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Chapter Text

Cairo, Egypt - 1985

Haruka Shiobana keeps her eyes trained on the ceiling.  Egyptian silk sheets tickle her pale skin; bruises snake up and down the slender line of her neck like orchids on a trellis.  Beside her lies an enigmatic blonde, his attention elsewhere.  In a moment of bravery or stupidity she asks for a wish. 

The man smirks, glancing up from the leather-bound journal in his hands.  A velvety voice rumbles from deep within his chest as he accepts.  His figure, shrouded in shadow, leans closer.  “What is it you desire, pet?  Anything on this earth and beyond–ask, and I will grant it to you.” 

Haruka’s deepest desires dance before her.  Riches, fame, eternal youth—her thoughts jump from one to the next.  But they don’t linger, not really.  For in that moment it’s none of these things that she uses her singular request on, not power nor beauty nor love nor happiness. 

What she asks for is a simple wish; simple, though impossible. 

Despite Haruka’s snake-eyed gaze, a childhood fantasy is what rolls off her tongue.  Even as she trembles in fear, the books her elders used to read her flash in her mind.  The memories are faint—she would always ignore their creaking and weathered words, focusing more on the pictures.  But she does remember the beautiful pictures on each page in their vibrant colors.  Paintings of man and beast and the ones above them all: angels, feathered and radiant and lovelier than she could imagine. 

“Wings,” Haruka begs, lowering her head in a bow.  “I want wings .” 

The man lays his hands across her back, long nails dragging against her skin.  A burning pain erupts at her shoulder blades, her shrill scream escaping as he twists and reshapes her entirely. 

“As you wish,” he says, a bored expression settling over his face as she writhes.  Through fading vision she watches him move away, the angry jagged line of a scar pulsing around his neck.  She never learned his name.

Haruka wakes up alone. 

She marvels at the way soft feathers envelop her, black plumage barred with white.  She touches the edge of her wing with disbelieving fingers.  It twitches away from her hand, fluttering once before folding itself against her back. 

Admittedly, this does not change all that much. 

Tokyo, Japan - 1985

On April 16th, at exactly 3:34 A.M, Haruno Shiobana enters the world.  He’s born crying like most babies, wailing at the top of his lungs as soon as he takes his first breath. 

The mother weakly outstretches her hand.  “Give him here.”  Her voice is snappish and weary—it was a difficult birth, and the father was nowhere to be found.  A pair of woodpecker wings lay tucked against her back beneath her hospital gown. 

Nurse Sarada does not scream, to his credit, when he sees extra limbs protruding from the newborn’s spine. 

Over the course of the next three days the mutations begin to grow a thin layer of fuzz.  Fused with the infant's scapula, they’re practically bird-like in structure.  Nurse Sarada records the birth as one of the most peculiar cases of polymelia he’s ever seen; a boy born with ‘wings’. 

This changes…quite a bit, actually.

Tokyo, Japan - 1988

Mother is drunk. 

Wearing the scent of cheap wine like perfume, she staggers towards him.  Her hands wobble as they reach out.  “Come here, Haruno…”  She drawls, voice dipping into a murmur.

Still damp from his bath, Haruno wraps a towel around himself loosely; soft feathers graze against the coarse fabric.  The first of his primaries are coming in.  He steps forwards, lifting his head to meet Mother’s gaze.  She stares back at him with unfocused eyes. 

“What is it?”  He asks, voice small. 

Her face immediately darkens, a thin scowl marring her delicate features.  “It’s yes , not what , Haruno.  Show some respect.” 

He dips his head in an apology.  Mother takes ahold of one of his arms to drag him closer.  Her nails are sharp, biting into his delicate skin, and when he tries in vain to wiggle out of her grip she clicks her tongue in disapproval.  With a drunken burst of strength her manicured hands yank him into a vice-like embrace. 

Haruno freezes. 

The hug— is that what this is? —is entirely unexpected, catching him off guard.  Mother has never been an affectionate person, all corners and rib bones and thin and sharp.  So this is…unexpected.  Strange.  The sour smell of alcohol clings to them both, mixing with the fresh scent of soap on Haruno’s skin. 

She digs her chin into his bare shoulder, whispering in his ear.  “What do you wish for, Haruno?” 

Confusion expands and pops in his mind like his bath bubbles—her question echoes in his head, puzzling him.  What does he want?  More importantly, what does she want to hear?

Impatient with his lack of response, Mother scoffs and pinches his ear.  “A wish, brat.  If you could have anything you wanted, what would it be?” 

“Well,” he starts, unsure.  “Maybe if…” 

Slender arms encircle him, pale fingers toying with the tips of his wings.  The hug tightens as she whispers silky assurances in his ear.  Has she—has anyone —ever hugged him before?

“I’d want Mother to be happy,” Haruno whispers back to her, hands twitching at his sides.  Should he hug her back?  Is that how this works?

Her arms tense, the satin line of her dress going stiff as a board.  Haruno shuts his mouth abruptly, wondering what he’s done wrong.  He can’t see any faults in his answer.  Mother stops tracing patterns against his feathers; instead, she begins to apply pressure .   She forces him closer, digging her nails into the spot where his wings meet his spine.  He yelps, fear buzzing deep in his stomach.

“What a waste,” Mother mumbles in a hushed tone.  Her voice has taken on an odd quality, something dark and venomous painting her words.  “What a waste of a wish, Haruno.”  Her voice warbles and cracks, a feverish tone threaded through it.  “I gave him everything I had for these, but you get them for free…?   That’s not fair at all, Haruno.  Should I make it fair?”

Haruno attempts to back away, sensing danger so strongly he can almost see its dark outline, but Mother’s arms trap him in her crushing embrace.  He searches for an escape, but none greets him.  Wild eyes bore into his own; fury swirls within dark irises. 

“The world has spoiled you rotten–but that’s my fault, isn’t it?  I should have corrected you by now.  Your father’s gift to me…you don’t deserve it.” 

She seizes one of the feathers at the top of his wing—a cream-colored covert—and tears .  

At the ripe age of four Haruno experiences true pain.  It hurts so bad he can’t even scream.  His voice has abandoned him completely, no space left in his throat for it.  More feathers are wrenched from his back, fistfuls at a time. 

Every feather that snaps and breaks away takes a piece of him with them.  His wings twinge and spasm uselessly, trying to break free and failing.  An agonized cry claws its way out of his lungs at one point, scraping against his vocal cords. 

But Mother keeps plucking,

“S-Stop!” 

And plucking, 

“Mother, it hurts, it hurts —!” 

And 

“Stop it!”

Plucking .

Only when feathers litter the bathroom floor does the night come to an end.  They mingle together on the tile, caramel and sorrel and beige and umber and bloodied, so bloodied.  Every nerve on his back is on fire. Haruno leans against Mother’s chest, boneless, seeking comfort in the world’s worst play of irony.  

“Get up, Haruno,” She pushes his feeble body off her lap, huffing out a wine-soured breath.  “You’re fine.  Stop crying.” 

Am I crying?   His eyes feel dry, emptied and wrung out.  It hurts to even blink.  He doesn’t think he could cry even if he wanted to.  Haruno slides to the floor with his naked, bleeding wings splayed out on his back.  Not a single feather is left.

He takes a deep breath and the penny-copper air gets stuck in his throat.  Mother turns and leaves, stumbling through the bathroom door.  Her footsteps gradually retreat into the hallway. 

Haruno stays where he is for a long time.

There’s no memories of darkness, only the in-betweens of consciousness that come after.  Dried blood matting on his skin.  Barely formed scabs rupturing anew.  Desperate attempts to gather up his feathers, only for them to flutter out of his shaking hands back to the floor.  Haruno uses the last of his strength to crawl back to his bed.  Infection sets in at some point and he descends into a new hell.  Mother ignores the festering wounds, locking him in his room to avoid the foul stench of him.

In a brief moment of awareness he comes back to himself, twisted around a blanket with his pillow thrown halfway across the room.  His body feels heavy and weightless at the same time—like he’s freefalling with a pile of rocks in his stomach.  Haruno sits up in his bed with great effort.  Painstakingly huddling his disfigured wings around him, he peeks at the horrid sight.  His now featherless limbs have turned into a canvas of mottled bruises; blue, purple, black, and angry streaks of red.  Inflamed pockmarks surround his missing quills, painted stark against sickly yellowish-white skin.  Chills wrack his small frame, body flush with fever.

He calls out to Mother relentlessly—begging, pleading, apologizing.  He’ll never show his wings again, if that’s what it takes.  Just don’t leave me here.  

She doesn’t respond for two whole days. 

On that third, fateful day, the door opens with a quiet click .  Haruno lays sprawled across his sheets in a motionless heap, all his energy spent on struggling to stay awake.  Mother walks towards him, her footsteps hesitant.  She takes in his sorry state, the putrid odor of his infected wounds making her gag.

Haruno looks up at her through cloudy eyes, her lean figure appearing twice in his double vision.  He opens his mouth to speak—then closes it, dry tongue sticking to his teeth.  His eyes drift closed as Mother pulls out her phone and begins to dial.  When he opens his eyes again, the room is awash in red-blue-red-blue light and he can hear the sound of an ambulance’s siren, howling and rattling in his ears. 

He wakes up in a hospital bed. 

Monitors beep at his side; there’s a pinch in his arm, connected to a line of clear fluid.  He blinks up at an achingly bright ceiling. 

A figure enters his room, their clothes a drab color and their voice tinny.  “-wake?  That’s-” 

Haruno struggles to focus on the noise, their cheery tone fading in and out.  

“...other, she-” 

He attempts to sit up in the bed, body sorely protesting. 

“...ake your time, dear-” 

And.  Something is… 

His back shifts against the pillows, laying flat.  Flat? 

“-octor, we had to re-” 

Wrong.  This is all wrong.  Haruno stiffens once he notices there's nothing between his spine and the mattress.  He raises a shaking hand to his chest, fingers catching on layers of gauze. 

“...aruno?  Should I call-” 

No. 

No. 

“-your Mother?” 

His wings.

Where are they?

Naples, Italy - 1989

As it turns out, his new stepfather is allergic to feathers.  He sneezes, coughs, and rubs at his eyes furiously whenever Mother comes within three feet of him.  There’s not enough space for them to sleep separately, so Mother takes the guest bedroom.  Giorno—because he’s Giorno , now—spends his nights on the couch. 

A month passes and Mother settles in.  Her black and white feathers find their way into the shelves, the carpets, even the garbage disposal.  Signore—because gosh, he must really like her—pops allergies pills like they’re candy, vacuums once a week, and keeps the windows open at all hours.

His tolerance does not last. 

It happens on a Tuesday after a long day of work at the factory, when he sits down for Mother’s microwave dinner and spots a tiny feather swimming among the plasticky mashed potatoes.

“...That’s it.”  He says, stopping to sneeze before continuing.  Slamming a fist down on the table, he turns his scathing gaze to Mother.  His fork clatters to the ground.  “I’m sick and tired of all these fucking feathers!   I’ve already been more than generous, housing your brat, but this is where I draw the line.  Either those damn… things go, or you do.” 

Giorno watches Mother’s wings tremble and then freeze.  

When she was still dating Signore, she’d bound them to her back with her stockings and bits of elastic.  Her dappled plumage was hidden easily enough beneath flowy dresses and thick overcoats.  When Giorno asked about it, she'd said it was necessary; at that point, paparazzi were camped out in front of their apartment day to night, hoping to catch a glimpse of something between man and angel.  Those woodpecker wings, her most treasured accessory, started to be hidden away little by little like a dirty secret. 

Giorno read between the lines when she brought Signore home for the first time.  The only way she could afford to leave Japan was through someone else.  A foreigner willing to marry her.  The ring on her finger—which she always looked displeased with—was her escape plan.  No one in Italy knew her, or of her.  There she could be just Haruka Shiobana.  

He’d wondered if she planned to keep her wings hidden forever. 

Signore agreed not to say anything upon finding out.  He seemed…fine, if not a little apprehensive about dating someone with wings.  Although, that was before he had to stock up on allergy pills. 

“I can…” Mother’s voice wavers, a rare display of fragility.  “You don’t have to vacuum anymore; Giorno can do it.  And I’ll cover the cost for the medication—” 

Signore cuts her off, raising his voice.  “What, you don’t think I can’t afford it?” 

“No, I didn’t mean that!” 

“The fact that I have to take them to live in my own home is ridiculous!” 

Giorno watches them go back and forth, keeping his mouth shut.  Mother clenches her hands in her lap.  Her wings quiver, a single white feather fluttering to the ground. 

Signore furiously sneezes again into the crook of his arm.  “I’ve already scheduled an appointment at the clinic,” he says, voice rough and congested.  “Thursday at noon—either you’re there or you’re gone .” 

Mother nods mutely and later that week, does as she’s told.  The day before her appointment, Wednesday, is the last time Giorno ever sees her wings.  She returns with an odd expression on her face, her slim figure lacking even a single feather.  He can’t help but think if they’re now one and the same; have matching marks on their backs, feel the same phantom pain each morning when they roll over.  Pink and silver and an empty space where something otherworldly once was. 

From then on the only wings Giorno sees are of sparrows and doves and larks.  Gradually, he forgets that he knew any others to begin with.

Naples, Italy - 2001

The music from next door is leaking through the walls.  Whatever his neighbor is playing is loud , the vibrations from the bass making his desk rattle.  A dull headache has nestled itself in the base of his skull, only further piling on to his annoyance. 

Giorno slams his textbook shut. 

He hasn’t made any progress with his studying for the past two hours, and he certainly doesn’t expect to start now.  Pushing back his chair, he winces at the loud noise it makes against the floor.  He reaches up to his lamp to turn it off and starts towards his window to close the blinds.  With the curtains drawn, the room is bathed in darkness. 

Crawling under the covers, he forces his eyes closed and falls into a dreamless sleep. 

A twinge in his shoulder is the first thing that greets him in the morning.  Giorno rolls over with a groan, noticing something prickly touching his face.  Bringing his hand to scratch at the itch, he feels an odd, coarse texture.   Almost like…

Hair? 

He props himself up on his elbows and glances down at his pillow in confusion.  Thin black strands cover its surface, more than he even knew he had.  Without registering it he picks up a lock of the fallen hair and holds it in his palm.  Giorno brings a shaking hand to his head, preparing for the worst, but his fingertips touch something soft. 

He kicks his blanket away, planting his feet on the floor.  The cold shock of the hardwood is enough to snap him fully awake.  Stumbling his way towards the bathroom, he searches wildly for a mirror. 

In the glass above the sink he sees a stranger. 

Their hair is flaxen gold, tumbling past their shoulders in delicate curls.  Giorno touches a hand to the glass in disbelief.  The same sleep lines mark their cheek, the same chapped lips part in shock.  They match his motions, hovering over the glass. 

Too engrossed by his now blonde hair, Giorno almost misses the other new addition in the mirror.  His gaze tracks to the right, over his reflection’s shoulder.  Peeking out from behind his back, nearly smothered by the fabric of his shirt, is… 

A feather. 

Oh, shit.

Chapter Text

Naples, Italy - 2001

Giorno scrambles to take off his shirt, the cloth catching on something and getting stuck halfway over his head.  He yanks it off with a burst of frantic strength; a loud rip echoes in the bathroom.  He twists around and faces the mirror. 

Sprouting from his back are two… wings that were definitely not there when he fell asleep.  The tips of the wings are a deep brown, almost black.  White patches mark the insides, peeking out from under russet plumage.  They’re small, too—each one only spans the length of his forearm. 

“What the…?”  His voice sounds loud in the empty bathroom.  Giorno blinks at his reflection, turning away from it with wide eyes. 

This is a dream–that’s it.  You’ve had weirder ones before.  

Any moment now, he’ll wake up with black hair and a distinct lack of feathers and the nightmare will be over.  He’ll remember this incident as oddly vivid but ultimately not real, and then he’ll get on with his normal Thursday.  Right.

Leaning towards the sink, he twists the faucet.  Before he can splash his face with cold water his wing twitches violently.  It knocks the soap dish off the sink and onto the ground where it shatters to pieces.

Giorno stares at it dumbly, body moving on autopilot to clean up the mess.  A sharp edge of the dish catches on his finger, slicing it clean open; he watches as the thin cut well up with red. 

And it…

Hurts.  

And he can feel it.

Oh. Okay. 

Not a dream, then.

Twin wings flutter behind him, quivering ever so slightly.  Giorno doesn’t remember falling, but he blinks and suddenly he’s sitting on the tile and his knees ache.  He presses a hand to his mouth, muffling any sound attempting to get through.  His face feels hot and the spots in his vision won’t clear despite his rapid blinking.  Something sharp tightens in his chest, coiling around his lungs, and he can’t—

I can’t breathe . 

Giorno tries to concentrate on his heartbeat, the loudest thing in the room, but its racing thud only makes things worse.  Is this how he goes?  Asphyxiating in a school bathroom— maybe they’ll put my name on a bench .  He curls up on the tile, clawing at his bare chest with bitten-down nails. 

Just when he thinks he might gasp out his last, ragged breath, something cold presses against his skin.  The touch should make him panic even more, should send his mind spiraling further into white static, but it doesn’t.  The gentle pressure trails down his arm to his wrist, clasping around his pulse point. 

Giorno closes his eyes and counts.  He inhales a stuttered breath and holds it until he thinks his lungs might burst, then exhales with a gasp.  Gradually, his racing heart returns to normal and the senseless panic begins to recede.  With no small effort he gets to his feet unsteadily, leaning on the edge of the sink for support.  He glances down and finds a pair of slender fingers wrapped around his wrist. 

Who — ?! 

Giorno whirls around to confront the intruder, stopping short at what he sees.  A person—no, maybe the word ‘creature’ fits better—stares back at him.  Its body is lithe and muscled and almost… metallic in appearance.  Beady eyes bore into his own, tinged with purple and lacking pupils; the curve of its head reminds him of a beetle’s shell.  And on the sides of its shoulders, in cartoonish caricature, are… 

Wings.

“...You’ve got to be kidding me.”  Giorno groans, forgetting for a moment that he’s supposed to be freaking out.

The golden figure tilts its head to the side innocently as he buries his head in his hands.  It watches him curiously for a moment before it bends down and picks up a stray piece of broken porcelain from the floor.  The shard of the dish shimmers and twists in its hands, unfurling into a yellow daffodil.  Giorno raises a brow at the figure and inspects the offering. 

“Thanks?”  He says, delicately accepting the flower.  Twirling it between his fingers, he gives it a sniff; inexplicably, it smells like dirt and pollen.  A real daffodil?   “How did—?” 

He looks up to question the creature and nearly bites his tongue in shock.  The bathroom’s toilet is gone—in its place sits a fat bullfrog.  Lithobates catesbeianus, the same species he used for last week's dissection lab.  Before Giorno can inspect it properly he hears a strange creaking noise.  Time slows to a crawl as he whips his head around to look at the floor and finds the drainage pipes usually connected to the toilet exposed. 

“Put it back,” he shouts, gesturing at the golden figure hurriedly.  “Put it back!” 

It starts to obey, reaching out for the bullfrog, when— 

POP! 

Water bursts forth from the pipes with a roar, splashing all the way up to the ceiling.  Giorno yelps and ducks under the sink to avoid the high-pressure spray.  His wings tuck themselves against his back automatically to fit into the cramped space.  The golden creature quickly turns the frog back into porcelain, but the damage is done.  

I am so screwed.

As it turns out, he wasn’t too far off—the property damage bills are enormous .

After an entire month, Giorno’s still paying back the school with community service.  And his new…friend helps .  Its touch turns objects into insects, animals, plants—things he sees, things he reads about.  After trying his hand at bacteria, he’s bedridden for a week with strep throat.  The creature brings him saltwater to gargle with. 

At one point he attempts to make something bigger than a bug or a frog, and...

Well.

The image he has in mind is a trumpeter swan.  There are more than a few of the birds flapping around campus this time of year, laying claim to the community pond.  It’s easy enough to picture one in front of him; they share a common trait, after all. 

Wings folded flat beneath an oversized shirt, Giorno summons the golden figure.  An odd feeling springs forth when it appears, like his mind’s being split in two. 

He gestures at the textbook laying on the ground, but doesn’t speak.  He’s found that their communication works fine—maybe even better —when he just pictures what he wants it to do in his mind.

The creature outstretches its hand towards the object.  A now familiar glow emits from its touch, bathing the textbook in a shimmery light  Giorno pictures a swan in his mind; the dark crest of its beak, the slender curve of its neck.  He’s forced to look away from the bright flash that follows.  Peeling his eyes open, he risks a glance at the former textbook.

Oh, god.

His hand clapped over his mouth isn’t enough to curb the urge to vomit.  Giorno whirls around and retches into a bush, the sight before him burned into his brain.  The binder of the book is still visible, fused halfway with the swan’s spine.  What were supposed to be ivory wings have become a horrid blend of pages and feathers, ink print stretched out along its quills.  Its webbed feet are intercut with rigid cardboard from the hardcover. 

The swan opens its beak—the same color and texture as Giorno’s bookmark—and makes an awful noise.  Its keening wail echoes throughout the secluded section of the courtyard, shrill and undeniably pained .

Giorno takes a tentative step forward, the golden figure hovering at his side.  The bird—can he even call it a bird?—writhes on the ground in a panic.  Before he can decide what to do, another round of tremors wracks its mishmashed frame. 

With a final agonized screech its body twists and transforms fully.  The swan shudders, fluffing out its feathers, and lets out a honk.  It waddles towards Giorno with a huff, flaring out its wings in aggression. 

“Woah, woah, woah—!”  He scrambles to get away from the angry bird, tripping over himself in the process.  Before it can actually peck him to death the golden figure interferes. His science textbook reappears, falling onto the grass with a soft thud. 

“...No more birds,” Giorno says after a long moment.  The golden figure silently agrees.

And so, after that riveting experience, Giorno decides it best to stick to plants and the occasional bug.  And speaking of bugs…

The two butterflies overhead turn back to lira at his touch, lifted from a tourist’s wallet.  He’d rather not resort to such amateur methods, but his funds are nearly gone and his little ‘side business’ has been slow lately.  

The wings on his back are growing at a rapid pace, stretching out his clothes and requiring more of an effort to hide.  More than once he’s had to get his jacket resized, and the materials don’t come cheap—especially for a highschooler.  When they lie flat his wings are nearly undetectable, but they have the unfortunate habit of twitching and fluffing themselves out whenever it’s least convenient.  He’d managed to nick a roll of dressings from the nurse’s office to bind them, but the tight wrappings make his back ache constantly.  Still, it’s better than—

“You gonna order something, or what?” 

Snapping out of his thoughts, Giorno refocuses on the disgruntled vendor standing in front of him.  He looks down at the row of colorful gelato flavors on display. 

Only slightly embarrassed to have been caught daydreaming, Giorno rattles off his usual.  “I’ll take one scoop of chocolate and one scoop of pistachio.” 

“Sure—anything for your little friend here?”

My little what?

He follows the vendor’s gaze to his side, almost jumping out of his feathers at the scrawny kid who seems to have materialized next to him.  Their clothes are frayed and ratty at the edges, with patches sewn haphazardly to cover wear and tear.  The kid blinks up at him with pretend doe eyes, pouting his lip just so, and tugs on his suit jacket.  Giorno doesn’t fall for the act—hell, he practically wrote the book on mooching off strangers, he’s not a sucker—but the boy’s shirt hangs too wide over his shoulders and his ribs are so starkly defined he can almost count them.

Maybe I am a sucker.

“Make that two,” he says, sliding both of his stolen bills forward. 

The vendor nods and takes the money, returning with the desserts swiftly.  After dropping off the extra, Giorno continues on his way to the airport.  Two familiar security guards halt him at the doors with matching grins on their faces. 

“Giovanna, fancy seeing you here.”  One drawls, cocking a brow. 

Giorno tunes them out for the most part as they do their old song and dance—he forks over a pack of cigarettes, they agree to not interfere in his side business, sing kumbaya, and so on and so forth.  They’re getting tired of the cheap brand; he’ll have to start rerolling the cigarettes in nice paper so they look more expensive.  

He slips away from the main entrance, eyes already trained on his next target.  A teenage boy who’s got his map upside down and his shirt buttoned up wrong lugs his hefty suitcase right past Giorno, the leather decorated with worn stickers.  

Perfect.

“Excuse me, Signore,” he says, sidling up to the tourist.  The teen is short, having to crane his neck up to look at him, and foreign.  “Need a taxi?” 

He looks up at Giorno in surprise, holding his suitcase slightly closer to their chest.  “Ah, um, n-no!  No thanks!  All good here!”  He stammers out in perfect Italian. 

Not even a trace of an accent.  That’s…odd. 

Giorno tacks on a friendly grin, pushing past his unease.  “Sure about that?  I can get you to the city center for ₤180,000; that’s pretty cheap around these parts.” 

The tourist takes a second to think it over.  “₤180,000?  In yen that would be…”  He trails off, trying and failing to subtlety count on his fingers.  An offended look crosses over his face as soon as he realizes.  “Wh—no!  No way!  That’s more than double the going rate!” 

Dang. 

“Aha…you speak some excellent Italian, I must say.”  Giorno deflects with another pleasant smile.  “I don’t suppose you’ve ever lived here in Italy?” 

The tourist glances away sheepishly, scratching the back of his head.  “Oh, that’s all thanks to Rohan-sensei.  He wro—I-I mean, that doesn’t really matter!  I should be the one asking you questions!” 

“Ask away, then.”  Giorno says, holding back the urge to roll his eyes.

“You’d get me to the center of the city?  On what—a bicycle?  You look a little too young to be driving!” 

“I can assure you—” 

“And what was all that with the guards?  Yeah, don’t think I didn’t notice!”  

“I don’t—”

“I saw you give them something!  Did you–” 

“I think,” Giorno interrupts, clasping his hands together.   “That you’re just confused, Signore.  Culture shock isn’t uncommon.  So, center of the city, ₤10,000, what do you say?  You can forget about the tip as a sign of good faith.” 

The tourist’s face brightens immediately.  “₤10,000?  That’s—”  He stops mid-sentence to regard him with suspicion, inching away from him warily.  “O-On second thought, I think I’ll be fine.  I can just wait in the queue like everyone…else...”  He trails off as he catches sight of the stretch of people waiting for taxi pickup, the line so long it wraps around the airport terminal.

“You were saying?”  Giorno says, a hint of humor coloring his voice. 

“...₤10,000?”  The tourist restates without facing him.  His gaze darts nervously between the hectic traffic and the ever-growing queue.  “What’s the catch?”  

Got him.

“I only ask that you carry your own luggage—and don’t eat in the car.”

Giorno starts towards his rental, making sure that the tourist is following.  He catches the bemused expressions of the security guards as he passes by and pointedly ignores them.  The tourist glances around like he’s being held at gunpoint but otherwise remains silent. 

Giorno thumps the hood of the car to get his attention.  “Suitcase upfront.  You get the luxury spot: backseat!” 

The tourist gives him a final once-over before nodding.  “Fine.  But don’t even think about trying anything, got it?” 

“Of course not, Signore,” he says, climbing into the car.  It’s just too easy.

The tourist pops open the side and puts down his luggage in the passenger seat, dropping his guard.  Giorno calmly waits for the click of the door before he guns the gas. 

“Hey—!”  

The engine roar drowns out the sound of an enraged yell.  But on the more unexpected side of things, Giorno doesn’t make it very far in his grand escape.  The car stalls, its speedometer dropping to zero as it grinds to a sudden halt.  Oddly enough, he can still hear the revving of the tires when he presses on the pedals.  Fiddling with the gear stick is a fruitless endeavor; it’s almost like the car is being held in place. 

Emergency contingency plan it is.  He brushes a hand over the suitcase beside him, a golden glow seeping into the object. 

Something taps against the back window.  “What did I say?” 

Giorno climbs out of the car, narrowing his eyes at the approaching figure.  The tourist doesn't seem to be carrying a weapon—though that’s only what he can see.  Giorno’s definitely no stranger to the ol’ shiv-up-the-sleeve trick.

“Listen, I just want my stuff back.  All of my documents are in there.”  The tourist calls out, approaching on the other side of the vehicle.  “I really don’t want any trouble.  Hand over my things and we can forget this ever happened, okay?”

How annoying. 

Pasting another dainty smile on his face, Giorno hightails it out of there.  The boy’s suitcase soon hops out of the car with a croak and follows him into the alleyway.

Chapter Text

You’d really think that the business of bashing someone’s head in would involve a lot more…

Blood.

Giorno glances down at Leaky Eye Luca’s prone form, grimacing at the sorry sight.  Despite expectations, there really isn’t a whole lot of blood—not on the outside, at least.  There’s definitely some sloshing around in the sizable crater in the man’s head.  The man had tailed him into the alleyway, cornering Giorno once they were out of sight.  He’s no stranger, either–the man had a name for himself out on the street, though this had been the first time the two had spoken.  Giorno’s seen him more than once skulking around the airport, dragging his signature shovel behind him.  The department store logo of which is now imprinted behind his left ear.  

