Chapter Text
Giorno presses himself up against the wall, mouth agape in horror as he pulls his tail-- no, his legs up against his body and tries to control his breathing using muscles he’s never had before and hardly knows how to use. He’d call for help-- if he knew how . He doesn’t know how to sing like this, and even if he did, he can’t convince himself that anybody would be able to understand.
He’s totally helpless.
As he starts shaking and his throat closes up, he thinks he might die here. When water begins to leak out of his eyes and nose and he starts hiccuping, he forces him to accept that it might be soon. Right in front of him. Right in front of him…
How did it come to this?
It started with a shipwreck.
Not a new one by any means-- this one was old, very old. No large part of it was metal; most was wood. By that means, the iron frame was all that remained.
The curious thing was that it was totally devoid of life. Anybody with an ounce of common sense would assume that algae, then plant life, then animals like coral and anemone and finally fish would decorate what was left of the ship, while it still remained.
Such was not the case here.
Absolutely nothing lived in the frame, or for a certain radius around it. (It interested Giorno that the center of the shipwreck was not the exact center of this circle.) The water there was swimmable, but left Giorno with a feeling of discontent; a sense he should leave.
Of course he didn’t.
The deeper he went into the wreck, the stronger the feeling became, such that had the slightest movement or noise startled him, he might have fled and never returned. But seeing as there was nothing alive to do anything of the sort, he stayed.
At what he found to be the very center, there was a glint of something silvery buried in the sand. When Giorno saw it, he reached to dig it out.
From there, it was a blur. The only things he remembers clearly are cutting his fingers on the thing he found, a growing pain behind his eyes as he headed for the surface, something in his back twisting and snapping when he pushed his head above water…
And this . Coming to his senses on the beach, but not suffocating. Short, fragile fingernails instead of claws, on top of unwebbed fingers. Nothing at the tips of his elbows. When he felt inside his mouth, short teeth instead of the tusks he’s used to.
Legs instead of a tail.
He considers himself lucky he didn’t pass out then and there. He remembers hoping with all his heart that it wasn’t a nightmare.
Fate is a cruel mistress, it seems. He doesn’t know why this is happening, why him , but he knows that this is all real despite his most desperate wishes. It makes him want to keel over, fall asleep, forget, forget, forget until it’s all over.
But he can’t. He’s still watching water leak out of his eyes and drip off his nose onto the sand beneath him. Should he expect himself to slowly dehydrate, drop by drop, until he loses too much water to survive? Maybe his new-- human --body will choke him to death before that can happen. It would be a merciful end, he thinks.
There’s a warm hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” somebody says.
Giorno looks up. He recognizes who he sees, even if he can’t place a name. They look him in the eyes. “Have we met?” they ask.
Giorno nods. It’s the most he can do, because even if it’s too complicated for him to describe, he can’t tell this person that.
“Where have I seen you before?”
Giorno shakes his head. He can’t answer that.
He doesn’t need to. There’s someone behind the person that lets out a shout when they see Giorno. It’s Pannacotta’s friend, he recalls weakly. Narancia is their name, or perhaps some variation on it, like Arancia or Narancha.
He feels faint. What’s happening? What happened to me? He wants to ask, but… He can’t. He never thought he’d want so badly for something as simple as to speak…
His vision is starting to fade and blur. The person is shaking him. “Hey! Don’t pass out on us!”
He forces his eyes to focus, so much that he can’t hear a word either of them say. His ears are ringing. He doesn’t have any energy left.
(The shift took a lot out of you, he hears an unfamiliar voice say. That’s odd. He didn’t see it speak. Rest while you’re safe, it says.)
He lifts his head in affirmation and lets his eyes slide shut.
He wakes up somewhere soft, covered by a heavy weight. His mouth feels dry, which is a strange sensation.
Because he’s still not in the water. And he’s still alive.
He can’t help it, but his breathing quickens. His heart-- just the one-- starts hammering. He feels like he’s getting crushed under these… pieces of fabric he’s underneath. He starts struggling against them.
“Whoa!” It’s Narancia, who he didn’t notice before. “You’re okay, you’re safe. Just breathe.”
Breathe…?
That’s a problem, Giorno thinks, because whenever he thinks about breathing, he completely loses control of it. It’s working a muscle he doesn’t have as a mermaid, the way he should be right now, but he isn’t. He has a human body and he doesn’t know why.
Simply put, he doesn’t know how to breathe.
Narancia, to their credit, picks up on that. “Um, um…“ They jab him between the ribs.
Giorno, predictably, exhales sharply and doubles over.
