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Vampires are not born, they are made.
Giorno Giovanna has never really wondered whether or not Dracula had a mother. He simply came to be. He was eternal, not someone who was born.
And yet here he is, having this very concept dropped on himself.
“Your father was a vampire, Giovanna,” Kujo stated monotonously, following a sigh that communicated he didn’t expect Giorno to believe a single word he said.
And Giorno didn’t.
Vampires are for fiction, for scary movie night with Mista and Trish when the latter visits Naples every month or so. Vampires are a fun little escape from the infinitely scarier real world they all have to live in.
But then he showed Giorno the body. Locked securely in the Speedwagon Foundation’s Italian branch morgue.
A teen with a similar stature to Giorno himself, though the body has thinner arms and hollowed cheeks.
His eyes are wide, a strained shade of red. The mouth hangs open awkwardly; typical for a corpse.
Giorno, perceiving the boy so, just feels… wrong. He shouldn't be looking at this. This boy that is supposed to prove vampires somehow exist.
“You expect me to believe being a vampire killed him? He just looks… sick.”
Kujo, deadpan, with a gloved hand, reaches into the boy’s mouth and pulls his top lip back to reveal his canine.
There’s a… really sharp tooth there.
It’s not like that’s super rare though, right? Others mig--
“You have them too, don’t you?”
Fuck.
A lump forms in Giorno’s throat.
He did, yes.
Once, sometime between him taking control of the mafia a year ago and the present day, someone commented on Giorno Giovanna’s unusually sharp canines.
So he ripped them out.
Replaced them.
Who needs them? They just got in the way, poking the inside of his mouth all the time.
The thing was… the teeth Giorno replaced them with always grew to a point as well, sharp as ever.
Maybe that should’ve been his first sign.
His hand instinctively flinches in the direction of his mouth, and the way Kujo grunts when he does so unnerves Giorno.
“He had frequent panic attacks, so feeling weak and short of breath wasn’t uncommon, including occasionally passing out from shock,” he says. “But he didn’t wake back up after one. Autopsy revealed complete organ failure. They deteriorated over time.”
Giorno is skeptical. “From being a vampire.”
“Yes.”
Kujo sighs.
“I know, it sounds like bullshit to me too and I’m the one saying it. However, coming from the man who watched your father physically drain my grandpa of almost all his blood, I’m not about to dispute it.”
Good that they’d already gotten over the whole Killing Giorno’s Father hurdle.
Giorno wonders why Kujo didn’t tell him about the whole vampire thing then.
"The thing is," the scientist begins, "scans have shown that you, also as a child of Dio, will meet the same fate as the boy here, requiem stand or not."
Giorno Giovanna, though he does not show it outwardly, is a little stunned by the information being presented to him.
He’s always known something wasn’t quite right with him, especially in the past year, stand and taking over the mafia and all, but it wasn’t anything he thought was going to quite literally kill him. Something that was going to kill him-- that could be out of his control.
Or not?
“If what you say is true, then I should just replace all my organs, right? I can do that.”
Kujo shakes his head.
“A couple transplants won’t fix this. The root cause is the vampiric essence in your blood performing as a slow-acting poison. How do you plan to fix that; to create a new skull or heart without killing yourself first?”
Giorno inhales sharply through his teeth.
Shit.
“How much time do I have?”
“Based on your X-rays, the Foundation gives you around two months to live, give or take.”
That is… not good. Extremely so, even.
Giorno’s eyes narrow. “Is there a cure?”
A hesitation that tells Giorno the answer before Kujo even opens his mouth.
“Not yet.”
“So… why are you telling me?”
Kujo shrugs.
“I thought you’d want to know.”
And yes, Giorno would like to know these things in the face of his own upcoming death. The thing is, he didn’t expect them to actually be within his grasp. He always thought he’d die spontaneously; a fun little surprise to spice up his existence.
Likewise, Giorno never imagined that the news of being a vampire would come hand-in-hand with the news of one’s imminent mortality.
Somehow, it was… disappointing.
The two exit the morgue, and he does not ask whether Kujo got permission to show him the body or not.
✯ ✯ ✯
“So, what did he say?” Mista asks as Giorno walks through the door.
“Who?” Giorno asks before mentally slapping himself. Of course he knows who. “Kujo said that they’re investigating my father more; what medical conditions he may have had and the like. It’s always good to know your family’s medical history, Mista.”
“Oh. Of course. Yeah.”
It was apparent that Mista was immediately turned off by how boring it sounded, and he immediately returned to reading his magazine.
“How was Jotaro? Is he well?” Polnareff asks from where he sits in the turtle.
“Yes. He is,” Giorno confirms.
Mista, Giorno and Polnareff currently all live together .
While it’s not of much consequence keeping a turtle, possessed or not, Giorno was at first hesitant to stay with Mista.