I don’t think I swung that hard…

He side eyes the golden figure standing sheepishly next to the body.  It must be responsible for his sudden burst of strength.  The creature tilts its head to the side as it stares back, the smooth line of its mouth almost sulky.

“...No, I’m not mad,” Giorno sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “A little warning next time would be nice though.”  

It was either this or fork over half of his earnings from the airport, so he can’t be too upset.  

Protection fees my ass.

Giorno glances around, thankfully finding no one in sight.  Luca’s good as dead, and he does not need to be known as the last person who spoke to him.  Or the person who talks to themselves in dark alleyways.  

The frog from earlier wriggles out of his pocket and settles in his hand, twisting back into the shape of a suitcase.  He pulls up the zipper of his jacket and steps around the body on his way out.

Giorno settles down at the outside seating of a cafe.  Slouching forward in his seat, his wings strain against the bindings; leaning back in chairs has pretty much been out of the question since they appeared.  He ignores it in favor of ordering a cappuccino, which sadly has too much steamed milk and not enough espresso for his liking.  He sips at it quietly and props up his chin against his palm.  His eyelids droop slightly as the midmorning sun warms his skin.

Naturally, his rare moment of peace and quiet doesn’t last for long.

“Giorno, hey!”

“Can I sit here?”

“Have a drink with me, Giorno—I’ll pay!”

It’s a miracle he doesn’t jump out of his chair.  Giorno startles back to full awareness, squinting blearily at the trio of girls now swarming around his table.

“You looked lonely over here all by yourself,” one says, leaning in closely.  The flowy green skirt she’s wearing swishes prettily from side to side.  

He blinks languidly at the girl, noting the flush at the tips of her ears.  The other two standing behind her smother giggles.

“I—I, um, would you like some c-company?”  She stammers, twisting the hem of her shirt collar.

Mela.  Her name is Mela.  She sits next to him in history and color-codes her notes with highlighter.  

“Oh.”  He fixes his expression into something neutral.  “I’d rather be alone right now.”

“A-Alright, then…”  Her smile is crestfallen yet genuine.  “Guess I’ll see you in class.  Ciao, Giorno!”

He dips his head in a nod as she and her friends walk away.  She’s a nice girl, but he has too much on his plate with… whatever he’s got going on right now.  And that’s not even counting the wings.

Giorno pulls out the wad of cash he got from the pawnshop to distract himself from his useless thoughts.  Leafing through it discreetly under the table, he double checks the amount.  The tourist’s belongings hadn’t gone for much—₤80,000, at best—but that itself was generous for the random assortment of crap he found in there.  Seriously, who brings a lock of hair with them on vacation?  

He tucks the money back into his wallet at the sound of frantic footsteps approaching his table.  Giorno glances up and sees an inconveniently familiar face.  Specifically, the guy whose belongings he sold.

This time, he actually does jump out of his chair.

“You!  What do you think you’re doing?  Is that my money you’re using?!”  The tourist shouts, launching straight into an investigation.

Giorno flicks his gaze—half in shock and half in unbridled annoyance—over the other’s short stature.  “How did you—?”

He bangs a fist down on the table, rattling Giorno’s cappuccino cup.  “My.  Luggage.  What’d you do with it?  Where’s my passport?!”

“Signore, you must have me confused with someone else,” he says, collecting himself in record time. The muscles at his back are still tense but his body language appears relaxed.  “If you’ve lost something, you should go to the police.”

“No, no, no, none of that!  What did those girls call you—Giorno?  Is that even your real name?!” The tourist points a shaking finger at him in anger.  “I know it was you, back at the airport.  You…you scammed me!”

Giorno draws up his expression into one of concern, then shock as he glances over the tourist’s shoulder.  “Hey, what’s that?”

The tourist whips around almost immediately, craning his head towards the busy street.  “What’s wh—?”

Giorno makes use of the distraction to retrieve his wallet from the table.  But as he turns tail to flee his body suddenly tilts backward, as if shoved.  His hand slams down onto the table with enough force to splinter and dent the wooden surface.  Giorno grits his teeth at the impact, feeling pain radiate up his wrist.

“Don’t think the same trick will work twice!”  The tourist shouts at him, stalking closer.

What the hell is this weight?!   

Giorno tugs at his restrained arm, unsuccessfully trying to free himself.  He can barely keep from crying out as the strange pressure continues pinning his hand to the table, only increasing in strength.  His mind flashes back to the car at the airport and the way it stalled.   

The force doubles and triples until his hand breaks right through the table.  Giorno flails his arms as he starts to fall, threads snapping in his sleeve as it’s strained by the harsh pull.  His golden figure emerges from his side with a burst of light as the ground rushes closer. Its fist punches the concrete, following his command to turn it into a frogflymossgrassbushtree-

Tree.  That’ll work.

The pavement erupts into an explosion of branches and leaves; his creation catches him in its canopy and continues shooting upwards.  Giorno clings on for dear life and glances down at his opponent.  

The tourist is staring at him wide-eyed, mouth agape.  Recovering quickly, he shouts at the white and green… thing now floating at his side.  “Act 3, give me a boost!”

His new friend locks its hands together, letting the tourist step up and propel himself into a jump.  He grabs ahold of a branch, pulling himself into the perch of the tree.  Giorno swears under his breath.  The roof isn’t too far; if he can get up there, he’s home free.  He springs to his feet, preparing to leap the distance.

“Give me my luggage back!”  The tourist yells, grabbing onto his arm.

Giorno swears under his breath and tries to wrench out of the tight grip.  Met with resistance, his opponent yanks on his shirt violently.  It tears at the seams—his favorite shirt, too.  Giorno presses a hand to the ripped fabric, kicking at the other with his legs.

His shoe slams into the tourist’s face with a satisfying crunch .  He lets go of Giorno with a grunt, blood gushing from his nose.  Effectively freed from his grasp, Giorno hops off the tree and starts to climb onto the roof.  His shoes find purchase on the weathered terracotta as he hauls himself up.

“Wait!”  The tourist calls, voice taking on an odd tone.  “Stop running!”

Giorno scrambles forwards, ignoring him completely, searching for the best route.  Where’s the nearest fire escape?  

The other follows Giorno onto the roof, yelling after him.  “Are you hurt?!”

What?

Against his better judgement, Giorno whirls around to face him.  The tourist’s face is scrunched up into a concerned wrinkle, brows furrowed.  Giorno tracks the boy’s gaze to his side.  The ripped fabric of his shirt from earlier greets him, but the damage has spread and widened from his frantic movements.  A sliver of his torso peeks out from the humongous tear, and below it…

The bandages binding his wings lay exposed.

“D-Do you need a hospital or something?  I could call an ambulance!  Ah, wait…”  The tourist smacks a hand against his forehead.  “My phone was in my suitcase.”

Giorno attempts to back away, only for his heels to teeter along the edge of the roof.  “I-”

“If I’d known you were seriously injured, I never would’ve—no, I mean, you did rob me blind, but…”  He huffs out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.  Then his head jerks up suddenly, eyes widening as they study his face.  “Wait a minute.  Are you Haruno Shiobana?”

Giorno blinks incredulously at the non sequitur, forgetting for a moment how to speak.  The mere mention of the name causes a hard lump to form in his throat.  “...What?”

The tourist digs around in his pocket and holds up a polaroid.  “Is this you?”

The candid photo depicts him with black, straight hair; taken before this whole mess began.  He’s standing on the corner of the street, hair blown out of his face by the speeding cars not pictured.  He was wearing a t-shirt that day—and there, on that sliver of skin exposed as he craned his head to the side, was his star-shaped birthmark on full display.

Giorno thinks he might be sick.

“How long have you been following me?”  He asks, quashing the slight tremor in his voice.  “And who the hell are you?”

The tourist hastily puts the polaroid away and sticks out a hand to shake.  “Koichi Hirose.  I…probably should’ve started with that.”  His expression turns thoughtful.  “It’s hard to tell, with the blonde hair and all, but just now I thought you looked familiar.  And that mark you have—it’s practically direct confirmation.”

Giorno glares down at the rip in his shirt again, the birthmark peeking out innocently above the bandages.  “Confirmation of what?”

“This is gonna sound weird, ” Koichi tugs at his collar, gaze darting to the side.  “But I need a piece of your skin.”

Giorno feels his eye twitch.  “Excuse me?”

The tourist rushes to explain, words tumbling out of his mouth.  “Nothing big—only enough for a lab sample!  A-And I can compensate you!”

Yeah, because that makes it sound less suspicious.

“You are seriously testing my patience,”  Giorno says, glaring down at Koichi.  He still doesn’t have any real answers.  “I’ll ask again; how long have you been following me?  And why?”

“Well, my employer—er, no.  My…friend?”  Koichi contemplates for a split second, mulling his words over before shaking his head.  “My associate sent me here to find someone named Haruno Shiobana.  They’ve been keeping tabs on you, I guess.  But I didn’t think I’d find you so soon.”

“How do they know who I am in the first place?”

“That’s…um, how do I explain…?”

“Spit it out!”

Koichi throws up his hands and finally shouts back in his face.  “They wanted to know if you were a stand user, okay?!  That’s why we met in the first place, and why we keep meeting each other—people like us naturally gravitate together!”

Giorno pauses.  “A what?”

“Huh?”  Koichi’s anger bleeds away, quickly replaced by confusion.  “Don’t tell me that you…”  He trails off, expression morphing into one of horror.

Furrowing his brows, Giorno clarifies.  “You said stand user , didn’t you?  What exactly do you mean by that?”

The boy only gawks at him, not moving a muscle.  

Okay, I’ve had enough.  

Giorno stalks forward and seizes Koichi by the collar of his shirt.  “You’d better start explaining very quickly and very thoroughly or I’ll punt your sorry ass right off of this roof.  Do you understand?”  He snarls, grip only tightening.  “Or do you need to look that up in your travel dictionary?”

“Okay, okay!  Calm down!”  Koichi says, batting his hands away with a scowl.  

Giorno lets him drop unceremoniously and glares down at him.  The tourist walks over to the edge of the roof and plops down with a sigh.  Giorno reluctantly follows and takes a seat.

Koichi closes his eyes in concentration and the white-green creature from earlier reappears.  He gestures to it vaguely as he begins.  “This is a stand.  It’s…ah, how did Josuke explain this again?”  Pulling at his hair, he turns to Giorno.  “You see that thing over there?”

Giorno follows his pointing finger across the roof to where the golden figure is hovering.  It’s squatting down on the terracotta and turning roof tiles into dandelions.

“You can see it too?” he says, surprised.  That’s a first.

Koichi nods.  “That’s your stand.  Basically, your soul personified.  Being able to manifest one makes you a stand user.  As a general rule of thumb, only other stand users can see and perceive other stands.”

…Is this guy on something?

Koichi rolls his eyes at his doubtful expression.  “Oh, don’t give me that look—you just turned the sidewalk into a tree.  It’s not that big of a stretch.”  He gestures to the short, robot-like thing beside him.  “This is my stand, Echoes Act 3.  Its ability can multiply the weight of people or things.”

Giorno tilts his head to the side.  “It has a name?”

Koichi looks back at him, affronted.  “Of course!”

Crap.   Was he supposed to name his?  As if hearing Giorno’s thoughts, the golden figure ambles over to linger in front of them.

“What’s yours called?”  Koichi asks, watching it with curious eyes.

Time to think on his feet.  He gives the creature a once-over.  Things are usually named after their appearances, right?  That’s how it works most of the time in scientific nomenclature; the same should apply to stands.  

Does this count as a new species?

“Gold…?”  Giorno starts, hesitant.  Its bright metallic hue is definitely one of its defining features.  But is one word enough for a stand’s name?  Koichi’s had three!  “Er…”

The other lights up despite his awkward pause.  “E...Experience?  Oh, like the Prince album; Gold Experience!  My friend back at home loves his music!”

“Huh?”

“That’s a good one.  It fits!”

Gold Experience.  Sure.  The English pronunciation rolls off Giorno’s tongue with an odd lilt.  It’s altogether not terrible.

“While I’m glad to have worked that out and all,” he says, dragging his gaze away from the stand.  “That doesn’t explain what you want with me.”

“Fair enough,” Koichi sighs.  “I will say, though—I don’t know all the details.  Anything I tell you is what little information I’ve managed to gather myself.  And entirely confidential.”

Giorno raises a brow at that.  “Sure.”

“My associate, the one I mentioned earlier?  I won’t give out their name, but they recruited me for this assignment.  They belong to a bigger organization: the Speedwagon Foundation.”

The name tugs at the back of his mind.  He’s definitely heard it before, but where?  Giorno straightens as a flare of recognition hits him.  “The charity?”

“Huh?  Oh yeah, I guess they do that on the side,” Koichi shrugs.  “But their true purpose is to research all things ‘stand’ and ‘stand user’.”

“So you’re telling me that the paranormal investigators knew I was a stand user before I did?”  He scoffs.  Or what if this isn’t about his stand at all?   What if they found out about my — ?

“I don’t think so.  I was sent here for a different reason.”  Koichi says, interrupting his thoughts. “Concerning your heritage.”

No.   He can’t mean them.   Giorno’s breathing picks up at the thought, shallow and subtle, quiet enough to go unnoticed.  Is that why Koichi’s here—to drag him back to those peeling linoleum floors and mildew-covered walls?  Back to where he rubbed his fingers raw against the inside of the closet, scratching against the lock?  Back to where he could never sleep without a chair propped up against his door?  He can’t.  He can’t.

“Specifically, your father.”

Giorno blinks himself out of his spiraling thoughts.  Koichi said father.  Not mother.  Not step-father.  “My father?”

Koichi looks away, focusing on the bustling street below.  “My associate described him as a bit… special .  They have history, or so I’ve heard, and it was anything but pretty.  My guess is that they want to know if you’re similar to him in that regard.”

“I see.  Was he affiliated with the foundation as well?”

“Not…quite.  Let’s just say he and my associate go way back.”

“And now?”  He presses, foreign hope blooming in his chest.  “Where is he?  Does he know about me?”

“Well he, um, wasn’t a very good person, and…”  Koichi gulps, rubbing the back of his neck.  “I’ll give it to you straight; his file included his death date.  Cairo, Egypt, 1989.”  He mumbles out, giving under Giorno’s heavy stare.  

Giorno’s blood turns to ice, freezing solid in his veins and rendering him immobile.  1989?  How old was he then?  Three?  Four?  Did it happen while he slept, halfway across the world, totally unaware?  Was the man buried there, in Egypt—or cremated, or just left in a ditch to rot?  The wallet in his pocket feels heavy, his only picture of his father weighing it down.  He’s memorized the image by now; scarred, rippling shoulders, branded with the birthmark they share, and in the corner shrouded by darkness…

The sharp angles of a dead man’s face.  

He stands up abruptly, making his way back towards the tree on the side of the building.

“Haruno?  Where are you going?”  Koichi calls, hurriedly following behind.

Giorno’s no longer a lost child that needs saving.  Hasn’t been for a long time.  But some nights he still finds himself longing for a world where that man in the picture swoops in after fifteen long years to take him away.  To someplace warm, someplace far, where he doesn’t have to worry about his next meal or his parents tracking him down.  A world where someone wants him around, even if only a little.

Stupid.

He should be thanking Koichi, really—it was about time he faced reality.  “I think we’re done here,” he snaps, voice cold and tinged in bitterness.  

Koichi jumps to his feet, rushing after him.  He seizes him by the arm, stopping Giorno in his tracks.  Giorno glares at the other over his shoulder but the boy remains insistent even as he tries to shake him off.

“Wait a second!”

“Let go of me.”

“Haruno, come on—”  

In a rare fit of anger, Giorno wrenches himself out of Koichi’s hold.  “Don’t call me that!”

He hears the rip before he feels it.  His already damaged sleeve tears away from the rest of his shirt as he yanks his arm back, pink fabric giving way.  He blinks down at his newly exposed skin.  Looking over to Koichi, Giorno finds him holding his now unattached sleeve.

“H-Hey, um,”  Koichi stutters, face gone slack in shock.  “...Is that part of your stand too?”

He points a quivering finger to the tip of Giorno’s wing peeking out from his ruined shirt.  It flutters lightly as if waving hello.

“Yes,”  he blurts out, going along with it.  Is this really how I’m going to spin this?

“What?!  That’s obviously a lie!”  Koichi screeches.

Giorno throws up his hands.  “Why’d you ask, then?”

“I-I don’t know!  But that’s definitely not a stand ability—I can’t sense them at all.  And are those feathers?”

Instead of coming up with a nice, believable, solid lie, Giorno does the next best thing: jumping off the roof.  Sliding down the trunk of his tree, he hits the ground running.

Koichi follows suit, chasing after him with a yell.  “Could you please stop running for once?!  It was just a question!”  

Chapter Text

He tears through the alleyway in some weird kind of shuffle-sprint as he tries to keep his back covered.  Giorno twists his arm behind himself to hide the exposed wing.  The two round a corner.  

“Really, we can talk about this!”  Koichi shouts after him, hot on his tail. 

Giorno fires a retort over his shoulder.  “I think I’ve had my fair share of talks with you–thanks, but no thanks!”  

Despite his scrawny looks Koichi manages to keep up, Echoes Act 3 close behind.  But this is Giorno’s city; he knows every twist and bend of these dingy alleyways, and no amount of speed can best that advantage.  Or so he thought.  

The universe must decide at that moment that it really hates Giorno, because his foot catches on a crack in the pavement pretty much out of nowhere.  He bites his tongue as he careens towards the ground, pain blooming at the bridge of his nose when he hits the concrete.  

Koichi’s at his side in a flash, helping him up and panicking at the sight of blood.  “Ah, tissue, tissue!”  He digs around in his pocket and hurriedly produces a kleenex.  

Giorno presses the tissue to his aching face, holding back a groan.  This is just my luck.  

Koichi shrugs off his jacket, revealing a white tee-shirt underneath.  “Here,” Koichi says, holding it out to him.  “To cover your…uh…”

Giorno accepts the jacket warily.  It’s a tight fit, to say the least, so he settles for draping it over his shoulders.  His body relaxes by a fraction as soon as the mottled brown feathers are out of sight.  He watches as Koichi squats down next to him, keeping a polite distance.  The short sleeves of his t-shirt reveal thin cords of muscle and more scars than Giorno would’ve expected.  

Giorno flicks his eyes around the alleyway and huffs out a sigh.  There’s a fire escape to his left, but Koichi’s stand ability probably takes climbing out of the question.  If I satisfy his curiosity, maybe he’ll leave.   “What do you want to know?”  

Koichi lowers his gaze to the pavement, a conflicted expression crossing his face.  “I’m not going to force you to say anything.  I realize that I’ve probably… overstepped just by being here, not to mention how the organization has invaded your privacy.  On behalf of the Speedwagon Foundation, I–”  

“Oh, save it,” Giorno interrupts, rolling his eyes.  His voice sounds nasally from the tissue stuffed up his nose.  “It’s not like you can take back what you’ve seen.  And besides, you’re curious, aren’t you?”  

“I-If you don’t mind!”  Koichi pipes up earnestly.  “Please tell me!”  

So he does.  

He recounts that morning a month ago of blond hair and brown feathers, soft down and sharp quills.  Giorno tells him how the wings feel familiar , like he’s found something he didn’t register losing; he doesn’t tell him how much that feeling scares him.  

Koichi doesn’t interrupt him, waiting until Giorno’s finished to ask his questions.  His eyes shine–not with disbelief, but a well-worn look of awe.  That, and…another bout of useless concern.  “I’m sorry if this is rude of me to ask,” Koichi starts, fiddling with his hands.  “But you don’t seem to like your wings very much.  Wouldn't it be better to get rid of them?”

Giorno stiffens.  Every miserable, aching feather on his back pulls in close against his skin.

“My associate is highly respected within the Foundation.  I’m sure they’d have no trouble getting the funding for any kind of surgery you’d need to remove them.  And he trusts me–I mean, I think he does–so if it’s me vouching for you then…”

“That won’t be necessary.”  Giorno cuts him off, his clipped tone far too stern if Koichi’s jerky flinch says anything.  The dread pooling in his stomach leaves him no room for remorse.

This is exactly why he’s gone so far to hide his wings.  Discoveries all end in dissection.  A phantom pain spreads across his back, the burn almost nostalgic.  

That pain is the only memory from his early youth he hasn’t forgotten completely.  His body made sure that it stayed, curling protectively across the stretch of his scarred shoulder blades.  He doesn’t know what it means–doesn’t remember, not really–but it’s a bleak reminder of why a bird’s feathers on a boy should remain out of sight.

Koichi’s expression twists into an irritating display of pity.  He opens his mouth–probably to let out another string of pointless apologies–but before he can speak a third party interrupts them.  

“There you are!”  A friendly voice calls.  “I’ve been looking all over for you, Giorno.”  The man it belongs to enters the alleyway from behind them.  

I could’ve sworn that was a dead end.

The man’s dark hair is sleek and straight, styled into a bob.  He wears a white patterned suit with black spots that almost resemble tadpoles.  The cold, flinty blue of his eyes betray the facade of the warm smile he wears; Giorno notices the distinction, if only barely.  And up, way up at his collar is a brand anyone in Naples would recognize.  

A pin.  

Oh, shit.  

Koichi glances between him and the newcomer, the line of his shoulders now tense.  “Do you know this guy, Giorno?”  

He’s never seen him before in his life.  Now would be the perfect time to hotfoot it out of here–or at least get to a busy street, where it’d be harder for this guy to kidnap them.  The truth balances precariously on the tip of his tongue, hands itching to grab Koichi and run.

“Yeah,” is what comes out of his mouth instead.  “Old friend.”  

Giorno stands upright and removes the bloody tissue from his nose.  Whatever’s landed him in deep water with the mafia is his problem and his problem alone.  And as complicated as his feelings are towards Koichi and his… organization , Giorno doesn’t want to put the boy in unnecessary danger.

The mafioso advances and claps a hand on Giorno’s shoulder, his smile sharpening like the fine point of a blade.  “That’s right; we go way back.  I’m sorry to steal him away, but I was hoping Giorno and I could have a little chat, one-on-one…”  He slides his gaze to Koichi, narrowing his eyes.

“You heard him,” Giorno forces out.  His wings itch beneath the man’s vice-like hold.

Koichi whirls around to look at him incredulously.  “Y-You’re joking, right?  No offense, but this guy seems kind of...”  He trails off, shooting an accusing glare at the man.  Then, whispering terribly, he says, “Blink twice if you need me to call the police.”

He does not blink.  Not even once.  

“I’ll be fine.”  Giorno says before dipping his head in apology.  “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about your luggage.  Your passport should be in my room.  Second drawer from the top of the desk.”  

Koichi bites his lip.  “I’ll…I’ll go get someone.  Be right back.”

The mafioso grins cheerily, moving his arm to sling it across Giorno’s shoulder.  “Sure.  You do that.”  He’s closer now, close enough that he could crush Giorno’s windpipe in the crook of his elbow if he wanted to.

The tourist exits the alley, casting a conflicted expression over his shoulder.  Giorno tries for a smile to reassure him.  He doesn’t think it’s very effective.  Soon enough, Koichi’s footsteps fade out of earshot.  

The mafioso addresses him, his voice retaining its airy tone.  “What a nice friend you’ve got there, Giorno.  I don’t suppose he was hanging out with you earlier today?”

“No,” Giorno replies, face perfectly neutral.  “Leave him out of this.”  

“If you insist.”  He shrugs dismissively, finally stepping away from him.  “I’ll get straight to the point.  My coworker got roughed up pretty bad this morning.”

What does this have to do with me?   “I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

The man snorts, sarcasm lacing the noise.  “Don’t worry; I know how to be a good friend too.  I helped him… end his suffering.”  

“Who was it?”  Giorno has a sneaking suspicion he already knows the answer.

“‘Leaky Eye Luca’?  Is that what they called him?”  Bucciarati scratches at his chin, cocking his head to the side and missing the way Giorno’s stomach drops.  “A bit odd, but you can’t judge the dead.  Anyway, I’ve got two airport security guards who place you at the scene.”

Those useless, good-for-nothing chainsmokers.  Two years worth of cigarettes just for them to squawk to the highest bidder.   Typical.

“Doesn’t ring a bell.  Really wish I could do more to help, sir,” Giorno crosses his arms over his chest, mouth slanting into a clueless frown.  “Have you tried contacting the police?”

His only warning is a short, curt laugh before everything goes to shit.  The mafioso surges forward and grabs him by the collar, calm demeanor falling away to reveal something dark and violent.  He leans in close, the breath of his next words ghosting over Giorno’s face.

“You’re a bad liar, Giovanna .  I can tell.”

He’s sent hurtling to the ground by a powerful shove, elbow scraping against the concrete.  The piercing blue of the man’s eyes looms overhead as he plants a foot on Giorno’s chest.  Giorno inhales sharply as the heel of the man’s shoe digs in, expensive leather jabbing into his ribs.  Crushed beneath his prone form, his wings begin to ache from the awkward angle.

The mafioso stares down at him with a resigned sigh.  “It’s nothing personal, kid–balancing out the books, that’s all.”  Something cobalt shimmers behind his figure and Giorno is sure that he’s about to die.

His hands fly up to grab the first thing within reach: the man’s expensive, leather shoe.  Gold Experience’s fingers shine over his own, infusing the stiff material with glowing energy.  In a flash of light the shoe turns into a bushel of coiling nettles, pointed barbs slicing into the man’s now bare foot.  

Oh, gross.  He’s not wearing socks.  

His opponent jumps back with a swear and the blue flare at the man’s side solidifies into a human form.  Padded armor covers the creature’s arms and chest; a zipper splits its body down the center.  A row of spikes adorns its head like a particularly pointy mohawk. 

It’s…

Uh, what did Koichi call them again?

…a stand!  This guy’s a stand user!

The stand flies towards him with alarming speed, arm cocked back for a punch.  Giorno rolls to the side in the nick of time to avoid the blow.  The small crater on the pavement where his head used to be is more than a wake-up call; any mistake here means he’s a goner.  The mafioso’s stand straightens up from its hunched position, fists raised once more in a boxing stance.  

Giorno kicks out a leg in an attempt to trip the figure but, rather unexpectedly, his shoe passes right through it.  Koichi had neglected to mention anything about that .  Giorno shakes it off and jumps to his feet, Gold Experience hovering in front of him protectively.  

The mafioso does a double take at the sight of Giorno’s stand, a blink-and-you-miss-it blip of shock crossing his features.  Of course, it's gone in a second and replaced quickly enough by a glare.  “I kept wondering how a scrawny high schooler got the jump on Luca,” he says, eyes trained on Gold Experience.  “Should’ve guessed.”   

His stand rushes towards Giorno’s own, attacking with a flurry of punches.  Gold Experience manages to match its opponent’s speed, returning the hits.  But both Giorno and the man can see–even more than that, they can sense –that one of them is losing.  Gold Experience might be able to keep up with the tempo, but it lacks the bruising force behind the other stand has behind its attacks.  The onslaught quickly forces Giorno on the defensive.  

Taking advantage of Giorno’s distracted state, the man charges forward with a glint of silver in his hand.  Giorno hurriedly recalls his stand, turning his ruined sleeve into a plate of tree bark.  The mafioso plunges the switchblade into the unyielding oak–right over his heart–and the knife gets stuck.

Before he can recover Giorno swings.  His knuckles make solid contact with the man’s cheek, producing a satisfying thwack .  Yanking the knife out of the tree bark and into his hand, Giorno rushes in, blade poised to strike, and–

Did my arm just fall off?

Giorno glances down and finds nothing.  Nothing connected to his shoulder, that is.  His limp and, more importantly, unattached arm lays on the ground.  The jackknife remains clenched in his now severed palm.  Oddly enough, there’s no pain.  

I must be in shock.  Giorno’s gaze catches on the top of his arm, confused at the distinct lack of blood pooling around it.  Instead of gore and bone, a zipper marks the place where his limb should be connected to his body.  

“Your ability isn’t too bad,” the mafioso says, massaging the red splotch on his cheek.  “But you’re sloppy.  I was only going to knock you around a bit since you’re still a kid, but a loose end like you...”  His stand comes up behind him, poised to attack.  

“I’m sorry about Luca, okay?”  Giorno desperately stalls, pinned to the ground like a butterfly on display.  “Tell him I’ll pay his protection fee–no, I’ll stay off his territory from now on entirely.  You’ll never see me again, I swear.”

“You think I’m still hung up on that two-bit goon?”  The man scoffs, rolling his eyes.  “He’s been dead for a while.  I’ll let you guys talk it out in person.”  

