Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

             There were new things that came with Requiem. For one thing, it was the lack of affection. Gold Experience Requiem was far less emotional and physical than the it’s predecessor. It also came with a new reputation, a reputation that Giorno found rather suffocating; it forced moments of weakness and desire into the back of his mind, never to be seen or spoken of. He’d always bottled himself up since childhood, but even in the presence of his friends, he remained withdrawn. 

            He found Requiem also came with this new duty to protect the stand arrow, birthing a relationship with the Speedwagon Foundation. And with it, brought light to his own lineage and changes to himself. 

            Finding time between mountains of paperwork in the late evening hours, Giorno busied himself in his office, learning the history of the stand arrow, hoping to provide as much input as he could the next time Speedwagon asked to compile research. He needed to prove his worth as its keeper. 

            He found himself particularly intrigued at the event of six crusaders trekking across Egypt to face off with a man known as DIO, whose stand had the ability to stop time itself. 

             Impressive. Giorno flipped through the pages in the folder Speedwagon had provided that contained all the information they had gathered about this “DIO” guy. He must’ve been quite the opponent.

           Giorno skimmed a couple of the pages, catching glimpses of words and phrases out of context, such as “the world”, and “...managing to infiltrate the body of his adoptive brother…”. It all made his head spin. There were multiple claims that DIO was actually a vampire, using an ancient mask to strip away his humanity. Despite all of these bold claims, Giorno was getting the idea that DIO was a horrible person. Attempting world domination twice, inflicting terror amoungst his followers, manipulating and hypnotizing, raping and pillaging… pretty much the typical, bloodthirsty tyrant with way too much power to know what to do with. 

            Giorno shrugged to himself, idly rummaging through the notes. The guy had gotten what was coming to him. Found someone stronger than him and got his butt handed to him on a silver platter. Simple as tha-

            “Dio Brando?” Giorno muttered, catching sight of a square sheet of paper with the two words scribbled on it. “Was that his full name?”

            The name struck a chord. Giorno frowned, running his hand through his hair. He’d heard that name before. Somewhere, on someone’s lips. Dio Brando. Dio Brando…

            The memory felt like a chewed wire in his brain, buzzing and exposed. Just hearing the word Dio didn’t seem to trigger anything, but when he tacked the last name on, it sent strange shivers down his spine. 

            Troubled, Giorno flipped the paper over, only to realize it was a photograph. His eyebrows shot up to his hairline as he peered at it and gingerly touched it with his fingertips. He squinted. 

           It was a photo that had been taken from behind. The lighting was poor, flooding half the picture with darkness, but there was a clear figure looking over their shoulder, a portion of their back lit up in dim light. A small star adorned their heavily muscled trapezoid, framed by shadow-peppered golden hair. 

            Giorno swallowed. Eyes glued to the photograph, his hands scrambled for his pockets. With fumbling fingers, he managed to produce his wallet and hastily flipped in open. He had to be sure. 

            With the wallet plopped open on the table in the middle of a cluttered desk, Giorno stared back and forth at it and the photo. 

            The picture in his wallet. The one his mother had given him after drinking herself sick one night. A picture of his biological father. 

            It was like a mirror. They were the same. The photo in the folder and the one in his wallet. 

            “Dio Brando…” Giorno felt his heart sink. “He’s my…”

            As the realization hit him, Giorno immediately felt a surge of nausea wriggle through his stomach. That man, that… thing had gotten Giorno’s mother caught up in a web of deception and lies, likely not even aware of the fruit it had produced. Dio Brando was a monster and Giorno was his bastard child. 

            Horror continued to well up in his gut and Giorno gathered up the papers and crammed them into the folder. He dug a thumb and index finger into the pouch of his wallet, pinched the photo, and crumbled it up in his fist. He then chucked it in the fireplace. 

             No one has to know. He thought. No one will know. 

            The sick feeling continued to plague Giorno and he took to pacing around the room. His stepfather had been bad enough, but learning that his real father was an actual vampire-murderer-guy… it was enough to drive away his carefully, poised composure, flooding him with misplaced guilt.

             What if those people who killed Dio come after me? What if they decide I should pay for his crimes? Giorno wondered. What if Dio had other kids, and they’ve all been hunted down? What if…

             The star birthmark along Giorno’s shoulder felt weirdly heavy, like it had grown thirty pounds. The same mark that Dio bore. It was like a brand, marking Giorno as property. Dio’s property. 

            Growing intensely agitated, Giorno suddenly clawed at it with his right hand, fingernails sinking into flesh like a knife to slaughtered cattle. He began to hyperventilate as blood welled up at the scratches, but Giorno didn’t cease, attempting to rid himself of the star. 

             “Calm down.” Gold Experience Requiem manifested beside him, with its strange eyes staring into the dark, lacking all emotion. “You’re hurting yourself.”

             “I don’t care!” Giorno snapped. He hunched over, grasping fistfuls of blond hair. “I don’t care! He’s marked me and I just need it off me! I can’t have any sign of him on me!”

             “You’re afraid,” Gold Requiem observed. “You’re afraid of what you’ve inherited from him.”

             Giorno glared at his stand, meeting those cold, expressionless eyes. He gritted his teeth, suddenly wishing to clobber his own stand. Or better yet, have his own stand clobber him. Maybe then, he’d feel a bit better. 

            “I’m not afraid,” He growled. “I just want nothing to do with him.”

             “You have more similarities than you realize.” Gold Requiem said. 

            “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            Instead of enlightening Giorno on the matter, the stand simply vanished into the night air, completely avoiding the question. Giorno huffed loudly. He missed his old stand, who would listen to him ramble about his problems and offer comfort when needed. Not this… cold, calculating being who’d simply judge his every action. It was said that a stand was a reflection of one’s self… meaning Gold Requiem’s cold demeanor stemmed from his own.

             Maybe I am more like him than I thought… Giorno thought glumly. 

            With fleeting motivation, he wandered down the hall and mindlessly climbed into bed. 

* * *

           Giorno woke with a throbbing headache. It felt like a giant spider had made some sort of nest in his skull, and was scuttling about, in preparation to raise their young. 

            He groaned and rubbed his temples, gently massaging the side of his head in small circles. Bracing himself, Giorno wobbled to his feet and made his way over to the bathroom.

            A waxy pale face appeared in the mirror, white enough to be made of porcelain, adorned with twin circles of purple under his eyes. His skin was smooth and slick to the touch, coated in a thin layer of sweat, and his entire frame was shaking like a crisp autumn leaf. His hair drooped around his eyes in strange curls, casting shadows across his face. 

            “Is this from Dio?” Giorno muttered. “Am I still in shock?”

             Pathetic.

            Sighing, Giorno peeled off his nightshirt, ignoring the way it stuck to his skin. He leaned forward towards the sink to wash his face, only to catch sight of the star sitting atop his shoulder in the mirror. Still covered in red scratches, evidence of blood under his fingernails. He straightened and turned slightly, glaring at his reflection. Beside the existence of the star, the flesh along his back was marred by old scars - a physical reminder of his stepfather. It felt itchy, like the echoes of bruising fingerprints still lingered.

            “Marked by both of them.” Giorno said to himself. “For pity’s sake, Haruno.”

            Warm, bubbly bile rose up his esophagus at the thought of his old self, and he tore his eyes away from his reflection, sluggishly dressing.

            Giorno slipped into a blue satin suit lined with gold trim and black shoes. He powered his face in an attempt to conceal the sick green sheen and dark circles, and carefully styled his hair with his three signature victory rolls and loose braid. 

            When he was confident that he’d managed to hide the signs of sickness, Giorno left the bathroom and headed down the stairs for breakfast.

            Dishes and cutlery were already clinking against one another, most of the gang up and moving. 

            Fugo had his nose buried in a book, his fork mindlessly wandering around a plate of eggs. He lifted the utensil to his mouth, only to miss entirely when the fork prongs poked his cheek instead. 

            Mista was still in his pajamas, if you could call it that, wearing checkered boxers and his classic cap. He was wolfing down a mixture of sausage and potatoes, with the pistols eagerly eating their fill. 

            Abbacio leaned against the fridge with a steaming cup of coffee and a dry bagel, makeup already in place. He was goth from before dawn. 

            Narancia wasn’t anywhere to be seen, which hinted that he was still crashed from the amount of sugar and caffeine he’d consumed the previous night.

            Bruno was gone as well, probably running some sort of early errand. Shopping, perhaps. Or maybe he had a particularly bad hair day and was still fixing it up. Giorno had seen Bruno’s bedhead on a few occasions, and boy, was it bad. 

            “Hey, blondie.” Abbaccio grunted. He looked at Giorno from over the rim of his mug. “You’re actually joining us for breakfast?”

            “Yeah…” Giorno bit his lip. Normally, at this time, he’d already be at his desk, filling out paperwork, but his headache was begging for something to soothe it. “I was just going to grab some tea.”

            “I dunno if that’s entirely healthy for you. You should eat something. Not that I care or anything.”

            “I’m not really that hungry.” Giorno waved him off, really, really , not wanting to have this conversation. 

             Just some tea. Just some tea and then I’ll start working. Giorno ignored Abbaccio’s gaze on him and headed to the stove, reaching out for the kettle. 

            “Murphhin, Jernuh!” Mista greeted, his mouth still full. “Owyuh doon to-”

            “Mista,” Fugo interrupted, his eyes still stuck to his book. “I swear, if you keep talking with food in your mouth, I’ll rip out your tongue.”

            Mista rolled his eyes in response, and the pistols began to finish off the meal. He sat in silence until Giorno passed the dining table with his tea. 

            “Aren’t you gonna eat with us?” He asked.

            A violent sense of nausea swirled in Giorno’s gut, like eggs had just hatched in his stomach and the contents were parading up his throat. He swallowed heavily, unable to keep his face from twitching. 

            Pulling up his cheery facade, Giorno looked over his shoulder at Mista, shaking his head. 

            “I’d love to, but I need to catch up on paperwork.” He said. 

            “At least join us for lunch, then.”

            Giorno smiled tightly as his stomach screamed at the mention of consuming food. There was no way he was going to be able to eat anything. 

            “I’ll see if I can squeeze it in.” He turned back towards the doorway to leave, just in time to see Bruno bust through the front door, carrying plastic shopping bags. He strolled in the kitchen, grinning at his teammates, and gently placed the bags on the floor by the pantry. 