“Look,” was Mista’s reasoning. “If it’s my job to protect you and whatnot, why should that stop after we leave Passione’s HQ? What if someone jumps you on the way home?”
They both knew that was kind of a far-fetched reason, and after the accusing glare, Mista soon followed up with an awkward cough and “To be honest, I haven’t lived without roommates for a while and it’d be kinda lonely by myself. You get me?”
And who was Giorno to deny this man whose family he had just so brutally murdered?
Next, they turned to Fugo, who Giorno was able to regain contact with after becoming Don.
Mista seemed extremely ready to ask Fugo to live with them, but he didn’t even get to before the response came, short and simple.
“I prefer to live alone,” Fugo had said.
Giorno sensed he still had unresolved feelings regarding the breakup of Bucciarati’s team, and didn’t blame the man for doing so.
Thus, he was given his own apartment, Passione-provided.
Maybe… Giorno should have just rejected Mista’s offer and lived separately.
It’d be easier that way.
✯ ✯ ✯
It’s just a normal day, as far as Giorno is concerned. It’s the very crack of dawn and he’s heading over to Passione HQ to do his usual duties. Mista doesn’t have to be there so early, and Giorno wants to prepare some things for the day.
He can handle these things by himself. Always has been able to. Mista’s insistence on protecting Giorno has always unsettled him.
However, the minute he steps out into the first rays of sunlight-- he feels a burning sensation all over his body.
Giorno reels back into the shade of the building’s overhang. He looks at his forearm, the first thing to touch the sun.
The skin there is red; irritated.
If he squints hard enough he can swear he sees it smoking.
This is… an issue. The sun covers the entire three blocks of sidewalk from here to HQ. And he can’t just go back inside now or wake Mista and ask the man to drive him. This isn’t Mista’s problem.
So, he inhales sharply and braces himself for the pain.
It’s just something that he’ll have to get used to, after all.
✯ ✯ ✯
“Gio, you okay?” Mista asks when he walks into Giorno’s office that day.
Giorno is sure Mista’s referring to his bandaged forearms.
“I’m fine, Mista,” he explains coolly. “Just spilled some coffee, that’s all.”
Mista sits on the edge of the desk. “That must’ve been a lot of coffee. Sure you don’t need help with anything today?”
Giorno grits his teeth. “I’m sure. Go check on the teams.”
✯ ✯ ✯
“Fugo,” Giorno begins. “You’ve done all of these before, yes?”
Fugo looks over the papers in front of him.
“I have, yes.”
“Good. That’s good.”
If Giorno won’t be able to run the mafia anymore and complete his dream, then someone else must do it in his wake, right?
✯ ✯ ✯
Giorno wishes he’d learned how to bite his nails.
Earlier today he noticed the clacking sound they make when they hit his keyboard, and it’s driving him insane, but his nail clipper is at home, so what’s he supposed to do now?
They weren’t that long yesterday… were they?
✯ ✯ ✯
“With all due respect, sir,” Fugo says, teeth grit. “I haven’t received many orders from you in the past few days. Or tasks at all.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Giorno says.
He’s been doing Fugo’s work, mostly. He didn’t want his lessened state to burden the man at all.
Fugo nods. His limbs appear to be locked to his sides.
“I understand, sir.”
✯ ✯ ✯
His fangs are getting too long again, Giorno notices.
He pulls his lip back as he looks at himself in the mirror that night, inspecting where he’s just bitten his tongue.
There’s a lot of blood, that’s for sure, so he must have gone deep.
As he looks at the wound, he sees something out of the corner of his eye.
When he glances in the direction, it disappears, but…
Did his iris just turn red?
✯ ✯ ✯
“So, I heard you’re dismissing Fugo,” Mista says nonchalantly. “What’d he do?”
“I’m… what?”
“Dismissing Fugo. Waning him off of assignments, all that.”
“I’m… not? I gave him a few less assignments because I think he deserves a break.”
Mista frowns. “Well you should’ve told him that, boss. He’s all worried now.”
Giorno gulps. He feels a little sick. Fuck.
“I will.”
✯ ✯ ✯
It’s sometime late at night, or early in the morning. Giorno hasn’t been keeping track for a while now. All he sees are words swimming before his eyes; statements and drug reports and the like.
He would’ve stayed at Passione HQ to do this, but that would’ve made Mista and Polnareff suspicious.
He was able to keep this secret for so long. Three weeks, in fact, which seems like a while now that Giorno knows he has so little time left.
He can’t worry them now.
Giorno isn’t even really sure if he sleeps now. He can’t remember the last time he got more than two hours in a row.
So here he is, at one of the only hours he can really concentrate, scribbling down mafia orders and deeds for things and payments and the like. The monotony of the words on the pages make them seem to float where they’re printed.