Giorno’s throat tightens, mind racing.  Here’s the situation: he’s down a limb and about to be turned into a smear on the pavement by the mafia.  There has to be a way out of this.  

“Do you…” he rasps, mouth suddenly going dry.  “Do you know about the crack house on 5th Avenue?”

A beat of silence.  The man’s brows furrow ever so slightly.

“...What?”

“The one with the taped up windows; there’s a big neon sign out front and the dumpster never gets emptied.  Smells like last week’s roadkill.  That one.  It used to be a laundromat, but now it’s a crack house.”

“I know it,” the mafioso frowns, narrowing his eyes.  “What I don’t know is why I should care.  In fact, last I heard that place–”

“–was shut down by the police, yes.  But everyone knows they’re in your pocket; they wouldn’t do something like that without Passione’s go-ahead.  So I’m assuming you told them to pull the plug for a reason.”  Giorno says hurriedly.  He’s sensing that he needs to get to the point.  “What you don’t know is that it’s back up and running thanks to your guy, Luca.  He reopened it two months ago to anyone who could pay and kept it quiet—for the most part.”  

The man blinks at him owlishly as he processes the information.  He squints, a flicker of something indecipherable in his eyes, and finally asks, “You frequent this… laundromat often?”

“No,” Giorno shakes his head, lips pressed into a firm line.  The thought makes him shudder.  “Not my thing.  But the people I do business with–the ones who ratted me out to you–they talk.  Not a lot, not often, but enough to put two and two together if you hang around as long as I have.”

The shoe grinds down.  “How do I know you’re not lying?”

Giorno stares up at him, heartbeat fluttering against his sternum.  Well, at least he can say he tried.  “I thought you could tell?”  

Silence falls over the alleyway and he holds his breath, fully expecting it to be his last.  Seven months—that’s how long he got.  Seven months of headaches and late nights and barely scraping by at school.  Seven months of late rent and tuition and the hundred countries’ worth of tourists he had to scam it from.  Seven months out from under their thumb, seven months worth of bitter, hard earned freedom, all to end up here.  

What a waste.  

Giorno wants to close his eyes but he can’t, unable to look away.  If he’s going to die then he’d rather see and know this is it instead of waiting in the dark for a killing blow.  The man moves, blue stand emerging once more, and then–

Nothing.  

Air rushes into his lungs all at once as the mafioso steps off of him, the pressure vanishing.  The mafioso straightens out to his full height and brushes off specks of dust from his suit.  With a wordless gesture his stand ambles over, Giorno’s severed arm in hand.

Giorno doesn’t even have time to flinch before it reaches over with a surprisingly gentle touch and reattaches his arm, as easy as anything.  He flexes it experimentally, curling his fingers into a fist.  Looks like everything’s in working order.  

“So…” Giorno starts, wincing at the way his voice cracks.  “You’re not going to kill me?”

“Don’t make me change my mind,” the man huffs, turning towards the alleyway’s dead end.  A zipper unfurls on the wall, leading into some kind of swirling doorway.  “You gave me some useful information, so I’ll let you off with a warning.  But know that you’re way in over your head, kid—I’d advise you to get yourself out while you still can.”

Giorno feels a twinge of annoyance at being called ‘kid’ but forces it down.  Rubbing at his rapidly bruising chest, he says, “…What are you going to do with that information?”

“I’m going to rearrange things back to the way I like it.”  The man says, stopping to glance at him.  He seems all at once older, more weary.  As if the weight of the world teeters precariously on his shoulders.  

No, it’s more than that.

The man has stepped halfway through the strange zipper portal he created when Giorno moves.  He doesn’t quite register when or why he starts running but he does, phasing through the grungy brick of the wall with his fingers clasped around a suit-patterned elbow.  

He hears a cut-off noise of surprise before an iron grip seizes his wrist, yanking him forward.  They tumble through the portal together.  On the other side is another alleyway, not unlike the one they came from.  Instead of a dead end this one leads to the bustling, noisy street in the middle of rush hour.

“Are you crazy?!”  The mafioso swears, letting him go.  “I could’ve cut you in half!”

Crazy might be right; but there’s something about this man he can’t shake.  Something he can’t make himself walk away from.  “You hate it, don’t you?”  Giorno asks in a rush, words tumbling out.  “You hate what this city’s becoming.  What it’s already become.”

“Are you trying to start something?”  The man snarls, grabbing him by the shirt collar.  “Because I think we both already know how that fight ends.”

“I figured you’d be mad because Luca was turning a profit behind your back,” Giorno barrels onwards, trying his best to seem unfazed.  His wounds from earlier ache as an unpleasant reminder of what will happen if he pisses this guy off.  “But it’s the drugs, isn’t it?  As soon as I mentioned them, you stopped.”

The mafioso stares at him for a beat, his expression giving away nothing, before shaking his head.  He releases Giorno with a sigh.  “Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong.”

“About you?”

“About this city—and me.  Naples isn’t ‘becoming’ anything; it hasn’t changed at all.  And even if it could, it’s not my problem.”

Giorno mulls over his words.  The man’s bitter, no doubt, but he’s not the pessimist he presents himself as.  “That’s not true.  Passione shut down the crack house for a reason–even though it was a source of income, as Luca proved.  There has to be a reason.”

“Passione didn’t do that.”  The man says, rolling eyes.  “If it was up to them we’d have five more by the end of this week.”

Giorno pauses, realization slowly dawning.  “It was you?  On your own?  Are you crazy?”

“Oh, now I’m the crazy one,” he mutters under his breath.  “Not for any heroic reasons you’re imagining.  I got tired of seeing so many junkies on my way to work, that’s all.”

“Then you would’ve already known it was back up and running.”  Giorno refutes his claim, shaking his head in disbelief.  “You…You actually want drugs off the streets.”

The mafioso’s eye twitches once, twice, and Giono is certain that he’s about to get punched in the face.  

Before he can try and duck the man backs away, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “Yeah, well, great job I’m doing.  Less than two weeks and everything’s right back to square one.”  He scoffs, voice low and exasperated.  “Why are you asking so many questions?”

Giorno is quiet for a moment.  One man against the world is an impossible task, stand user or no.  Most people wouldn’t even try if they saw the odds looming overhead like the crest of a tsunami.  

That murky, terrible memory resurfaces for a split second, and it’s enough.  The picture has branded itself into Giorno’s mind, bleeding into color.  He blinks and he’s five years old again and the truth of the world is right there in his face. 

It looks like I can’t forget it, after all.

He’s standing at a crossroads; he could leave the alleyway right now, go back to his life of stagnant solitude.  Back to what he knows best.  Or…

Or?

Or, Giorno could follow the intangible pull he feels further, willingly step into whatever twisted dance fate has planned for him.  The score is set; the music’s rising, deafening in his ears, speeding up to the tempo of his heartbeat.  Giorno holds out his hand.

“I’ll help you.”

Chapter Text

Naples, Italy – 1990

Sometimes a lie can change things for the better.  Giorno knows this very well.

Migliore– that’s how you say ‘better’ in Italian. The pronunciation is blunter than he’s used to and full of silent, confusing letters, but The Man With the Hat says he’s a quick study.  After two months in Naples he can introduce himself without stuttering and with less of an accent if he really tries.  It was hard to communicate when they first started meeting; Giorno knew little Italian and The Man With the Hat knew even less Japanese, if any.  Still, Giorno managed a thank you in broken English.  Even if he’d never come forward, Giorno knew the man was responsible for his stepfather backing off.  

His savior had followed suit with his own you’re welcome, the English equally thick and unwieldy in his low tone.  Since then they’d met regularly–the last Saturday of every month in that familiar, original alleyway.  

The date is May 26th.

Giorno hurries down the sidewalk almost bouncing in his excitement, the bright rubber soles of his shoes slapping against the pavement.  He’d finally gotten enrolled in school–a bit late, but enrolled nonetheless–and already he knows half of his alphabet.  Haruno likes the gentle curves and strong edges of the letters, so different from the precise strokes of hiragana and katakana his mother used to read in the paper.  Some are harder for him to pronounce, a fact which the other kids take great amusement in, but he knows The Man With the Hat will be proud.  

Giorno can feel the chalk slate in his backpack bounce against his books, his name spelled out proudly in shaky handwriting.  His legs carry him as fast as they can towards that dingy, shadowed, solace of an alleyway.  

He turns a corner and he’s alone.  His eyes dart from side to side, searching in quickly dimming anticipation.  Old, cracked brick and littered bottle caps stare back at him.  

Where is he?  

Giorno nervously glances behind him before venturing further into the alley.  The Man With the Hat is never late; usually he gets here before him.  

Maybe he forgot.  

Giorno wilts a little at the thought, but it makes sense.  He’s not exactly great company.  His face is plain, his eyes are dull, and he speaks too softly and too fast to be understood well.  He should be thankful that the man put up with him as long as he did.  Still, Giorno finds himself hoping that it’s all a misunderstanding, that The Man With the Hat took a wrong turn, or slept in, or thought it was Sunday.  

But he can feel the truth weighing heavy in the back of his throat, a pit of stone he can’t stomach.  It’s happening again.  He turns to leave and bumps his shoe against something.  

A black trenchcoat, specked with dirt; shiny leather shoes scuffed near the sole; tan, waxy skin and a puddle of vomit.  Despite the absence of his hat, Giorno knows this shape very well.  If he looked a little bit to the left he would find the missing article, soft crinkled felt on the concrete.  

The Man Without the Hat lies prone on the ground, too stiff to be sleeping.  

Giorno blinks and he’s at the man’s side, struggling to turn him over.  With a burst of strength from scrawny arms he succeeds and nudges the huge figure onto its back.  The man’s lips are blue.  Giorno shakes him gently, scouring his face for any response.  Two half-lidded, black eyes bore into nothing past Giorno’s shoulder.  

Giorno’s gaze catches on the man’s rolled up sleeves.  The insides of his arms are littered with tiny red dots.  Giorno is instantly reminded of the stifling summer nights he spent in Tokyo; when Mother was gone and he was alone, fat mosquitoes would descend through the window’s torn mesh and gorge on any part of him that stuck out from under his blanket.  The marks on the man’s arms are angry red like that, uncomfortably swelled like he remembers.  But they don’t look itchy.  Just…sad .  Painful .

He shakes the man once more, harder this time, and calls out to him.  “Sir?”

No response.  Giorno tries again, now in Italian.  “Signore?”

The Man Without the Hat still says nothing, not in English or Italian.  Nothing at all.

In a few months or years he’ll recognize what really happened that day, but in that moment he’s just a boy kneeling next to the closest thing he ever got to a father and he doesn’t get it.  Why won’t he move?  Why won’t he wake up?  

It’s dark by the time Giorno leaves the alley.  His voice is hoarse from calling.  He looks up fleetingly as he goes, trying in vain to not look at the gruesome scene already burned into his mind.  The moon is a waning sliver in the sky, wrapped up in mourning gray clouds.  It winks at him with the promise of a thousand tricks and disappears behind a nebula.  

The body is gone the next day.  His stepfather is quick to notice the absence, becoming less and less paranoid as time passes.  With no one around to keep him in check he starts returning to his old ways.  On the last Saturday of June, he hits Giorno for the first time in months.

At night Giorno lays on top of his blanket, exhausted and aching but still wide awake.  His fingers curl around the soft felt hat and squeeze, trying to commit the imposing silhouette it made to memory.  When his stepfather takes that too, he changes tactics.  He lets go of the feeling of a gentle hand carding through his hair, the low gravelly voice that would correct his pronunciation, and the stern face that used to look at him with warmth.  No more dead eyes.  No more red marks.

He ended up right back where he started, didn’t he?  So It’s better to forget everything.

Naples, Italy - 2001

Giorno peers down at the chicken scratch written on the slip paper he’s holding.  The mafioso–Bucciarati, he’d brusquely introduced—had given him an address and a time and not much else.  If there was ever an sign to rethink his decisions and turn back it would have been seeing the address for the local prison, but here he is.  Five o’clock on the dot.

Just what have I gotten myself into?

Giorno taps his foot as he waits by the entrance, a new and thankfully intact shirt on his back.  The sun is still high in the sky, warming his face.   

“You’re on time.  Good.”  A voice interrupts his train of thought.

Jumping at the sudden noise, Giorno whirls around and nearly headbutts Bucciarati.  “Where did you come from?!”  He yelps.  He was not spooked, for the record.  Not even a little.

The man raises a brow, as if rethinking his decision to recruit him.  Instead of answering, he starts walking towards the doors of the looming building.  Giorno rolls his eyes and follows him inside the prison.  Bucciarati breezes past the guards, who all seem to recognize him, and leads him down a long hallway. The lights on the wall cast an eerie green light; Giorno tugs uncomfortably at his shirt collar.  They come to a stop in front of a particularly large door, this one propped ajar. 

“You’re on your own from here on out,”  Bucciarati says, already turning to leave.  “...I can’t guarantee your safety with him, so be careful.  And don’t show all your cards at once.” 

Before Giorno can ask who he’s referring to or what any of that means, the man’s form melts back into the shadows.  It’s just as Bucciarati said–he’s on his own.  With a sharp inhale, he pushes open the door all the way and steps inside. 

The shock of light is what hits him first.  Bright fluorescent light bulbs bore into him from above, almost blinding in their intensity.  Blinking rapidly, Giorno rubs his eyes and squints against the bright glare.  Behind the glass pane is a nightstand, a few framed pictures, and a toilet.  It’s an ordinary cell, if more spacious than normal.  His gaze lands the gigantic bed in the middle of the room that takes up most of the cell’s space.  In the center lies a lumpy, mustard-yellow mattress.

When it begins to wriggle and move , Giorno concludes that it might not be a bed after all.  The yellow shape straightens out to its full height, taking the form of a gargantuan man.  What Giorno thought were bed sheets turn out to be the rumpled fabric of a suit.

“You’re Buccairati’s latest pet project?”  The man drawls, glancing down at him with a touch of disinterest.  The top of his head, covered by a strange hat, nearly scrapes the ceiling.  “Really, you’d think he’d get bored of taking in strays by now…”  He says, brows furrowing in annoyance.

“Sorry?”  Giorno responds, voice flat. 

“At least you know your manners,” he says.  An unpleasant look crosses his face, as if tasting something foul. “Not like the last prospect he brought in.  Ghastly sort, that one.” 

Giorno shifts his weight uneasily.  The man doesn’t seem all that dangerous, especially with the bulletproof glass separating them, but Bucciarati must have warned him for a reason.  “...Of course, sir.” 

The man peers down at him again.  “Are you the serious type?  My nephew is like that–good for getting a job done, but don't even think of inviting him for drinks after.  I swear, he doesn’t even sing at karaoke.  No fun at all.”

What does that have to do with anything?  Giorno watches the other rant, clasping his hands behind his back.  He means no offense, but… this is one of Passione’s capos?  He’s behind bars, for crying out loud.  But unless Bucciarati gave him the wrong address, this is indeed Caporegime Polpo.

“Enough of that,” the man says, forcing Giorno’s attention back onto him.   Polpo reaches into a small compartment inside the cell and retrieves a packet of crackers.  “Tell me, boy–what do you think is the most important quality when considering a potential employee?” 

Giorno considers the question, keeping any hesitance out of his answer.  “Ability.  It’s all about what they can do for you.”

Polpo laughs, leaning towards the glass barrier.  “You think so?  Then what of your ability?” 

Now this he’d prepared for.  Giorno reaches into his pocket and pulls out Bucciarati’s Passione pin, holding the shiny ornament up against the glass.  “I’m exceptional at… finding things, if you will.  Though they usually belong to other people.”

“Naturally,”  the capo nods his head in approval.  “Anything else?”

Don’t show all your cards at once.  Wracking his brain for information, Giorno pulls out the only other skill–Gold Experience excluded–in his pitiful résume.  “My left ear can completely fold into my head.”

“Really?”  

Always a crowd pleaser.

After a brief demonstration, Polpo continues.  “So a pickpocket who can do whatever... that was.  Based on the abilities you’ve shown me, would you be a good fit for Passione?”  

“That’s up for you to decide, sir.”

“Indeed it is,” the man agrees good-naturedly, opening the crackers and popping one in his mouth.  He chews noisily and without much care for appearances.  Giorno hardly manages to suppress a shudder as crumbs spill out and settle on his suit, falling from his gaping maw.  A half-eaten glob of saltine gets stuck on the man’s chin.  A muffled crunch echoes throughout the cell; Giorno makes the mistake of looking up.

Out of nowhere the capo has moved on from crackers to his own fingers, gnashing skin and bone between bloody teeth.  His nails chip and splinter in the spitting void of his mouth, making an awful cracking noise.  Red coats his lips and dribbles down to stain the fabric of his suit.

The ring of a cuckoo clock thankfully redirects Giorno’s attention.  By the time he looks back, the scene has returned to normal.  Polpo’s hand is as it was–covered in salty crumbs and not a drop of blood in sight.  Held between his newly unmangled fingers is a fancy metal lighter.

The capo smiles wide, greatly amused by his reaction.  “Ability was a good try; so good, in fact, I thought I’d give you a show of my own.  But the correct answer was trust!  A wild beast, no matter how able, is still a wild beast.  It is only through trust that those abilities can be harnessed.” 

Giorno holds his tongue, eyes trained on the lighter.  It’s ornate, with intricate carvings decorating the sides.  A flame burns brightly in the center without flickering. 

“This is a little something I like to do to break in the new guys–a test, if you will.”  The capo pauses to have another cracker.  “If you can keep this lit for twenty-four hours and bring it back to me, you’ll have my trust and a spot in Passione.”

“And if it goes out?”  Giorno asks, already having an idea of what the answer might be.

“What good is a beast that can’t follow instructions?”  Polpo parrots back between bites of saltine.  “Of course, they’re put down.”  He sets the lighter at the small opening in the cell that connects to the outside.  Mind made up, Giorno reaches out to take it and accidentally brushes his fingers against the capo’s palm.  It takes a truly monumental effort to keep the disgust off his face. 

Seemingly satisfied, Polpo waves him off and lays back down, taking the appearance of a mattress once more.  Where does his head go?  Giorno wonders.  But his curiosity isn’t quite strong enough to make him stick around; he firmly grasps the lighter and exits the room, eyes tracking the movement of the tiny flame.  He makes his way through the winding hallway once more without any issues.  The real trouble starts at the front desk.

“Stop right there!”  A voice barks.  A female security guard with a tightly woven braid stops him in his tracks. 

Oh, crap.

How did he forget about them?  He’d passed by without issue earlier, but Bucciarati had been with him then.  Giorno freezes, not yet turning around.

“Remain still for a routine body check,” she orders.  “Note that giving or receiving anything from Prisoner No. 6529 is strictly forbidden!”

They couldn’t have mentioned that bit before?

Giorno’s hands begin to sweat as he tightens his hold on the lighter.  The test has already begun–and if he doesn’t want to be ‘put down’, he can’t afford any mistakes.  Slip past a few guards; he can do that.  I have to.

A firm tug on his elbow snaps him out of his thoughts.  The security guard forces him to face her, mouth set in a stern line.  “Arms out!”

Two more guards flank her wielding batons.  Giorno grits his teeth and obeys, closing his fingers around the lighter to hide it.  The flame licks at his skin immediately, white hot, but his fist remains clenched. 

He tenses as the guard pats down his back, right over the slight lump of his wings.  Thankfully enough, her hands don’t linger–at least, not until she gets to his arm.

She seizes his wrist.  “Drop whatever you’re holding!” 

“I’m not holding anything,” he denies, keeping his expression blank.  The lighter’s heat only grows as it burns through each layer of skin.

“Last warning; drop it!”

The guard’s glare intensifies.  Left with no other choice, Giorno hesitantly begins to unfurl his fingers, the action slow and desperate.  Delaying the inevitable.  The only way out of this is a miracle, and the ones on his back are no help.

He opens his hand.  And right there, sitting in the middle of his palm is…

Nothing?

The guard scrutinizes the second degree burn adorning his hand.  “What’s this from?”

Giorno joins her in staring at his hand incredulously.  The lighter– where is the lighter?  It was there half a second ago, he knows it; felt its weight and heat and despair in his hand.  But all of that has vanished.  As if it were never there to begin with, save the burn it left in its wake.

“Stovetop.”  His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, scratching against his teeth like sandpaper, but lies are what he does best.  “I bumped against it while making breakfast.”

“Hmph,” the guard snorts, yanking on the brim of her hat and backing away.  “You’re free to leave, then.”

Giorno nods jerkily and all but scrambles for the front door.  The sound of blaring traffic and the salty breeze from the port hits him like a truck as he steps outside.  Putting his hands on his knees, he takes deep breaths.  Each inhale makes his body tremble. 

What the hell happened back there?  

He turns his pockets inside out and searches himself in a panic, ultimately coming up short.  The lighter is gone .  But he could’ve sworn it was there, clenched in his fist, until…until it just wasn’t.  It doesn’t make any sense.  Could this be another part of the test? 

Giorno drags himself away from the prison, his thoughts a jumbled mess.  Does this mean he failed?  Should he try to make a run for it or is it too late–are there already people watching, waiting to strike?  Rounding a corner, his head slams against a broad chest. 

The person he bumped into grabs him roughly by the shoulders.  “What the hell did you do?!”

That’s a bit of an overreaction, isn’t it?  

“Sorry, I was…”  Giorno rubs at the sore spot on his forehead, looking up.  He jumps back when he recognizes the man looking down at him in full blown panic.  “ Bucciarati?”

Buccarati’s face twists into a scowl.  He drags them away from the busy street to a more secluded area, grip tight around Giorno’s arm.  As soon as they’re alone the man whips around to face him.  “I didn’t tell you to kill him!”

Giorno blinks in disbelief.  What?  Thoroughly confused, he manages to say a single word.  “Who?”

Bucciarati’s expression scrunches up like a wrinkled shirt.  “Are you seriously trying to play dumb right now?  Polpo, you trigger happy idiot!”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Giorno sputters, holding out an arm defensively.  “He’s dead?  Since when?  I just talked to the guy!”

Bucciarati throws his hands up in the air.  “Don’t give me that.  I don’t even know how you found out about his allergy, but–”

Giorno’s stomach drops.  “Allergy,” he interrupts.  “What allergy?”

The man shoots him a sour look.  “He went into anaphylactic shock and choked on his own tongue.  The prison rang me up a few minutes ago.”

“Bucciarati,” Giorno says, gravely serious.  He’s got a really, really bad feeling about this.  “What was he allergic to?”

“Well thanks to you, every soldato and their grandmother in the Naples area will have heard by tomorrow morning.”

“Answer the question!”

“Feathers,” Bucciarati finally says, rolling his eyes.  “Jesus, even I didn’t know it was that bad.  How’d you figure it out?”

Giorno makes a strangled noise at the back of his throat.  …Maybe this has nothing to do with me.  

Honestly, how could he be the cause of this?  So he’s got a few feathers attached to him, that doesn’t mean anything!  A mere coincidence–Giorno doesn’t believe in coincidences, but he can make an exception for today.  Looking at the situation objectively, it couldn’t have been him; he never even came in contact with the capo! 

…Except for when he took the lighter.

Shit.  It was me.

Bucciarati pays no mind to his ongoing breakdown, contemplating his own thoughts with his chin in hand.  “No, no, hold on–this could be a good thing.  With Polpo out of the picture, that leaves an empty spot for a new capo.  Process of elimination means there’s no one in the Naples branch he trusted more than me, so…”

Giorno tilts his head to the side, failing to keep up with the man’s logic.  Bucciarati turns to him, an almost smile on his face.  It’s unsettling.

“I think you just scored me a promotion!”  The man says, more excited than Giorno’s ever seen him.  Then, in a wholly uncharacteristic move, he ruffles Giorno’s hair.

Giorno bats the hand away with a frown, smoothing his curls back into place.  That stuff takes time, you know.  Bucciarati is already turning to leave and all but skips away in the direction of the prison, with no promise to return.  Giorno figures he’d better stay put anyway.  He idles in the shade as he waits, kicking pebbles that scuff his shoes. 

When the man comes back, he’s on the phone.  “Yes, yes, it’s all in order, I’ll have it sent to you.”  A tinny voice speaks through the phone, too quiet for Giorno to hear.  Bucciarati responds curtly.  “He what?  Fine, I’ll do it.  And about that recruit I mentioned...”  He glances at Giorno. 

Are they talking about him?

The man looks away.  “Understood.  We’ll set out for Capri at first light.”  He shuts his phone with a click, slipping it into his pocket.

Giorno raises a brow in a silent question. 

Bucciarati steps out of the shade, motioning for him to follow.  “I’ll explain as we go."  With Giorno flanking him he continues.  “That was Pericolo on the phone–an old dog in the upper ranks.  You’ll meet him later.”

“What did he want?” 

“Seeing as you didn’t get to finish your initiation–or even start, honestly–you’re not part of Passione yet.  He proposed an alternate way for you to join.”

Giorno wrinkles his nose.  “And that is?”

Bucciarati pauses at the crosswalk, watching the cars go by.  “Polpo had one last assignment on his backlog.  Unfinished business, if you will, and now it’s been passed down to me.  You’ll work together with my team and I to complete it.  Once it’s done you’ll be an official soldato.”

Giorno tails the other around a corner.  “And what about…”  He trails off, not sure if it’s safe to speak freely.  

Bucciarati glances at him out of the corner of his eye.  “You still want to do it?  I figured you were concussed when you asked.” 

“Not concussed.  I meant it when I told you I’d help.”

“You know, it’s not going to be easy.  Not by a long shot.  Our chances of survival– survival , mind you, not success–are probably less than half.”

“I’ve faced worse odds.”  Giorno says, not budging.  “Now what were you thinking?”

After a long moment of silence Bucciarati sighs, seemingly giving up on warding him off.  “Small time operations haven’t been working.  You take down one head, three more pop up in its place.  So we go for the crown.”

“The boss of Passione?”  Giorno guesses.  “Who?”

“That’s what we need to find out,” Bucciarati affirms, stepping onto the street when the light turns red.  “He’s kept his identity under wraps ever since coming into power.  He communicates either through cryptic messages or his consiglieri–the only man to ever see the Don’s face.”

“Okay,” Giorno nods, keeping pace.

“Okay?”

“Sounds good.”

“No questions?  At all?”  Bucciarati says skeptically, frowning at him.  “Did I not mention the part where we might die?”

Giorno shrugs.  “The inner politics of the mafia, that's more your area, so I’ll follow your lead.  If whatever you say sounds stupid, I’ll let you know.  But for now just use me as your sword.”

“More like a toothpick.”  The man huffs in some faint replica of a laugh.  “But back to our more pressing issue…”  He stops walking.

Giorno does the same and glances at the hole in the wall shop in front of them.  A pizza place?

“Besides you and I, there’s four other people in my squad.”  Bucciarati tells him, pushing open the door.  A bell jingles as they step inside.  “They can be a bit prickly at times–especially to newcomers.  That’s why you need to make a good impression.”

A long line of customers is packed into the shop like sardines.  The smell of fresh bread swiftly reminds Giorno that he hasn’t eaten breakfast.  Or lunch.

“I don’t follow,” he says, eyes fixed on the steaming plates of food on a passing waiter’s tray.  His stomach attempts to rumble but he beats it into submission. 

Bucciarati brings out his wallet, sifting through a few crisp bills.  “Cialde sells the best pizza from this port to the next–I’d consider it Naples’ finest.”

Can he never give a straight answer?

The man cuts through the small crowd.  Giorno apprehensively follows, somehow managing to keep the mortified expression off his face.  They just cut at least ten people waiting in line–has he no shame?  

The lanky teenager working the cashier sees them and instantly brightens.  “Signore!” 

Bucciarati smiles, drumming his fingers against the countertop.  “Sedano, it’s been too long.  How’s the old boss?  Still making you work weekends?” 

The teen’s face splits into a grin.  “Only Saturdays, now!  He’s been wanting to see you–I’ll go get him.” 

Giorno watches him disappear into the back and glances up warily at Bucciarati.  Bucciarati ignores his staring and starts chatting up the rest of the customers.  A woman with dark circles under her eyes kisses him twice on the cheek, a lively child bouncing at her feet.  He shares a brief handshake with an office worker and laughs at something he says.

Someone’s popular.

A burly, bearded man suddenly emerges from the kitchen.  “Bucciarati!”  He bellows, skipping formalities for a hug.  

Bucciarati returns the gesture, pulling away with a pat on the other’s back.  “Good to see you too, Cialde.”

Cialde–who Giorno can only assume is the shop’s owner–laughs heartily.  “What would you like?  We’ve got a new special!”

“Just the usual for today, unfortunately.  I’ll have to try it next time.”  Bucciarati declines politely, moving onto his order.  “I’ll have two pies, one pepperoni, one half olive half mushroom.  And a takeaway container of alfredo.”