            “Morning, everyone.” He announced. “Good to see everyone up.” He paused, looking around the room. “Narancia still asleep?”

            “Yup,” Abbaccio muttered. 

            Bruno nodded, obviously making a mental note of it, and, with gusto, turned to greet Giorno. 

            “Good to see you in the kitchen with us this morning!” He smiled, crossing his arms over his chest. “Did you sleep well?”

            Giorno wrenched a smile on his face again. He wanted to leave. His head was throbbing and his stomach was swarming with anxiety. But he had to be sure none of that showed. 

            “I slept fine.” He said. “Although I should probably head to my office now-”

            “Giorno,” Bruno suddenly cut in. His brow was furrowed with concern and he reached out just a bit. “Are you feeling alright?”

             How did he- Giorno blinked a few things, rapidly trying to pull himself together. Straight posture? Check. Stoic expression? Check. Polite demeanor? He hoped so. How did Bruno manage to notice anything out of the ordinary?

            “I’m perfectly fine,” He responded cheerily. “Why do you ask?”

            Bruno looked intently in Giorno’s eyes, squinting as if searching for falsehood. After a moment of silence, he broke into a reassuring grin, as if there’d never been any sort of scrutiny. 

            “Just making sure.” Bruno chirped. He turned to pick up his bags. “Have you eaten yet?”

            “No, I-”

            As if on cue, karma suddenly came around with baring teeth in striking whiplash. The dull headache which had been gathering in Giorno’s head suddenly pulsed at full force, like bullets ricocheting around his skull. His body felt strangely fuzzy, numbness spreading across his muscles. The ache in his stomach worsened, bubbling like a hot cauldron, and Giorno watched as his vision began to fizz out. 

            The teacup slipped from his fingers, followed by a distant smashing sound, but Giorno could hardly hear it. He felt his knees buckle under his own weight and give way, sending him sprawling to the floor. 

            Distantly, Giorno could hear noises, his name being called, and hurried footsteps, but he blocked it out, eyes slipping shut into black. 

             Haruno had crammed himself under the bed, shoved against the wall. His eyes searched back and forth for any sign of nearing footsteps, only seeing the dim light of his room. 

            The boy curled up tighter and attempted to reign in his breathing- anything to remain unnoticed. He had to be quiet, he had to be out of the way. He couldn’t annoy anyone, couldn’t waste space, couldn’t mess anything up. But he was afraid. 

            Every time Haruno thought of the heavy shadow bearing over him, belt in one hand, with obscene profanity emitting from it, he locked up. His oh-so careful breathing grew rancid, out of control, and he couldn’t stop the pathetic whimpers. 

            Haruno felt silent tears roll down his cheeks, drawing clean tracks down his dirty face, and he bit down on his knuckle to keep himself from whining. Shadows moved in the distance and he could taste blood. 

            A face appeared under the bed, causing Haruno to squeak in surprise and push himself further against the wall. 

            For a moment, he thought it was his father, ready to yank him out from underneath and drag him across the filthy floorboards. 

            But no. It was someone else. Someone he didn’t recognize. They had shaggy blond hair parted in the center with jagged-like curls. A thick, white scar encircled his neck and large, red slitted eyes glowed in the shadows. The face split into a grin, littered with sharp teeth, canines over an inch long. 

            “Dio.” Haruno whispered. He didn’t know how he knew the strange man’s name. It just came into his head. “Dio Brando…”

            Dio reached his hand under the bed, adorned with wicked claws stained with blood. He grabbed hold of Haruno’s little wrist, and began to yank the boy forwards, away from the safety of the bed. 

            “No, no, wait!” Haruno struggled, pulling at the man’s iron grip. Fresh tears sprung from his eyes, but it was rather from fear than sadness. He knew, he knew that Dio was going to eat him. “I promise I’ll be good! Just please let me go!”

            Dio ignored Haruno’s pleas, pulling him closer and closer. He opened his mouth wider and the boy grew close, saliva dripping along Haruno’s forehead. He then crunched down, silencing the screams. 

* * *

            Fugo was worried about Giorno. The kid had piqued his interest since their first meeting, appearing out of nowhere like some sort of god. The way he’d strut about in fluorescent outfits, swing his golden hair, flash his little sly smile… it was like he knew exactly how attractive he was, but was too humble to show it. He flowed with confidence, confidence Fugo desperately wished for, and radiated stability and strength. 

            Of course, Abbaccio had found these traits downright annoying. It was no secret how much he despised Giorno. The kid looked like he was plucked from a privileged life in some fancy penthouse and dropped into the mafia feet first, completely oblivious to any hardship. Fugo could see Abbaccio’s point of view… but he was just too blinded by Giorno’s radiance that he couldn’t bring himself to turn away. 

            Which was now leading to his worries. After seeing Giorno ascend to the role of a don, he took up his responsibilities without so much as breaking into a sweat. He’d kept his cool, calm demeanor, retaining his shiny aura, and danced about his life like some sort of figure skater. He showed no weakness. 

            That was, until Fugo started to pay closer attention. The mask would slip every so often. Sometimes, late at night, he’d come to remind Giorno to go to bed, only to catch glimpses of dark circles under his eyes and stress lines under thinning makeup. He’d see pained expressions when Giorno thought nobody was looking and see him reach out to his stand like he was starved for touch, yet he’d tense up every time someone else made physical contact. He refused to dress in front of anyone and didn’t want to be seen in anything beside his usual suit, like he was afraid of his own flesh. Fugo knew Giorno was completely overworking himself, not eating enough, and sleeping far less than he should. But… the slip-ups happened so far and few in between that he began to wonder if he’d just imagined it. 

            Until today. 

            Giorno had suddenly fainted at breakfast. Fugo really hadn’t been paying much attention, buried in his book, until he caught sight of Giorno’s knees buckle and drop. The teacup smashed against the ground, and Giorno would’ve fallen right into the shards if Bruno hadn’t caught him. They’d hurried him upstairs while Mista and the pistols picked up the mess. 

            Being the curious little sucker he was, Fugo had assigned himself to watching over Giorno during his little nap. He wanted to observe, take note, and see if those little slip-ups were somehow related to this.

            And now, he was even more concerned. 

            Giorno’s room was plain. Clean, well-kept, and almost bare. There were no personal items adorning the room save for a few plants lined up in the windowsill. The only decoration was a drawing of a ladybug taped up in the wall- from Narancia, no doubt- but the rest of the room looked untouched. Like Giorno wasn’t even living there.

             And Giorno himself… the sight was almost intrusive, while Giorno slept fitfully. He showed a rare variety of facial expressions- anger, pain, panic, and absolute terror. He muttered something in his sleep, something Fugo didn’t catch until he realized it was in another language. Since when was Giorno fluent in other languages? 

            “Yamero… ” He whispered, repeating the word like it was some sort of lifeline. “Yamero, yamero.”

             Is he having a nightmare? Fugo leaned forwards over Giorno, peering down at him. The kid was sweating now, shining on his face in the dim light and soaking through his clothes. I never imagined… what on earth had got him so troubled?

             Then, all at once, Giorno’s eyes popped open and he sat up suddenly with a harsh inhale followed by rancid, uneven breaths. He was shaking, his whole frame trembling, with his mask completely stripped away. His face was contorted in fear, green eyes clouded over and mouth stretched in a taut line. 

            “Hey, hey,” Fugo awkwardly stretched out his hand. “Are you alright?”

            As soon as his fingers came into contact with Giorno’s sleeve, Giorno gasped and flailed back at the touch, knocking a clock off his nightstand. He curled in on himself and gently rocked back and forth, almost therapeutically. 

            It was a sight to behold. The cool, calm collected person who could control their emotions like a puppet master was now a shivering, whimpering ball of fear. It would even drive Abbaccio to step back.

            Fugo watched helplessly as Giorno continued to huddle in his own world, consumed by panic. He tried to remember what he did when he was struck with one of his own panic attacks, and slowly put a plan into motion. 

            “Giorno,” He began. “I want you to breathe with me, okay?”

            There was no response, but he began nonetheless. Placing his hand on the wrinkled covers, he drew a slow inhale. 

            “In, two, three…. hold… out, two, three. In, two, three…” Fugo glanced over at Giorno. 

            The boy was still panting, but he was making a conscious effort to follow Fugo’s counting. He broke the pattern several times to gasp for air, but on the fifth cycle, Giorno managed to make it all the way through. 

            “That’s it…” Fugo was nodding. “There we go. Keep it up.”

            What followed concerned Fugo even more, to the point he was almost disturbed. Giorno evened his breath and straightened, pushing sweaty hair away from his forehead. He squared his shoulders, stared directly at Fugo, and smiled. As if none of the last few minutes had just happened. It was like watching a flower bloom from its previously-shriveled state, only a lot less graceful. Like he’d just slipped on a mask. 

            “Hello, Fugo.” Giorno said. 

            Fugo was stunned into silence. His stomach curled at the weird transformation. Why was Giorno acting this way? Why was he acting like everything was fine and like he hasn’t just had an anxiety attack? It was all leaving a sickening taste in Fugo’s mouth. 

            “Hello?” He asked sourly. “ Hello ? That’s all you can say?”

            The mask slipped just slightly at the accusation and Fugo caught a glimpse of withering guilt before it vanished. It only pissed him if more. 

            “You’re just gonna play pretend?” Fugo demanded. “As if you DIDN’T just have a complete meltdown? As if you didn’t faint in the kitchen? Huh?”

            The pieces were slowly falling into place in Fugo’s head. The little slip-ups were definitely not imagined. They were valid emotions breaking through this little setup Giorno had going on. The glorious, confident, flashy kid he appeared as? A total facade. 

            “You’re actually a complete mess, aren’t you?” Fugo hissed. “This little show you’re putting on?.”

            “Fugo-” Giorno tried to cut to no avail. 

            “Don’t think I haven’t noticed all your sneaky backstage B.S.” Fugo didn’t know why he was feeling so angry, but it was building up in his chest like an exploding soda can. “How you refuse to tell us anything about yourself despite knowing all of our history. How you freak out at loud noises and people touching you. How weirdly affectionate you are with your stand.”