“Did you feel that?” Narancia asks.
Giorno nods.
“Yeah, that’s, um, how you breathe. That’s the muscle you use.” They fidget. “It’s not really… something you have to teach to people normally.”
Giorno shuts his eyes and catches his breath, focusing. It takes him a moment, but he figures out how to voluntarily take a breath and let it out. It’s so strange-- the air comes out the same way it went in, and he doesn’t have any gills to open.
“So, um…” Narancia gets his attention again. “You’re Giorno, right? Fugo’s boyfriend?”
Giorno nods.
“The maneater?”
Another nod.
“And… Do you know what happened? ‘Cause, like, this isn’t normal. At all.”
Giorno shakes his head. He wants to recount what happened, but he has no way of doing it. He realizes he could try showing Narancia the cut on his fingers-- he picks his hand up and holds it out to them. No claws…
Narancia looks at it, seemingly confused. “Your hand? What about it?”
Giorno picks up his other hand and points at the cut, horizontal across his index and middle fingers. It’s scabbed over already, but still there.
Narancia blinks. “Are you saying that has something to do with this?”
Giorno nods, then shrugs. He’s not sure. He just knows they happened in quick succession.
“Did something attack you?”
He shakes his head.
“Did you do that to yourself?”
Giorno shrugs. He wiggles his legs underneath the blankets. (It takes more effort than he expects.)
“Dude, I dunno what a cut would have to do with you growing legs. ” For emphasis, Narancia throws their hands up in the air. “Doesn’t give us any leads, does it?”
Giorno can’t really do anything, so he shakes his head. He wiggles his legs again, this time with more force. It’s rewarded as the blankets go up in the air and fold back against themselves, revealing the ends of his legs. He blinks in surprise.
Narancia grins. “Never seen a foot before?” Slipping their shoe off, they prop their own foot up and hold it next to Giorno’s, pouting when they see it’s still smaller. “Damn… Thought I might have a chance this time.” Then they put their foot down and fold their arms. “Wanna try using ‘em, or are you still getting to know them right now?”
Giorno thinks about it, then turns towards Narancia and holds his hands out. He wants to try using them.
Narancia grins. “Hell, yeah.”
As it turns out, doing anything on two legs is hard. The moment Giorno gets off the couch (as Narancia called it), he falls to the floor. It’s not a fluke, either: he can’t even get up without falling over again. Putting weight on his legs feels all sorts of wrong ; he feels like they’ll snap if he tries to stand up.
“Oh, right, shit…” Narancia murmurs. Then they lean down, and, with surprising strength, lift Giorno off the ground. “Here. I’ll support you.”
Giorno, since he can’t do much else, leans against them. They walk him through, well, walking: “Don’t be afraid of your leg breaking. Your, uh, thigh bone is really strong. Like, crazy strong. It’d take the weight of a grizzly bear to break it, and if you were the weight of a grizzly bear, I wouldn’t be holding you.”
Giorno isn’t quite sure what a grizzly bear is, but he nods anyway. Slowly, carefully, he puts his leg forward and rolls his weight onto it. It burns, but his leg doesn’t buckle.
Narancia smiles. “There you go!”
Encouraged, Giorno lets Narancia carry him another step, then three more.
“Ready for me to let go?” Narancia asks, and Giorno nods.
But the second they do, Giorno loses his balance and hits the floor again, an involuntary yelp escaping him.
“Oh, shit…” Narancia’s by his side in no time. “You okay? I guess you weren’t ready…”
Giorno sighs. He can’t help but agree.
But it’s not long until he’s leaning against Narancia again, moving from one room to the next, which has a lot of appliances Giorno’s seen before but can’t venture a guess as to what they could be for, besides the big rectangular box in the corner, which he knows is to store food and water.
Narancia sets him down on a chair, which looks a lot different from the ones Giorno has seen in wrecks. It looks uncomfortable, but feels alright when Giorno moves into an easier position on it.
Narancia, meanwhile, bustles around behind him. They open one compartment on the box and shovel something that makes a rattling noise into a cup, then pour water from a pitcher into that same cup. They do this twice (but with a glass the second time), then bring the cup to Giorno.
Giorno looks into the cup, and realizes that rattling stuff is ice. So it wasn’t water they were keeping in there… Hesitantly, he takes hold of the cup.
Narancia watches them, taking occasional sips from their own glass. Giorno follows suit and brings his cup to his mouth…
The taste is… strange. Not indescribable, just strange. He thinks it’s as if human blood had everything interesting taken out of it, and then was chilled to below freezing. Without thinking, he gulps it down.