“Sure that’ll be enough for your little army?”  Cialde chuckles, ringing him up.  “I’ll throw in some bruschetta, free of charge.”

“I think they’d kill me if I said no to more food,” Bucciarati says with a sigh.  “But I’ll be fine without the discount.”  He slides the full payment for his order along with a tip over the counter.  “Sabbia’s due soon, isn’t she?  Treat her to something nice for me.”

Cialde protests at first, refusing, but eventually gives in at Bucciarati’s insistence.  Giorno watches the scene play out curiously.  Not only had Bucciarati declined free food, but he’d somehow convinced the owner to let him pay extra.  How peculiar.

The man turns, addressing him for the first time since they’ve entered the store.  “Do you want a drink?”

“I’m good,”  He says, mostly out of habit.  

“Five sparkling waters, then.”  Bucciarati tacks onto his order, prompting an enthusiastic nod from Cialde.

Ten minutes swiftly pass, and soon enough they’re exiting the store, each with a pizza box in hand.  Giorno’s holding the pepperoni if the smell is anything to go by.  Bucciarati balances the container of alfredo atop the other box.  They make their way onto the metro and sit across from each other. 

Giorno sets the pizza down on the empty seat next to him and tucks his knee up against his chest.  “What’s your squad like, personality wise?  Besides ‘prickly.”  He asks. 

“Don’t worry; they don’t bite,”  Bucciarati answers vaguely.  His lips curl into a thin smirk.  “Unless I tell them to, of course.  Then they can get pretty vicious.”

…Right.

Giorno shifts in his seat.  Bruschetta aside, he’ll have to lay on the charm.  

He really, really hopes none of them are allergic to feathers.

Chapter Text

They’re all fairly suspicious of him, though each has a different way of showing it. 

Abbacchio seems to be ignoring him but his headphones aren’t playing any music–keeping himself on high alert.  Fugo is eyeing his untouched alfredo like one might an active landmine, scrutinizing it for tampering.  Narancia, by contrast, has no problem stuffing his face with pizza but looks ready to jump from his chair at any moment.  Mista squints at him and hastily scribbles something down on a napkin before passing it to Fugo to read. 

Wait, no–Tiger Pants is Mista, Orange Bandana is Narancia.  Not the other way around. 

Giorno runs through their names one more time before surveying the table again.  The group had only spoken directly to him once–to introduce themselves at Bucciarati’s express command–and not a word since.  Bucciarati himself is seated at the head of the table, watching the others with an exasperated expression.  He leans over to steal the olives from Abbacchio’s plate and dabs at his mouth with a napkin. 

Seems like he’ll get no help from him.  Did I ever expect otherwise?

Giorno inspects his surroundings to distract himself from the chilly reception.  The house has piles upon piles of clutter, every space occupied and lived-in.  Maybe ‘clutter’ isn’t the right word, but he doesn’t know how else to categorize all the little knick-knacks and decorations and personal, purposeless things that fill every corner.  It’s an unfamiliar sight.  Giorno thinks of his own dorm room, almost empty save for the necessities and molted feathers.

The dark-haired one–Narancia, that’s Narancia–breaks the silence abruptly.  “You gonna eat that?” 

Giorno follows the boy’s line of sight to his own untouched slice of pizza.  “Yes,” he says after a moment of deliberation, stressing the vowels as if it’s a new word. 

Narancia darts out like a lithe python and snatches up the pizza anyway, wagging a finger in his face.  “Too slow, new guy!”  Raising a brow at Giorno’s blank stare, he continues.  “What, you never heard of an entrance fee?”  He grins at him and proceeds to chew with his mouth open.

Fugo swats the boy on the shoulder, hissing under his breath.  “Narancia, you idiot–don’t eat that!  Who knows what he’s done to it?”

Narancia rubs at the sore spot and glares back at the blonde venomously.  “Don’t call me an idiot!  If Bucciarati’s eating it then what’s the problem?!”

Giorno watches the two go back and forth, discreetly stealing back his pizza.  He can’t tell if they’re best friends or mortal enemies.  Tearing off the bitten part, he begins to eat the slice himself. 

Mista, the one with the hat and loud patterned pants, scoots his chair closer and starts talking to him in a conspiratorial whisper.  “Hell of a first impression, huh?” 

Giorno glances at the other from the corner of his eye.  “I haven’t had enough time to form an opinion.” 

Mista pulls a face.  “Christ, do you always talk like that?”  Reconsidering the question, he shakes his head.  “Nevermind–just be grateful Bucciarati’s sticking around here.” 

“Why?” 

“I mean…don’t get me wrong, you seem like an alright kind of guy,” Mista chuckles, darting his gaze to the side.  “But the second Bucciarati’s out of earshot, Abbacchio will be off his leash.  I wouldn’t be surprised if he lays into you before the day’s up.” 

Abbacchio’s head jerks up and towards them despite their low volume.  He shoots Giorno a withering glare, expression scrunching up unpleasantly.  Giorno decides that yes, he is actually quite fond of living, and doesn’t return the nasty look.  Mista scratches his chin as he watches the exchange, doing nothing to hide his amusement. 

They’re startled out of the impromptu staring contest by the sound of a phone ringing.  Bucciarati stands up and pushes in his chair, the source of the noise in hand.  “ Behave ,” he tells the collective before disappearing into another room, leaving a tense silence in his wake. 

“So…” Abbacchio drawls, tapping finely manicured nails against his paper plate.  The hunch of his shoulders is almost wolf-like, ready to pounce upon unsuspecting prey.

“Here we go,” Mista sighs, twirling the end of his pizza crust between his fingers. 

Abbacchio ignores him.  “How old did you say you were again?”

Again?  There was no again; Giorno hadn’t mentioned it at all, hoping to skip over the tiny detail that he’s still in high school.  Though it looks like that’s no longer an option.  The others stare at him, waiting in anticipation.  

“Fifteen.”

“No way!”  Narancia’s face splits into a toothy smile.  “You’re like a baby –that’s even younger than Fugo!” 

Fugo rolls his eyes, pushing his alfredo around his plate with a disposable fork.  It doesn’t look like he’s eaten anything yet.  “You’re only two years apart, dumbass.  And if anyone’s a baby it’s the one who still hasn’t memorized his times tables.”  The blonde gives the pasta a cautious sniff as Narancia turns red.

Abbacchio starts questioning him again before they can break out into another argument.  “So you’re still a student?”  The man shoots him an amicable smile that’s all teeth, the action more plastic than their utensils.  “Must be busy this time of year.  Midterms and all that.”

Giorno keeps his posture loose.  “I’m on spring break.” 

“Oh, is that so?  I haven’t been to school in a while.  I must’ve forgotten.”  Abbacchio leans forward.  “How’d you meet Bucciarati, anyway?  Walk in the park?”

Now this, he’s prepared for.  Giorno recites the cover Bucciarati rehearsed with him during the ride over to the house.  “He saved me from a couple of thugs.  I’m not exactly… welcome, back at my parents’ home, so he let me tag along with him instead of dropping me off.” 

“So you got jumped?  That sucks.  I was wondering why your face was all busted up!”  Narancia exclaims, eyeing the darkening bruise stretching across Giorno's nose–courtesy of their beloved leader.

Mista cocks his head to the side.  “What’d you do to earn a beatdown like that?  They tried to mug you or something?  You do look pretty well off.”

“Quite the opposite,” Giorno says, pausing to sip from his water.  “It’s shameful to admit, but I did start it.  Tried lifting the wallet of the wrong guy at the wrong time.  Really, it’s my own fault–I’ve a tendency for sticky fingers.”

Fugo chokes on his pasta–oh, he’s finally eating it–while Narancia’s eyes nearly bug out of his head.  Abbacchio purses his lips, but holds his tongue; Mista’s mouth quirks upwards just a little.

Might as well get it over with.   Giorno sighs and sets down his half-eaten slice of pizza.  “Oh, that’s also the name of Bucciarati’s stand, right?  What a coincidence.”

This time the reaction is immediate, his words causing an instant backlash around the table.  Mista is out of his chair in the blink of an eye, drawing a gun from his waistband and aiming at Giorno’s temple.  Narancia also arms himself in record time with a long switchblade.  Abbacchio and Fugo stay seated but trade foreboding looks–probably fighting over who gets to bury him in an unmarked grave and who gets to hack him up into a thousand tiny pieces beforehand.

They must come to a decision quickly since not even a full minute later Abbacchio is lurching forward to snag Giorno by the collar.  The man yanks him forwards, spilling his drink in the process.  “ You’re a stand user?!”

“If you must know, then yes.” 

The man’s grip is too strong for him to pry off, so Giorno resigns himself to being dragged like a dog’s chew toy across the table.  

Fugo wipes away a stray noodle sticking to his cheek before laying a hand on Abbacchio’s shoulder.  “Quit it,” he snaps, thin lips twisting into a scowl.  “Didn’t Bucciarati tell us to be nice?”

This was them being nice ?

Abbacchio whips around to face him.  “To some random twerp he let follow him around, sure– not to an unknown, potentially dangerous stand user whose abilities we know nothing about.  If his stand is anything like yours, we could all be dead in seconds!” 

Fugo narrows his eyes, tension lacing his wiry frame.  “Bucciarati wouldn’t have brought back a major threat like that.”  The stress lines on his face crease, making him seem older than Narancia implied.  “...At least, not without mentioning it first.  He promised those surprise assassin visits were a one-time thing.”

Mista reluctantly lowers his pistol but keeps a finger hovering over the trigger.  “I mean, he did say that.”

Not so convinced, Narancia continues to brandish his pocket knife.  “You know what else he said?  If you chopped off a stand user’s head, arms, and legs, they’d find a way to screw you over with just their bloody stumps!  I trust that guy as far as I can kick him!”

Mista prods the boy in the side, leaning over to whisper to him loudly.  “I thought it went ‘as far as I can throw him’?”

“Yeah, but have you seen him?  He looks like a gust of wind could carry him all the way to Milan.”  Narancia mutters back in an equally bad attempt at whispering.  “If I threw him he’d never come back.”

Hey!

“Shut up, all of you!” Abbacchio snarls as if reading his mind, mushroom-tinged breath smacking Giorno right in the face.  “Fugo, when’s the last time Bucciarati added a new member without consulting either of us?  Never, right?” 

The blonde’s frown impossibly deepens.  “At the very least, he would’ve mentioned it before today.”

“Exactly!”  Abbacchio barrels onwards, turning his accusatory tone to Giorno.  “For all we know, Bucciarati could be under the influence of his stand!  Who’s to say he hasn’t gotten into his head–or ours, for that matter?”

“Believe me, you'll know.”  Bucciarati’s voice slices through the air as he strolls back into the room.  “Only a brainwashed version of me would actually think you guys are capable of following simple instructions.  Didn’t I tell you to behave ?”

He settles back down in his seat, slipping the phone he was holding into his suit pocket.  The others slink back to their chairs begrudgingly.  Abbacchio releases him with a scoff.  Giorno’s still working out the wrinkles in his shirt collar when Bucciarati continues speaking.

“Giorno is not your enemy,” he affirms, voice taking on a serious tone.  “But I understand it’ll take some time to see him as an ally.  All I’m asking is that you don’t try to kill each other.  And if he does make himself a threat towards any one of you, rest assured…”  Bucciarati slides his gaze towards him, staring at Giorno directly.  “I’ll take care of him myself.” 

Giorno knows a bluff when he sees one.  And that was no bluff.  

He fights back the shiver traveling up his spine, clearing his throat.  “If you’d like, I can give you all a demonstration of my abilities.  That way I’m not so ‘unknown’.”

Fugo huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.  “Fine—but don’t expect us to do the same.”

Giorno nods and concentrates until golden fingers manifest over his own.  He reaches over the table to pick up a stray napkin.  Gold Experience’s dull warmth spreads from the hollow of his throat to his arm, then into the creased linen.  The napkin wriggles around in his palm, a mottled shell forming from the fabric. 

“…Is that a snail?  Did he just make a snail?” 

The snail inches forward across his palm, leaving a slimy residue on his skin.  He tugs on the invisible thread connecting them, withdrawing Gold Experience’s energy; it transforms back in an instant.  Giorno cycles the napkin through different shapes and forms, ending on a fresh sprig of thyme. 

“Was that good enough?” he asks, glancing up to gauge the table’s reaction. 

Mista’s eyes look like they’re about to pop out of his skull.  Abbacchio’s expression twists, constipated, as if not wanting to admit being impressed.  Fugo blinks rapidly, and Giorno can almost see the gears in his head grinding to a halt.  Next to him Narancia jumps out of his seat for a second time. 

“Holy crap,” the boy marvels, giving by far the most enthusiastic response.  “That’s insane!”  Narancia recovers Abbacchio’s overturned cup and points to the small amount of water still left inside.  “Can you turn this into wine?” 

Giorno stares at him for a beat too long, taking a second just to process the request.  Maybe his demonstration wasn’t clear enough.  “…I’m not Jesus.”  

That, at least, gets a laugh out of Mista.

“Well!”  Bucciarati claps his hands together, rising from his chair.  “I think that’s enough excitement for one night.  Big mission tomorrow, in case you forgot.”

“What?”  Fugo jerks his head upwards, a protest already falling from his lips.  “When were you planning to mention that?!” 

Bucciarati tilts his head to the side.  “I just did.  I’d pack enough for a week if I were you.”

Fugo’s eye twitches as he gets up angrily, chair scraping against the floor, and storms out of the room.  The others file out as well.  Before Giorno can decide whether to follow or to give them a wide berth he’s stopped by Mista. 

“What’s the rush?”  He says, wedging himself between Giorno and the doorway.

Giorno stops to look up at him.  Throughout dinner the gunner had been…well not nice , but definitely nicer than the rest of the squad, so maybe this won’t be so bad.  “Did you need something?”

Mista grins crookedly.  “I know you didn’t exactly get the welcome wagon, so I was thinking I could help you out a bit.  Free of charge, of course, since you’re new!”

“Help me how?”  Giorno asks.  

“If you do me a teensy tiny favor, I’ll talk to the guys for you.  Help you get on their good side, and all.”  Mista suggests.  “Whaddya say?”

“What’s the favor?”  He says, though it’s probably pointless to ask.  It’s not like he’s in position to refuse.   I do not like where this is going.

Mista jerks his thumb behind him in the direction of the sink.  To say that it’s full would be the mother of all understatements; the metal basin is positively overflowing with dishes.  Cups, wine glasses, plates, an alarmingly bloody cleaver, and— is that a whole bottle of ketchup?   The decrepit dishwasher next to the sink looks older than Bucciarati’s whole squad combined, and doesn’t seem to be in use. 

“The soap’s in the drawer under the sink and the sponge is…around.  Somewhere.”  The gunner gestures vaguely before patting Giorno on the back.  “Or you could just magic up a new one with that cool stand of yours!”

“It doesn’t work like that," he says dryly, but Mista is already gone. 

He finds a small bottle of green dish soap under the counter, as promised, and a pair of ratty rubber gloves.  They make a loud thwack when he finally manages to pull them on. 

The mountain of mess in the sink stares back at him.  There’s a soggy paper plate atop the heap, out of place among porcelain bowls and metal utensils.  Who would put paper in the sink?  It’s not even remotely washable.

This is what you signed up for.

He tosses it in a nearby trash bin with a grimace before running the sponge under the faucet.  Water soaks through the wear and tear holes in the rubber gloves, dampening his hands.  Now his fingers will be all pruny–great.   Giorno reaches for the first dish with a sigh.

He hopes he knows what he’s doing.

Chapter Text

The air smells of salt.  

Giorno stretches out with a stifled groan, a painful twinge ringing up his spine.  The pull-out couch had done a number on his back, creating a sore ball of tension between his shoulders.  Tightly binding his wings with bandages certainly hadn’t helped.

He blinks tiredly and peers over the ship deck’s railing.  Naples is a tiny strip of land in the distance, the ships in the port as small as ants.  Fugo leans heavily against the handrail beside him, face tinged green.  The blonde waves off Narancia’s offer of soda, crunching on a saltine with a miserable expression.  

Bucciarati snaps his compass shut with a click.   “We’re about two hours out from shore.”  

Fugo looks back at him with a scoff.  “Finally going to brief us, then?”  

“You always did catch on quick,” Buccarati quips, making his way to the center of the deck.  “Gather ‘round!”  

Mista and Abbacchio emerge from the cabin, the latter shoulder checking Giorno as he passes.  Giorno takes a step back to steady himself, bound wings thumping against the guardrail.  He bites the inside of his cheek to keep down a wince.  

Bucciarati raises a brow at Abbacchio, unimpressed, and continues.  “Our first stop is Capri.  Don’t—and I mean do not— harass the tourists.”  

Narancia whistles innocently and looks away.  “Capri?”  

“I’m guessing we won’t be tourists ourselves, then.”  Abbacchio remarks, blowing a strand of hair out of his face.  

“Does it look like we’re on a pleasure cruise?”  Bucciarati says scathingly.

Mista pouts.  “Well, we are on a yacht…”

“And you’re officially out of paid vacation days.  We’re getting off-topic.”  Bucciarati’s tone drops.  “Polpo’s dead, and he’s got the equivalent of a small treasure trove hidden in Capri worth ten billion lira.”  He grins, flinty and sharp.  “That money’s ours.”

Fugo spews saltine crumbs all over the deck.

Narancia looks up at Bucciarati, mouth agape.  “You’re kidding.”

“I’m the one that hid it.”  The man rolls his eyes.  “No one else knows the exact spot either.”   

Mista cuts in next.  “Are you going to use the cash to become a capo, Bucciarati?”

“Yes,” Bucciarati walks to the bow of the ship, showing them his back as he faces the sea.  “We are.”

Abbacchio huffs, the dry chuckle almost too low to be heard.  “About time.”

Fugo cracks a smile for the first time since Giorno’s met him, his pleased expression matching Mista and Narancia’s.  It takes him a second to place it, the kind of emotion written across their faces.

They’re proud.  

Of their... shitty boss?  Giorno surveys the group as a whole, attempting to gain perspective.  They trade insults as easily as breathing; he didn’t even know Abbacchio could express things other than anger until now.  And yet, behind every barb and jab, there’s just something he can’t put a name to.  A natural ease to the way they interact, through jokes or punches or even simple movements.  

Could he ever have something like that?  

Giorno mulls over the thought, for the first time considering what he must be to them.  What he’s always been.  

An intruder.

Mista's voice breaks through his unwanted reflection.  “So you’ve stashed it in Capri, right?  Where?”

“It’s—”  Bucciarati cuts himself off abruptly.  “Hold that thought.”

He strides over to the anchor, summoning his stand to drop the heavy chain into the water.  The yacht slows before coming to a swaying halt a few seconds later.

Narancia lifts one side of his headphones away from his ear.  “What’s with the hold up?”

“Juuust checking something,” Bucciarati assures, leaning over the side of the boat with a telescope in hand.  Where he got that from, Giorno has no clue.  The man collapses the telescope with a sigh a moment later, tucking it back into his suit.  “They’ve stopped as well.  Alright, we’re being followed.  Act normal.”

Narancia takes his headphones off fully, letting them hang around his neck.  The boy trudges over to Bucciarati’s side and looks over the boat rail himself.  A beat passes before he speaks, sounding skeptical.  “Uh, you sure?  Your hunches are pretty legendary and all, Bucciarati, but I don’t know about this one.  Maybe they were looking for a spot to fish and they’ve finally settled on it.  Look, they even have fishing rods!”

Bucciarati shakes his head.  “Last week, there was an oil spill in this area.  Commission made a big fuss—it was all over the local news.” 

“O…kay?  So?”

Fugo interjects by smacking Narancia across the back of the head.  “ So, the fish here are all dead or contaminated, dumbass.  No fisherman worth his salt would bother coming out here.”

“Well that was fast,” Mista remarks, glancing down at the chamber of his revolver.  “How long’s it been since Polpo kicked the bucket?  A day?”

“And everyone and their loan shark already knows about his fortune.  Narancia, it’s your turn.”  Fugo grumbles, pushing off of the ship’s railing.

Narancia wrinkles his nose.  “No way—I took care of it last time!  Mista’s on this one, not me.”  

Mista guffaws, clearly ready to argue that point, before being interrupted.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Abbacchio drawls, glancing at the fishing boat on their tail.  “Why don’t we let our resident newbie handle it?”

The group’s attention shifts to Giorno.  Mista sizes him up while Narancia blinks wide-eyed, noticing his presence on the ship for the first time.  Fugo looks bored.  Giorno ignores the trio, keeping his gaze on Abbacchio.  He doesn’t know what exactly he did, but this guy’s been gunning for him since they first met.  This might end up being a bigger problem than he thought.  

Abbacchio smirks.  “If Bucciarati’s willing to vouch for you, you must be at least on par with the rest of us.  It’s only two guys, right?  Surely you can handle that on your own.”

Giorno looks to Bucciarati but the man only shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest.  “He’s got a point.  Now’s as good a time as any to show everyone what you can do.”  He glances at the rest of the group, considering.  “But having backup can’t hurt.  Narancia and Giorno, I’ll leave it to you.”

Narancia jumps to his feet, abandoning his headphones and boombox on the shipdeck.  His stand shimmers into view over his shoulder, taking the form of a plane.  Giorno schools his expression into one of indifference because, well.  He’s been a stand user for a grand total of a week, and based on everyone else he’s met—Koichi and Bucciarati—he made the assumption that all stands would be at least vaguely humanoid.  

The plane spins its propellers with a hum that resembles a laugh.

“You and me, partner!”  Narancia grins, a red lens covering his right eye.  “This’ll be a cake walk.”

They get into position at the stern of the boat.  Narancia’s stand, introduced as Aerosmith, hovers in the air above them loudly.  Narancia himself slings an arm around Giorno’s shoulder.

“So I’ll fly you over right there ,” he explains, pointing to the side of the fishing boat.  “And then circle back and cover you from a distance.  Got it?”

“From a distance?  You’re not coming with me?”  Giorno asks, a twinge of anxiety snaking up his throat.   

Narancia lets out an exaggerated sigh in response.  “Aerosmith is good at a lot of things, but stealth ain’t one of them.  Little guy makes a shit ton of noise.”  

Aerosmith fires its propellers with a sad rumble.  

“But don’t worry about it,” the boy continues, ruffling Giorno’s hair.  “This dependable senior has your back!”

Fugo makes a noise that, with a little more effort, could be passed off as a cough.  Narancia wordlessly flips him off.  

“As I was saying…”   He grumbles, face curling into a light scowl.  Narancia gestures to the red lens covering the right side of his face.  “I’ll be your eyes in the sky.  If you get spotted, Aerosmith will help you out.”  

“I understand that part, but,” Giorno looks over the ship’s railing past the open sea, measuring the distance between them and the fishing boat.  “How am I supposed to get over there in the first place?”

Narancia shoots him a grin, all teeth with a hint of mischief.  “You’re not scared of flying, are you?”

Giorno’s wings twitch suddenly, as if perking up at the mention.  He forces them to be still.  “No. I’m not.”

Narancia nods and then walks around him in a circle, giving him a once over. The boy squints at him, as if checking something, and then nods.  Giorno is quiet, if not a little confused.

“Alright.”  Narancia declares, stopping in front of him.  “This should work.”  He beckons his stand over with a wave and motions to where the plane’s wings connect to its base.  “You can hold onto Aerosmith from here.”

Giorno examines the miniature plane questioningly.  “…Are you sure this can support my weight?”

Narancia only laughs.  “We’re a lot stronger than you think, rookie!”  He flexes an arm, showing off wiry ropes of muscle and tanned skin.  Aerosmith twirls its propellers with gusto.  

Giorno steps up to the edge of the boat, carefully climbing over the railing to hold on from the other side.  Aerosmith takes to the air and hovers in front of him expectantly.  He tentatively reaches out for the plane.  The metal is warm to the touch, almost like it’s alive—and who’s to say that it isn’t, that the whir of propellers isn’t a laugh, or the hum of its engine a breath?  But then what does it mean, that Narancia’s soul can fly freely, while the wings on Giorno’s are just for decoration?  

His legs dangle over the open sea.  

“Hey, this kinda feels like giving someone a piggyback ride!”  Narancia laughs.  “Okay, so whatever you do, don’t let g—!”

Aerosmith takes off before he can hear the rest, shooting forward swiftly.  The plane dips low, low enough for salt and foam to splash against Giorno’s ankles.  Then, just as quickly, Aerosmith tips upwards and begins to ascend.  The fishing boat’s dock draws closer, closer, closer still—

Giorno lets go of Aerosmith as they zip over the boat, rolling across the dock before landing in a crouch.  The plane disappears from sight a moment later.  Leaning against the outer wall of the deckhouse, he peers around the corner.  Two figures stand across from him, backs facing Giorno as they argue with each other.  

“Fuck, I knew we were being too hasty.  They know we’ve been tailing them.”

“ You’re the one who didn’t want to pay for a motorboat!  I told you we should’ve split up!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.  We can still get the location out of them if we play our cards right.  If he asks, we’ll just tell Bucciarati we’ve been sent by the top brass.”

“Bucciarati is the top brass, idiot.”

“Not yet, he isn’t.  The way I see it, Polpo’s fortune is first come first serve; same goes to the position of capo.  All we need to do is—”

Crunch.

Giorno stops inching closer to glance downwards, dread pooling in his stomach.  The empty soda can he just stepped on looks back at him innocently.

“What the hell—who are you?!”  One of the men shouts as the other scrambles to escape.  

Giorno focuses on the latter, turning the deck’s planks into a tangle of vines to keep his opponent trapped.  He snatches up the dented soda can when a blur of silver glints in the corner of his eye, narrowly blocking an attack from a rapier.  The can… deflates, for lack of a better word, going limp and rubbery in a way that metal really shouldn’t.  The remnants of the can flop rather than ricochet off the floor when he drops it.

Giorno’s gaze tracks upwards from the point of the rapier to its wielder.  The figure is humanoid, covered in rounded spikes and lacking a mouth or nose, and is lunging for him again.  Giorno manages to dodge in the nick of time, if only barely.  The rapier hits the deck where he was standing seconds ago; the wooden plank that it pierced lets out a hiss, shriveling up like a popped balloon.  The stand(?) draws back its blade lightning fast, aiming for Giorno’s head.  

He twists and ducks out of the way, forced into constant motion by the onslaught of attacks.  Giorno realizes, belatedly, that he’s been cornered; his back hits the wall hard enough for feathers to bend.  The rapier flashes above.  Giorno’s mind goes blissfully, stupidly blank, unable to even blink as the blade descends.  

A small, red shape blots out the sun.

Popping noises—almost like firecrackers—fill Giorno’s ears as a spray of bullets knock the rapier off course.  The enemy stand whips around, rearing back its weapon to attack Aerosmith.  Giorno tries to use the diversion to move away from the wall; a vice-like grip clamps down on his shoe.  

“Now, Zucchero!”  The man at his feet yells, the one who—on all accounts— should’ve still been trapped.

Giorno’s eyes land on the gnarl of vines he’d made, puzzled at what he sees.  The plants are unmoving, inexplicably frozen in place, not even swayed by the sea breeze.  He attempts to break free again, only to find that his shoe won’t budge.  Zucchero’s stand reappears in front of him suddenly, poised to attack, and Giorno can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t even fucking think.  Is this really it?  Is this how he—?

Something rams into his side hard, the impact sending him in the air and over the side of the boat as the rapier descends.  Falling in slow motion, Giorno faintly registers that it wasn’t a wall he was backed up against.  

The stand’s blade pierces the ship engine with a soft pop.  

BOOM!

Light explodes behind Giorno’s eyes, red-yellow-white in quick succession.  And by the time he hits the water, there is no color at all.

Tokyo, Japan - 1988

His bandages itch.  They wrap around his upper back and over his chest, criss-crossing over Haruno’s shoulders.  The material is coarse and scratchy along the edges, irritating his skin.  

The scabs underneath itch more.  

But if he scratches at them he’ll start bleeding again; bleeding means going back to the White Room.  

And as Mother had said after he’d first woken up, she “had neither the time nor the money to bring him back there again”.  It’s a shame, because Haruno might like the White Room even more than their apartment.  The food there is never burnt, moldy, or stale, and the nurses will sometimes give him jello, which he thinks he likes, or pudding, which he knows he does.  They never take food away from him before he’s finished either, even if he spills.

Mother comes to check up on him once a day, just before visiting hours are over.  She doesn’t say much—doesn’t look directly at him—but she brings the kinds of apples he likes and peels the slices meticulously, setting a plate by his bedside.  The fruit is as sweet as he remembers it being, but the sight of a stray feather poking out of Mother’s dress turns everything bitter.  Haruno doesn’t hate her; doesn’t know how, doesn’t know if he wants to.  Would he feel better if he hated Mother, if he looked at her with her own eyes and wrenched his mouth to mimic her frown?

He thinks that sounds very tiring.

