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From the moment they’d moved to Italy, Haruno hated it. He hated everything about it. He hated the food. He hated the language. He hated the complete and total lack of snow in the winter. It didn’t matter that the snowfall in Saitama was minimal and barely lasted a day. What mattered was that snow was a sign that it was winter, and that meant spring was right around the corner. All it seemed to do in the winter in Naples was rain.
And of course, there was his stepfather, the biggest reason of all for his complete and total hatred for all things Italian.
Haruno – or Giorno, as he was now called, because his stepfather couldn’t be bothered to learn to pronounce his name properly – had spent the first four years of his life being largely ignored by his mother. He’d quickly learned that crying was useless – completely meaningless when no one was there to respond, and even when his mother was home, she often pretended she couldn’t hear him. Crying did nothing to make him feel better, either, so it was useless, useless, useless.
If not for his mother’s habit of falling asleep with the television on, Haruno might not have learned how to speak at all before he was three, but even words became useless when she met the oni. He didn’t dare call the man that to his face; for the most part, Haruno tried to avoid him as much as possible, but that, too, had been useless. Oni were, by nature, cruel and malicious, and although Haruno didn’t know those particular words just yet, he was well acquainted with their meaning.
If his mother had ever shown any sign of affection toward him, outside of the staged poses captured in framed wedding photos, perhaps she would have wondered why Haruno was so often bruised, or why his fingers sometimes struggled to tie his shoelaces. Perhaps she would’ve noticed that Haruno shied away from the oni, approaching him only when he was desperate for something to eat. Haruno didn’t dare help himself to anything; the oni knew exactly how many breads were on the table and how many strawberries were in the basket, and if he caught Haruno helping himself without permission, it was one more reason to remove his belt.
Haruno often suspected that he was the only reason the oni wore a belt. The oni seemed to enjoy the tensing of Haruno’s shoulders when he unfastened the buckle, his grin growing more menacing and toothy as the belt slid through the loops, making Haruno’s eyes widen in fear.
And that was just how it was inside the walls of the house that felt nothing like a home.
The oni remained inside more often than not, but the outside was nearly as bad. His new name, Giorno, sounded strange to his ears, but he was willing to accept this new name, in this new land, in exchange for not being the foreign kid. His features belied the Italian moniker, however, and the haircut the oni had given him had only made him stand out even more. The other children weren’t as physically violent as the oni, although they would do things like push him against a wall or trip him while he was walking. Their biggest weapon against Haruno, the one they used with merciless regularity, was their words. His mother spoke to him rarely, and the oni only spoke to him to berate him from some imagined crime – a missing apple, some spilled wine – so he hadn’t imagined that anything could hurt as much as the belt, whether it was folded in half, and half again, or left at its full length and used as a whip.
The words did hurt, though, in a way that Haruno couldn’t understand. They’d simply decided that he wasn’t one of them; he’d never be one of them; and there was no place in this world for Haruno Shiobana.
It was by chance that he’d spotted the wounded man. He was bleeding, as if an oni had gone after him, too, perhaps with claws and teeth instead of a belt or occasional closed fist, and he was all alone. Haruno had never felt any kind of kinship with anyone before, not even back in Japan, but the sight of this man touched Haruno. Perhaps no one else cared, but Haruno did.
His actions that day changed the course of his life. The oni stopped finding reasons to beat Haruno; the other children acted as though Haruno was their best friend; and eventually, Haruno Shiobana – no, Giorno Giovanna, had a dream. Giorno was born from the ashes of Haruno’s lonely and miserable death. Giorno would follow in the footsteps of his mysterious savior. He’d become a gangster, and he would lead a righteous life, making Naples a place where someone like him could feel welcome and accepted for who they were.
Someone like the boy he met later that year.
Giorno felt a sense of déjà vu as he approached the injured boy. Unlike the gangster, though, the boy didn’t appear to be on the brink of death, although it was difficult to tell with the way he was lying on his back moaning loudly in between gasping breaths.
“Mother fucker,” the boy said as he sat up, and he quickly looked around as if to see if anyone had caught him cursing. He spotted Haruno standing there, and the look of relief on his face was almost comical.