All of a sudden, he feels a tightness in his throat. His chest explodes with pain.
Giorno, out of some strange reflex, drops his pen and just sits there, shaking.
This pain turns into the feeling of oh god something’s coming up. Can’t do it here. Can’t do it here.
As fast as his weak little legs will take him, Giorno Giovanna runs to the bathroom across the hall.
The switch from the light of his desklamp to the black of the hallway and then bathroom leaves him unable to see, but he makes it to the toilet nevertheless.
And whatever it is sure does show its wretched face.
It has a slimy texture, falling from his mouth. A large amount of something, which in itself is concerning considering the sickly feeling that comes with the smell and taste of food has deterred Giorno from eating much of it for a while now.
Giorno sobs, eyes completely dry. Those stupid sharp teeth poke holes in his tongue.
At this point, a good portion of the blood that drips from his lips has got to be just from the assorted puncture wounds in his mouth; not his failing organs.
He’s not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing.
All he can register is the pain in his torso and the pain in his mouth and the overwhelming dread in his gut because this isn’t just something that can be fixed by ripping out an organ or two and what if he’s too late? What if he didn’t prepare Mista and Fugo and Polnareff enough and this is just… it? What if the Speedwagon Foundation was wrong?
Giorno slowly reels himself back up above the toilet, more on autopilot than anything.
What does he do now?
He’s so wrapped up in his shock that he doesn’t even hear the footsteps.
“You okay, Gio-- oh, damn.”
Shit.
“No, Mista, it’s not-- I--”
Mista kneels down by Giorno. He can see the stern lines of his eyebrows in the dull glow of the bathroom’s nightlight.
“You’re gonna tell me you’re fine, right?”
Giorno stutters. “Well— I—”
He doesn't finish the sentence.
What's he supposed to say? Oh yeah, Mista, you just caught me at one of my weekly hurl-blood-and-not-cry sessions! Nothing to worry about!
He simply purses his lips into a tight line. "I… could be doing better."
Mista seems unconvinced.
He slowly moves to take Giorno’s quivering hands—positioned uselessly in front of his chest this entire time—in his own.
“C’mon, boss. Tell me what’s up. We’ve all been worried about you.”
Tonight, on the floor of his own bathroom, Giorno Giovanna feels his least favorite feeling in the entire world. He feels small. Small compared to Mista’s hands; to his father’s shadow. To the blood he just left in the toilet, the blood that still trickles down his chin.
Vampires aren’t supposed to feel small.
They’re the apex predator; something that’s supposed to be feared.
Right now Giorno feels the only person he’s really scaring is himself.
He takes a small breath in through his mouth.
“Mista, I’m dying.”
Mista blinks.
“Well no shit! You’re throwing up blood, man! That’s not normal!”
Giorno nods.
Mista gives a long sign and releases Giorno’s hands to lean against the wall next to him.
“Well, what’s killing you?”
Giorno purses his lips. He sits back to be more level with Mista and takes a deep breath despite his burning chest.
“…Would you believe me if I said that Kujo told me I’m a vampire?”
“Yeah.”
“What?”
“I’d believe it. You’ve done, like, every single vampire thing in the past week except drink my blood. I was starting to worry you’d take it while I was sleeping.”
His expression turns sheepish. “…That’s partly why I didn’t sleep.”
Giorno chuckles. He leans his head against the wall.
Mista coughs awkwardly.
“So… are you gonna drink my blood? Or no?”
“I… wasn’t planning on it.”
“Oh. Good.”
They’re silent for a few seconds.
“You know you can, if you wanna. If it’ll stop you from dying.”
He breathes out, slowly; waveringly. He’s not sure if it’s his ribs or his lungs that are screaming. “It won’t.”
“Well then, what will? You’re not dying on my watch, Giogio.”
“Nothing. I’m incurable.”
“And you thought you’d just not tell us? Gio, how the fuck did you think that would go?”
Giorno flinches away from Mista.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, I mean, you don’t have to be sorry, just… I would’ve liked to know, yeah?”
“…Yeah.”
Suddenly, quick, purposeful footsteps make their way down the hall.
“Mista? Giorno? Are you here?”
It’s Fugo.
Giorno recoils into Mista’s side.
“No, Gio, it’s fine. I asked him to come.”
“You asked Fugo to come?” Giorno gawks.
“Yeah! We’re having an early morning intervention and it’s not your choice anymore.”
“So you planned this.”
“Not you throwing up blood, but yeah. The rest of it.”
When Fugo enters the room after navigating the house in the dark, he kneels down and sets down a wide, circular object that he’s been carrying.
“To be honest with you, I don’t want to be here, either,” he says, quickly scooting back upon placing the item on the floor.
The item, Giorno realizes, is the turtle.
The image of Polnareff appears out of the key’s gem, and finishes Fugo’s sentiment, “Yet this appears to be a conversation that must be had.”