            “Fugo-”

            “You completely overwork yourself and then act like it’s all fine! You act like everything is all fine!” Fugo had stood up and was leaning over Giorno. At some point, he’d grabbed Giorno’s shoulders, ignoring any protests. “You’re not the only one suffering, okay? We’re all suffering! Why can’t you get that through your head?”

            “Fu-”

            “Do you think we won’t understand? Are we not good enough to help you? Do you not trust us?”

            “F-”

            “Now I see why people don’t like you!”

            It was a lie. It was a horrible lie that left a bad taste in his mouth and Fugo knew he shouldn’t have said it the instant it left his mouth. He’d just felt so betrayed. He was upset that Giorno was so secretive, utterly so secretive to the point that he’d close himself off. He did genuinely wonder if Giorno trusted any of them but… he didn’t dislike him. 

            Giorno’s expression was twisted. It wasn't surprise or hurt, like Fugo had expected. It was acceptance. Like everything being said was just sinking into him. Like, Fugo had just declared something Giorno had been curious about. 

            It was off putting. Like something had struck him, Fugo pulled away from Giorno. He felt numb like a puppet on strings, and turned to leave, with only silence behind him. 

* * *

            It was late evening, nearly three hours since he’d dragged himself out of bed and to his desk, yet Giorno hadn’t finished a single paper. His desk was loaded with files and documents to be signed and looked over, but they all remained untouched and empty, piled up from Giorno’s absence. 

            He’d avoided all questioning when his peers (aside from Fugo) came to see him later that day. He assured them that he was perfectly fine, it was probably just overworking and stress, ignoring their doubtful looks and the echoes of Fugo’s accusations ringing in his head. 

            Giorno sighed heavily, rubbing his tired eyes. To be honest, he still felt like crap, a dull headache pounding in between his ears and constant shivering despite feverish sweats slicked across his brow. 

             It sucked. His argument with Fugo was still playing back in his mind, like a rewinding cassette tape. It was true; he’d always had trust issues ever since his childhood, terrified to show the skittish fear, the Haruno to anyone, worried they’d realize how… not perfect he was. Call him useless and ugly like his mother. Or hit him and throw him out like his stepfather. He longed for deep embraces and to lower his many facades, but he was terrified. Terrified they’d find the scars and see the weak, skinny child curled up behind his front. And like Fugo said, they were all suffering. No need to bother them with his own stupid issues. They probably had it worse. He needed to be there to support them, be a strong, stable shoulder to rely on. And besides, he should be grateful they even let him hang around. 

            It was all useless. Useless, useless, useless-

            A snapping sound broke Giorno out of his self-deprecating spiral. Something cold and wet seeped along his fingers like snake scales, and Giorno glanced at his hand.

            His pen. He’d snapped it in half. 

            It wasn’t a crappy ballpoint pen plucked from Narancia’s coloring drawer. It was his nice one from Bruno, the fountain pen with the sleek silver tip and oak red body. Black ink spilled from the broken core, leaking over his hand and on the desk. The momentum had flung drops up in his face as well, likely staining his pale pink jacket. 

            Giorno stared in wonder at the pen. Sure, he was strong. He could punch things pretty well, especially since becoming don, and could beat a few of his teammates in arm wrestling. But… not that strong. He’d snapped a thick pen in one hand.

            What is going on? Giorno dropped the pen on the desk, careful not to spill more ink. First I’m getting sick and fainting and now I’m snapping pens. 

            “You’re changing.” Gold Requiem’s voice muttered in his head. 

            “Well, no duh.” Giorno grabbed a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and attempted to soak up the ink over his paperwork. “The question is what is changing? And why?” 

             “Perhaps the arrow changes more than just your stand.”

             “You’re staying the stand arrow is causing this?” Giorno frowned, unable to hold back his sarcasm. “It made me strong enough to break pens?”

             “I was implying that is causing a bigger change. Breaking pens might just be a symptom.”

              “Listen, I don’t really know.” Giorno stood, realizing the ink had spread across his chest as well. “We don’t have enough evidence to conclude anything.”

             “You’re just going to see how things play out?”

             “Do we have a choice?”          

            Giorno stared hard at his stained uniform. How unfitting for a don. He really didn’t wish to explain how and why he’d broken a pen that had been a gift. He didn’t want them to think he was ungrateful for it and think he was selfish.

             Picking up the pieces carefully, Giorno placed the broken pen in his desk drawer, making a mental note to figure out a way to fix it. Right now, he just wanted to clean up the mess. 

            Giorno left his office swiftly, and made his way to the bathroom conjoined with his bedroom. He needed a shower.

            The movement was making him feel fuzzy again, like his head weighed an extra hundred pounds and his stomach was curled up, gurgling softly. Weirdest off all, his throat was beginning to feel scratchy and dry, like it was pumped with sand. 

              I really hope this passes. Giorno shut the bathroom door behind him and turned on the shower to a lukewarm. Any warmer would force guilt to worm its way up his gut and his stomach was sensitive enough at the moment. 

            As Giorno gently removed his stained clothing, he made the mistake of looking behind him at the mirror and catching sight of both the scars and birthmark over his back. 

             Stupid- Giorno winced and pulled his gaze away. It was making him feel itchy and gross, like some kind of odd brand stamped into his flesh. He cursed under his breath and stepped into the shower, yanking the translucent curtain closed. 

            Almost immediately, the ink began to run, sliding down his face in gray droplets. Giorno did his best to work his fingers through his braid, freeing his curls into long ringlets. The rolls on his forehead came loose and flopped over his face. 

            Even with the water washing away the ink and remaining make up, Giorno wasn’t feeling any relief. His head still pounded, as if it was stuffed with heavy cotton and his throat felt shriveled. Gently, Giorno rested his head against the shower wall, letting its cool surface spread over fevered flesh. It provided a little comfort, but as soon as he lifted his head, exhaustion forced him back. 

             This is getting ridiculous. Giorno thought. Rest isn’t helping, distractions aren’t helping, and not even a shower is helping. What is going on?

             Hands fumbling for the soap, Giorno blindly scrubbed the remaining ink away, trying his best to do so without moving his head too much. He had been planning on washing his hair, but just the thought of trying to balance his head on his shoulders was enough to stay his hand. It was fine. He could wash it later. 

            Giorno reached out and twisted the faucet, causing the water to stop abruptly. Wearily, he slowly peeled himself off the wall, resting his forehead in his palm. He just had to get to his bed. Then he could…

            As Giorno exited the shower, reaching for a towel, a new pain suddenly erupted in his mouth, like someone had just ripped out his teeth. Blood began to pour down his chin, staining the wet floor. Giorno cried out in pain, his free hand clamped over his lips in an attempt to suppress it. 

            Stepping directly in a puddle of both blood and water, Giorno slipped and fell forward, head colliding with hard linoleum. Everything was fuzzy again, any pain merely an echo, and for the second time that day, Giorno watched the world fade to black. 

* * *

            “I just don’t get it!” Fugo dropped his head in his hands, exasperated. “I’m trying to understand his point of view but… I just can’t!”

            Bruno sat across from Fugo at the kitchen table. It was late, past eleven in fact, with only the oven lamp providing any light. Everyone had tucked themselves away in their rooms, presumably getting ready to sleep until Fugo had come knocking on Bruno’s door, looking distressed. 

            “I can understand your frustration.” Bruno chose his words carefully. “I’m worried too. But it’s Giorno’s choice whether he wishes to open up.”

            “No, it’s…” Fugo stared around the kitchen, his contorted expression partly visible in the dark. “I just got so mad when he acted like nothing happened. I said…  some things I didn’t mean.”

            “Oh, dear.” Bruno sighed and reached out to touch Fugo’s arm in comfort. “You must’ve been quite upset.”

            “I guess I wanted a reaction from him or something, but even then…” Fugo pounded his hands on the table, rattling the teacup in front of him that had long grown cold. “Why did I say those things? What if he takes them to heart?”

           “You were angry.” Bruno said simply. “And rightfully so. I would be angry too if I had been there.”

            “But-”

            “Listen, Fugo,” Bruno continued. “You know Giorno, don’t you? He’s a logical person. He probably knew that you were caught up in the moment. I wouldn’t be so worried.”

            “You think so?” Fugo glanced up from his cold tea.

            “Let’s talk to him tomorrow, okay? Sort through things and get it all straightened out.”

            Fugo nodded silently and stood from the table, pushing his chair back with his knees. 

           “Thanks. I’ll sleep on it.”

            “Good idea. We’ll chat again in the morning-”

            A heavy thud sounded through the ceiling, like someone had chucked a sack of rocks upstairs. The kitchen ceiling lights rattled with a delicate clinking sound, swaying for a few seconds before settling again.

            Bruno glanced over at Fugo and they locked eyes, seemingly sharing a wavelength as they spoke at the same time. 

            “Giorno.”

            Bruno bolted to the stairs with Fugo at his tail, taking two steps at a time. Up, up, up and down the hall, Bruno nearly fell into the door to Giorno’s room, throwing it open like his life depended on it.

            The lights were off, save for a small desk lamp buzzing softly. There was an alarm clock that had fallen from the nightstand and weirdly enough, a few drops of ink on the floor but… everything else was in place. The bed was made, floor clean, window shut… nothing was out of order. And Giorno was nowhere to be seen.

            Bruno felt a flower of panic begin to bloom in his chest. If Giorno had fallen, still recovering from a mysterious illness, it could leave him out of commission for a lot longer. Not to mention, by the sound they had heard, he’d fallen hard . 

            Fugo slid into the room behind Bruno, breathless. 

            “He’s not in his office.”

             Dang it. Bruno stepped aside to allow Fugo in, in case the kid noticed anything he didn’t,  and he was beginning to consider waking Abbacchio to use Moody Blues. 

            “Wait!” Fugo called out. “The bathroom. The light’s on!”     

           Bruno tumbled over across the room to where Fugo was standing and a wash of relief flooded in his chest when he caught sight of a bright strip of light under the door. That relief, however, was short-lived when it invited a whole swarm of other problems, buzzing around his head like insects. 

             What if he slipped and hit his head? There are so many things he could hit his head on. The counter has got a sharp point, doesn’t it? That could cause some damage. And what if he hit the mirror? What if…

             Unable to keep his worries at bay, Bruno knocked on the door with the palm of his hand, trying to keep his panic under wraps. 