Hating her won’t bring back his wings or make a new pair sprout from his shoulders, so there’s no use in hate, but… the same could be said for forgiveness, couldn’t it?  If he forgives Mother, what will change?  Will he feel better, feel whole, if he forgets who took his missing pieces?  

Haruno eats his apple slices and wonders.

Mother checks him out of the White Room the next day.  Instead of going straight home, they head to the beach.

Tanned skin and bright clothing dot the sand like strips of confetti; Haruno sits on a towel and watches the tide come in.  Mother sprays them both with sunscreen, shooing him away once she’s done. 

 “Go play,” she tells him, so he heads for the shoreline.

The sand underfoot has absorbed the heat of the sun, making it hot to the touch.  Haruno steps through it swiftly and wishes he had shoes.  He settles down where the sand is cooler, wetter, and listens to the waves crash against the rocks.  A crab emerges from the ground, tickling him as it crawls across his toes.  Haruno watches the animal, captivated, and scoops it up in his hand.  The crab lays on its back in his palm, spindly legs kicking and flailing with great urgency.

“Haruno,” a voice calls from above.  

He cranes his neck upwards to see Mother standing over him.  Her blocky sunglasses stare back at him.

“Let’s go in the water.”  She says, looking away from him and to the ocean.  

Haruno glances down at the crab.  “Do I have to?”  He asks, hesitating.

Mother’s eyebrows furrow.  “It’ll be fun.”

She grabs him by the wrist and tugs, pulling him to his feet.  The crab falls out of his hand and quickly burrows into the ground.  Haruno frowns as it disappears from sight, nevertheless following Mother to the shore.  

The water pools around his legs gently, reaching up to his knees.  Seafoam bubbles along the surface and disappears when he tries to hold it, much to Haruno’s disappointment.  Then, a shriek of laughter; a group of teens to his right point excitedly into the distance at an incoming wave.  The current only grows taller as it draws near, hanging over Haruno like a murky curtain.

He moves to escape, to get back to dry land, but the great wave is upon him quicker than he can run.  It crashes into Haruno with a roar, sweeping him off his feet and sending him tumbling through the water.  He opens his mouth—to call for help or just to scream, he’s not sure—and chokes on bubbles and brine.

Without warning, a hand clamps down around his elbow and yanks him upwards.  Haruno breaks the surface of the water with a gasp, coughing up sand and grit and what seems like half of the ocean itself.  The overpowering taste of salt on his tongue makes him gag, nausea-induced spots swimming in his blurry vision.

“What the hell are you doing, Haruno?!”  Mother yells, sounding angry and panicked in a way that she never has before.  She cuffs him over the head.  “I swear, I take my eyes off you for one second…”  

Haruno clutches at his chest, nails clawing at damp bandages.  “...rts, Mom.”  He gasps, formalities slipping.

“What?  Don’t mumble.”  She says, annoyance creeping into her voice.

He doubles over, each breath short and labored.  His back burns.  

“...it hurts, Mom.”

The seawater seeping into his barely healed wounds is sheer agony.  His entire body is alight with pain, scorching from the inside out.  A tendril of red swirls in the water around his feet.

Mother makes an aborted noise, kneeling in front of him suddenly.  Her arms wrap around Haruno, light enough to not press on his aggravated wounds but with enough pressure for him to feel her shaking.  Haruno momentarily forgets about the pain as his mind blots out with fear.  He knows well enough that Mother’s hugs are tortuous things masquerading as comfort.  

But what else can she take from him?  He’s no feathers left to pluck and they’re in public too, so what will she do to him this time?  Mother’s quiet voice breaks him out of his frozen stupor.

“I’m sorry, Haruno.”  One of her hands hover over his bandages, not daring to touch.  Her slender fingers bury themselves in his hair instead.  “Mommy’s sorry.”

He feels something wet land on his shoulder and slide down his arm.  It’s warm and smooth like a tear, but that can’t be right; Mother doesn’t cry.  Because Mother is the strongest, most terrifying person in the whole world.

So it’s probably just seawater.

Gulf of Naples, Italy - 2001

Giorno’s eyes snap open and immediately sting.

He holds his breath and starts kicking his legs, swimming in the direction he hopes is up.  Just when he can see the surface, right there, in reach—sunlight glimmering and reflecting in the water, close enough to touch—his fleeting strength runs out.  Giorno floats, suspended in the ocean, and starts to sink.  His wings are twin anchors dragging him down, dead weight til the end.

Tackled by a mini fighter plane into the ocean; what a dumb way to die.  Giorno would laugh if he had any air.

For just a moment—not even a second, really—he wonders how his mother is doing.

Then something seizes around his ankle and pulls, hauling him out of the water.  Giorno hits the floor of the yacht face first, banging his nose and cheek against the deck.  Blinking the salt out of his eyes, Giorno watches Sticky Fingers’ hand retract into its shoulder with a click.

“I think he’s alive, guys!”

“Don’t jinx it.”

“Hey buddy, you with us?”

Voices swarm around him, buzzing in his cotton-filled ears.  Giorno sends the group a thumbs up, not trusting his ability to speak.  

Narancia approaches him first, thumping him on the back with a congratulatory pat.  “Nice work out there, partner!  There were a few hiccups here and there, but we got the job done.”

“Hiccups?”  Fugo remarks, glancing at the flaming wreck of the fishing boat.  “I wouldn't call a massive explosion a ‘hiccup’.”

“But that was the best part!  Points for style, new kid.”  Mista chimes in, offering Giorno a hand.  The gunslinger helps him to his feet.  “Told ya he’d pull through, Abbacchio.”

The man in question only scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest.  :Yeah, yeah.  Well excuse me for doubting the walking twig in a suit jacket.”

Giorno halfheartedly glares at the comment, wringing water out of his braid.  His wings rustle beneath his jacket in an attempt to dry off.  He stills at the movement, realizing right then and there that he’s fucked up.  The dressings that bound his wings have come loose, damp for his unplanned dip in the ocean.  

He must not be masking his expression of horror as well as he thought, since Bucciarati looks at him questioningly.  

“Are you hurt?”  The man asks calmly.

Giorno jerkily shakes his head, drawing in his wings so tight that it hurts.  He steps around the group, starting towards the bathroom.

“Hey,” Mista calls after him, confused.  “Where ya going?”

“Toilet.”  Giorno answers briskly, not stopping or turning around to face the other.  

He locks the bathroom door with shaky hands as soon as he gets inside, trying in earnest to get his breathing under control.  Did any of them see?  Fugo, the smart one, did he see?  Abbacchio, who’s kept a suspecting eye on him since the beginning, did he see?  Bucciarati, the enigma, who could kill him easily if he wanted to, did he see?

Giorno curses, quickly shrugging off his suit jacket to assess the damage.  The bandages are ruined, half unraveled and completely drenched.  The pins he used to keep them in place are gone, either lost during the scuffle or to the sea.  He turns to his last resort, but even that’s futile; the toilet paper near disintegrates in his wet hands.  A sudden knock on the door breaks him out of his panicked daze.

“Giorno?  You in there?”  A voice sounds from outside.  Narancia.  “I got you a towel.”

Giorno’s legs almost give out in relief.  He slightly cracks open the door, accepting the towel through the narrow gap.

Narancia speaks up again.  “Everything alright?”

“Yes,” Giorno says, clutching the towel in his hands.  A wing pops free from his back as the bandages unravel even more.  “Yes, thank you.”

Narancia hums in response, footsteps retreating.  Giorno lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, slumping against the now closed door.  He throws a glance at the toilet paper as he dries off and grimaces.  When they get to Capri, he’ll have to get some new, waterproof bandages.

…And a new shoe.

Chapter Text

Capri is a bustling, lively hub of noise. The salty smell of the sea and the waves crashing against the rocks mingles with mouth-watering scents from food vendors’ stalls.  Carts glitter with gaudy jewelry draped over handwoven fabrics and clothes for sale. Any tourist would be enamoured with the sight of the pier; by the time the group reaches their destination, Giorno has pickpocketed no less than eight of them.

He follows the others into a restroom.  Two janitors are standing outside, sweeping the ground idly.

“Why’re we stopping here, Bucciarati?  You need to take a leak?”  Narancia asks, eyeing the building up and down.

“Something like that.”  The man says, glancing around to check the surrounding area.  Apart from two janitors the place is empty.  “Keep watch.”

The group—sans Narancia—steps inside.

Grimy walls and grimier floors form an unholy matrimony that only highlights the sour stench of urine.  Giorno wrinkles his nose at the sight.  Bucciarati walks forward seemingly unbothered, approaching a urinal.  Giorno swiftly turns around. 

Is he really going to take a piss in front of all of them?  He knew the guy was weird, but not that weird.

“Ow, ow, ow!  Someone help me!”  Narancia’s pained voice suddenly shrieks from the entrance.

Giorno rushes outside with the others to see Narancia being attacked by a… janitor? 

His assailant is dressed in ill-fitting clothes that swamp their figure in cotton.  A boxy pair of goggles cover their eyes, hiding any sort of expression from sight. A broom—presumably theirs—lays discarded on the floor as the janitor uses Narancia’s own knife against him.

“Uh, guys?  A little help here!”  Narancia calls, trying and failing to break away from his attacker.

Mista rolls his eyes with a huff.  “C’mon man, a janitor?  Now you’re just making us look bad in front of the newbie.”  He throws Giorno a sheepish grin before reaching for his gun, eyes narrowing.  “Unless, of course, you’re not a janitor at all.”

“That won’t be necessary,” someone interrupts, pulling the attacker off of Narancia.  The voice belongs to the second janitor; an old man with a lazy eye.

Giorno feels the change in atmosphere immediately when Bucciarati goes stiff as a board.  The man quickly barks out an order.

“Everyone, bow!”

The others lower their heads without question, not hesitating for even a second.  Giorno glances around, puzzled.  The second janitor looks at him with a dull expression.

“This is Signore Pericolo,” Bucciarati says, introducing the man.  “One of Passione’s caporegimes.”

Giorno’s eyes widen before a rough hand—Abbacchio’s—forces him into a bow.

“I trust that you have the fee ready?”  Pericolo says, discarding his disguise.  Gone is the unassuming, hunched figure that was sweeping the grounds.  A dangerous air hangs around the elder like an inky curtain.

Bucciarati gives the man a curt nod before leading him into the restroom.  Giorno follows them inside, confused.  Shouldn’t Bucciarati be leading them to Polpo’s fortune?

Pericolo doesn’t bat an eye as Bucciarati’s stand appears, almost as if he doesn’t notice it at all.  Sticky Fingers strikes one of the urinals with a swift jab, opening up a zipper on the porcelain.

The group gawks at the scene as jewels, gold, and other priceless items spill out of the zipper-space.

“...That’s kind of gross.”  Fugo mutters.

Mista nods in agreement, inspecting the urinal with disgust.

“All money is dirty,” Bucciarati declares, though even he seems hesitant to touch the treasure.  “Just some more than others.” 

Pericolo simply takes out a magnifying glass, unperturbed, and begins appraising Polpo’s fortune.  “They’re authentic.”  He hums, studying a necklace inlaid with rubies.  “Good condition, too.”  He collects the gold and jewelry in a briefcase, snapping the bag shut with a click. 

Bucciarati raises a brow, not quite impatient, but something close to it.

“Naples is under your authority now.  Gambling, loans, drugs—you’re the overseer of everything in the area.  70% of the proceeds will go towards the organization; the rest is yours to use as you please.”  Pericolo passes the man a Passione brooch like the one of Giorno’s coat, but silver instead of gold.  “Congratulations.”

Bucciarati doesn’t grin—that’d be a little too much genuine emotion for him—but the corners of his mouth curl slightly into a satisfied shape.  “Pleasure doing business, Signore Pericolo.”

The old man nods.  “One more thing before you go,” he says.  “Polpo had some unfinished business.  As his successor, you’ll be taking on his last assignment.”

Bucciarati pauses in the middle of adjusting his new brooch.  “What is it?”

“You’re to escort someone to the Don.  The assignment shouldn’t take more than a week.”

Giorno locks eyes with Bucciarati, a shared thought going through their minds.  This is an early, unexpected chance to get closer to the boss—and closer to taking him down.

“If you don’t mind my asking, Signore,” Fugo starts, looking around the area.  “Who are we escorting?  If you have their location we can get started right away.”

“No need for that,” Pericolo says, shaking his head.  “They’re already here.”

The blonde makes a puzzled expression and surveys the area again.  Giorno’s attention snaps to the other janitor, suddenly connecting the dots.  He watches as they remove their hairnet, shaking out a head of pink locks.  The chunky goggles are next to go, revealing vibrant green eyes that flash with annoyance.

“I’m going to change.” The janitor announces.  Their voice is high-pitched and sophisticated, words twisting around a slight Campanian accent.  They disappear into the restroom on the opposite side—the girl’s section.

“Who was that?” Narancia exclaims, mouth agape.  The cut on his chin has stopped bleeding.

“That would be Trish Una.  Your escortee.”  Pericolo responds, shaking his head.  “The boss’s daughter.”

Bucciarati purses his lips as he processes the information.  His expression flickers before returning to normal.

“The boss has a daughter?  Since when?”  Mista gawks, dumbfounded.

“Her existence was only made known to the organization recently, after her mother died.”  Pericolo says, and elaborates no further.  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a map.  A location is circled in red.  “You’ll take her to this safe house and await further instruction.”  

Bucciarati takes the map and gives it a brief once-over.  “We’d better leave soon if we want to get there before lunchtime.”  He remarks, addressing the group. 

“That’d be best.”  Pericolo nods, picking up his briefcase.  The old man walks away without another word.

Their escortee emerges from the bathroom, baggy janitor clothes replaced with stylish leather.  A patterned skirt swishes around her knees above a pair of combat boots.  She looks to be around fifteen.  The girl shakes out her wet hands and turns to face them.

“You,” Trish says, singling Giorno out.  “Give me your jacket.”

Giorno blinks at her, alarms blaring in his head as he processes the request.  For obvious, wing-shaped reasons, taking his coat off is not an option. 

Trish stares at him expectantly, raising a perfectly shaped brow.  “Well?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.”  He grits out, dipping his head in apology.

“Can’t or won’t?

“...Both.”

“Excuse me?”

The rest of the group stares at Giorno like he’s lost his mind.  He thinks insanity would have been a kinder way to go.

“Dude!”  Mista whispers in his ear frantically, elbow poking Giorno in the ribs none too gently.

“Aha, you wouldn’t want his coat anyway, Miss!”  Narancia chuckles nervously.  “He took a dip in the ocean earlier, probably still smells like canned sardines.”

Trish turns to the boy with a glare that could cut through steel.  “Did I ask for your input?  If it’s already dirty, then he should have no problem with me using it as a rag.”  She scoffs and raises her voice, now speaking to all of them.  “Is it normal for bodyguards to be so disrespectful?  I think I’ll need to have a long chat with my father about this kind of behavior.”

The girl holds out her hand again, intent clear.

Giorno sucks in a breath. If he refuses, it will most definitely sour his relationship with Trish—and by extension, the Don.  …Maybe he can explain away the wings as part of his stand.  No, but then how would Trish be able to see them?  He feels nauseous as his fingers reach for the jacket zipper, feathers ruffling anxiously behind him. 

“Now, now,” a voice interrupts, calm and controlled.  Bucciarati steps in and offers the girl a handkerchief.  “Let’s not be unreasonable, Miss Una.  You may use this instead.”

Trish looks down her nose at the cloth, accepting it with a huff.  She turns away from them as she dries her hands, not sparing Giorno a glance. 

“Christ.”  Narancia mutters under his breath, smoothing a hand over the cut on his cheek.

With the matter settled they load into the car, Bucciarati at the wheel and Fugo unfolding the map next to him.  The drive to the safehouse is long and winding, the ocean a blur of teal in the window.  Giorno leans back in the seat and rests his eyes.

After what might have been a few hours something jostles his shoulder, shaking him awake.  Giorno blinks blearily, not remembering falling asleep, and turns to his right.

“You really knocked out, huh?”  Mista jokes, drawing back his hand. 

Everyone else has already exited the van.  Giorno steps out and grimaces at the sensation of pins and needles in his foot.  The first thing he notices is the noise; or more specifically, the lack of it. Besides the sound of birdsong and the rustle of wind, the area is relatively quiet—free from the chatter of tourists and blaring street traffic. In front of him stands a quaint villa, complete with weathered brick walls and terracotta roof tiles. 

Entering the house, Giorno briefly considers leaving his shoes by the door but decides against it.  Abbacchio is nowhere to be found, presumably in the bathroom. Trish immediately goes upstairs and claims a room for herself while the rest of the group gathers in the kitchen.

“Now that we’re here, we’ll be needing some supplies.”  Bucciarati starts, rummaging through the empty cabinets.  “Narancia, you’ll take the car to the store and pick up necessities.  Make sure you’re not followed.”

Narancia takes the car keys with a pinched expression, probably unhappy about being sent to do busywork.  Mista chokes on a  laugh, hiding his smile behind his sleeve as Buccarati turns to him.

“Mista, Fugo, I want you keeping watch over the entrances and exits.  Pericolo did say this was a safe zone, but we shouldn’t drop our guard completely.”

The two nod in response, leaving for their assigned posts. 

“And Giorno,” Bucciarati addresses him last.  “You’re on Trish duty.”

Giorno furrows his brows, casting a doubtful glance to the staircase.  “I’m pretty sure I’m the last person she wants to see right now.”

“Then that’s on you.”  Bucciarati tells him, deadpan.  “Braid her hair, shine her shoes, I don’t care—we can’t afford getting on her bad side this early.”  His voice drops to a whisper as he leans in closer.  “Trish is a direct line to the Boss, understand?  We do this job well, we get that much closer to finding out who he really is.”

Giorno relents with a sigh.  “Alright.” 

Each creak of the floor underfoot sounds like a death sentence as he makes his way upstairs.  He finds Trish’s room—the only one with a light on—and knocks.

The door swings open. 

“What?”  Trish answers, glaring at him accusingly.

Giorno clears his throat.  “I apologize for the interruption.  One of us is to be with you at all times for protection.”

She glares harder.  “I don’t need a chaperone.”

“This is only to ensure your safety,” he tries to explain.

The girl turns up her nose at him.  “Yeah, no.  You’re not coming into my room, and that’s final.”  With that, she slams the door shut.  A moment later, the lock turns and clicks into place.

Giorno sighs and backs away.  All this over a jacket?  He leans against the wall and examines the hallway.  If he can’t guard Trish directly, the next best thing would be to secure the area.

“And don’t stand outside my door like a creep either!”  A muffled voice shouts from behind the door. 

…He doesn’t respond, letting Trish think that he’s left.  What she doesn’t know won’t kill her. 

Twenty minutes pass and nothing out of the ordinary happens.  Well, except for his knees.  They’re starting to hurt.  He wants to sit down, but that would affect his response time in the face of an attack.  But then again, so would his leg being asleep.  Which it very much is.

“Giorno!”  Mista yells from the first floor.  “Food!”

Hesitantly, he goes to knock on the locked door beside him. 

“What?”  Trish snaps again, this time sounding oddly stuffy.

“Lunch is ready, Miss.” 

Noises sound from behind the door for a few moments before the girl steps out into the hall, not a stray hair out of place.  Giorno tries to observe her expression but is stopped short by the pair of tinted sunglasses on her face.

“It’s rude to stare, you know.”  Trish hisses, shouldering her way past him to the stairs.

Giorno follows after a second, blinking away his puzzled gaze.

The table is already set when they get to the dining room.  Abbacchio and Bucciarati are in the kitchen, deep in conversation.  Narancia must still be out grocery shopping, since one seat remains empty. 

“What’s taking him so long?”  Fugo grumbles, picking out the peas from his risotto and dumping them on his napkin. 

Mista shrugs, taking a bite of his own meal.  He perks up when Giorno and Trish approach the table, swallowing his food before opening his mouth.  “There you are!  For a second I thought you were gonna have us bring your food up for ya, like butlers.”

“That would have been preferable.”  Trish mutters, glancing at Giorno expectantly. 

He pulls out her chair for her.

“Riiight, well…” Mista looks between them, offering Giorno a sympathetic glance.  “What’s with the shades?”

Trish doesn’t bother with a response, crunching delicately on her salad. 

Mista coughs.  “So, uh, where ya from originally?  Most of us grew up in Naples.”

Crunch.  Crunch.

“Any hobbies?”

She wipes her mouth with a napkin.

“What do y—”

“Here,” Trish cuts him off suddenly, fishing a lemon out of her water glass and spearing it with a fork.  She holds it out to the gunslinger like it’s a weapon, water dripping onto the table.  “For the smell.”

Mista looks at the lemon blankly before he registers the insult, his ears reddening in embarrassment.  His eyebrows furrow into an angry line.  “Hey, I’m just tryna make conversation.  No need to be rude.”

“Is that what you call it?  Because all I heard was a dog yapping in my ear while I’m trying to eat.” 

“Jeez, what’s your problem, lady?

Fugo smacks the gunslinger in the side. “ Mista .”

“No, I’m genuinely curious.”  Mista continues.  “Please let me know, Your Highness, what your deal is with me.  With all of us.  I think you at least owe us that.” 

“I don’t owe any of you a fucking thing .”  Trish throws down her napkin and stands up, her chair screeching against the floor.  She stalks off to her room and leaves a tense silence in her wake. 

“Well, that’s one way to do introductions.”  Bucciarati drawls, leaning against the wall. 

Mista shoots up from his seat.  “B-Bucciarati!”

“In the flesh.”  The man says, strolling over to the table. “Now, I’m ‘genuinely curious’, Mista, what made you think that antagonizing the daughter of the Don, who would have our heads on a platter for his charcuterie board if he wanted, was a good idea?  Hm?”

“I, uh… I wasn’t thinking straight, Bucciarati.”

“No.  No, you weren’t.”  Bucciarati rests his hand on the table and smiles cheerfully.  “If she says jump, you say how high.  If she says you’re her dog, you bark.  And if she says give her your fucking coat, ” His eyes slide to Giorno, sharp as a knife’s edge.  “You do it.  Understand?”

Mista averts his eyes, gaze skittering to the floor.  “Understood.”

“Giorno,” Bucciarati says, not even turning to look at him.  “What are you still doing here?  Didn't I assign you to Trish?”

Giorno all but flies out of his chair, a shiver going down his spine.  Between getting on Bucciarati’s bad side or Trish’s bad side, there’s really no good option, but he’s not stupid.  Believe it or not, he actually prefers his limbs attached.

He heads back upstairs with a silent nod. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Giorno is starting to think he should have offered to drive.

Fugo’s honked the car horn at least ten times in the past five minutes, swearing at other drivers on occasion.  To be fair, they were the ones who cut him off first.  But still. 

“Unbelievable,” The blonde grumbles under his breath, teeth grinding together.  “Why is everyone driving like a complete and utter moron today?”

Giorno doesn’t respond, tightening his seatbelt instead.  He squints at the map messily unfolded in his lap, skipping over the street names they’ve already passed.  Abbacchio is silent in the backseat; his eyes burn a hole in the back of Giorno’s head.

“We might’ve missed a turn.”  Giorno says, craning his neck to glance in the side view mirror.  

The car jolts to a stop, throwing him forwards.  The seatbelt was a good idea. 

Fugo whips his head around to look at Giorno, eye twitching.  “Might’ve?”

“...We missed a turn,” He corrects, pointing it out on the map.  “You were supposed to go left on Castagna.”

“Are you blaming me now?”  Fugo seethes.  His tightening grip on the steering wheel makes his knuckles turn white.  “All you have to do is read the goddamn map, is that so fucking hard?!”

Abbacchio kicks the back of Fugo’s chair.  “Cool it, Road Rage.  The roads in this area are confusing.  Don’t piss your pants over a little mistake.”

Giorno stares at him in surprise, not expecting the older man to intervene.  If anything, he’d have thought Abbacchio would join in to heckle him.  

Fugo clicks his tongue in annoyance but loosens his grip on the wheel.  “Whatever.  Did you say Castagna?”

“Yes,” Giorno says after a moment, double-checking the map.  “Sorry about that,” He tacks on awkwardly.

Fugo doesn’t reply, stepping on the gas with a bit more force than necessary. The rest of the drive proceeds with no incidents, save for a slapfight breaking out when Abbacchio tries to switch the radio station.

They get out at the ruins of Pompeii, parking the car in the shade.  Giorno scans the area, finding a curious lack of tourists.  The main entrance boasts a sign labeled ‘CONSTRUCTION UNDERWAY’, but no machines nor workers appear to be inside.  He watches Fugo give the sign a skeptical once-over.

They head further into the ruins regardless, moving with caution.  Giorno looks between the two in front of him.  Him and Fugo are strangers at best—or maybe worse, after what happened in the car—and he’s pretty sure that Abbacchio hates his guts.  In short, it’s not exactly a trio that inspires confidence and teamwork.  

He shakes his head, refocusing on the task.  Now’s not the time to worry about those things.  Who cares if they like him or not?  He can get the job done regardless of whether or not they hold hands and jump rope together.  Get in, get out.  Simple as th-

What was that?

His train of thought screeches to halt as he spots something out of the corner of his eye.  A mirror hanging on a wall up ahead reflects a dark blob lurking near the pillar behind them.

“Abbacchio, Fugo,” Giorno keeps his voice quiet, body language giving nothing away.  The blob in the mirror draws closer, outline sharpening into a lanky figure.  “We’ve not alone here.”

“Where?”  Fugo asks, darting a glance towards him.  “And how many?”

“I’ve got eyes on one.  They’re hiding by that pillar on our six.”  He readies Gold Experience, feels it thrum beneath his skin.  “On my signal.”

Abbacchio turns, looking behind Giorno and then back at him.  His stern face morphs into something puzzled.  “Which pillar was that?”

“The one right behind us,” Giorno repeats, finding the question odd coming from the usually perceptive man.  “They’re getting closer; don’t just stand there.”

Fugo makes a noise of confusion, turning around fully to check.  He stares at the pillar but doesn’t do anything.  After a moment he glares at Giorno, brows furrowing into an angry line.  “Are you fucking with us?”

Giorno blinks at him, taken aback.  The figure in the mirror stalks even closer, near enough for him to make out dark hair and crimson eyes.  His chest flutters in panic.  

“No, I’m not,” he grounds out, keeping his gaze on the mirror.  “Look, I know you don’t trust me, but I’m being serious.  You both need to get ready to fight.”

The indistinct figure takes a step forwards, then another, putting them in his range.  Giorno whirls around, about to strike, Gold Experience jumping out in front of him, and-

Nothing.

“What…?”

“That’s what we’ve been saying, idiot.”  Abbacchio scoffs.  “You need glasses or something?”

“I don’t get it,” Giorno mutters, inspecting the pillar.  There’s really nothing there, not even a shadow of the presumed enemy.  But he could’ve sworn…

He looks in the mirror again and almost jumps out of his skin.  The figure is right behind him now, close enough to breathe down his neck or snap it in two.  He sees a pair of arms reach through the mirror, silver hands poised to grab.

There’s no time to explain to the others.  He rushes towards Fugo and Abbacchio and shoves, getting them as far away as possible.  “Don’t go near the mir-!”

The world shifts under his feet as he falls, landing so hard his teeth rattle.  Giorno looks up, putting a hand to his head, and scans his surroundings.  He’s still in the ruins, but something’s… different.  He can’t quite put a finger on it.  “Fugo?”  He calls out, searching the area.  “Abbacchio?”

“Aw, looking for your friends?”  A voice rings out, dripping in dark amusement.  

Giorno spins around, eyes landing on the person he’d seen in the mirror.  The man stalks towards him with a grin that contradicts the cold fury in his eyes.  

“Though they didn’t seem to like you very much.  I wonder why that is…”  A flash of silver appears beside him, vaguely humanoid except for its beak in place of a mouth.  A stand.  “The name’s Illuso, by the way.  I’d appreciate if you could share yours—I’d hate to leave a headstone blank.”

Giorno glares and takes a step back, sweeping his eyes over the ruins again.  “What’d you do with them?”

“Ahh, what a boring question,” Illuso laments, dragging a hand over his face.  “The ones in groups always ask the same thing.  Maybe you should worry about yourself first, hmm?”

Okay.  Enough talk.

Giorno reaches for Gold Experience, fully prepared to beat this smug prick’s face in, when…

Nothing happens.  Well, that’s not totally right.  He can feel his stand appear, but it’s nowhere to be seen.  Their connection itself is faint, as if they’re in two different rooms.  

Illuso laughs, snorting through his nose.  “I wasn’t sure if you were a stand user—we never get data on the new guys, you understand—but I guess that confirms it.  You see, this is my own little world, and I get the final say on what’s allowed in.  No living things besides you and me.  And as for your stand…”  He smiles again, vicious glee painted on his lips.  “No entry.”

