through your stand, doing work, or just being with us as a family, you’ve shown more than enough. I would never kick you out, do you understand that?”
Giorno nodded though it was clear he didn’t understand. If he didn’t work, then he wasn’t useful, and if he wasn’t useful, he would get kicked out. It followed the same with fights, healing and chores. If he didn’t excel, punishment would follow.
“I promise I’ll never kick you out, Giorno. I-I...was it something I said or did that made you think I would?”
‘Great, now you made Bucciarati think he’s the cause of this,’ Giorno thought cynically. It wasn’t Bucciarati’s fault he was like this. Besides that, Bucciarati had promised him. And Bucciarati always held true to his promises but still Giorno felt like that couldn’t be true. A faulty promise built on unsubstantiated claims.
His brain blocked out any of the positive thoughts and hopeful wishing because he was scared to face the truth. Scared to face the fact that Bucciarati wasn’t something predictable and something he knew. Usefulness was the top priority and if he had to strain himself to extreme measures, then so be it. So why was Bucciarati acting like it wasn’t?
The blond sat himself on the bed. His posture was like nothing Bucciarati had seen. Slumped over, shoulders hunched forward instead of held high and back. It was a defeated stance and nothing Don Giorno, who was proper and cold, would show.
“No. It’s just how it is,” Giorno sighed.
“It shouldn’t have to be, though. I would never kick you out. This is our house, this is our family. And you are included in that. And I am not going to exclude you.”
Giorno wanted to believe his Capo but it was so hard. His heart tugged at that thought. A family--a good family. He wasn’t an interloper on Bucciarati’s gang, watching from the sidelines like a spectacle. He was part of it, included.
Bucciarati kneeled in front of Giorno and looked at him with hard eyes. “I’ll be taking half of the work now. You don’t need to do all of that, okay? And before you say anything, it’s not burdening me. I have more free time than I need and I’m practically going stir crazy with no work,” Bucciarati chuckled and then placed a soft hand on Giorno’s shoulder. He did it slowly, giving the blond enough time to shy away from the touch if he desired, but he didn’t. “We’ll both handle the work. Don’t forget, Giorno, you’re still only a child. You deserve the time to have fun while you’re still young.”
Bucciarati’s honesty was one of his best attributes and his soft tone and gestures made Giorno truly believe his words. He didn’t need to overwork himself but he knew the nagging feeling would still be there.
All the walls Giorno built up were slowly shattering. The bricks were cracking and chipping. The carefully laid brick and stone that was meticulously placed. It was all coming down. And Giorno realized that maybe it wasn’t a bad thing.
A small pit of guilt wormed it’s way in his chest. Bucciarati shouldn’t need to worry himself with menial stuff but he was for Giorno. It may have seen like a small action to others, but it meant the world to the blond.
“But—“
“—There’s no ‘but.’ I’m taking part of the work, for both of our sakes. But this week, I’ll be stepping in completely while you heal naturally. You know your stand can’t heal you properly in the state you are in. And trust me. You are not burdening me. I’m happy to do this, okay? You should rest now, Giorno. I’ll take care of everything.”
Giorno felt a seed of hope set in his stomach. It sprouted and grew and grew until it curled at its full height. He had the overwhelming urge to thank Bucciarati, to hug him and tell him how much this truly meant to Giorno, both having someone to lean onto for support and to be in the family.
But for now? He would rest, per the request of his Capo.