            “Giorno!” He called out. “Giorno, are you okay in there?”

            The panic turned into raw fear when only silence responded. 

            “Bucciarati!” Fugo had reached around and rattled the doorknob to no avail. “It’s locked.”

            Cursing under his breath, Bruno knocked again, louder this time. He didn’t want to impede on Giorno’s privacy, considering he’d locked the door… but he could be hurt. And he wasn’t answering, which ironically spoke volumes about the situation. 

            “Don’t make me bust down the door, Giorno!” Fugo threatened, his voice growing shrill. “Open up!”

            “This is for your own good. Sticky Fingers!” The blue and white stand materialized into existence, nearly glowing in the dark room. With a few swift touches, a large golden zipper appeared on the bathroom door. Bruno took no time at all to unzip it, sending out a flood of pale white light. 

            As soon as he stepped inside, Bruno looked around wildly, checking for damage. The mirror… fogged up but fine. The counter… spick and span. The floor…

            “Giorno!” Bruno rushed over to the fallen figure, hands hovering in the air, afraid to touch anything. 

            There was Giorno. He was nude, lying on his side, and soaking wet, likely just out of the shower. His hair was flopped over his face in blonde waves, undone from its usual braid and victory rolls. His skin was ashen pale, accentuating a fevered blush across his cheeks. And his breathing was shallow and rapid, obviously troubled by something.  

             “Is he alright?” Fugo jumped in through the zipper opening, nearly slipping on the puddles on the floor. “Oh, shoot. Is he bleeding?”

            Sure enough, when Bruno tilted Giorno’s head, he saw blood leaking from his mouth, dripping down his chin and onto the floor. 

            “Looks like he bit his tongue or something.” Bruno used the bottom of his shirt to wipe the blood away. He lightly touched Giorno’s forehead with the back of his hand. “Geez, he’s just burning up.”

           Bruno turned to look at Fugo, whose expression was twisted and pale. It was obvious that the guilt from their fight was threatening to regurgitate. 

            “Fugo, I need you to get something for him to wear. We’ve got to get him to bed.”

            “I, um…” With a vigorous shake of his head, Fugo stood, clearing his expression. “Of course, Bucciarati.”

            “Thank you.”

            With the sound of Fugo exiting the bathroom, lightly tripping on the zipper, Bruno turned his attention back to Giorno. He gently brushed wet hair out of the kid’s face, sighing to himself. 

            “You’ll be alright, Giorno.” He muttered to himself. “We’ll take care of you… huh…?” 

            As he lifted Giorno’s torso onto his lap, his eyes caught sight of a strange muddled shape near the nape of his neck, sitting atop his trapezoid. It looked kind of like… a star?

             That’s kind of unusual. Bruno thought. Is that a tattoo or something?

             Careful not to lose his grip, Bruno slowly shifted Giorno’s body in his grasp, moving him to get a better look at his back. He nearly dropped him in utter shock. 

            They appeared almost blue in the fluorescent light. Crisscrossing in long lines like lacerated cobwebs. Some were thick and harsh, while others appeared more faint, but their appearance didn’t matter. They were scars. Old ones that had long since healed over, but remained visible. 

            Bruno cussed softly, gently touching the longest one with his free hand. It ran from the small of Giorno’s back to his shoulder blade, pulling at the surrounding tissue. A wave of nausea bubbled up in the back of Bruno’s throat. It just looked… so different from Giorno’s face. It didn’t match. He could hardly believe that this scarred, warped flesh belonged to the same person who sported golden curls and fancy suits while running an entire mafia. 

             He’s still just a child. Bruno reminded himself. 

            “Hey, Bucciarati!” Fugo stumbled back into the bathroom, holding what looked like a t-shirt and pair of sweats. “I got the…” He trailed off, face twisting in confusion when he caught sight of Giorno. “What are… is that…?”

         Bruno glanced at Giorno on his lap, turning him face up so the scars were now out of view. 

           “Something he didn’t want us to see.” Bruno whispered, sourly. He cradled Giorno in his arms, frowning deepening at how light the kid was. “Let’s just get him to bed.”

            Fugo hissed a swear under his breath, hands curling into fists. 

            “Why didn’t he say anything-”

            “We’ll talk about this later.” Bruno ordered. His throat was tight, threatening to break. He was a hair's width from losing his composure. “I promise.”

             Silence followed and Bruno turned to exit the bathroom. Through the zipper they went, until it closed behind them and vanished. 

Chapter Text

             Giorno awoke to the color white. It was a grayish, cream white, adorned with black specks that looked like little tadpoles. Tadpoles swimming in milk. Cereal tadpoles. 

             What? Giorno fluttered his eyelids, disturbed by the erratic train of thought. He’d never been on drugs, but it was the closest he’d ever felt to being high. 

            Something shimmered in his peripheral vision, much more vibrant in color than the cereal tadpoles. Gold and glittery, shining with a bronze sheen. It was shaped in curved spikes and copper splotches. A single eye stared back in the center of the colors, emotionless, unblinking, and a deep purple with black sockets. 

            Gold Experience Requiem. Giorno instantly recognized. Why is my stand here? Next to… cereal tadpoles?

             He shifted, attempting to reach out and touch the cool metal surface of his stand’s face, only to immediately regret it. The slightest movement sent zinging bolts of pain rebounding in his head, bouncing from one side of his skull to another. Beads of sweat formed along his brow and he grunted softly in pain. 

            “Giorno!” A voice floated into his ear and the tadpoles shifted, revealing itself to be the unique fabric of Bucciarati’s suit, white with black dots. “Giorno, how are you feeling?”

            “Cereal tadpoles.” Giorno croaked out.

            “What?” A new voice sounded on the opposite side, somewhere behind Gold Requiem. 

            “Cereal…” Giorno trailed off, and with shaking hands, took hold of Gold Requiem’s head. His eyes focused on his own reflection in the metal convex surface, appearing warped and wiggly. He grinned at it, wanting to laugh at the ridiculousness. “Tadpoles.” He added in a nasally tone, snickering through his nose. 

           “Hey,” A warm hand rested on Giorno’s cheek, pulling him from the loopy circus his brain was performing. “Giorno, can you hear me?”

            Bucciarati’s face came into view, black hair appearing ruffled and unkempt. Stress lines were evident atop the bridge of his nose and pulled at his eyes, suggesting he hadn’t slept well. 

             “Buccia…” Giorno sleepily turned back to look at Gold Requiem, who was still patiently hovering, face still cupped in Giorno’s hands. It didn’t look irritated or anything; it simply stared, wide eyes gathering up as much information as it could. It almost seemed to be observing Giorno. 

            Mind slowly climbing out of the mud, Giorno dismissed his stand, trying to pull his head out of the clouds. He was in his bed, looking at the ceiling of his room lit up by morning rays leaking through the curtains. Bucciarati was standing to his right, concerned scribbled over his face, and oddly enough, Fugo on the other side, sitting on the edge of the bed.

            Giorno’s head was in a bizarre amount of pain, yet his hip also appeared to be throbbing, like he’d hit it on something. And his upper jaw ached as well, pulsating along with his heartbeat. To make things stranger, he was wearing a wrinkled gray shirt and blue sweats- clothes Giorno almost never wore nor remembered putting on. But then again, he couldn’t seem to remember much of anything at the moment. Why wasn’t he working at his desk? Why were Bucciarati and Fugo here? Why did everything hurt so much?

            Fugo’s face was suddenly two inches from his nose, his breath smelling somewhat like green tea. He too looked tired, somewhat dizzy and obviously disoriented. His pupils flickered, like Purple Haze was right behind his eyes, and his mouth was stretched in a tight line. 

            “Giorno…” He muttered, and dropped his forehead against Giorno’s chest, a rare stream of tears leaking down his face. “Giorno, I’m so sorry.”

            Giorno stared, dumbfounded. Fugo, the logical, hot-headed, absolutely brilliant ticking time bomb, was sobbing in his lap. And apologizing. Which he almost never did. It was bizzare. 

              What is he so torn up about? Giorno hesitantly placed his hand against Fugo’s back. Generally, Giorno hated physical contact, regardless of intention because it reminded him of… bad memories. But with Fugo weeping in his shirt, it was hard to push him away. 

            Giorno gently rubbed the palm of his hand against Fugo’s back in slow circles, staring up at the ceiling while Fugo’s hair tickled his chin. His mind was so blank, so fuzzy… remembering things was like pulling teeth. 

            Teeth. 

             That’s it. Giorno ran his tongue along his teeth, tasting the distant, coppery tang of blood. I remember now. My mouth started bleeding. Did I pass out? What could’ve caused that? What is going on?

             “Fugo,” Bucciarati cleared his throat. “You should probably give Giorno some space.”

            With a gentle nod, Fugo sniffed and pulled away, mopping up tears with his sleeve. His face was blotchy and red now, extremely out of character, and he swallowed heavily, obviously holding back another wave of tears. 

            “I, uh… sorry, Giorno.” He mumbled. “Your shirt…”

            Giorno rose up on his elbows, noticing a wet puddle on his chest, exactly where Fugo had cried. He shrugged it off, pushing blond curls out of his eyes. 

            “It’s no problem. Don’t worry about-” He cut off with a grunt of pain. 

            “What?” Bucciarati had leaned forward suddenly, worry flaring up across his face. “What is it? Are you hurt?”

            Giorno squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the ache in his side to return to a dull throb. There was definitely a bruise there. 

            “No, it’s my hip.” He hissed. “I think I landed on it funny.”

            Bruno bit down on his lip, nodding to himself. The concerned expression had waned a little bit, no longer panicky, but still a little anxious. 

            “That would make sense.” He said. “You did fall pretty hard.”

            “So I did fall.” 

            “You don’t remember?” Fugo had managed to pull himself together, summoning a little composure. The gears were slowly turning in his head. “Did you hit your head too?”

            “I was kind of out of it.” Giorno rubbed his temple with a free hand, trying to stimulate the memory. The symptoms were getting worse. Fever, headaches, fainting, and blood pouring from his mouth… it was getting out of hand. Gold Requiem had mentioned it might have to do with the stand arrow. Maybe I should ask Polnareff. He might know something. 

             Struck with a sudden motivation for answers, Giorno sat up, disregarding the screaming protests of his head and hip. He could deal with the pain. There were more important things. 