A chill settles in Giorno’s throat, setting frigid and cold on his tongue.  For the first time in a while he is truly, wholly alone.  He hadn’t realized how much he clung onto the stand’s constant, if unseen presence, steady as a heartbeat.  Gold Experience’s absence aches like a phantom limb, leaving him off balance in an indescribable way.  

He shakes himself out of it quickly, shifting into a fighting stance.  Now is no time to get his head lost in the clouds.  Giorno rushes towards Illuso, hand clenched into a fist.  The man smirks, not even bothering to dodge, watching him with a bemused expression.  At the last second his stand swoops in, seizing Giorno’s punch in a clawed hand.  

Giorno tries and fails to break the stand’s grip, instead going for a kick to its side.  His foot somehow phases through the stand, not damaging it in the least and sending him flailing for balance.

Illuso doubles over laughing again at the sight.  “Man, you are a riot!  Don’t you know only stands can attack other stands?”

Oh.  Yeah.   Koichi might have mentioned something like that.

“Yeah, I only know one guy who’s dumber than that…”  Illuso trails off, frowning slightly.  “But let’s cut to the chase.  I’ve got a few questions; cooperate, and you get a quick death.  Aren’t I nice today?”

Giorno bites his tongue, mind racing.  He can’t access his stand directly—and even if he did, his ability would be useless.  No living things allowed.  So what can Gold Experience do from outside?  He focuses on the mirror that brought him here, directing Gold Experience to turn it into a flower from the other side.  He feels the transformation go through, but predictably, the same doesn't apply in the mirror world.  The mirror does, however, fall to the ground and shatter.

“Where are you keeping the Boss’s daughter?”  Illuso asks, getting up in Giorno’s face.  His breath smells like oil.  “And what’re you three doing here, anyway?  Looking for something?”  He bares his teeth in a grin.  “Did I hit the nail on the head, blondie?”

Giorno spits in his face, the glob landing on the other’s cheek with a wet smack .  Illuso wipes it away, still grinning, as his eyebrows twitch.  

“You know, I like this outcome better.”  He says, barely suppressed anger leaking into his voice.  “Gives me an excuse to dent that thick skull of yours.  Who wants a quick death, in this day and age?  I’ve always said if you’re going to die anyway, you should suffer a bit before you go.”

The man’s stand throws Giorno to the ground roughly, giving him no chance to recover as it begins raining punches on his prone form.  Giorno is quick to throw up a guard in front of his face, but the stand only switches to laying into his ribs instead.  He feels a pop in his side and the burst of pain that follows, one that sends stars waltzing in front of his eyes.  Something coppery bubbles in the back of his mouth.  

The stand grabs him by his braid and drags him upright, forcing him to stand as it delivers a heavy kick to his stomach.  He gags, bile mixing with copper, and staggers back, dropping his guard to keep his balance.  His opponent doesn’t miss the opportunity, hitting him squarely in the face with a right hook that returns him to the ground.  

Blood streams from his nose and mixes with the blood in his mouth; it all tastes the same.

“Feel like talking now?”  Illuso’s voice wriggles its way into his ears like a worm.  “Where’s the girl?”

Giorno clenches his teeth together, both to keep his silence and in preparation for the next punch.  Sure enough, the stand’s fist comes shooting out to bash into his eye, causing a shock of pain that skitters down his spine.  He forces himself to focus through the ache, tugging on the faint line between him and Gold Experience.  It’s hard to control—like squinting past a thick fog—but he manages to aim an attack at a nearby stop sign.  The metal careens towards Illuso, whose back is turned, about to strike—

“Hey, where’d this come from?”  Illuso catches the stop sign in one hand, glancing over his shoulder.  He turns back to Giorno, sickly joy painting his face an ugly shade.  “Not a bad idea, I’ll give you that.  But you should know, kid,” He bends a knee, lowering himself to where Giorno’s sprawled out on the ground.  The tips of the man’s pigtails brush his nose.  “I’ve been in this business a lot longer than you.”

He raises the broken stop sign over his head, jagged edge pointed at soft flesh, and plunges it downwards.  Giorno squeezes his eye shut, the other already swollen closed.  He can’t die yet.  He hasn't proven himself yet—not even close.  He hears the whoosh of air in his ears, smells the earthy metal drawing near.

Giorno waits for the pain to come, but it never does.  He cracks an eye open, confused, only to find the stop sign poised an inch from his face.  Illuso isn’t looking at him, focused on something in the distance.  A sound.

Footsteps.

“Oh?  Could that be…”  Illuso gets up, flinging the broken sign to the ground.  He glances at Giorno with an almost pitying grin.  “I guess your little friends decided to leave you behind.  How sad.”

Smart decision.   Giorno breathes out a sign of relief through his broken nose.  

“Seems like they’re heading towards the dog mosaic—ahhh, I knew it!  That’s where whatever you’re searching for must be, right?”  He studies Giorno for a second, battered and bloody, and snorts.  “You’re practically on death’s door already, so I think I can just let nature run its course.  Hope you don’t mind my early exit.”

Blood bubbles past his lips and seeps down his chin like a crimson tear.  He’s broken out in a sweat, despite the chills racking his body.

Illuso sets off in the direction of the footsteps, his stand in close pursuit.  “Man in the Mirror, allow me—and only me—to leave the mirror world!”

A flash of light, and he’s gone.  Giorno turns over onto his back, weakly scraping at the ground.  He gives up on getting back on his feet when a wave of nausea rolls through him.  His breaths are short and labored, each one stabbing into his lungs.  He’s pretty sure he broke a rib.

Like the Michael Jackson song…?  He thinks, before the dark spots in his eyes engulf him entirely. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Giorno holds back a wince as Fugo applies antiseptic to the cut on his head.

“Sorry, sorry,” Fugo mumbles, even though he hadn’t made a sound.  The other makes quick work of the rest of his injuries, slathering them with a funny smelling salve before applying bandages.  He gathers up the medical supplies and places them back in the bathroom cabinet.  “Can’t do much about the bruises, but everything else looks okay.”

“Thanks,” Giorno says quietly, trailing his fingertips across his swollen eye.  It pulses with a dull throb of pain, vision narrowed down to a slit.  It could be worse.  I could be dead.

He startles when Fugo stands up, heading for the door.  “Wait!”  Giorno calls out, grabbing the hem of the other’s jacket without thinking.  He releases his grip immediately, mortified.

“What is it?”  Fugo glances at him over his shoulder, seemingly unbothered.

“I…” Giorno forces himself to make eye contact, steeling his nerves.  “I wanted to apologize.  I know I dragged everyone down on the mission.”

Fugo huffs, moving to sit back down beside him.  “Don’t beat yourself up over it.  Things got messy, sure—but we got the job done in the end.  That’s all that matters.”

Giorno stares at his hands in his lap, picking at the skin on his finger.  As much as he hates to admit it, he’s embarrassed.  He couldn’t go five minutes before getting kidnapped and then beaten to a bloody pulp.  

“Plus, you did actually help us out,” Fugo continues, snapping him out of his thoughts.  “Well, helped me at least.  I got your message.”  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a daffodil, offering it to him.

Giorno accepts the flower, puzzled, until he realizes.  His fruitless attempts at fighting from inside the mirror world—while unsuccessful for him—had served as a warning to the two outside.  Something restless within him settles, if only a little, as he breathes out a long sigh.  

“You kept it?” He asks, twirling the daffodil between his fingers.  It sways delicately, almost in a waltz, its petals see-through under the fluorescent lights.

Fugo sputters, tripping over his next words.  “W-Well, we can’t be leaving evidence of our stands around for anyone to see.  La Squadra has more than enough info on us that we don’t need them knowing.”  The tips of his ears are red.

Giorno nods in agreement, very seriously, tamping down his smile.  He holds out the flower to Fugo, giving it back.  “Keep it.  I can always make more.”

“…If you say so.”

They sit in silence for a moment, and it isn’t uncomfortable.  Just quiet.

Giorno speaks first, popping their peaceful bubble.  “I should go report to Bucciarati.”  

He remembers seeing the man on the drive back—spying a blip of his patterned suit jacket before he fell unconscious—but he hasn’t seen him since.  Something tells him he won’t be as lenient with his mistakes as Fugo.

Time to face the music.

“About that,” Fugo says, face shifting into a light grimace.  “Bucciarati’s a little… indisposed right now.  I don’t know if he’s up for a chat.”

“‘Indisposed?’  What does that mean?”  Giorno asks.  “Did he get hurt during the mission?”

Fugo shakes his head, allowing Giorno a small sense of relief.  “He’s got a nasty cold.  Came out of nowhere; I think he’s still holed up in his room.”

“Huh,” Giorno furrows his brows.  He’d have thought Bucciarati was the type to pop a vitamin or two and power through anything, be it the sniffles or the plague.  “So we’re staying here until he gets better?”

Fugo laughs.  “Well, Bucciarati was against it; at least, when he was still awake.  But Abbacchio is pretty adamant about this kind of stuff—forced him to lie down and everything.  We’re not going anywhere until he makes sure Bucciarati’s back up to snuff.”  

Giorno digests this new piece of information, mulling it over.  Who’d have thought…

CRASH!

He and Fugo whip their heads to the door at the sudden noise, which sounded like something fell.  They both hurriedly exit the bathroom, following the source of the noise to the kitchen.

Narancia locks eyes with them as soon as they enter, his expression like a deer caught in the headlights.  In his hands is a large soup pot; other kitchen appliances litter the floor around him, pans and sheet trays everywhere.  Mista is halfway inside the fridge, rummaging around for god knows what.  An open box of spaghetti and a bag of frozen chicken nuggets are strewn carelessly atop the counter next to him.

“I left for five minutes…” Fugo mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.  

Mista pokes his head out of the fridge, face splitting into a grin at the sight of him and Giorno.  He waves to them, juggling an armful of vegetables in his other hand.  “Hey, my two favorite blondes!  You guys wanna help?”

Giorno returns the wave, albeit with a tad less enthusiasm.  “What are you guys doing?”

“We’re making soup,” Narancia replies, narrowly avoiding tripping over a pan as he walks over.  “Ya know, to cure Bucciarati’s cold?”

“You know how to cook?”  Fugo says doubtingly, glancing around at the kitchen in disarray.

Mista’s smile turns sheepish as he shuts the fridge.  “Well, we were kinda hoping to get your expertise in that area…”

“Me?”  Fugo points to himself in disbelief.  “Mista, I don’t know a stovetop from a saucepan.”  He looks at Giorno, an unspoken question in his eyes.

“I’m not too experienced in the kitchen either,” Giorno admits.

Mista and Narancia visibly droop, dejected expressions on their faces.

“…But it can’t be that hard.”  He hastily adds, not wanting to crush their spirits.

They perk up almost immediately, excitement returning in full.

“Yeah, you’re right—it’s soup!  How can we mess up soup?”

“I could make soup in my sleep!”

“Now you’ve done it,” Fugo groans, making a beeline for the door.  “If you need me, don’t call; I’ll be in my room.”

“Aw, you’re not gonna join us?”  Narancia whines, watching him leave.

“Forget him,”  Mista clicks his tongue in disapproval, shaking his head.  “Too many cooks spoil the broth, anyway.”  He turns to Giorno expectantly.  “You still in?”

“Sure.”

He starts picking up the fallen pots and pans as the other two gather ingredients.  Narancia fills the soup pot he was holding with water from the sink, setting it on the stove and cranking the heat up to the highest setting.  Giorno finishes putting everything back in its place before heading to the counter.

Mista hands him a knife and they split the prep work.  Giorno peels carrots and potatoes, handing them off to be chopped into rough chunks.  After what seems like an eternity, the water is boiling; they find themselves at a standstill.

“So do we just dump everything in, or what?”  Narancia asks, scratching the back of head.  

Mista proceeds to do exactly that, yelping when the water splashes towards him.  They huddle over the stove, watching the vegetables sink to the bottom and lie still.  

“Uhh…”

“Wait, hold on!”  Mista exclaims, rushing back over to the counter.  

He returns in record time with the bag of frozen nuggets.  Those go into the pot too, some with chips of frost still clinging onto their breading.  Narancia gives the pot a cautious stir, swirling everything around.  It resembles something unsavory being flushed down the drain.

“It looks kind of…” Giorno trails off, unable to find the words.  It’s barely a soup at all, really—just a mess of ingredients sitting in boiling tap water.  “Maybe some seasoning would help?”

He reaches for the nearby salt shaker, rattling it lightly.  Nothing comes out.  He frowns at the object, trying again.  Zip.  Giorno gives it another shake, putting as much force as he can without throwing the damn thing, and—

Plop.

The cap detaches completely, falling into the water—and with it, about a fistful of salt.

“Please tell me you meant to do that.”  Mista says after a long moment, boisterous voice dropping to a whisper.

Giorno doesn’t speak.  He thinks he might be in shock.  

Narancia covers his face with his hands, peeking between his fingers to stir the pot again.  The overdose of salt has made the water slightly cloudy.  Meanwhile, stray crumbs of the chicken nuggets skim the top of the pot, bloated and soggy.  The vegetables look no worse for wear.

Mista clears his throat, patting them both on the back.  “Okay, let’s not overreact—it can’t be that bad!”

He picks up a ladle and lowers it into the pot, retrieving a spoonful of soup and bringing it to his lips.  A loud slurp echoes throughout the otherwise silent kitchen; Giorno and Narancia watch in horror.  

Mista goes stone-still as he gulps, throat bobbing in a painstaking motion.  His eyes go wide, wide as he chokes, then coughs, then spits into the sink.  He makes a disgusted noise as he swipes the back of his hand over his mouth, turning back towards them.  

“That,” he points an accusing finger at the pot on the stove, voice hoarse.  “Is not curing anything.”

Narancia pulls at his hair in desperation.  “This is fixable, right?  All we have to do is add more water—I saw it on TV!  Julia Childs wouldn’t lie!”

“There’s no room left in the pot,” Giorno says softly, defeat washing over him.  Water sloshes precariously around the rim, at risk of bubbling over at any second.

“We have to get rid of this.”  Mista’s expression is grave.  “Destroy all evidence.”

“Get rid of what?”  

They all freeze at the sound of Abbacchio’s voice, jumping back from the stove.  The man walks towards them; he notices the soup pot and stops, inhaling sharply.

“What have I told you dumbasses about messing around in the kitchen?!”  He yells, pinching Mista and Narancia’s ears to scold them.  Abbacchio glances at Giorno, an almost pitying look in his eyes.  “Dragged you into it, huh?  You can always say no—trust me, I do it all the time.”

“Hey, no fair!  We didn’t drag him into anything!”  Mista protests, squirming out of Abbacchio’s grip.

“Yeah, he volunteered!” Narancia tries and fails to escape.   “And what happened to you watching Trish?”

“I switched with Fugo.”  Abbacchio rolls his eyes before letting the boy go.  He peers over at the pot and grimaces.  “What is that?”  

“It’s supposed to be soup,” Narancia replies miserably.  “For Bucciarati.”

Abbacchio picks up a spoon to taste it; Mista shoots out his hand to stop him, panic flashing in his eyes.

“Don’t,” Mista warns, face ashen.  “Trust me.”

“O…kay.”  Abbacchio puts down the spoon.  

He turns down the heat on the stove before getting to work.  A spice or two from the cabinet, the packet of spaghetti that Mista forgot about, some weird yellow paste from the fridge; and just like that, the soup transforms into something that looks decently edible.  Abbacchio wipes the sweat from his forehead, leaning back to admire his work.

“Can I try?”  Narancia asks, inching closer.

“No,” he says, flatly refusing without a second thought.  He ladles a serving into a bowl and gives it to Giorno.  “Take this to Bucciarati.”

Giorno cradles the bowl in his hands, handling it carefully.  The heat from the soup seeps into the ceramic, stinging his palms.  He exits the kitchen in a hurry, the sounds of Narancia and Abbacchio squabbling in his ears.

He doesn’t know exactly where Bucciarati is, but he figures it out; that is, by knocking on every door he sees until he gets a response.  Bucciarati sounds hoarse and scratchy in a way that he never has before.  The weakness in his voice is foreign, completely removed from Giorno’s impression of him.

“Come in.”

Giorno opens the door and makes his way inside, setting down the bowl on a nightstand.  He spots two pills and an untouched water glass, glancing at Bucciarati in question.

“What,” the man rasps, an annoyed look on his face.  “Don’t tell me you’re here to play doctor too.”

“You should take your medicine.”  Giorno says, making sure his words don't come off as accusatory.  He shifts on his feet, taking in the man’s sickly pallor and disheveled appearance.  “…How are you feeling?”

“Well enough.  Tell the others we’re leav—” Bucciarati cuts himself off as he starts coughing, doubling over.  His chest heaves, a noise like crumpling wet paper echoing in his throat.

Giorno hesitates for half a second, unsure of what to do.  He places a steadying hand on Bucciarati’s shoulder, awkwardly patting his back.  When the coughing trails off he gives the man a slight push, guiding him to lay down.  

Bucciarati covers his face with his arm, closing his eyes.  He opens his mouth to continue, voice feeble.  “Tell them we’re leaving soon.”

“Okay,” Giorno agrees, tugging the blanket up to cover him.  “I will.  Get some rest.”

“Fifteen minutes.”  Bucciarati says, eyelids drooping.  “Then we’ll go.”

“Understood.”

Giorno moves away from the bed, making as little noise as possible.  He turns off the light when he reaches the door before stepping out into the hallway.  The sky outside is growing dark, sun dipping beneath the trees as it sets.  

When was the last time I slept?

And no, passing out doesn’t count.  Giorno feels the full weight of the day finally hit him as he sighs.  He’s so tired he could fall asleep standing up.  Reentering the kitchen he spots everyone gathered around the counter, slurping bowls of soup at a dizzying speed.  Except for Trish, of course; Trish does not slurp.

“It ‘sho gud!”  Narancia exclaims around a mouth full of noodles, broth dribbling down his chin.

“Surprisingly,” Fugo comments, a pleased look on his face.

Trish pokes at her soup with her spoon, squinting down at it.  “…Is that a chicken nugget?”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Abbacchio says before noticing Giorno walk in.  He passes him a bowl of soup.  “How is he?”

“Asleep,” Giorno replies, taking a seat.  The soup has cooled down a bit, but is still hot enough for him to blow on it.  Narancia wasn’t lying—it is good, better than he would’ve expected considering their part in it.  

Mista leans back in his chair and yawns, reaching up to stretch.  “Man, I’m stuffed.  Bedtime for me.”  He collects his bowl and sets it down in the sink, walking off after wishing them goodnight.

Fugo and Trish follow soon after, leaving the kitchen and disappearing within the house.

Narancia watches them go and turns to him.  “Have you figured out where you’re gonna sleep yet, Giorno?”

“Are there any rooms left?”

“Don’t think so.  We called dibs while you were passed out; sorry.”

“Oh,” Giorno pauses, thinking it over.  “I guess I’ll take the couch, then.”

“No one—and I mean no one— is going near that germ-infested couch.  Bucciarati was all over that thing when he started hacking up his lungs.”  Abbacchio interrupts their conversation with a growl.  “I don’t need someone else on sick leave, so figure something else out.”  With that he gets up from his seat and exits the kitchen, leaving his bowl on the counter.

Shoot.  Giorno bites back a wince, not terribly enthusiastic about spending the night on the floor.  At least it’s carpeted.  

“That sucks,” Narancia says.  He drags his spoon through his soup before his face suddenly brightens, an invisible lightbulb going off over his head.  “Hey, why don’t you bunk with me tonight?”

“Uh,” Giorno stalls, his mind going a mile a minute.  Sure, it would be great to sleep on an actual bed for the first time in 48 hours.  But after two days of tight binding and his tussle with Illuso, his wings are the sorest they’ve ever been.  If he doesn’t let them loose now he might just pass out again from the pain.  Which is a no-go if he’s sharing a room.  It was a miracle in and of itself that he’d kept Fugo from seeing them when he treated Giorno’s wounds; he can’t risk another close call.

Evidently, he takes too long to reply, because Narancia decides for him.

“What’s wrong?  Don’t tell me you snore.”  The boy asks.

“I don’t.”

“Okay, then it’s settled!  I’ll see you in a bit!”  Narancia is gone before he can even begin to object, skipping down the hall.  

Giorno stares after him, mouth dry.  A pit of dread starts to pool in his stomach.  

… Well now what?

“Just so you know, I already called the right side.”  Narancia explains, a toothbrush dangling from his mouth.  He’s already changed into pajamas, a loose tank top and boxers.  “Are those your only clothes?”

Giorno pauses at the question, blinking dumbly.  This is the first time he’s realized he never really packed for the trip.  And while he is wearing his favorite suit, the zippers and ladybug brooches are starting to feel uncomfortable.  

“I’ll take that as a yes.  Poor guy.”  Narancia turns to dig around in his bag.  He pulls out an oversized t-shirt and a pair of shorts, offering it to Giorno.  “You can borrow this.  I swiped it from Abbacchio—don’t tell him that, though.  He still hasn’t noticed.”

Giorno holds up the shorts in front of him, letting them unfold.  Printed across the backside is sparkly pink lettering that spells out, ‘ JUICY’.  He looks at Narancia, raising a brow.  “… These are Abbacchio’s?”

“It’s always the ones you least suspect.”  Narancia grins, toothpaste foam smeared all over his mouth.  

“I guess so,” Giorno murmurs, tucking the clothes under his arm.  “I’m going to change, then.”

“Bathroom’s over there.”

He shuts himself inside the bathroom, locking the door behind him.  He sheds his jacket and all but rips off his bindings, letting them fall to the floor.  His wings spring up immediately in a jerky, reflexive motion, smacking against the wall.  Giorno holds back a groan as pure relief floods over his shoulders.  

He stretches out his wings slowly, soothing the cramped muscles with his fingers.  A few stray feathers float to the floor, noticeably bent out of shape; he flushes them down the toilet.  Allowing himself one last moment of solace, Giorno slips the large t-shirt over his head and forces his wings to lie flat.  He tugs on the drawstring of the shorts, tying it into a knot to keep them from falling down.  

That should do it.

He glances in the mirror, gaze lingering on the dark bruises and slew of bandages covering his skin.  The swelling around his eye has gone down a bit, but still looks pretty awful.  Giorno shakes his head, snapping out of it, and turns around.  Peeking over his shoulder, he inspects his back.

Swamped by fabric, his wings are mostly hidden.  Tiny nubs poke out near the top of the shirt, but otherwise are completely hidden.  He nods once at his reflection, satisfied, and brushes his teeth.

“Narancia?”  He calls out.  “Can you turn off the lights?”

“Sure!”  

Giorno breathes in, breathes out, counts to three, and steps out of the bathroom.  As requested, the lights are off; he shuffles towards what he thinks is the bed, tripping through the dark.  He feels around until he hits the mattress.  Lying down on his stomach, he turns his head away from the shadowy blob that he assumes is Narancia.

“Night, Giorno.”

“Goodnight.”

They don’t speak after that, settling into something calm and quiet.  He’s tense at first, expecting at any moment for Narancia to roll over right onto his wings.  When that doesn’t happen he finally begins to relax, his breaths evening out into a slower rhythm.  Exhaustion hits him in full, weighing on his eyelids and pinning them closed.  Giorno sinks into the bed, seconds away from floating off into a dream.

A burst of white floods his vision, cruelly dragging him away from sweet, sweet unconsciousness.  He cracks an eye open to find the source; light from the hallway peeks into the room, landing on Giorno’s cheek.  A lone silhouette in the doorway pauses at the sight of him, pillow clutched in hand.

“Giorno?” Fugo calls softly, confused.  “What are you doing here?”

“Close the door,” Narancia groans, sitting up.  His hair is a wild mess on one side, sticking out in every direction, and lays flat on the other.  

Fugo does as he’s told, stepping into the room and shutting the door with a soft click.  The boy hovers near the bed hesitantly.  

“Giorno’s rooming with me tonight,” Narancia yawns before lying back down.  He turns to Giorno, flopping his head to the side.  “Sorry ‘bout this—Fugo likes to share beds when he has his nightm—omph!”  

Fugo darts out his hand at an impressive speed to muffle Narancia’s voice, leaning halfway across the mattress.  “Not another word,” he hisses, a hint of embarrassment underneath the threat.  “Just forget about it.  Sorry for waking you up, Giorno.”

“Aww, Fugo, don’t be like that.  I didn’t say you had to leave.  Well, unless…” Narancia glances at Giorno again, poking him in the shoulder.  “Do you mind, Giorno?  I can always tell him to beat it.”

Giorno tries his best to shrug while face-down in a pillow.  “S’fine with me,” he agrees, mostly so he can go back to sleep.  Distantly, he knows he should be panicking at the thought of yet another person in the room when his wings are out, but he’s too tired to care.  He closes his eyes, not paying much attention to the sound of footsteps as Fugo stumbles closer.  A moment later a weight dips into the bed beside him.  

“That’s terrible for your back, you know.”  Someone whispers to him, voice hushed.

“Hmm?” Giorno mumbles in response.

“Sleeping on your stomach like that.  You should roll over,” Fugo suggests, speaking up again when he doesn’t answer.  “Are you listening?”

“Uh huh,” Giorno says, then promptly falls asleep.

Chapter Text

By morning Bucciarati’s fever is gone.  The capo drags himself—and the rest of them—out of bed as soon as he wakes up, herding them into the van.  

“We’re behind schedule,” he says crankily, the last remnants of his cough lingering in his voice.

Giorno sits silently in the car, still groggy, and fights to keep his eyes from closing.  He’d woken up to Narancia lying halfway across his back—directly on his wings.   By some miracle the boy hadn’t stirred when Giorno jumped out of the bed, trampling over Fugo in the process.  Thankfully, it seems like Narancia hadn’t noticed; although, he did tell Giorno that he made a ‘great pillow’. 

Just when thinks he might really fall back asleep, the car stops.  Giorno follows the others from the parking lot into a train station, his ears ringing.  Bucciarati takes out the key they’d retrieved when they arrive at a platform, inspecting it carefully.  He tries the key in a few places—a latch on the floor, a padlock on a nearby fire hydrant—but it doesn’t fit.

“Don’t tell me…” Bucciarati furrows his brows, his frustration clear.  “Did we miss it?  Godamnit, Abbacchio—I told you we shouldn’t have stopped!”

Abbacchio holds up his hands in surrender, wearing an annoyed expression of his own.  “Don’t even start.  What, you wanted me to drag you here wrapped up in a blanket?  I didn’t tell you to get sick, alright?”

“I know that—” 

“Don’t fight, you two,” Someone interrupts, and it’s not Fugo or Mista or Narancia that does it.  A tall figure clad in a two-piece suit walks up to them, the bright pop of his yellow undershirt the same shade as a sunflower.  “Is that any way for Passione’s newest Capo to act?”

Giorno zeroes in on the stranger as his shoulders go tense.  His hair is a sallow blonde, swept back and styled with gel.  The piercing blue of his eyes narrows as he smiles, teeth white and pristine.  The air around him reeks with danger, almost strong enough to mask the presence of the person behind him—a shorter, more timid man whose shock of green hair makes him look like a radish.  

Bucciarati glares at the sight of them, focusing his attention on the blonde.  “Prosciutto,” he says, spitting out the name like a curse.

“We’ve been waiting a while for you guys to show up,” Prosciutto clicks his tongue, checking an expensive-looking watch on his wrist.  “I’m hurt, honestly.  And here I thought you ran a tight ship.”

“Don’t beat around the bush.”  Bucciarati’s eyes flick to the train behind them, only minutes away from taking off.  

Prosciutto laughs airily, something almost nostalgic in his face.  “Fine.  I’m feeling nice today, so I wanted to propose an agreement.  No fighting involved, don’t worry.”

“And that is?”

“Hand over the girl.  That’s it; after that, we won’t interfere with any of your business.”

Bucciarati clenches his hand into a fist.  “How gracious of you,” he says sarcastically.

“I mean it, you know.”  Prosciutto continues.  “Surprisingly, you haven’t killed either of the two we sent after you—thanks for that, by the way—so there’s really no bad blood between our squads.  In fact, we’d owe you one.”

“No bad blood?”  Bucciarati glances at Giorno for half a second.  A signal.  “I’d better get on that, then.”

Before Prosciutto and his lackey can respond Giorno reaches into his pocket, hand closing around a fistful of loose change.  He flings it at the two, Gold Experience’s touch turning them into wasps as they leave his grasp.  

“What the—?!”

“Ack!”

The group rushes past the two getting stung and onto the train, right as the doors close.  The train pulls out of the station and takes off as they all catch their breath.

“Bucciarati,” Narancia pants, trying to get the man’s attention.  “I found something!”  He rummages around in his skirt pocket, which must be deeper than it looks, because—

“Is that a turtle?”  Fugo gawks, staring at the animal.  It squirms in Narancia’s hands, stubby legs kicking in the air.