“Thank God,” the boy said. “I thought you were Sister Mary Agnes. Have you noticed it’s always Mary Something? Mary plus a saint. You think the Mary part is because of the Virgin Mary?”
Giorno shrugged.
“Not much of a talker, are you? That’s okay, I don’t mind if you just listen.” He pressed his arm over his ribs protectively, and Haruno – no, he was Giorno now – recognized the motion, having made it a number of times himself until recently. “You know there’s a place in Milan where you can summon the devil? Saint Ambrose got in a fight with him, and he got his horns stuck in this pillar, and the holes are still there to this day!” The boy put his hands on either side of his head, with his index fingers extended like horns. He relayed the legend so proudly, it was as if he’d been the one poking holes in the pillar himself. “You ever wonder what it would be like to have horns?” he added, aiming his extended fingers toward Giorno like they were antenna instead.
Giorno shook his head, and the boy lowered his hands and crossed one arm over his chest again.
“I think of stuff like that all the time. Like how would you get your hair cut? Would you shave around the horns, or let that part of your hair grow really long and wind it around your horns like a ribbon? Do you think it would be tough to get comfortable when you went to sleep? I’ll bet the devil goes through a lot of pillows. Hell is probably covered in feathers, if you think of it.”
“I think it would be uncomfortable, having horns.”
“Hey, you can talk!” the boy said with a grin. His mouth was bloody, the two front teeth – quite a bit larger than the others, indicating the boy was likely a year or two older than Giorno – were smeared with red. The boy swept his tongue over the blood, wincing at the taste, and then his tongue retreated behind his teeth again. His mouth hung open, and he had an intense look of concentration on his face, before he unexpectedly turned his head to the side and spat out a tooth, which landed near Giorno.
“Oh, that bastard Marco. I’m going to kick his ass next time I see him.” He slapped his hand over his mouth and looked around again, as if expecting the mysterious Sister Mary Agnes to be lurking nearby. His eyes returned to Giorno. “Hey, don’t worry, kid, that tooth was loose anyway.” He dropped his head back and looked up at the sky with a groan. “Ah, man, why did I spit that out? I need that for Topolino.”
The boy reached for his tooth, but his ribs must have really been hurting, because he winced as he stretched out his arm. Giorno took a few steps until the tooth was right in front of him and bent down to pick it up. He extended his hand, holding the tooth out for the boy.
“Why would a mouse need your tooth?” Giorno asked.
The boy looked at Giorno as if he’d said one plus two was four. “You’re kidding me, right?”
Giorno shook his head.
The boy held out his hand and Giorno dropped the tooth into his palm. Once it was tucked into his pocket, the boy patted the ground next to him. Giorno sat, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.
“Ok, so listen, you’re young, so you’ve still got some time to cash in on this. When you lose a tooth, you put it under the table next to your bed, hidden under the leg, and while you’re asleep, Topolino takes it and leaves you a gift.”
“Why would a mouse want anyone’s teeth?”
“Because he’s Topolino dei denti.”
“But why?”
“He collects all the baby teeth and takes care of them.”
“Takes care of the teeth? I didn’t know teeth needed that kind of attention once they fell out.”
“You talk weird,” the boy announced.
Haruno had been kidding himself. He’d never be Giorno Giovanna. Giorno Giovanna was Italian; he belonged here in Naples. Something must have shown in his face, because the boy was studying him carefully.
“I mean you talk all polite. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Oh.”
“I mean, it’s obvious you’re not from around here, or at least your mom or dad, or both, aren’t. I don’t even know my mom or dad.”
“You don’t?”
“Nope.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why? It’s not your fault they’re dead.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to apologize again, but Giorno stopped himself.
“It’s not just your face, it’s your hair, too,” the boy added.
Giorno reached up and covered his head with his arms.
“I’m not saying it’s bad!” the boy hurried to assure him. “It’s just another reason it’s obvious you’re not from around here. I mean, talk about a bad hair day, that’s me, all the time!” He pointed to his own mop of unruly curls. “Sister Mary Agnes wants to bring me to get it cut again soon, but what she really means is shave it all off so I end up looking like an old man.”
“It’s too bad you don’t have horns. It would be more difficult to shave your head if you had horns.”