            “What are you doing?” Bucciarati crossed his arms, a frown pulling at his lips. 

            “I’ve got work to do.”

            “Work?” Fugo cut in, exasperated. “You can’t work! You just fainted twice in one day! Have you even looked at yourself?”

            “I’ll be fine.” Giorno insisted, gripping the wooden bedpost. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, ignoring the wobbly sensation like he’d just stepped onto a rowboat. “I just need to-”

            As soon as he let go of the bedpost, Giorno felt his knees turn to water and give way, collapsing under his own weight. The ache in his hip sharpened, zinging down his thigh, and Giorno couldn’t suppress the cringe that formed on his face. 

            Bucciarati caught him before he could fall, who’d been hovering over like he expected it. It was an awkward catch though, like trying to hold a heavy rag doll. 

            Giorno instantly froze up. His face was buried in Bucciarati’s chest, fingers grasping cereal tadpoles, feeling cold air against his back. Bucciarati had tried to snag him at the waist, which resulted in pushing Giorno’s shirt up around his rib cage, exposing old scars. Stupid scars. Stupid, atrocious, disgusting scars and one of Bucciarati’s hands were touching them, sending chills up his spine and old memories drip-dropping in the back of his brain like a leaky spigot. 

             I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Giorno screamed in his head. Please stop, please please don’t hurt me, please don’t touch, don’t touch, please stop, stop, stop, S t o p

P̴͙͓̫͑̓̚l̵̝̞̝͊͝͝e̴̺͎͑̐͊͜a̴̻̙͔͑̓̈́s̸̢̠̺͛͝͝e̵͍̪͊͆̚ ś̵͖͔̿t̵̝̞͙͐̚o̴̞̞͎̓̓͊p̵͚̠̝͆͛͆

             There was a man standing over him, bathed in deep shadow. His face was hidden in backness, the lamp behind him illuminating the silhouette. 

            The stench of tobacco hung heavy in the air and crushed beer cans rolled along the wooden floor, spilling the last of their contents into little puddles that looked like a mixture of piss and puke. 

            A large, sweaty hand was gripping Haruno’s hair and the man was whispering strange, drunken things. 

            “You thought you could steal from me, huh?” He hissed, spit spraying from his mouth. “You thought you could steal; I’ll teach you not to friggin’ steal from me, you stupid, little bastard.”

            Haruno held back a well of tears threatening to spill over. It was useless, useless to cry. It only made things worse. Crying only pissed people off. 

            “You think everything belongs to you, don’t cha.” The man growled. “Anything you get your grumbly little hands on, you think it’s yours.” He shoved the child back against the wall, fingers fumbling for his belt.         

            “No, no, no!” Haruno suddenly began to panic. “I just wanted something to eat! I’m sorry, I won’t do it again! I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

            “Oh, shut it! I can’t handle your stupid whining.” The belt came free and dangled menacingly in front of Haruno. “You listen to me, got it? It doesn’t matter what you want. Nobody freaking cares.”

           Haruno curled into a ball to protect his head, just in time for the leather belt to swing. It whistled in the air, wind traveling through the small holes until it reached Haruno, lashing across his small back. The pain was white-hot, stinging like fire over his flesh. He tried to suppress a shriek of pain, biting down on his tongue but failed miserably when the belt whipped around a second time. 

            “You’re making me do this. This is your own fault.” The man said with an infuriatingly casual tone. “You’re lucky I didn’t throw you out.”

            Haruno said nothing. He knew if he said anything, it would only make the man more angry, and if he got more angry, he’d drink more. And if he drank more, he’d get horny and start to touch Haruno and if there was anything worse than the belt, it was that. 

            For just a second, right before the belt came down again, he saw his mother in the other room, reading a newspaper. She was nothing like Haruno- she was pretty, perfect, purposeful, and people liked her. It was no wonder she didn’t ever pay him any attention. He was none of those things. He was useless. Simply useless. 

             “Buc… watch it… hand…”

            “Sh… somethi… wrong…”

            “...down… not… responding…”

            “...ello?...no! ...rno!”

            “Giorno!”

            The disconnected words formed back into coherent sentences and Giorno was sucked out of the memory through a mental vacuum tube. Everything came back into focus, the room, the light through the windows, the bed he’d sat down on, soft covers under his fingers. And Bucciarati clutching his shoulders, blue eyes searching, with Fugo at his side. 

            “Looks like you’re back?” Bucciarari said. “We lost you for a second there.”

             Right. Giorno dipped his head in shame. He could still feel distant fingerprints on his back, threatening to plunge his mind right back into the past. “I’m fine.”

            Fugo tsked loudly at the comment and shook his head, blond hair swishing back and forth. 

            “No, no you’re not.”

            A spark of anger ignited in Giorno’s chest and his face twitched. For a moment, he was ready to stand up and fight; he was fine , he didn’t need anything from anyone, he could handle it on his own… but he just felt so tired. The lies were growing old, leaving a bad taste in his mouth. 

            Instead of snapping, Giorno sighed and rested his head in his hands. The headache had dulled during the flashback but it was beginning to reawaken, reverberating through his brain like a Newton’s cradle. 

            “I’m sorry.” He said. “You’re right… I just haven’t been feeling well recently.”

            “No, no,” Buccairati shook his head. “I should be the one to apologize. I’m the one who… I should’ve remembered you don’t like to be touched.”

             Why did he say it like that? Giorno squinted suspiciously. That wasn’t what I was trying to say. Why did he say it like he knew?

             Things began to click into place in his head. Bucciarati must’ve found him when he’d fallen in the bathroom. Meaning he’d seen the scars. Those grotesque scars that betrayed the proud and perfect don. Giorno immediately felt sick. They knew . He couldn’t stand to look at their faces. 

             “Are you sure it’s just that?” Fugo pressed. It was obvious what he was implying. “Do you… want to talk about it?”

              I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to talk about it. 

            “I appreciate the sentiments…” Giorno lifted his head slightly, just enough to see Fugo’s chin. They had to leave. “But… I’m pretty emotionally overwhelmed right now. Could I please have some time to myself?”

             Bucciarati and Fugo exchanged glances with one another, lined with worry. Fugo looked as if he wished to protest, but Buccairati shook his head, his lips forming the words ‘ not now’ and the boy fell quiet. 

            “Of course, Giorno.” He said. “Let us know if you need anything. You won’t be a bother.”

            “Thank you.” Giorno nodded, relief dropping in his chest, and remained huddled on his bed until he heard the bedroom door close. 

            He waited a few seconds, two or three, until Giorno wobbled to his feet, unsteadily making his way to his dresser. Regardless of his personal problems, he still wanted answers. He needed to work. 

            As Giorno changed into a pair of slacks and white button down shirt, he noticed that yes indeed, a large purple bruise had formed on his hip, looking like some deranged birthmark. 

             Crap. Giorno automatically reached up to touch the star on his shoulder with realization. Did Buccairati see the birthmark too? He couldn’t help but feel a bit violated, being seen in such a vulnerable state, and he couldn't help but wonder at their thoughts of their newfound knowledge. Did they think about how useless and pathetic and stupid Giorno was, if they didn’t already-

             “You’re doing it again.” Golden Requiem’s voice rang in his head. “You’re making baseless assumptions. Your past does not make you weak.”

             “You weren’t there.” Giorno muttered sourly. He sighed and took a comb to his hair, harshly yanking out the frazzled knots. He stumbled to the bedside mirror, his head feeling like it was filled with rocks. As he began to twist his hair in the usual unique curls, he caught sight of something on his chin. 

            A small fleck of blood. 

             Oh yeah… Giorno peered at it and opened his mouth to inspect the damage. My mouth started bleeding, right? What happened with… 

             Fangs. It was the only word he could think of to describe them. Instead of the usual rounded teeth, his canines were sharp and elongated, glistening white. They were at least an inch long with a subtle curve. The ones along his lower jaw were maybe half that length, but still obviously pointed. 

            Giorno pulled his lip back, staring at his teeth in horror. It looked like something an animal would have… or rather, a beast.

             Am I turning into a monster or something? He poked at the fang point with his finger. Like Dio-

             Dio. The records had mentioned him becoming a vampire using an ancient mask. Something about forsaking his humanity. Was it true? 

              No, no, no, no, no… Giorno backed away from the mirror, clamping a hand over his mouth. If it’s true, that means I… perhaps the stand arrow really did awaken something. 

            Falling backwards onto the carpet, Giorno began to shiver at the thought. He really was more like Dio than he thought. 

            “I need to know if it’s true.” He whispered. “If Dio really was a vampire, he could’ve passed something onto me.”

           In the pit of his stomach, Giorno desperately hoped it wasn’t. He needed answers. 

* * *

            Giorno entered the turtle rather awkwardly. He didn’t alert Polnareff ahead of time, worried someone might try to overhear their conversation. He knew he was being overly paranoid, but that didn’t stop him from tiptoeing to the turtle, causing him to transport midstep. 

             He fell flat on his face, narrowly missing the couch. The carpet tasted foul and the impact left shooting pains along his hip. 

            “Hello?” Polnareff’s cautious voice sounded from across the small room, his thick French accent lathered over his Italian. “Who's there?”

            With a wobbling gait, Giorno pulled himself to his feet, wincing in pain. He waved in Polnareff’s direction, rubbing his chin which had just been rubbed raw with rug burn. 

            “ ‘s just me, Polnareff.” He guestered to himself. “Giorno.”

            Polnareff’s face relaxed in recognition and he allowed a small, yet genuine smile. 

            “Ah. It’s good to see you.” His good eye followed Giorno's movements. A flicker of worry ignited his expression. “Although we didn’t have a scheduled meeting until next week. Is something wrong?”

             Perceptive as ever. Giorno sat down on the deep red sofa, doing his best to abolish any concern from his face. He was here for information, not to increase Polnareff’s stress lines. He glanced down at the table, noticing folders and different documents spread across it, like the beginning of a research project. 

            “No, nothing is wrong.” Giorno reassured, lifting his head to meet Polnareff’s gaze. “I apologize for coming unannounced. I just… had some questions. That I’d like to ask.”

            Polnareff raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. 

            “Questions that you needed answered urgently.” He concluded. “Yet, questions that couldn’t be answered by simple research.”