“That’s not important,” he says, holding it out for them to see.  “Look at its back!  Doesn’t it seem like that key would fit in there?”

“Man, how do you come up with this stuff?”  Mista asks, choking back a laugh. 

“No, he’s right.”  Bucciarati lifts up the turtle, comparing the indent on its shell to the key.  “It’s—”

In a flash, Bucciarati disappears.  The turtle, key and all, falls to the ground.  Giorno just barely manages to catch it.  

“Bucciarati?”

“What the hell…?  Where’d he go?”

Giorno glances left and right, but comes up short; the man is nowhere to be found.  He inspects the turtle scrutinizingly, holding up the key.  “I don’t get it,” he says, peering into the turtle’s beady gaze.  “He just put in the key and then—”

Before he can finish his sentence the ground shifts beneath his feet, floor falling out from under him as his surroundings warp.  He tries to scream or flail his arms, but he’s back upright on his feet in less than a second.  Giorno blinks, disoriented, focusing on a familiar patterned suit.

“There you are.”  Bucciarati appears in front of him, arms crossed over his chest.  He doesn’t seem shocked in the least at their new location; a tastefully decorated room, fully furnished and all.  “Where’s everyone else?”

Giorno ends up not having to answer his question—Narancia, Fugo, Mista, Abbacchio, and Trish enter the space in a heap of limbs, piled on top of each other.  They untangle themselves quickly and take turns investigating the room.  

Fugo walks over to him and Bucciarati, a puzzled expression on his face.  “Where are we, exactly?”

“Inside the turtle,” Bucciarati replies, matter-of-fact.  He paces around, tracing a hand against the room’s beige walls.  “A little unorthodox, but should prove effective.”

Huh?  Did I miss something?  Giorno thinks, still trying to make sense of everything.  But as he’s come to realize, there’s only one explanation for the unexplainable.  “You’re saying this room is a stand ability?  And the… turtle is its user?  An animal?” 

“It’s more common than you might think.”  Bucciarati says, not really answering his question.  “We should be safe here for the time being.  I doubt anyone on our tail would look twice at a turtle.”

“Hey, there’s even drinks!”  Mista exclaims, digging through a mini fridge and pulling out a soda.  “Anyone else want one?”

“Just an ice water for me,” Bucciarati replies.

Fugo and Abbacchio don’t answer, both of them apparently napping on one of the couches.  Trish ignores the offer, striding over to the fridge herself and pulling out some kind of fancy seltzer.  

Giorno tugs at the collar of his suit jacket, feeling hot.  His wings itch, almost unbearably, beneath his clothes.  “I’ll take one.”  

He digs his fingers into the cool metal can, resisting the urge to press it against his forehead.  Bringing it to his lips, he sighs; the bubbly sweetness fizzles like foam in his mouth, tickling his throat on the way down.  He turns to Narancia as the boy takes a seat beside him.  

“Do you want some?”  Giorno asks, tilting the soda in his direction.

“Huh?”  Narancia says, leaning closer.  He cups one hand over his ear.  “What was that?”

“I asked if you wanted some soda.”

“What?  Do I like pagodas?”

“Soda,” Giorno grits out, stressing the word as clearly as possible.  He rattles the drink in his hand, holding it up to Narancia’s face.  “Do you—”

Narancia somehow leans forward even more, nearly toppling out of his chair.  “ What?   Just speak up!”

“Forget it.”  He waves the boy off, tipping back the can to drink the rest of it himself.  

Giorno’s eyes catch on something as he swallows; a white streak in Narancia’s hair.  And not just one or two hairs, no—entire sections of his head are dull and gray.  He pauses, tracking his gaze down from Narancia’s head to his face, and that’s when he notices the wrinkles.  Crow’s feet crowding his eyes, deep lines on his forehead, blotches of sunspots littering his cheeks…

“Why do you look so old?”  He thinks out loud, squinting at Narancia’s ancient appearance.

Narancia, of course, doesn’t hear a word he says, but Bucciarati’s head shoots up in alarm.  The man takes one look at Narancia and swears.

“Guess we didn’t ditch them at the station after all.  That annoying prick…” Bucciarati mutters before turning to the rest of them.  “We’re under attack.  Everyone remain cal—”

“AHH!  What’s wrong with you?”  Trish shrieks suddenly, cutting him off.  She points at the other side of the room in alarm.

Giorno follows her accusatory finger to Fugo and Abbacchio, who are still resting on the couch, and drops his soda can.  Fugo’s hair has also gone stark white, with large patches falling out by the second.  Abbacchio’s body is gaunt and frail, spindly joints poking out of his clothing.  Liver spots dot his hands like blotchy freckles.  Both look to be around 60 years old.

“It’s a stand ability,” Bucciarati says, pinching the bridge of his nose.  Faint frown lines stand out on his cheeks, the wrinkles more apparent than before.  “An airborne disease that causes rapid aging.  This whole train is probably a danger zone now.”

“Rapid aging?”  Giorno questions, checking his body.  His muscles ache, almost as if he’s going through a growth spurt, but otherwise he feels fine.  “Why are we all aging at different rates?”

Him, Bucciarati, Mista, and Trish are in much better condition than the others.  His eyes fall on his empty soda can as the realization dawns on him.  Everyone who had a drink is less affected by the rapid aging.  But why?  

“Body temperature,” Bucciarati answers just as Giorno connects the dots.  “The colder you are, the slower the effect will be.”  

He opens the fridge and sifts through it, pulling out the ice tray.  They split the small remaining amount of ice between them.

Mista asks the question they’ve all been thinking.  “How do you know all this stuff, Bucciarati?”

Bucciarati purses his lips.  “This isn’t my first encounter with Prosciutto’s stand ability.”

“That guy at the station?”  Mista furrows his brows.  “You know him?”

“We have a history.  But that doesn’t matter right now.  Mista, you’ll stay here and guard the others.  Giorno and I,” the man turns to him, his annoyed expression shifting into something deadly.  “Are going to send off some unwelcome visitors.”

He reaches up to the ceiling of the room, fingers beckoning towards the ruby red skylight, and vanishes.  Giorno is preparing himself to leave when a hand stops him.

“Giorno,” Mista says, an unusually serious look on his face.  “Be careful out there, okay?”

“Of course.”  Giorno nods, slipping the already-melting ice cubes into his pocket.  

“Here; take them with you.” Mista lifts up his hat and a… creature crawls out, no bigger than Giorno’s finger.  Its big, watery eyes flick between him and Mista.  A 5 is marked on its forehead.  “Number 5, stay with Giorno for a bit, okay?”

He can only watch as the tiny thing floats over to him and seats itself snug in his hair.  It weighs practically nothing.

“That’s one of the Sex Pistols—I’ll introduce you to the rest when you get back.  Stay safe!”  Mista waves him off, grinning.  

With that, Giorno leaves the turtle, mimicking the way Bucciarati had stretched his hand out towards the ceiling.  He soon finds himself back in the train car where they entered.  Bucciarati beckons him forward to where he’s spying around a corner.

“I know some of the ins-and-outs of Prosciutto’s ability, but I have no intel on whoever he brought with him.”  The man tells him, referring to the one with green hair they’d seen earlier.  “Though if he’s part of La Squadra, most likely he’s a stand user.”

They move through the train car cautiously, staying quiet.  Giorno’s gaze catches on the passengers in their booths.  He passes an elderly man wrapped in a baby’s blanket, wailing loudly.  His mother—or what’s left or her—lies silent and still in her seat, a decrepit husk. 

Giorno’s back itches.

When they enter the next train car, it’s completely dark.  Giorno fumbles to find a light switch; his fingers bump against it after a second or two of tracing the wall.  He flips the switch, and that’s when things go to shit.

An unseen force drags him forward, making him smack his face against the wall.  Giorno’s body bumps into corners and railings as he’s yanked through the train car, kicking and flailing in the pitch darkness.

“Bucciarati!  Hel—!”

Giorno crashes through the window at the end of the car and into the next one, where the lights are still on.  Glass slices into his clothes as he curls into a ball to shield his face.  In the light he discovers what was tugging him around like a chew toy: a pink fishing line. He squints down at his hand and finds a hook squirming beneath the surface of his skin.  When he goes to grab the string his hand phases right through it, fingers closing around nothing.  The hook slithers farther up his arm, making a beeline for his heart.

Just my luck.

He doesn’t hesitate to summon Gold Experience, throwing a punch at the line.  Unexpectedly, the force of the attack somehow ricochets, hitting him squarely in the jaw.  Giorno shakes it off and goes for the next best thing; digging the hook itself out of his skin.  He snatches a shard of broken glass from the window and slices into his forearm, a few inches above the outline of the hook.  Gold Experience darts out to snag the hook as it passes through the cut, ripping it out of him.  

“Nice try,” a nasally voice rings out.  “But you’ll have to work harder than that!”

Giorno whips his head around, eyes landing on the man he’d seen with Prosciutto at the station.  He’s holding a cup full of ice, crunching a few cubes in his mouth.  Giorno follows the pink line to its source—a large fishing rod in the other’s hands.  The man jerks the fishing rod and the hook in Gold Experience’s grip breaks free, twirling in the air before piercing his flesh once more.

If getting to the hook won’t work, then Giorno’s best bet is taking out the one controlling it.  He gets to his feet quickly, Gold Experience readying itself to fight at his side.  Before he can make a move, however, the hook snakes up his arm and encircles his heart.  A burst of agony erupts in Giorno’s chest, forcing his knees to buckle as he gasps for air.  Struggling to focus through the pain, he sends his stand forward to rush the attacker.

Not expecting his speed, the man drops his fishing rod; the constricting vice around Giorno’s heart disappears.  But Gold Experience’s punch doesn’t make contact.  Giorno looks up, still breathing heavily, to find his stand’s fist caught by some kind of eldritch abomination. Large purple claws ensnare Gold Experience’s hand, monstrous in size and wicked sharp.  But it’s not the claws that catch Giorno’s attention, or even the fact that the thing is missing a lower half.

Instead, it’s the endless number of eyes covering its body, head to… well, lack of toes.  The eyes all lock on Giorno, pupils dilating like a biblical angel.  

Prosciutto steps out of a booth, grabbing the green-haired man by the ear and dragging him forwards.  “Pesci, what have I told you about getting flustered?!  Don’t lose your head over every little thing!”

“I-I know, big bro!  It’s just, he came at me so suddenly…”

“I don’t care if he chopped off your arms and legs—you never deactivate your stand ability before you finish the job.  Are you stupid?!”

“I know, I know!  I’m sorry.  I’m hopeless, aren’t I?”

Prosciutto sighs, placing his hands on Pesci’s shoulders.  “Look, Pesci—you’re not hopeless, alright?  You’ve got more potential in your pinky toe than Formaggio’s got in his whole body.  All you need to do is apply yourself!”

“Y-You’re right!”  Pesci brightens, the fishing rod reappearing in his hands.  

Giorno watches the two have their heart-to-heart, bleeding profusely from the cut on his arm.  I’m still here, you know…

Wait, this might be his chance.  He backs away as quietly as possible, creeping towards the door, and—

“Hey!  Where do you think you’re going?!”

Pesci casts the fishing line again, hooking the collar of Giorno’s suit.  He digs his shoes into the ground, preparing to get dragged around the train car again, but nothing happens.  Giorno cracks open an eye, raising a hand to feel around for the hook.  His fingers bump into a long zipper where his suit collar used to be.

“Sorry I’m late,” Bucciarati announces, stepping into the train car.  Sticky Fingers picks Giorno up like a cat, dumping him at the man’s feet.

“Took your sweet time,” Giorno grumbles, standing up and brushing off the dust from his pants.  

Prosciutto grins at the sight of him, his stand’s eyes swiveling towards Bucciarati.  “Now it’s a party.  Just like old times, eh?” 

Bucciarati scoffs.  “You never did learn when to shut your mouth.”

Sticky Fingers launches forwards, sending a swift kick at Prosciutto’s head.  The man’s stand again manages to block, but it’s notably slower than Bucciarati’s.  A quick movement flashes in the corner of Giorno’s eye; Pesci is readying to cast his fishing rod again.  

Gold Experience darts towards the man, going for another surprise attack.  Expecting his stand this time, Pesci ducks away.  Giorno doesn’t falter, twisting the overhead railings of the train car into vines and ivy.  The plants coil around Pesci’s ankle and pull taut, stringing him up in the air.

The man doesn’t panic like before.  Pesci retrieves a knife from his fur-lined boot and cuts down the vine in a single slice, flipping in the air to land on his feet.  Giorno narrowly manages to dodge his fishing rod, the hook grazing just past his nose.  

Meanwhile, Prosciutto and Bucciarati trade blows.  Prosciutto sports zippers along his chest and limbs where Sticky Fingers’ punches have landed; Bucciarati looks old enough to be his father.  Giorno feels something grab his shoe.  

“S-Save me, please…”  A raspy, weathered voice calls out to him.  

He looks down to find one of the aged train passengers clinging onto his leg, gnarled hands and milky eyes begging for help.  Giorno loses focus for a split second, and that’s all it takes.  

Pesci’s hook sinks into his shoulder, yanking him into the air.  “He’s all yours, big bro!”

Giorno flies backwards, shooting across the train car.  Prosciutto’s stand plucks him out of the air, crushing his waist with its talons, and squeezes .

“Giorno!”  Bucciarati shouts, already moving towards him.  He doesn’t make it in time.

A wispy gas pours out of the eyes of Prosciutto’s stand, covering him in a choking cloud of gray.  It’s in his eyes, his mouth, sinking into his clothes.  His body creaks and groans like a weathered ship as his skin wrinkles and his sight grows cloudy.  But those are the least of his worries.

Giorno’s back is pulsing violently.  He can feel his wings quiver uncontrollably beneath his jacket, feathers molting over and over.  Pain, white hot and writhing in its intensity, engulfs his very being, with his shoulder blades at the center.  

Then, something bursts .

He can hear fabric tear as his shirt gets shredded to pieces, scraps of pink flashing in his vision.  His wings rip straight through the bindings and his clothes to pop out of his back, clawing their way out from his skin, longer and sharper than they’ve ever been before.  His spine burns as his bones grow, elongating to a monstrous size.  They stretch out at least six feet on each side, the tips of his feathers brushing the walls of the train car.  Giorno knows nothing but pain, and blood; blood streaming down his back, blood coating the new feathers as they emerge, blood in his nose and his throat and his wings.

One of them smacks into something hard, the impact jump starting another wave of agony.  In the corner of his eye he sees a head of blonde hair crumple to the ground.  

Someone shouts, panic making their voice crack.  “Big bro!”

Then, everything stops.  His wings stop growing, shrinking down to their normal size.  His vision clears as his skin smooths over, wrinkles and sunspots vanishing.  Giorno gasps, newly fifteen and back to normal.  Prosciutto lies unconscious next to him, his crooked nose bloodied and bent out of shape.

“This is: Stadera.  The next stop is: Botteghelle.”  The train’s PA system chimes as the doors slide open.

Pesci flees, tugging Prosciutto along with him on his hook.  The two vanish into the mob of people at the station.

Bucciarati’s eyes lock with his.  Giorno does not recognize the expression he is making.  The man points a shaking hand—shaking, Bucciarati is shaking—toward him, mouth open but not speaking.  For one perfect, blissful moment Giorno wonders what he’s looking at.

Oh.

Horror strikes Giorno, swift and sharp, dousing him in icy realization.   His feathers puff up as he freezes; Bucciarati tracks the motion, blinking incredulously.  

This time he does speak, whispering in disbelief.  “Giorno, you—”

“Stand clear of the closing doors, please.”  

If he’s going to go, he has to do it now.  Giorno waits for a moment, lingering long enough to think about something stupid like staying.  But he knows better.  That and the still unreadable expression in Bucciarati’s eyes chase him as he makes a break for the door.

“Wait!”  Bucciarati yells after him as he books it, slipping past the doors just as they shut behind him.  

The man might’ve shouted something else, but his voice dwindles away as the train shoots off to its next destination.  Giorno stands there at the station, heart in his throat, feathers in his hair.

He is alone.

It takes a moment for him to notice—later on, he’ll blame it on shock—that people are staring.  Giorno becomes aware of himself suddenly, of his bloody torn-up shirt and his wingtips poking out past his shoulders.  The eyes of tourists and workers and people waiting on their commute gravitate towards him.  A police officer on patrol soon spots him, eyebrows furrowing as they head his way.  

I have to get out of here.

But before he can bolt, before he can run away for the second time that day, a soft weight settles across his back.  Giorno glances down, finding thick cotton draped over him, covering his disheveled form.  

A blanket.  

“Need a hand?”  A voice calls over his shoulder, clear as a chapel bell.  

Giorno looks up to find a face to match to the voice; warm brown eyes, a smattering of freckles, and oddly familiar pink hair twisted into a braid.  

“…Thank you,” he says warily, clutching the blanket in his grip.  What to make of this man, he does not know.

The stranger only nods, beaming down at him sunnily.  “Call me Doppio!”

Chapter Text

The walk to Doppio’s house is a short one. By the time they get there Giorno has managed to stop shaking—for the most part—and the blood matted into his hair has dried. The cloying scent of iron fills his nose, making his head spin.

Doppio messes with his keys for a minute before unlocking the door. Giorno takes note of the lack of furnishing and the half-unpacked bags piled up at the doorway.

“Wait here for a second,” Doppio tells him before vanishing down a narrow hallway.

Against his better judgement Giorno sits down, sinking into a leather couch. The blanket Doppio gave him slides off his shoulders and pools onto the ground.

Just what have I gotten myself into now…?

Bucciarati knows his secret. Giorno can only assume he’s told the others by now—who wouldn’t? Maybe they’ll be angry at him for lying; maybe they’ll hunt him down for betraying them, for running; or maybe they won’t care at all. Maybe they’re glad to be rid of him. Giorno doesn’t know.

He hates to admit it, but he’s grown closer to Bucciarati’s mishmashed crew in the span of a few days than he has to… well, anyone. Ever. He’s not the clingy type—his mother made sure of that —so the sting of loneliness in his chest mystifies him. Giorno’s the one that ran, the one that fled, yet here he sits, abandoned.

I must be losing my mind, he thinks, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. What’s done is done. Giorno’s best case scenario here is that he never sees Bucciarati or the others ever again. The idea makes his stomach turn.

“Don’t frown so hard; your face might get stuck like that!” Doppio appears in front of him. “I’ve drawn a bath. You should go wash up.”

Giorno nods stiffly, rising from his seat. He doesn’t quite trust this man—far from it—but he would give anything to feel clean right now.

Doppio calls after him when he’s halfway down the hallway, stopping him in his tracks. “I didn’t catch your name!”

“Giotto.” He says, the alias hardly a lie at this point. When you make a living out of scamming people at the city’s busiest airport, you learn quick enough the value of a fake name.

“Giotto,” Doppio repeats, sounding it out. “Nice to meet you!”

Giorno blinks at him, furrowing his brows. He raises his left wing slightly, drawing attention to it. “Are you really not going to ask?”

Doppio hadn’t so much as peeked at the wings, blood stains, or his overall state of undress. Asking too many questions would be annoying, but not asking any at all is…suspicious.

“About those? Hm, how should I say this…” Doppio picks up a stray feather from the ground, waving it in the air. “ I’ve seen stranger things.”

Stranger things? Stranger things? Stranger than a pair of actual, way-bigger-than-life-sized wings permanently fused to someone’s spine?

Giorno gapes at the man. Just who is he?

Doppio’s tone grows insistent upon seeing his baffled expression. “No, really—this doesn’t even rank in my top ten.”

Maybe he thinks that they’re fake. That would explain it.

Giorno squints at the other, still wary, but relents with a sigh. “Fine. I’m going to take that bath, then.”

“Go ahead. Call me if you need anything!”

Giorno enters the bathroom, locking the door behind him. As promised, the bath is already drawn, lukewarm water rippling at the surface. He closes the curtains and triple checks the door lock before undressing, shedding the tattered remains of his suit jacket. It’s more crimson than pink at this point, a mess of ripped threads and missing buttons.

Giorno sighs, balling it up and tossing it into the trash. He liked that jacket.

He sinks into the bath, wincing as the water laps at his wings. Giorno twists around to lather them with soap, picking out the tacky blood and grime from his feathers. He combs his fingers through them gently. Before, he’d never taken the time to care for his wings—as far as he was concerned, all they needed to be was out of sight —but this is…

Nice.

Giorno deems them clean enough and moves on to his hair, untangling his braid. Half the shampoo bottle later he steps out of the bath, grimacing at the cloudy brown hue the water has taken on. Gross. A pair of clean clothes lie waiting for him on the counter. The shapeless white t-shirt and the dark pair of basketball shorts aren’t exactly his style, but they’ll do.

Giorno unfolds the shirt, and that’s when he realizes he’s got much bigger problems to deal with.

“Seriously?”

Two huge, gaping holes have been cut into the back of the shirt, right over the shoulder blades.

Oh, hell no.

He knocks loudly on the bathroom door, trying to get Doppio’s attention. “Excuse me, Signore!” Giorno calls out, continuing when he hears footsteps draw closer. “I think there’s been a mix-up.”

“Is the water too hot? Not hot enough?”

“No, it’s the, uh, clothes you lent me…”

“Oh, don’t even mention it. In fact, you can keep’em!”

Giorno clears his throat, struggling to articulate himself. “What I mean is, I-I can’t wear these.”

Doppio pauses on the other side of the door, falling silent. Giorno shifts his weight from side to side nervously. Did that sound too ungrateful?

“Is there anything else I could borrow? I apologize for the trouble.” He asks tentatively.

“Ah, no, I’m sorry—but uh, that that’s my last clean shirt. I’m at the tail end of a work trip, you see.” Doppio says, words rushed and full of remorse. “I thought you might be uncomfortable in a regular shirt, so I modified it a little. I should’ve asked first.”

Giorno shuts his eyes and breathes out a long sigh. Doppio wasn’t exactly wrong, per say; binding his wings is basically like wearing handcuffs, unnatural and all too restricting. But he’s never paraded around with them so…exposed before, and the thought of starting now makes him rather nauseous.

Giorno doesn’t know how to treat his wings as anything other than a dirty secret, but it looks like he no longer has a choice.

He thinks about it for a moment, considering his options. He knows Doppio meant well, and, really, it’s all he’s got. The only alternative to the shirt is using the dirty bath towel he dried off with, which might be even worse.

“It’s fine,” Giorno decides, slipping the shirt over his head. His back feels a little cold—it’s quite breezy, actually—but his wings have the room to stretch for the first time in a long time. It’s a foreign feeling, but certainly not a bad one.

He takes one last look in the mirror and exits the bathroom. Doppio is still waiting for him outside, sitting cross-legged against the wall. The man springs up as Giorno steps into the hallway, a relieved smile spreading over his face.

“You’re looking much better! I was worried the clothes wouldn’t fit, but it looks like everything worked out.” Doppio says, expression quickly turning sheepish. “I mean, well, aside from…”

Giorno shakes his head, waving off the concern. “No, it’s more than I could ask for. Thank you again.”

“Like I said, don’t mention it.” Doppio smiles once more, this time a little wider. “Anyways, should we—”

The man stops suddenly, body going rigid and tense. An odd… ringing sound comes out of his mouth, trilling like a child's toy telephone might. Doppio’s eyes flick across the room, frantically searching. He rushes over to a coffee table next to the couch and picks up a lamp, pressing its porcelain base to his ear.

“Hello? This is Doppio.” He whispers to the lamp in a hushed tone. “What is it?”

Giorno strains to hear him, acting nonchalant as he straightens out a few feathers.

“Him? Are you sure?” Doppio questions, darting a glance at Giorno and looking away just as quickly. “Sure, but…no, no, I understand. C-Consider it done. I’ll call you back later, okay? Don’t—”

The man stops speaking, pulling back the lamp to glare at it. “Ugh, he always does that…” He sets the lamp back down on the table, presumably ending the 'call'.

I’ve got a bad feeling about this.

Giorno snaps his gaze across the room, hurriedly cataloging its exits. Three windows—one is locked, the other two are too far away. He and Doppio are the same distance from the front door. In short: not good.

“Well, I should really get going,” he says casually, resisting the urge to flinch when Doppio whips around to face him. Giorno continues, stalling for time as he inches towards the door. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I'll pay you back as soon as I’m able.”

Doppio blinks at him wide-eyed, tiling his head to the side. “Leaving? S-So soon?”

“I couldn’t possibly take up more of your time.” Giorno tries for a smile, shuffling backwards in tiny movements.

“It’s no trouble, Giorno.” The man laughs, his smile turning stilted and unnatural. “I have some leftover bolognese in the fridge; why don’t I heat up a plate for the two of us? You must be starving.”

Giorno freezes in place, narrowing his eyes. “Didn’t I say my name was Giotto?”

Doppio can only stare, his once friendly grin waning. “A-Ah, well, they just sound so similar…you know, I’ve actually got a cousin named Gio—”

Gold Experience appears before he can finish his sentence, aiming a kick at the man’s head. Doppio ducks under the kick and skips away from the follow-up attack, a right hook that catches nothing but air. Doppio rounds on him quickly, placing himself between Giorno and the door. He holds out his hands in an unthreatening manner, as if trying to calm a scared animal.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Giorno.” Doppio says, taking a step towards him. “If I was going to surely I would have by now, right? All I’m asking is that you stay put for a little bit.”

Giorno narrows his eyes, not bothering to respond. So Doppio is a stand user—shouldn’t surprise him, seeing as he attracts their particular brand of trouble everywhere he goes. But he has one more trick card up his sleeve.

His stand yanks on the rug beneath them, turning patterned wool into writhing nettles and ropes of leaves. The plants bunch up and shoot out towards Doppio in one swift motion. The man twists away again and dodges in a clumsy fashion, nearly tripping over himself in the process, but almost like he knew it was coming.

Giorno’s eyes looks for something, anything, to use as a weapon. He picks up a throw pillow.

The soft cushion warps into tough tree bark under Gold Experience’s touch, creating a makeshift shield for him to use. He charges forwards with it in hand, ducking to make himself smaller. Doppio slips past him and his stand and into Giorno’s space, knocking the wood out of his hands with a surprisingly heavy kick. The man grabs his wrist, twisting it inward as he flips Giorno over his shoulder.

Giorno bites his tongue when he slams into the ground, a painful throb racing up his spine. He gets onto his knees, ears ringing, as a dark shape looms over him. Doppio looks down at him impassively, the lamp he was holding earlier in his hand.

The ceramic shatters when the man cracks it against Giorno’s head, chips and pieces scattering across the floor. Giorno blinks, not remembering how he ended up back on the ground. Something wet trickles down his face from his temples.

His last conscious thought is, inexplicably, of Mista’s awful tiger-print pants.

Bruno Bucciarati has seen a lot of things—blood and crime, drugs and death, and lots and lots of zippers. At this age he’d have thought that nothing could phase him anymore.

He was wrong.

Giorno stares back at him, blood-stained wings arched above him like a crimson banner. Feathers flutter to the ground around him in slow motion, a whorl of muted colors in auburn and beige and sorrel. The boy’s expression is almost serene, eyes half-lidded in pain and unfocused. He looks at Bruno as if he’s searching, like he’s lost something very precious and Bruno was the one who took it.

They blink in unison and the moment shatters. Giorno’s calm expression withers, blooms into a new shade of dread. His towering wings flicker into nothing, shrinking at an impossible speed until only the tips of his bloody feathers are visible from behind him.

Giorno is a blur of motion, scrambling to his feet as feathers spill out around him. Pesci and Prosciutto are already gone, having escaped in the midst of panic.

Bruno unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth, fighting to speak. For some reason, he feels like Giorno might slip away for good if he doesn’t say anything. Like he might never see him again. He doesn’t know why that thought bothers him, disturbs him so greatly, but it does.

He raises a hand towards the boy. Giorno sees his outstretched palm and flinches , a full-body kind of flinch that almost has him falling over. His already wide eyes dilate further, pupils becoming pinpricks of fear, and he starts to back away again.

That’s not what I wanted.

Bruno meets Giorno’s retreat with a step forward, moving closer. He’s in the middle of saying something—it could have been wait, or stop, or stay —but he never gets to finish his sentence. Giorno flees from the train car and out onto the station in the span of three seconds; faster than Bruno can pull his shit together.

“Wait,” he murmurs, a cold panic taking hold in his chest. So it was wait, after all. “Giorno, wait!”

The end of the boy’s braid flits through the air as if waving goodbye. Bruno finally moves, pushes himself to run after him. The train doors shut as he takes his first step. His first instinct is to keep going—a closed door is nothing to Sticky Fingers—but he stops. His brain takes over his body, pushing his heart into his stomach, and keeps him rooted in place as the train pulls out of the station.