“What?” Giorno asks. “There’s nothing wrong. Go home and sleep. Don’t be worried about me.”
Mista gives him a look. “Giorno, you just told me you’re a vampire. They’re not dumb.”
“A vampire?” Fugo asks.
“Yeah, I… didn’t believe it myself, really,” Giorno admits quietly.
Polnareff snorts. “I believe it.”
He would.
Polnareff being an accomplice to killing Giorno’s father was also something he and Kujo had already been over.
"However, Giorno," Polnareff says. "You should not have to overwork yourself this way while in this state. As your elder, I order you to take a rest until this all blows over."
"But what if I… I have to do something!" Giorno chokes out. "I'm not just going to leave you guys to clean up my mess, I can't—"
"Then call it your task to rest and get better."
Polnareff stares at Giorno with a certain intensity.
"If you really do die, Giorno, I wouldn't want your last months alive to be spent this way. Speaking of which, how urgent is this death of yours?"
Giorno hesitates.
“A month or so.”
There’s a silence in the room, as there always is before complete hell breaks loose.
“You what? Giorno, you were going to spend all this time waiving Fugo’s shit and doing your fucking job and you’re gonna die in a month?”
Okay, so Mista is a little angrier about this than Giorno thought he would be.
Fugo and Polnareff also look a little displeased.
Giorno’s gig is up, he can tell now. The team won’t let him work all night, or go out in the sun when he shouldn’t, or even walk to Passione HQ anymore, probably. Every remaining ounce of his independence is gone.
He’s going to be such a burden to them.
“You don’t have to worry about it,” Giorno whispers in the face of Mista’s hysterical yelling. “I’m fine. Do what you guys want to do.”
“Giorno,” Polnareff says sternly. “We want to help you. You have to understand that.”
“Yeah, man. What’s the point of dying if you don’t at least have some fun first? We’re not gonna let you go like this!”
Even Fugo adds a nod.
Giorno looks around at all of them, then nods slowly. “Alright.”
It looks like he’s just going to have to accept it now.
“Yeah! We’re gonna have so much fun, Gio! Just you wait!”
Fugo grunts. “You don’t seem very sad about it.”
Mista sticks his tongue out at him. “Being sad is for later. I’m not gonna worry about that now.”
“Now,” Polnareff begins with a crisp clear of his throat, “To start tomorrow on a good note, I think we should go get something sweet. Whatever it is, it’s on me.”
“You… can’t eat,” Mista points out. “You’re a turtle.”
Polnareff shrugs. “That doesn’t mean that some other people in this room shouldn’t treat themselves.”
“I… alright,” Giorno mutters.
He doesn’t really feel well enough to go anywhere right now, but that’s fine. If it’s what his friends want to do, then they’ll go. He shakily stands from the floor to walk out of the room; start the trek to wherever their destination is.
He falters. Almost trips.
Fuck.
Both Mista and Fugo rush to catch him, each grasping on to an arm.
“Watch out,” Fugo whispers.
“We got you, boss,” Mista says.
Giorno grins warily.
“Uh… thank you.”
Mista frowns, leaning over to look at Giorno’s face. “We’re leading you back to your room, buddy. You don’t look so good, yeah?”
“No, you don—” Giorno begins.
“Shut up. Stop talking. We’re going to your room even if I have to carry you there.”
“Alright,” Giorno reluctantly agrees, and shakes the others’ arms off of him. He can at least make the trek back to his own room right across the hall.
Fugo clears his throat, putting all eyes in the room on him.
“Hey, Giorno,” he says awkwardly. “This whole being a vampire thing… is it like a disease?”
“It’s like a… a poison, I think,” Giorno replies.
“Well I… I might know someone who can help you.”
✯ ✯ ✯
“You guys are so welcome! Come again if the problem comes back!” the girl yells.
Coniglio, she says her name is. Upon seeing Fugo’s face, she immediately charged at him, and Mista had to diffuse the situation while Giorno explained why they’d come to the hotel where she works.
He recognized her from their first meeting, around that year ago.
Giorno does not ask what her and Fugo’s past together is. He’s pretty sure he knows without them having to say, anyway.
Though it was pretty strange having a little white rabbit quite literally suck out your diseases.
And to give her credit, he does feel better. Almost immediately, in fact, as his shoulders feel lighter and his stomach stops the lurching it’s been doing for the past while.]
Coniglio is… a nice girl.
“Hey! Where was she when I got shot?” Mista yells at Fugo. “We could’ve used that instead of me having to go through all this pain!”
“You only shoot yourself. I think you deserve the pain.”
Now Giorno can walk through the sun, and speak without biting himself, and maybe, just maybe, he can live his life a little more leisurely. At least through the threats of his friends.
It’s gonna be okay.