The boy laughed suddenly, and Giorno’s heart skipped a beat. This strange boy seemed to enjoy talking to him. He wasn’t doing Giorno special favors like the other boys, who’d only started doing that after Giorno had saved the gangster. This boy had no idea who Giorno was – he didn’t even know Giorno’s name, either the old or the new one – but he still talked to him like he was, well, a friend, Giorno supposed. He’d never had one of those before, so he wasn’t sure. He thought of asking the boy, but maybe it was too soon.
“Ah, maybe I’ll promise Sister that if it gets too long, I’ll cover it with a hat or something. Heck, maybe I’ll get one even if she shaves my head again. Either way, I’ll be like Frank Sinatra, you know?”
Giorno didn’t know. He shook his head, and the boy exhaled very slowly. “Well, I guess that’s not too surprising. Lorenzo doesn’t know who Frank Sinatra is, either.”
Giorno nodded. He didn’t know who Lorenzo was, but the boy didn’t seem to think too highly of him, so he didn’t seem important.
“What happened to you?” he asked, pointing to where the boy still had his arm crossed over his chest protectively.
“Oh, this. Nothing I can’t handle,” he said bravely, gently pressing his fingers against his ribs and wincing slightly when he touched certain spots. “Okay, listen to this. The sisters got us some sfogliatella as a reward for good behavior. They had a buncha boxes all stacked up, and I didn’t know it at first, but there were six in each box.”
He paused as if making sure Giorno was following. Giorno nodded, encouraging him to continue.
“Okay. So I’m third in line when they open a new box. First Lorenzo takes one, then Sal takes one, and then it’s my turn, right?”
Giorno nodded again.
“But the thing is, I don’t want to take the next one. I want someone else to go first, so I tell Marco to go ahead of me, but he doesn’t trust me, so he wants to know why. And Sister got all impatient with me for not taking my turn, so she sent me to the very back of the line, and by the time I got to the front again, they ran out of sfogliatella, and she didn’t understand why, because she was sure she’d picked up enough for everyone. But when we get outside, and everyone’s eating but me, I see Marco’s got a napkin stickin’ out of his pocket, and in that napkin is a sfogliatella! That bastard,” – this time, the boy didn’t seem to care who heard him swear – “when it was his turn, he took two, so he had my sfogliatella! But he also had Sal, and Sal’s kinda big for his age, so…” the boy shrugged.
“I’m sorry,” Giorno said. He was, actually. He knew what it was like to be the one who was left out, knew what it was like to be ganged up on.
The boy stared at him for several seconds with his dark, dark eyes. “Do you do that a lot? Is that like a, um, where are you from?”
“Japan.”
“Is that a Japanese thing, apologizing for things that aren’t your fault? Or is that a you thing?”
“I think it’s a me thing.”
“Well, listen, gonna let you in on a little secret.” He beckoned at Giorno to come closer, even though they were sitting right next to each other. Giorno obligingly leaned toward him. “You never let them think it’s you; you make them think it’s them. I don’t know anything about Japan, but neither do most people around here. Half don’t even know much about Sicily, and that’s not nearly as far away. So you pretend like it’s a Japanese custom, and it makes you seem less weird.”
Giorno nodded again.
The boy looked like he was going to say something else, but the sun’s position in the sky was behind Giorno, in such a position that the boy had to shield his eyes, eyes that widened suddenly beneath his hand.
“Shit!” he said, slapping his hand over his mouth, once again concerned about his language. “I’ve gotta get back. I already lost my television privileges; I don’t wanna lose my movie night privileges, too.” He got to his feet and extended his hand to Giorno, who clasped it and allowed the other boy to help him to his feet.
“See you around, kid,” the boy yelled before sprinting away. He either had a remarkably high pain tolerance, to be able to run with a bruised or fractured rib, or he was feeling better already. Neither would surprise Giorno at this point.
He touched his head, imagining what it would be like if horns were growing out of his skull, and then his hand moved from his head to his mouth, tracing the smile that had formed there.
“See you around,” he said, even though the boy was long gone by now. He could feel the foreign, stretching sensation of his lips as his smile grew just a little bit wider.