The mission to deliver Trish to the Boss is time-sensitive. They’ve already lost a day due to his unplanned bout of illness. Tracking down Giorno might take another, or more. It’s time he can’t afford to waste. And, besides…

Giorno is already gone.

The passengers affected by Prosciutto’s ability begin waking up, de-aging back to their normal selves. One man rubs his forehead and groans, squinting at the bloody feathers that Giorno left in his wake. “Where’d all that mess come from?”

So they can see them too. Bruno had his suspicions, but this confirms it; Giorno’s wings aren’t some kind of stand ability or illusion. He doubts the boy would have reacted so badly if they were. Bruno turns on his heel and exits the train car, heading back to where he stashed the turtle.

Mista is where he left him, standing guard. Prosciutto’s stand ability has now worn off completely, returning his appearance to normal. The gunner perks up as he walks in, flashing him a grin. “You’re looking younger, Bucciarati. New skincare routine?”

“We’ve moving.” Bruno replies curtly, brushing past him. “Tell the others to be ready in five.”

“You got it,” Mista says, tucking his pistol back into his waistband. He glances around, leaning to the side to peek past Bruno. “Where’s Giorno?”

Bruno presses his lips into a thin line. “I’ll get into it when everyone’s here. No point in explaining more than once.”

Mista stops short, looking at him strangely. “Did something happen?”

“What did I just say?” He grits out, leveling the gunner with a glare.

Mista raises his hands in surrender, turning away from Bruno and retrieving the turtle. He reaches for the ruby red key on the animal’s back and disappears, re-emerging seconds later with the rest of the group in tow.

Narancia, back to his usual self, shivers and wraps his arms around himself. “I never want to go through that again.”

“You do age pretty terribly,” Fugo agrees, brushing the dust off of his tie.

“Shut it.” Narancia grumbles, turning to Abbacchio. “How do you even deal with being so old?”

Abbacchio pinches the boy’s ear, scowling. “I’m not even thirty, you dolt. Think I’m too old to kick your ass?”

Trish rolls her eyes at them, flipping open a compact mirror to check her complexion.

Bruno clears his throat to draw their attention. When they fall silent he begins to speak, getting straight to the point. “Giorno is gone. We’ll be moving forward without him.”

“What?”

“Where is he?”

“Giorno died?!”

“Everyone calm down,” He says, feeling a headache start to form. “He’s not dead.” He adds.

“Then what do you mean?” Mista asks, a hint of anger in his voice. “Why isn’t he with you?”

“If you gave me a chance to speak, I would tell you.” Bruno sighs. “Giorno ran away. He took off at the last stop before I could grab him. And no, we won’t be going after him.”

“...Why not?” Narancia’s face scrunches up in confusion. “What made him run off, anyway?”

There it is. The question Bruno was hoping wouldn’t come up. The one whose answer sits burning in his chest. He doesn’t really know what he saw–just a blur of feathers and blood and something unworldly. A blink-and-you-miss-it pair of twin wings so huge that they touched the ceiling. And two green, watery eyes that looked back at him, afraid.

I made the right choice, Bruno reminds himself, biting the inside of his cheek. The mission comes first, before all else, and certainly before some kid he met not even a week ago. He sucks in a deep breath, the explanation of wings and feathers and Giorno’s escape sitting heavy on his tongue.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” comes out instead. Bruno barely registers the lie, moving past the subject dismissively. “Did anything happen while I was gone?”

“Hold on,” Mista interrupts, a fierce expression on his face. “That’s it? There’s gotta be more to it than that, Bucciarati. What the hell happened out there?”

“Like I said, Giorno ran off.”

“Then let’s double back and get him! What are we standing around for?”

“He’s long gone by now. Forget about it.”

“But—!”

“Drop it.” Bruno snaps, an edge cutting into his voice. He doesn’t have the answers to their questions; hardly has any for his own. And he hates it.

Mista stares at him for a long moment, not saying anything. The gunner finally backs down with a sigh, his anger giving way to frustration.

I should just tell them, Bruno thinks, mulling it over in his head. Sure, it won’t make much sense, but at least they'll have some semblance of an explanation. Except he can’t stop replaying that scene—not the chaotic fight in the car car, but the way Giorno had looked at him. The way that the boy’s face had collapsed into despair when they locked eyes.

Bruno wonders, for the first time, what kind of expression he’d made in return.

“No new instructions." Abbacchio answers his original question, breaking the uncomfortable stretch of silence. “What’s our next move?”

Bruno blinks, returning his focus to the present. “We’re getting off at the next station. Our location here’s been compromised. This train won’t get to Rome for another two hours—I'm not risking another ambush.”

“How else are we gonna get there?” Narancia asks, frowning. He’s less animated than usual, Giorno’s absence hanging over him like a gloomy cloud.

“Renting a car or taking a taxi could easily be tracked.” Abbacchio weighs in.

“Then let’s split up,” Fugo says, speaking up for the first time. “We’ll take the van we drove here in while you and Abbacchio rent a car. If we know we’ll be tracked, we can use it to our advantage—as you make your way to Rome, you’ll draw out whoever’s targeting Trish. But she’ll be with us.”

“And where, exactly, will you be?” Bruno raises a brow, skeptical.

“Getting Giorno.”

Not this again.

“Look, I know you guys like him,” Bruno sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “But—”

“Not me," Abbacchio grumbles under his breath.

“But,” he continues, shooting Abbacchio a glare. “We can’t afford to waste anymore time on a wild goose chase. Besides, you have no way of finding him. Give it up.”

“I do,” Mista mutters, almost phrasing it like a question. His eyes light up like a Christmas tree. “Wait, I can track him!”

“You know where Giorno is?” Narancia exclaims.

“I sent Number 5 with him before he left,” the gunner nods, the rest of his stand appearing to crowd around him. They immediately start talking over each other, high-pitched voices overlapping.

“We can find him!”

“Leave it to us!”

“Let’s go, now!”

The mood in the train car does a complete 180, once sullen and resigned faces now filling with excitement. Abbacchio gives Bruno a look out of the side of his eye, shrugging.

Mista turns to him, face set in a determination. “Bucciarati, please. At least let us try.”

Oh, come on.

He should’ve known that these hardheads wouldn’t let the matter lie. Bruno realizes, of course, that they’ll stay behind if he orders them to. They’ll be sulky for a bit, but give it a week or two and they’ll mellow right back out. The refusal rests on the tip of his tongue, ready to disappoint, but something stops him.

Deep down—and he’s talking Earth’s crust levels of deep—Bruno wants their half-baked plan to work. It’s not a terrible plan altogether, either. He’d be able to fight much better if he only had to take care of himself and not a turtle’s worth of gangsters and company.

And if there’s a chance, even a small one, of…

“You’re really not going to let this go, are you?” Bruno relents, digging into his pocket. His fingers close around the keys to the van. He tosses them to Fugo, who fumbles but manages to catch them. “You have sixteen hours.”

Narancia beams so bright that Bruno almost wants to shield his eyes. “Thanks, Bucciarati! We won’t let you down!”

“Don’t forget what your priorities are.” He says, angling a glare at the three. “Trish comes first; move forward with her safety in mind, always. Can I trust you to do that?”

“We understand.” Fugo nods, crossing his arm to rest against his heart. “You have our word.”

This better not blow up in my face.

“Then get going.” Bruno dismisses them with a wave of his hand, checking his watch at the same time. “And Abbacchio…”

“Yes?”

“You’re driving.”

Chapter Text

Regaining consciousness is not a gradual thing.  There’s no fading ebb of darkness around his vision, or cotton blocked ears slowly giving way to sound.  It’s a jarring, abrupt slap in the face; the taste of saliva and swirling colors exploding all at once and without warning.  Giorno blinks back to full alertness in an instant.

The pain hits him first.  It’s a dull ache that radiates from his forehead to the back of his eye sockets, pulsing and roaring like a vicious wave.  A silent wince passes through his lips.  He reaches his hand up to inspect for wounds only to realize that he can’t move–and not for lack of trying.  The clink of handcuffs rattles behind him almost mockingly.  He’s leaning against something rigid and stiff–a bed frame, maybe–and there’s a small puddle of dried blood on the floor.

Focus.

Giorno squeezes his eyes shut to block out the searing light.  He retreats back into his mind and searches for his stand.  A thin tendril of gold brushes past his fingertips, growing stronger as he concentrates, nearly within reach–

A pulse of agony hits him like a freight train, snapping the thread in two.  His focus scatters and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t manage to muster it back up again.  Gold Experience won’t answer his call.  

Giorno huffs, sweat beading at his brow.  The hard way it is.   He angles his shoulder back, bites the inside of his cheek, and slowly works his left hand forwards.  The pressure builds, cold metal biting into his skin, before–

Pop!

His thumb dislocates, allowing him to slide free.  Giorno’s teeth dig into his cheek as the pain in his hand explodes, as bright and brief as a firework.  The handcuffs dangle from his right wrist, one half now empty.  He gently rocks himself forwards into a more comfortable sitting position.  

Now for the bigger question; where the hell am I?

He searches his fuzzy and probably concussed memories for any kind of hint.  The train station–yes, he remembers the train station–and then he ran into…

What did he say his name was?

Doppio , his unbearable headache helpfully supplies.  Right.  

Giorno takes a shallow breath and inspects his surroundings.  He’s no longer in the living room but some kind of bedroom.  There’s not much in here; a small twin bed, a few dusty boxes, and a barred window.  The sky outside is still light, so he can’t have been unconscious for long.  

He creeps over to the door silently and presses an ear against it.  Despite his best efforts, he can’t tell if the thudding he hears are footsteps or his own sluggish heartbeat.  The pain he woke up with is only growing, pounding relentlessly at the base of his skull.  He tries the door handle.

Locked.  

Giorno swallows thickly, eyes skipping across the barren room.  His gaze lands on the window.  The idea quickly forming in his head isn’t a great one, but it’ll have to do.  He raises an elbow and braces himself before swinging it down on the glass.  The noise echoes in his ears and worsens his headache, but he ignores it.  The iron-wrought bars on the outside of the window remain fixed in place despite the glass littering the ground, but it doesn’t matter.  Escaping through there was never the plan.

He quickly picks through the glass shards, taking the sharpest one with him.  Giorno rushes over to the locked door and crouches down next to it, lying in wait.  Fist clenched around the makeshift weapon, the jagged edge nips at his palm.

“What was that?”  A muffled voice says, the sound coming from far away.  Doppio’s voice.  “Giorno?”  

Footsteps approach, the sound of them amplifying as they draw closer.  Each footfall is like a gunshot against the creaky floorboards.  Giorno suppresses a flinch.

“Look, I know you’re awake,” Doppio says, now right outside the door.  “You might be a little confused but it’s all going to be okay.  I brought you some lunch–if you behave, I’ll let you eat without the handcuffs!  And, uh, please try not to break my stuff…”

Metal clinks from the other side, keys jingling as the lock turns.  Giorno tenses, legs burning as the door eeks open.  Now!

A flash of pink in his peripheral vision sends him into motion.  He springs upwards, plunging the glass shard into the closest thing within reach–which happens to be a leg.  The thick denim of the man’s jeans acts as some protection, but not enough; Doppio shrieks in pain, dropping a plate of bolognese and a cup of water as he jumps back.

Giorno barrels past him and into the hallway, slamming against the wall in his scramble to escape.  The corridor stretches out in front of him like a yawning chasm of popcorn ceilings and peeling wallpaper.  He stumbles forwards, his vision spinning as he drags himself down the hall.

He makes it to the living room and no further.  Each step is a herculean effort, nausea roiling in his gut as his feet thud against the ground.  Then, he’s falling–his foot catches on a wayward vine, a remainder of their earlier scuffle–and sends him straight downwards.  The world tilts on its axis as he plummets, chin banging against the floorboards.

Giorno surges upwards as fast as he can, trying and failing to drag himself back onto his feet.  He crawls towards the wall and slumps against it to keep himself upright.  His head wound has reopened–blood drips onto his lap, seeping into his shorts.  

Move, stupid body!  You can collapse later!

A blurry shape appears in his vision, limping closer.  Doppio stops in front of him and takes a knee to level with Giorno.  “Why’d you have to go and do that?”  The man murmurs sadly, shaking his head.  A makeshift bandage has been tied around his thigh.  “Almost nicked my artery, too.  That would’ve been messy.”

Giorno uselessly scoots backwards, hitting the wall.  Black spots dance in his vision, merging and splitting from each other over and over.

Doppio’s face twists into an expression of pure pity.  “You know, Giorno, you remind me a bit of myself when I was younger.  On guard all the time, ready to run at the drop of a pin.  We’ve been burned one too many times to live otherwise, haven’t we?”  He smiles then, fond and nostalgic.  “You think being alone makes you strong; I used to think that too.”

Giorno fights to stay awake.  If he passes out now, chances are he’ll never wake up.  “...Are you going to kill me?”  He croaks, eyes threatening to close.  

Doppio smiles again but with a tinge of remorse.  “I’ll make it painless.”

A hand reaches out for him, bloody fingers beckoning, and–

CRASH!

A blur of red zips through the living room window, glass shattering in every direction.  It twirls and flips in the air as it zooms towards them at a dizzying speed, the blur sharpening into a familiar shape.  

Is that…?

Aerosmith slams into Doppio’s chest and sends the man flying backwards.  The stand’s owner isn’t far behind; Narancia hoists himself through the broken window and tumbles into the house not a moment later.

“Bullseye!”  The boy grins, dark eyes flashing.  He gives Giorno a little wave.  “Hi, Giorno!”

Giorno stares dumbly at Narancia’s lanky figure, seeing double.  Maybe my concussion is worse than I thought.

A loud bang rings out on the other side of the room.  Bullet holes begin peppering the front door to the house, deafeningly loud.  A shot ricochets off of the doorknob, breaking the lock, and the door swings open.

Empty casings fall to the ground in a lead and copper halo around Mista as he enters.  “Hi, Giorno!”  He says, already reloading his pistol.

Fugo passes through the splintered doorway after him, Coco Jumbo in hand.  He levels Doppio with a withering glare.  “We’ve got you surrounded.  Don’t try anything funny.”  Flicking his gaze down to Giorno he nods at him awkwardly.  “...Hi, Giorno.”

“Hey,” Giorno echoes, blinking slowly.  Am I hallucinating ?

Doppio staggers to his feet but stops short, all at once going rigid.  That weird ringing sound he made earlier comes trilling out of his mouth again.  “Sorry, one second,” he excuses himself.  “I’m getting a call.”

They all watch incredulously as the man stumbles around, hand pressed to what are no doubt fractured ribs, and picks up a half-empty mug.  Coffee sloshes out of the cup and onto the floor as he brings it to his ear.  

“Doppio speaking,” he says into the cup, all but forgetting their existence.  Doppio leans into the pretend phone as if someone else is really on the other side.  “Really?  You don’t have to.”  His brows furrow.

“What’s up with this guy?”  Narancia mutters.  Aerosmith whirs the blades of its propeller with an equally confused hum.

“No, I understand that, all I’m saying is that I can take them out by m…”  Doppio trails off, falling silent as he starts to frown.  “Seriously?  You’re going to pull that card?  You never let me have any fun–!”

“Hey, drop the mug, asshole!”  Mista shouts, gun still trained on him.

Doppio glances over at them but something’s… changed .  The air around him shifts suddenly, making the hairs on the back of Giorno’s neck stand up.  The man straightens out of his slouch and shatters the mug in his hands as he turns to face them fully.  

“Must I kill all these children?”   Doppio’s voice rumbles from his chest, the sound of it completely foreign.  His eyes glow a sickly green.

Giorno fights to stay conscious, eyelids beginning to drop even as panic sets in.  His eyes rake over Mista’s stance, too relaxed, Fugo without any cover, Narancia’s exposed blindspot; a choked noise crawls past his lips in a failed warning.  Of what, he does not know–but something is wrong here.  Very wrong.  

He can see a faint outline of red behind Doppio’s back.  He blinks and the man is springing forward at an impossible speed, fingers crooking into claws, the scent of blood around him so thick Giorno can almost taste it–

He can’t look away.

But before Doppio can reach them something else zips through the broken window and into the living room.  The thing—a metallic creature awash in purple—unfurls while airborne, all sharp edges and corners and not entirely animal nor machine.  A pair of wings flap mechanically at its back to send it surging towards the first person it sees.

Why does it have my…?

The creature dives and clips Narancia with a razor-sharp feather, slicing deep into his arm before the boy even has a chance to dodge. 

“Fuck!”  Narancia howls, fingers clutching at the wound to staunch the blood flow. 

Mista whips around, taking his aim off Doppio and training his gun on the blur of purple zipping through the air.  Sensing the weapon the creature banks right , swerving towards Fugo and taking the possibility of a clean shot off the table.  

A grating screech rings out as the creature opens its mouth, three rows of serrated metal teeth glinting in the light.  Fugo freezes as it barrels towards him; Giorno sees the flicker of his stand start to appear.  But then Fugo stops, dread filling his expression, and his stand fades away into nothing.  He’s wide open.

Wings that look scarily similar to his own rush at the blonde, feathertips flashing like the points of twin blades.  In sheer desperation Giorno forces himself to move, propping himself up on his knees.  Gold Experience rips its way out of him and sends a root shooting from the floorboards at Fugo, knocking him off balance to avoid the attack.  Fugo flails as he falls backwards, losing his grip on Coco Jumbo.  The turtle retreats into its shell as it hits the ground; in a flash of light, someone exits from the red gem on its back.

“Ugh, what the…” Trish rubs at her temples with a groan.  “Are we back yet?”

Doppio–or whatever demon’s possessing him–grinds to a halt, stopping abruptly in his tracks.  There's an indecipherable look in his eyes.  He stares with the intensity and nothingness of an abyss at Trish’s face , pupils two pinpricks of black.

I fucked up, Giorno realizes, his short-lived relief at Fugo’s safety going up like smoke.  With two huge threats on either side of her, Trish has nowhere to go.  He might as well have dealt the killing blow himself.

Time slows to a crawl as the creature roars, pushing off the wall with long-tipped claws towards its new target.  He can see in shocking clarity the moment that Trish realizes what’s about to happen; her lips part, skin paling to ashen.  The flash of metal reflects in her irises, purple and green and only getting closer.

They shouldn’t even be here.  Giorno thinks with despair, shouts of alarm rising all around him like a raucous final score.  Why on earth would they come back for me?

He closes his eyes, cowardice and shame swirling in his gut.  She is going to die.  She is already dead, isn’t she?  Trish is going to die or has been dead and he can’t do a thing about it either way.  Giorno sits and waits for the inevitable; the girl’s piercing scream and the heady petrichor of blood filling the room.

Doppio’s presence behind him vanishes.  

He doesn’t disappear; no, he moves, with a swift fury that whips the loose strands of Giorno’s hair into a frenzy.  In the half-second it takes for him to reopen his eyes Doppio is across the room, looming over Trish.  His fingers are closed around the neck of her would-be killer in a deathly grip, denting its rigid flesh and crushing it like an empty soda can.

Trish scrambles back.  Her mouth is still hanging open but she forgets to scream, too terrified.  Doppio pays her no mind.  His other hand grabs ahold of the creature’s metallic wings and he wrenches them away from its body in one violent motion, shredding through them as easily as paper.

The creature unhinges its metal jaw and the scream Giorno was waiting for spills out.  Doppio seems to grimace at the shrill noise, eyes flashing as he scowls and grips the creature’s head.  With a pop he crumples its skull inwards, squashing it completely and cutting off any sound.  Its twitching body is thrown to the side.

And then there was one.

Giorno can physically feel the man’s gaze fall on him as he turns around.  The fight’s not over yet.  But even the alarming red aura dripping from Doppio’s form and a sense of impending danger can’t stave off his exhaustion.  He’s lost too much blood—not to mention his worsening concussion—and everything’s starting to feel fuzzy.  He can vaguely sense movement around him and a dark head of hair calling his name, but it’s as if Giorno’s underwater.  He hit his limit a long time ago.

Gold Experience stirs as his eyes slip closed, sinking into blissful silence.

“..aking up!  Guys!”

“...iorno?  Can you hear me?”

“Give him some space!”

Giorno shoots upwards, knocking his head against someone’s chin.  Mista’s yell of surprise is muffled by the sound of his own wince.  The room sharply comes into focus around him as he opens his eyes, squinting.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”  Narancia says, flashing a peace sign in front of his face.

“Two,” Giorno rasps, swallowing thickly around the taste of blood in his mouth.  “What happened?”

“You fainted.”  Fugo answers him, shoving Narancia out of the way.  “Any dizziness?  Nausea?”

Giorno shakes his head—for the most part, he feels fine.  He’s not even in pain.

…Wait a minute.

He presses a hand to his forehead, fingers probing around where the cut was.  There’s nothing.  No jagged wound, no raised skin, not even a bump.  As if he was never hurt in the first place.

“About that,” Mista rubs his sore chin before offering Giorno a hand up.  “Your stand played doctor while you were knocked out.  Fixed up Narancia, too.”

Narancia shivers at the mention, clutching at his arm.  The deep cut from earlier is gone.  “Don’t remind me.  It hurt like hell.”

“What?”  Giorno says, mouth hanging open.  Disregarding what Mista said—because not a word of that made any sense—how are they still here?  Did we win?   “Where’s Doppio?”

“‘Doppio’?  You mean that—”

“He’s gone,” Trish cuts in, a shaky lilt to her voice.  “Disappeared after you fainted.”  Her hands are clenched tightly in her lap.

“He…left?” Giorno asks, doubly confused.  Why wouldn’t he kill us?

“If he did, we didn’t see it,”  Mista says as he pulls Giorno to his feet.  “He was here one second, then blink and he’s gone.  I figure the vanishing act was some kind of stand ability.”

What is that, the tenth one this week?  How many stand users are there in Italy?    

“Not to interrupt this shocking revelation, but,” Fugo trails off, scratching the side of his neck.  “Are we going to address the elephant in the room?”

Four pairs of eyes settle on Giorno—correction, on Giorno’s back.   Amidst the kidnapping and the concussion and the looming threat of death he‘d sort of forgotten that his wings are out for all to see.  The stupid shirt he's wearing doesn’t even try to cover them.  His feathers puff up at the attention as Giorno shrinks.  

“I…” he stammers, drawing his wings in so tightly it hurts.  What am I supposed to say?  “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Woah, buddy, it’s okay,” Mista says, trying to reassure him.  “We’re just curious.  Are they part of your stand or something?”

Gold Experience–why didn’t he think of that earlier?–is a perfectly good explanation that doesn’t point towards him being a freak of nature.  All Giorno has to do is nod and agree and he’s off the hook.

“No,” he hears, shocked to find that the sound is coming from his own mouth.  Oh, what the hell am I doing?

He can’t take this back.  Once he opens this door he knows for a fact it won’t close, except maybe to slam its consequences in his face, but…

Deep down, he’s tired of lies.  And he’s tired of hiding in dark corners.  If they were willing to go this far for him—to somehow find value in Giorno when he’s this cowardly, this helpless —maybe he can trust them.  

God, he wants to trust them.

“I don’t know what they are,” he confesses, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the ground.  I’m really doing this, aren’t I?  “They appeared when I became a stand user, but I can’t make them disappear like Gold Experience.  No–I can’t control them at all.”  

After that he stops, not quite knowing how to continue.  What else can he say—what else does Giorno even really know about his wings, beyond that he’s stuck with them?

Narancia eyes his wings quizzically.  “So they’re real?  With bones and everything?”

“As far as I know.”  Giorno nods, hesitantly extending one forward.  “They’re growing, too; a month ago they were only half this size.”

“They’re beautiful,” Trish marvels, clearly wanting to touch but holding back–something that Giorno is grateful for.

“Interesting.  They actually look like they’re fused to your spine…” Fugo says, studying the mottled feathers.  “Would it hurt if you plucked one?”

The words trigger something in Giorno; a memory, perhaps, of blood and tattered feathers and hospital antiseptic, and it’s enough to make him flinch.  What was that?  He pictures Doppio ripping away delicate wings in one harsh tug–this time from his back, leaving Giorno motionless and in a thousand pieces on the floor.  

Would it be that easy?  Or would he draw it out, feather by feather, until nothing was left?

“I…”

Whatever Fugo sees in his expression makes him backtrack.  “Wait, no, I didn’t mean it like that.”  He says, tripping over his own words until Mista elbows him in the side.  “Sorry.  That was…insensitive.”

“It’s ok.”  Giorno watches him warily and draws his wings in a little.  He takes a deep breath and tries to change the subject.  “I wanted to apologize for running away on the train.  I get that it was irresponsible, but when Bucciarati saw my wings I started panicking and–”

“Wait,” Mista interrupts him, frowning.  “Bucciarati knows about your wings?”

“They sort of went berserk during the stand attack.  We were in the same train car,” Giorno says, confused.  “He didn’t tell you?”

“Bucciarati told us you ran off, but didn’t explain why.”  Narancia scowls, balling his hands into fists.  “Did…did he even try to stop you? Or was he lying about that too?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Giorno shakes his head.  “It’s not his responsibility to chase after me.  We had a mission, and I abandoned it.  My mistakes are my own.”

“Bullshit!”  Fugo swears.  “You were freaking out–which, obviously, understandable–and he just lets you go?  Maybe it’s not his responsibility to chase you down, but it definitely is his to keep you safe.  Hell, we had to beg him to let us come out here and look for you!”

Giorno stares at him for a beat, scanning the blonde’s face.  I don’t get it, he thinks, searching for some hidden intention behind the angry expression and finding none.  

“Why would you do that?” he asks, struggling to keep the desperation out of his voice.  “You all keep chasing after me, saving me—this time, almost at the cost of your lives.  Why would you go that far for someone you barely know?”

Why are you here?  Why are you still here?

“Giorno,” Mista frowns, looking him dead in the eye.  There’s no pity in his gaze; it’s firm and resolute.  “You’re a part of our squad now, okay?  We want you to stick around.  If we have to chase you down all over the city for you to believe it, then we will.”

Giorno swallows around the sudden lump in his throat.  It’s almost painful, like his heart’s ready to swell past his lips and burst.  This isn’t how things are supposed to go.  They’re supposed to finally see him for the…the thing that he is and recoil.  Not stay.  Not linger.  They can probably tell that he’s trying to push them away.  But if so, don’t they realize that he’s doing it to help them?

“But I haven’t even done anything for you,” he tries to reason.  “Don’t you get that?  And now you know that I’m…”  

He doesn’t say the words but they all hear it.

Mista shakes his head.  “You don’t need to earn or deserve a place with us, Giorno.  You already have one.  We’ve got your back; and if that includes wings, then so be it.”

For a long moment he stays silent.  Honestly, what is Giorno supposed to say to that?

All this time, he’s been racking up a list of debts a mile long–the boat at Capri, Pompeii, getting kidnapped–and now he’s coming to the realization that he can’t pay them back for any of it.  Because for some ridiculous reason they don’t want anything from him. Every time he tries to balance the scales they take a little weight off of his side and onto theirs and he doesn’t know why .   

Like they don’t even expect me to make it worth their while.  

“Let’s go, Giorno,” Fugo says.  “Come back with us.”

I still don’t understand.  I almost got us all killed.  So why are they…?

“...You guys are weird,” he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face to hide watering eyes.  So he doesn’t understand.  Maybe he never will.  Let me dream just a little bit longer.  “Really, really weird.”

“Oh, you love us,” Narancia scoffs, glancing at his wings again.  “Hey, so does this mean that you can fl—?”

A ringing noise cuts him off.  Giorno feels himself tense at the sound, Doppio still fresh in his mind, but Mista pulls out his phone a moment later to answer it.

“Yeah, we found him.”  He says after a beat, darting a quick glance at Giorno.  “Everything alright on your end?”

A voice—Bucciarati’s, presumably—replies in a garble over the line.

Mista’s eyebrows shoot towards his hairline at whatever the man says and he turns to the rest of the group.  “Apparently Bucciarati and Abbacchio got a visit from their own little purple nightmare,” Mista whispers, gesturing with the phone to the wreckage of metal parts and scraps lying in the living room.  He turns his attention back to the call, a conspiratory look on his face.  “...Did yours have wings too?”

Five minutes of a back-and-forth Giorno can’t make out later Mista ends the call, pocketing his phone. 

“What’d he say?”  Fugo asks.  He picks up Coco Jumbo, who was in the middle of chewing on the carpet.

“I’ll tell you on the way.  We’ve gotta be in Venice by tonight,” Mista replies briskly, already starting to herd them out the door.

“Venice?”  Giorno echoes, following the gunner’s lead.  “That’s a seven hour drive from Naples.”

“Exactly—chop, chop, everybody!  We’re burning daylight!”

“Hey, quit shoving me!”

“Where did we park again?”

“Can I stay outside of the turtle this time?”

Giorno watches them all pile into the car, shoving and bickering over one another, and sighs.  Then he’s following right behind them.