            “Well, yes.”

             A smile flashed across Polnareff’s lips, not like his friendly, earlier one, but sly and daring, like he’d just been asked to do something illegal. 

            “Ask away. I’m an open book.”

            Giorno breathed slowly through his nose, wondering the best way to approach it. Should he ask about the stand arrow first? Or see if Polnareff knew anything about vampires? Or...

            “What do you know of Dio Brando?” 

            Polnareff’s eyes fluttered in surprise, the right one somewhat twitching. He unconsciously rubbed his left hand, like reminiscing a strange memory, and his mouth pulled into a thin line. 

            “Dio Brando, eh? You read up on him? He was quite the character.”

            “Yes, he seemed that way.” Giorno said. “Did you know him?”

            The temperature seemed to drop a few degrees as the question was met with only silence. When Polnareff finally spoke up, it was with hesitation. 

            “I did, yes. I met him in my younger years.”

            Giorno stiffened, locking eyes with Polnareff. 

            “Met him? How? When?”

            “If you’ve read Dio’s file, I assume you’re familiar with the tale of six stand users going to fight him, yes?” Polnareff went on. “I was one of them.”

            “You?” Giorno couldn’t stop a look of surprise wash over his face. It was hard to imagine the older man in battle, considering his scarred and withered appearance, but taking his knowledge of the stand arrow into account, it had to be true. “You fought him?”

            Polnareff chuckled at the question, gently rubbing the back of his neck. 

            “I didn’t fight much. My comrades did most of the work. But I did manage to cross blades with him, so to speak. Why do you ask?”

            “Oh,” Giorno mentally pulled himself back on track. “Is the folder accurate then?”

            “Of course.” Polnareff nodded, his hair swishing atop his head. “I wrote a lot of it. My companions did as well. It wouldn’t do us any good to be inaccurate.”

             Dread was beginning to fill up in Giorno’s stomach, like the bottom half of an hourglass. 

             “So he was an actual vampire?”

             Polnareff nodded grimly, his lips pulled taunt. 

             “Crazy, isn’t it? He seemed like some story book villain.”

             “Yeah…” Giorno faked a wry laugh, which seemed to echo in his chest. “Pretty crazy.”

            An awkward silence passed between them again, with only the sound of the buzzing refrigerator in the background. Finally, Polnareff cleared his throat, retaining eye contact.

            “Well, was there anything else you wanted to know?”

             “Yes, actually… It’s about the stand arrow.” Giorno began. “It… I… does it have any strange side effects?”

             What a stupid way to phrase that. He chided himself, but Polnareff didn’t seem to notice. 

           “Side effects?” He asked. “With your stand? Is there something wrong with your Gold Experience Requiem?”

            “Not exactly…” Giorno rubbed his temple, trying to find a proper way to explain. “I’ve been talking with my stand and he said the arrow might’ve caused some changes…”

            “What kind of changes?”

             Do I trust Polnareff? Giorno stared hard at the man sitting across from him. Sure, the man has helped them tremendously against Diavolo, provided information about the stand arrow, and continued to support Giorno in the mafia.. but they’d only known each other for a few months. Yet, Giorno realized, if anyone could help him, it was this man.

             Well, here goes nothing. 

           Stomach now buzzing with butterflies, Giorno leaned forwards across the table and opened his mouth, using his fingers to pull back his lips. 

            It took a solid three seconds before Polnareff showed any reaction. He squinted, gears whirling in his head, and realization finally spilled into his features.

            “Are those… fangs?” He asked, voice suddenly hushed. “Did they just show up?”

            “I think so.” Giorno pulled back, hunched inwards. He was suddenly feeling very awkward. “Gold Experience Requiem thinks the stand arrow might’ve awoken something.”

            “But why?” Polnareff rubbed his chin in thought. “Why fangs? It’s not like you had some dormant vampire gene… unless…”

             Giorno sighed, expression turning a bit pained, and turned to stare at his knees. 

             “It’s why I asked about Dio. When I was doing some research on him… I found a connection to him.”

            “Connection?”

            With a shaking hand, Giorno fumbled for his collar. Pulling the first button free, he yanked it back, exposing the starred birthmark on his shoulder. 

            “I’m his bastard son.” Giorno couldn’t disguise the disgusted tone of his voice, speaking like the words were vile on his tongue. They very well might’ve been, considering his unbound hatred for Dio… and himself. 

            Giorno took the liberty of looking up from his lap, due to a lack of response from Polnareff. He braced himself, knowing what he’d see: detest, abhorror, absolute loathing… yet, there was none of that. 

            Polnareff met his eyes with an expression that looked… almost sad. His stress lines were deepened, lips pulled into a frown, and his uncovered eye appeared ocean-deep with sorrow. 

            “You hate that you’ve inherited something from him.” He concluded.

            “I want absolutely nothing to do with him.” Giorno curled his hands into fists. “He’s… horrible and a monster, yet he’s passed down so much onto me. A stand, these stupid vampire genes, my hair color, even a weird birthmark.” He gingerly touched the star shape on his left shoulder and shuddered. “It’s like he’s branded me or something.”

            Polnareff shook his head slowly, his earrings swinging back and forth. 

            “Just because Dio left you with something doesn’t mean you belong to anyone.” He said. “And that birthmark? It wasn’t originally Dio’s either.”

            “Huh?”

            “When you did research on Dio, it said he stole his someone’s body, right?” Polnareff waited for Giorno to nod before continuing. “Well, it was only really Dio from the neck up. That star came from the man he stole it from- his adopted brother, Jonathan Joestar.”

            Giorno sat straight, fingers still resting on his shoulder. Puzzle pieces began to clip together in his head. 

            “You mean that… it’s not from Dio?”

            “Yup.” Polnareff nodded. “It’s Jonathan’s. I’m actually well acquainted with a few of his descendants. I fought Dio with them.”

            “Really?” Giorno asked. The birthmark suddenly wasn’t feeling so heavy anymore. “That’s… enlightening.”

            “Dio passed onto something into you that didn’t belong to him. So don’t worry about that birthmark.” Polnareff smiled warmly. 

            “What about the vampire stuff?” Giorno bit the inside of his cheek. “What should I do?”

            “That, unfortunately, is definitely from Dio.” Polnareff said. “But we’ll figure it out, okay? I’ll help you. I have some resources I can reach out to. The Speedwagon Foundation can also provide support.”

            Giorno nodded, returning his hands to his lap, fingers drumming. He swallowed, feeling sharp teeth against his lips. 

            “Thank you.” 

* * *

            It had been almost a week since Giorno had reached out to Polnareff and there hadn’t been any updates. The Speedwagon Foundation had received a vague notice of an anonymous vampire problem from him, but the alerts were low on priority due to its inconspicous nature. Giorno really preferred it that way, wanting to keep the entire situation under wraps, but as the days dragged on, he began to grow anxious. 

            Although he refused to acknowledge it, he could tell his condition was worsening by the day. The headaches had become almost constant, like a hammer banging over his skull repeatedly. His fangs were growing longer and sharper, nearly protruding from his lips. 

            The worst part, by far, was the gnawing hunger in his stomach. Giorno knew what it was. He was by no means a big eater, tending to avoid snacking if he could help it, but he knew no amount of food would satisfy the growing crave. His body wanted blood, obviously, screaming for sustenance with such intensity that he had half a mind to bite into his own arm. 

           In retrospect, Giorno had tasted blood before. When he was younger and had fists pummeling his nose and teeth all the time, it was a common flavor on his tongue. 

            But that was before. Before he began to change, and instead of that coppery tange he remembered, Giorno would find himself imagining a thick, sweet taste. 

            He hadn’t realized how bad things had gotten until late one evening, sitting at his desk where the clock struck midnight. 

            “Um, Giorno?” A voice fluttered into the room, quiet during the late hour, but still loud enough to identify who it was. Fugo had entered the room, dressed in his pajamas, hair messy enough to appear like he’d stuck his finger in an electrical socket. “Giorno, are you up?”

            Not even raising his head from a stack of paperwork, Giorno nodded, scribbling away. With his nice pen broken, he had to rely on a crappy ballpoint pen, one that required twice as much pressure to get the ink out. He shook it, trying to urge it into working with little success. 

            “Can I help you?” He asked. 

            “Um, no.” Fugo shuffled in, his socks rubbing on the carpet. “I just came to turn in these forms. It’s next month’s financial estimates.”

            “Just leave it over there, please.” Giorno waved to his left at a stack of completed papers on the edge of his desk. “Thank you for doing those.”

            Giorno continued to meddle with the pen for another minute before he realized Fugo hadn’t moved from his spot. He stood there, still clutching the papers like a lifeline. His gaze was stuck to Giorno’s face, eyes observing each movement. 

            “Fugo?”

            “Uh, sorry.” Fugo shook his head, seeming to break out of his daze. He dropped the papers into the pile, the thoughtful expression still frozen. “Giorno?”

            “Mm?”

            “You doing alright?”

            Giorno finally lifted his head from this work. Fugo appeared almost guilty asking the question, casting his gaze elsewhere. His lips had stretched into a taut line and he was slowly twiddling his thumbs. 

            “Why wouldn’t I be?” Giorno tilted his head. He tried to wrack his brain, trying to gather some context. Did he somehow overhear my conversation with Polnareff? His heart leapt into his throat at the thought. 

            “Last week.” Fugo clarified. “When you fainted.”

            “Oh.” Relief ebbed into Giorno's chest. “No, that’s fine. I think I was just overworking myself.”

             “You’re still having headaches though?” Fugo pressed. “The absence of Tylonal in the cupboard has been somewhat telling.”

            “Oh.” Giorno rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t worry about that. I just haven’t been sleeping well.”

            Whether or not Fugo believed the excuse was uncertain, but he dropped it. Instead, he sighed and took a few paces closer to the desk. 

            “Listen, Giorno…” Fugo started. “About last week. I obviously pushed you. It was not my place to reprimand you like that, especially when you were in such poor health. But I want you to know that I’ve been trying to keep an open mind.”

           “Thank you.” Giorno said curtly. He felt himself close off a bit at the mention of the incident, but he tried not to show it.

            “I mean, I’m worried about you. We all are.” Fugo went on. “I’m just trying to say that we’re all willing to listen to you. Whenever. So don’t feel like you have to shut us out.”