It’s not long before he regrets that when his head starts hurting. Did he drink it wrong? Is his body shutting down? He squints and braces for the inevitable…
And the inevitable disappears.
Narancia gets a good laugh out of it, it seems. “First time getting brainfreeze, huh?” They put their cup down. “Next time that happens, press your tongue against the roof of your mouth. Won’t stop it, but it’ll slow it down.”
“Or just drink it slower,” says a voice that makes Giorno’s heart skip a beat. “Who are you even talking to?”
“Fugo!” Narancia puts down his glass and runs over, out of sight. “Someone you know stopped by.”
“Someone I know ?” Fugo sounds mad, now, and scared. Would betrayed be the word? Giorno’s not sure. “Why would you just invite someone in on the pretense they know me?! Do you know how dangerous--”
He appears in the doorway and stops dead in his tracks. Giorno stares back at him.
Fugo… Doesn’t exactly look at his best. His hair is disheveled, and the bags under his eyes are anything but light. But when Giorno smiles at him, his expression melts.
“Gio-Giorno?” Fugo hurries over, taking up Giorno’s face in his hands. “That’s you, right?”
Giorno nods, putting Fugo’s face in his own hands. He wants to lean in for a hug, but he’s worried about losing his balance.
It turns out he doesn’t need to-- Fugo does all the heavy lifting for him, pulling him in against his chest before letting go and planting a small kiss on the top of Giorno’s head. (He realizes the hair there has none of the texture it did as a maneater. It’s a lot stiffer… and definitely not slimy.)
“How did this happen?” Fugo asks, putting Giorno’s face back in his hands. “Did somebody do this to you?”
Giorno shakes his head. I just cut my fingers, he wants to say, and now I’m like this.
Midway through, he finds himself humming along to the tune of that. It’s a lot different than singing as he’s used to it-- he can’t breathe at all while he’s doing it.
Fugo gives him an indecipherable look. “You--” Then he turns to Narancia, who’s occupied themself with picking up the ice cubes in their glass and popping them into their mouth, crunching them down. “Can he speak? At all?”
Narancia shakes their head. “Had to show him how to breathe earlier.”
Fugo shakes his head, then takes his hands away from Giorno’s face to put his own in them. “I-- What happened?! ”
That’s what I want to know, Giorno thinks. Most of us, probably.
Fugo squints, his hands tensing, then sighs. “The library’s closed by now, and I don’t know anyone in possession of a computer and Internet connection. We’re gonna have to wait until tomorrow.”
“So… What do you wanna do now?” asks Narancia.
He’s not looking at Fugo, Giorno realizes.
After another agonizing walk down the hall that makes Giorno’s legs ache (though the fact that Fugo is beside him now soothes the situation), he’s in the room Narancia calls their own. They shuffle through small, thin plastic cases, looking for something.
At last, they find what they’re looking for and open it, popping a disk about the size of their hand into some kind of machine. Giorno has no idea what it might do, but he remembers nodding when they asked about music. Fugo’s rendition of what he’d said was a folk song was enough to pique his interest in human music. So this machine probably makes music… somehow. Is there a tiny singer in there, maybe?
Narancia messes with some wires Giorno can’t figure out, then puts something over his ears (which, he’s noticed, are different too). Ready? they mouth.
Giorno nods and watches as Narancia hits play.
It’s not immediate, but soon enough noise surrounds him. It feels as if he’s somewhere crowded, surrounded by mersong and clanging noises. It almost hurts his head, and he has to look around to be sure there’s nothing close to him that could be making the sound. Normally, this would all be too chaotic. He’d swim away right away.
But this isn’t normal, is it?
(It could be, the voice from before advises. Taunts? Says.)
In any case, it’s nothing like Fugo. There are too many different noises at play, all of a different caliber and timbre. But there’s a certain rhythm to it, not unlike the noise the ocean makes against rock sped up time over time. It’s startling, but Giorno finds it easier to settle into than he initially thought.
Finally, a voice kicks in, but it doesn’t belong to any human Giorno knows. They’re less singing, like Fugo was, than they are speaking to a rhythm. At least… It sounds that way. It’s not anything Giorno can understand.
He finds himself looking around for the singer again, since it feels like they’re in the room with him. But sooner rather than later, the song stops, and Narancia takes off the headphones.
“Did you like it?” they ask.
Giorno just shrugs. He was mostly just confused. Disoriented? He feels like he was thrown on land and left to crawl back, then asked how it was.