           To prove his point, Fugo leaned forward to envelope Giorno into a light embrace. It seemed hesitant and he had made sure not to touch Giorno’s back, hands around his shoulders instead. It made the contact bearable. 

           “Of course.” Giorno returned the hug, like it was a sort of business agreement. His gut was swirling with guilt, knowing he had no intention of telling his teammates about his current predicament or his past, but he nodded anyway, his nose rubbing against Fugo’s neck. “Thank you-”

            As soon as he did so, a sharp smell pierced his nostrils, like he’d suddenly stuck his face into a boiling crockpot. It was thick, sweet, almost overbearing like he’d get drunk by the scent alone. Giorno felt his stomach clench at it, the raw claws of hunger going wild, and his mouth began to salivate. The pain in his head lessened just a bit. 

             It was blood. And he could smell it, barley centimeters under a sheet of flesh as Giorno’s nose pressed against Fugo’s throat. He could hear it pumping through thin veins, like it was asking, singing , to be consumed. Just a little. A prick just under the jaw, dig his fangs in and relish in the sweet blood waiting… 

            Giorno shoved himself backwards, nearly tipping back in his chair from the momentum. His headache returned full force as soon as the scent vanished from his nose, like something was twisting in his brain hissing and spitting. 

             No, no, no. Giorno gripped the sides of his head in frustration and utter horror. I almost bit him. I could've killed him. My friend. My comrade. 

            “Are you okay?” Fugo’s expression looked a little hurt, but it was masked over with a crackle of concern. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

            “No… just my head.” Giorno managed. He tried to shake the memory out of his head, how much he'd been ready to devour Fugo where he stood, draining him completely of every drop of blood. “I think I’m going to lay down.”

            “Giorno-”

            Without looking back, still grasping at his head, Giorno left the office, stumbling off to barricade himself in his room. 

* * *

            Not even three hours had passed when Giorno decided he couldn’t stand it anymore. His headache had returned tenfold, his brain feeling like mush under a giant fist. His stomach ached, clawing at his insides like he hadn’t eaten in days, and his throat felt coated in sandpaper, and no amount of water could soothe it. 

            It was getting ridiculous. Ridiculous. 

            When Giorno stood from his bed, black spots jumped around his vision like tree frogs. He knew he needed sustenance and he couldn’t wait for the foundation to get back to him. Not when he’d nearly devoured Fugo just hours prior. 

             I can’t let any of them get hurt. Giorno steadied himself against the wall, his head pounding. I have to look for food. 

             With as much grace as he could manage in his dwindling state, Giorno pulled a deep blue jacket over his pajamas and some black boots. He crept out of his room and down the stairs with the utmost care, terrified to wake anyone. He wasn’t sure he could hold back if he ran into someone. 

             Upsy daisy. Giorno slipped out of the front door into the cold night air, his breath now visible in white puffs. He exhaled slowly and stepped down the porch and into the street.

             I don’t even know where to start. He thought. Would animal blood work? I could have Gold make an animal for me? Or does it have to be human?

            A stray cat wandered in front of his path and Giorno bent down to smell it. The scent of blood was there, swimming under its skin but… it didn’t have that immediate effect Fugo’s blood had. There was no vivid phantom of flavor that drew his fangs out in gnawing hunger. 

            “Human blood it is, then.” Giorno sighed. He patted the cat’s fine ginger fur from its spine to tail. “You don’t have any worries, do you, little kitty? I’m jealous.”

            In response, the cat jumped off into the bushes, vanishing into the undergrowth. 

            Giorno continued deeper into the city, his stomach groaning with hunger. At some point, he pulled his hood over his head in fear of getting recognized as he tried to form a plan in his head. 

             It would need to be discrete. I can’t do it in the middle of the street! How much can I eat? How am I supposed to do this?

            In the midst of his thoughts, the undeniable smell of blood tickled his nose. Thick and sweet, alluring like a spoonful of molasses dribbling into coffee. The tangy scent that made his mouth water. 

            Like dangling from a pair of puppet strings, Giorno drifted down the dark streets, hunched over and sniffing like a bloodhound. Somewhere… it was somewhere. The source of the smell that would end his painful hunger. Somewhere… 

            Giorno hitched to a stop at the edge of an alleyway, leaning around the corner on his toes. A woman lay on the ground, curled in a fetal position, her navy blue dress stained with a growing pool of blood. She moaned in pain, clutching her shoulder around what appeared to be a knife wound. 

            At that moment, Giorno felt his focus begin to dissipate. He lurched forwards, hands outstretched and something feral awoke within his gut, like the birth of an angry beast. 

             It’s mine. All mine. 

             He stumbled over the fallen woman’s form, falling to his knees and slowly leaning in towards the open wound. The smell intensified, inviting to partake of the gift that had been so graciously offered. 

             Food… It’s mine!

             Giorno opened his mouth and rested his tongue against it, feeling the sweet taste of blood seep in, its coppery flavor zig-zagging down his throat like a shock of electricity. Fangs lengthening in preparation to feed, Giorno brought the chilling body closer to him, ignoring the woman’s pathetic whimpers. 

             IT’S MINE!

           His fangs broke through the skin, chomping down on the wound with enough force to crack bone. The woman tensed up, screaming in pain until Giorno whipped his hand upwards to cover her mouth. She squirmed under his bite, eyes lit with fear. 

            “Shut. Up.” Giorno hissed, and he went for her neck, closing his jaws around the tender white flesh around her throat. She went limp instantly. 

            A flood of thick liquid squirted from the open wound, accompanied by a sweet flavor splashing across his tongue. Giorno lapped it away giddily, utterly drunk with uphoria. It was warm in his belly, soothing the constant aching that plagued him, and Giorno felt himself digger deeper with his fangs, ripping away tissue and muscle. 

            A severed artery burst new blood, spraying into the night air, and Giorno relished in it, ignoring the splatters over his face. His fingers grew sticky under the woman’s near-severed head, and his fangs scraped against raw bone. 

            His head felt empty of thought, consumed by the urge to eat. Eat it all, drink it dry. He’d rip the head off and let the blood drip into his mouth in sweet clumps. And he’d lick it away, all away-

            Giorno froze as something touched his shoulder. His body tensed up, and in an animalistic trance, he whirled around and snarled, baring bloodstained fangs. 

             Someone is trying to steal from me! His mind screamed. Nobody can steal it! It’s mine!

             In the dark alleyway, Giorno could make out a pair of eyes, dark blue. In their azure shade, he could see the reflection of his own, deep red and glowing. It fueled his anger further. 

            The intruder said something, their voice quiet and sharp. Giorno immediately retaliated and snapped his teeth threateningly. How dare this person interrupt his meal? How dare they touch him?

            Losing interest in his current meal, Giorno sprang forwards towards the figure, ready to tear into their throat. He lunged, bloodied hand outstretched, until something heavy slammed into his back, pinning him to the ground. 

            Giorno screeched in anger, squirming like a bug pinned under a needle. He clawed at the ground, fingernails digging into the cobblestones to no avail, and in a desperate scream of rage, he smashed his forehead into the dirt. 

             Wake up! A voice demanded in his head, but Giorno pushed it away, glaring upwards at the blue-eyed figure still standing a few feet away. 

            He screeched into frustration, trying to lift the weight pushing against his shoulder blades. His limbs slipped against the blood-splattered cobblestone as he tried to grab hold, but it was no use. Whatever holding him down was stronger. 

            Giorno thrashed around again, but his strength was slowly slipping away, like something was sucking it out. He grew tired, body becoming weaker until he flopped flat into the ground. 

            As he lay there, Giorno watched his sight clear up a bit. No longer was the world around him stained with blood. The weight vanished from his back, a flicker of gold in the corner of his vision. Coherent thought returned to his head slowly, wheels beginning to turn like a locomotive.

            That’s right… he’d been hungry and nearly bitten Fugo, deciding to look for food. He’d smelled something and…

            What happened? Giorno groaned and sat back on his haunches, his chest aching from being slammed into the ground. He rubbed his forehead, only to touch a layer of blood lathered across his face. It was then he realized he was covered in blood. 

            A wild cry of horror escaped his throat at the sight of it, and he scrambled back, slipping on a slick puddle of blood. His arm hit something hard and limp, and in the dim light, he caught sight of a blue dress and the pale face of a woman, lifeless,while her eyes held onto her last seconds of terror. 

            The puzzle pieces fit together in his head one by one, and Giorno couldn’t stop the spiral of horror at the realization of what he’d done. 

             I did this. He thought. I killed an innocent person. They had no relation with me and I killed her in my hunger. This is all my fault.

            “Giono!” A voice broke through his thoughts, and he jerked upwards. 

           A slim form suddenly crouched in front of him, staring with deep blue eyes. 

           Bucciarati.

          The man looked oddly disheveled, his hair absent of a tightly woven braid and round gold clips. A fluffy black parka had been thrown over a set of blue silk pajamas and laced boots, a bizarre combination evident of hurried departure. 

           Olive-skinned hands clasped Giorno’s shoulders now smeared with blood, and a voice cut through the alleyway.    

            “Giorno, are you alright?” Bucciarati’s voice was swift and rough with concern. “Are you hurt at all?”

            Giorno remained silent, his gaze blurry and unfocused. Bucciarati, the man he most looked up to, who he’d nearly attacked just minutes ago, was questioning his well-being. 

            In an utterly pathetic whimper, Giorno choked out a response. 

            “It’s… it’s not mine.”

            “What’s not?”

            “It’s not mine.” Giorno felt his throat tighten. “The blood.”

            Bucciarati’s eyelashes fluttered in confusion before recognition surfaced, his gaze flicking over the rather prominent splotches of blood covering Giorno. 

            “So, you’re not hurt, then?” He asked. 

             Why is he acting so calm about this? Giorno swallowed, tears beginning to blur his vision. I just… murdered someone and he’s…

             “Hey now, it’s going to be okay.” Bucciarati wiped a rebellious tear away from the corner of Giorno’s eye, staining his knuckles red. “Why don’t we-”

            Giorno snatched Bucciarati’s wrist and yanked it back, his face twisted in frustration.

            “Stop it!” He snapped. “Stop… doing that!”

            “Doing what?”

            “That!” Giorno gestured to Bucciarati violently, flipping sticky blond locks from his shoulders. “Acting like nothing’s wrong! Like nothing happened! I just killed someone- I nearly killed you and you’re talking like we’re having some stupid walk in the park! Why aren’t you angry at me?”

            His shrill voice seemed to echo in the dim alley, and at the moment, a burning epiphany seemed to punch Giorno in the gut. 

            This was a near-repeat of the same argument he’d had a week ago with Fugo- except on the other side. He was angry that Bucciarati was ignoring the obvious elephant in the room, pretending it didn’t matter, dressing up the issue with a little smile. Just as he had done to Fugo. It was chilling. 

            “I think it would be best to discuss the situation when things have calmed down.” Bucciarati said. “Are you okay with that?”

             When things have… Giorno felt shame bloom in his chest at the realization he’d let his emotions run out of control. His shoulders sagged and he nodded slowly. It’s for the better. 

            * * *

            Giorno sat on the edge of the bathtub, resting his head against the white wall. His fingernails tore into his cuticles anxiously, eyes watching as Bucciarati knelt down on the floor with a wet towel and basin. Tears rolled down his cheeks slowly, cleaning streaks in the drying blood still caking his face. Giorno sniffed, resisting the urge to wipe his nose in his sleeve. He despised crying; not only was it useless and weak, but he was an ugly crier- sloppy tears joined with streaks of sticky snot, saliva, and awkward hiccups. 

            “It’ll be alright, Giorno.” Bucciarati wet the cloth in the half-filled basil and proceeded to wring it, ridding the towel of excess water. “Don’t worry about it.”

            He reached up and began to wipe away the blood staining Giorno’s cheeks, humming softly. 

            “Would you like a change of clothes?” Bucciarati asked. “I can bring you something.”

            “No, I can do it myself.”

            A drop of hurt flickered in Bucciarati’s eyes from the harsh tone, but it quickly turned to sorrow. His voice dropped to a tender whisper. 

            “You know I’ve already seen them, right?” He sighed. “You don’t have to hide them from me.”

            Giorno heard his breath hitch at the mention of his scars. His insides squirmed with embarrassment as he remembered Bucciarati had seen him in such a vulnerable state- bleeding, naked, and scarred from here to Sunday. 

           “I know.” He muttered, averting his gaze. “But it’s… a sensitive topic for me.”

            “That’s understandable. I-”

            The bathroom door suddenly burst open and Narancia stumbled in with Mista in tow, clutching Polnareff in his hands.     

            “Oh, you found him!” Narancia sighed with relief and scrambled over. “Fugo said you were acting weird and when Bruno came to check on you, you’d vanished! I thought you’d gone for a walk or something but Aerosmith was showing you had irregular breathing and I got scared! Mista and I stayed at the house while the others went to find you and… and…” It was then Narancia seemed to register the disastrous state Giorno was in. “...what happened to you?”

            Giorno immediately shied away, staring hard at his bloodied shoes. It was bad enough he’d caused the team to freak out and now they were watching him have a breakdown. Pathetic. 

            “Where are Fugo and Abbaccio?” Mista asked. 

            “They’re cleaning up.” Bucciarati informed him. “They should be here shortly.”

             Cleaning up? Giorno bit his lip. What kind of… oh. The body. They’re cleaning up my mess.

            “Giorno, can you look up?” Bucciarati dipped the cloth back in the basil, staining the water red. “I need to clean your face.”

            He complied, albeit rather hesitantly, and Narancia gasped, his expression bewildered. 

            “Giorno, your eyes! You have red eyes!” He frowned. “I thought they were green… did you get hit with a stand or something?”

            “I don’t think that’s it.”

            Abbaccio’s voice suddenly rang out and he stalked in, his tall frame overshadowing Fugo behind him. 

             Great. Giorno slumped his shoulders. Now everyone is here to see. Absolutely perfect. 

             “Dude, what happened?” Mista knelt down a few feet away, placing the tortoise in his lap. “You look like crap.”

            “I feel you have some explaining to do,” Abbaccio crossed his arms. “Especially considering that mess you left behind. What were you even doing next to a corpse anyway? Did you straight up kill someone?”

            “What?” Narancia stiffened. “There was a casualty?”

            Giorno swallowed, tasting the distant tang of blood on the back of his tongue. He could feel the curious stares of his teammates pressing against him. They wanted answers and he couldn’t give it to them. 

           His eyes flickered to Polnareff, looking at him through the tortoise, and they locked gazes. Understanding suddenly seemed to dawn on Polnareff. 

            “This… is my fault, isn’t it?” He said. 

            “No!” Giorno stumbled forward, landing awkwardly on his knees. He reached out and took hold of Coco Jumbo, shaking his head. “No, it’s not! It’s my fault; I’m the one who wanted the message to Speedwagon a secret. You had nothing to do with it!”

            “I still share some of the blame. You confided in me and I didn’t notice the urgency.”

            Giorno let out a painful hiccup, still shaking his head, but he didn’t argue. Polnareff was nearly as stubborn as he was and he didn’t want to play this pointless blame game, even if it was obvious he was the one entirely at fault. 

            “I don’t understand.” Narancia crawled closer to Giorno. His hands were hovering over Giorno’s shivering frame, but he didn’t touch. “Something happened but you wanted it a secret? Why? And what does Mr. Polnareff have to do with any of it?”

             You have to tell them. Giorno could almost hear the message in Polnareff’s expression, urging him to open up. They’re your family. 

            They’ll hate me. He wanted to argue. They’ll think I’m a monster. I can’t-

            “Don’t be sad, Giorno.” Narancia’s soothing tone, so different from his normal energetic voice, began to calm Giorno’s racing heart. “Whatever it is, I won’t be mad.” He paused, a smile flickering on his lips. “I mean… I can’t promise the same for Abbaccio over there-”

            “Hey!” 

            “-but I’ll still love you.” Narancia was grinning now and Giorno realized he was staring, tears and snot still covering his face. He sometimes forgot how much trial and pain Narancia had encountered. 

            “It… it was the stand arrow.” He whispered, barley about a whisper. “When it stabbed me.”

            “The stand arrow did something to you?” Narancia confirmed. He spoke louder, as if translating to the others around them. “What happened?”

            “It, um…” Giorno slouched forwards, hugging himself. “It awoke my father’s inheritance.”

            “Your father?”

           “I never met him but… Mr. Polnareff did. Apparently he was some crazy vampire.”

            “He… what? No way!” Narancia’s mouth formed into the shape of an O. “By inheritance, you mean…”

            Giorno nodded solemnly, his cheeks burning with shame. He took the time to wipe his nose in his filthy sleeve. 

            “I’m some god-forsaken vampire now.” The tears were starting up again, and Giorno reached forward, wrapping his arms around Narancia like a desperate lifeline. He nuzzled his nose into Narancia’s shoulder, smelling oranges and chocolate milk. The scent of blood was present as well, but there was no intense urge to sink his teeth into the thin flesh. In fact, the lack of killing intent sent relief spreading through his limbs and Giorno cried harder, gripping the back of Narancia’s nightshirt. 

            “Shhh, it’s okay.” Narancia patted Giorno’s head, not seeming to care about the blood now sticking to him or the tortoise pressing against his stomach. “You’ll be alright, Giogio.”

           “What happened?” Mista pressed. “Is he hurt or something?”

            “Oh, the stand arrow just turned Gio into a vampire.” Narancia said it so matter-of-a-factly that it sounded like he was talking about the weather. He pulled away from Giorno and turned to face Mista. “Something he inherited from his ol’ man.”

            “A what?” Mista asked. “A vampire? As in, blood sucking-undead-chompy dude? That vampire?”

             “There’s no such thing.” Fugo piped up from the back of the room, sitting on the counter. 

            “The Speedwagon Foundation has been involved with vampires for centuries.” Polnareff said. “Their existence had merely been hidden from the public.”

            “But vampires?” Fugo argued. “That sounds so… out-of-left-field. Are you sure it’s not something else?”

            “What else would you call it?” Giorno muttered glumly. “I suck blood, I’ve got fangs-”

            “You have fangs?” Narancia perked up. “Can I see?”

            Without waiting for an answer, he reached out and grabbed Giorno’s cheeks, pushing until he could see them- two pointed canines each on his upper and lower jaws, still stained red at the tips. 

            “Ack!” Mista flinched at the sight of it. “You’ve got four of ‘em!”

            “No way…” Fugo muttered in disbelief. He squinted from across the room, as if trying to detect falsehood. 

            “So that woman.” Abbaccio leaned against the wall. “You killed her?”

            The tone in the room suddenly darkened at its mention, like it suddenly dropped a few degrees. 

            Giorno shifted uncomfortably. 

             “It was an accident.” He whispered. “I didn’t mean to kill her. I was just so hungry.” He sighed, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “I didn’t want to hurt any of you and I thought I could handle it on my own. I messed up.”

            “You messed alright.” Abbaccio sighed.

            “I know-”

            “So stop trying to do it all yourself. We’re here to support you.”

             Giorno looked up to meet Abbaccio’s eyes, green on purple. There was no malice like he was expecting. 

             “Abba, you big softie!” Narancia snorted.

             “Shut it, brat.”

             Bucciarati took one of Giorno’s hands and began to wash the blood from his fingers, moving the rag in circular motions. It came off in slick blobs, staining the white cloth further. Giorno turned away, his stomach twisting.

            “I don’t understand.” He said. “Why are you doing this? Why are you acting like this? What’s… why?”

            “Oh, c’mon Giorno!” Mista suddenly sprung up and sat against the wall of the tub close enough for their knees to touch. “We’re your family, aren’t we?”

            “Yeah!” Narancia beamed a smile so bright, it could’ve shamed the sun. “It doesn't matter if you’ve got some big ol’ teeth.”

            “But-”

            “Giorno,” Bucciarati spoke, his voice sounding silky. “We all care about you. We don’t want you to have to struggle alone. Let us help you.”

             “I…” Giorno glanced around the room, searching the faces of each of his friends. Each one was offering a smile of comfort- even Abbaccio. A warm feeling began to gather in his chest, and as he looked towards Polnareff, he allowed himself to relax, even if just by the tiniest bit. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad. 

            “Okay.” Giorno nearly whispered, but he was smiling, fangs out from poking between his lips.