“Hm… Thought you might like it, since Fugo does. He insists the song isn’t about drugs, but it, like, definitely is. They were doing all kinds of shit back in the day.”
Giorno nods along. He has no idea when “the day” was, or why people stopped doing “all kinds of shit” like Narancia’s saying… There’s a lot of context he’s missing.
“Anyway,” Narancia continues, “d’you wanna give it another go? There’s a bunch of CDs Bruno stole from Polpo all over here. I’ll let you look through ‘em.”
Without waiting for an answer, they go off in the direction of Bruno’s room. After a moment of waiting, Giorno puts the headphones back on. They’re not playing music anymore, but they’re still warm, either from the energy it took to make the sound or the heat coming off Giorno’s body. It’s surprising how warm he feels-- he always thought human flesh felt warm because it heated up faster, since it was on land. But that’s apparently not the case: Giorno’s own hand feels significantly warmer than the ceramic of the floor.
He doesn’t have time to continue that line of thought, though, because Narancia returns with an armful of plastic cases and sets them down in front of Giorno. “Take your pick,” they offer.
One catches his eye quickly: a gold, black and orange case that reminds him of his own scales. When he looks closer at the design, he can make out the details of a human face. Opposite it is a gold letter outlined in black, and below that are more letters, this time black outlined in white. Putting aside the fact that he can’t read any of them, he thinks they look nice. He likes the design.
Narancia grins. “Thought you might like that. It looks like your tail, yeah?” They take the case from him, pop it open, and put the disc inside it into the machine.
The music starts up again, like last time, but it feels slower. As if it’s trying to build itself up… He imagines a tidal wave, drawing the water back before letting it all release on land in one huge motion.
It stops, something he can’t understand is said, and then the song begins.
It’s not a bad song, but it’s strange. It’s not what Giorno was expecting… or looking for. Nonetheless, he finds himself bouncing to the beat.
Narancia bounces with him. “I’ve only ever listened to this first track,” they tell him. “Made up a dance routine for it. Gotta get Fugo onboard before anything comes of it, though.”
Giorno’s a little unclear on the definition of “dance”, but he lets it slide. Lots of things to learn.
(You haven’t even started. There’s that voice again .)
Then the song ends. The next track begins, and Giorno hears the voice once more.
But it’s not in his head this time. It’s in his ears, speaking with words he doesn’t know.
( Who are you? he asks. Silence.)
Quickly, the voice cuts out and the next track begins. Giorno’s too distracted to listen-- his head is whirling. He takes off the headphones, letting them tumble into his lap.
Narancia looks at him. “Something wrong?”
He shakes his head.
“You just don’t wanna listen anymore? That’s cool, I guess.” They sound a little disappointed. “Wanna do something else?”
He shakes his head again and pulls his legs back up. He wants to know what’s going on. He wants to know about the voice in his head. He wants to be able to talk .
“Giorno?” Narancia moves close to him, crouching down on the floor. “You okay?”
His throat is closing up again, making it hard to breathe. That sensation that made him feel like he was dying. And his face feels warm, and water is coming out of his eyes again. As if that wasn’t enough, a horrible sadness has started eating away at him.
There’s a cool hand on his face. “Hey. Can I hug you?” asks Narancia.
Instead of answering, Giorno chooses to fall against them, wrapping his arms around them and shuddering.
Narancia reciprocates, moving their hand along his back slowly. “Yeah… It must be scary. All this.”
Giorno sniffles. No kidding.
After a long minute of silence, they speak again: “You don’t have to stay awake. Sleeping it off always works for me. Do you, uh, sleep?”
He nods.
“Do you wanna?”
Another nod.
“Okay… Let me just walk you back to the couch.” They pull away and start to stand up. “Here.”
Giorno lets them help him up, and they start one last walk to the couch. It’s the most painful and exhausting one so far, but he’s met with the relief of the soft material he first woke up on. He’s out before he can even say anything.
He dreams.
In his dream, he’s still a human, but he’s swimming in a gold ocean. Gold sand, gold water, and when he surfaces and looks at the sky, that’s golden, too. Golden clouds hide a golden sun, and the snow that falls on him is golden, too. It lands on his skin and melts away into liquid gold.
(May we speak?) asks a golden voice. Giorno turns.
A golden woman sits atop the water, not far from him. She dresses not unlike the humans he’s seen on cruise ships. She wears a prim golden jacket over a golden scarf, and her legs, when they are legs, are clad in golden form-fitting trousers and golden high heels. When her legs are a golden tail, she doesn’t wear anything atop them-- her short, pointed, golden fins speak for themselves. In her lap is a golden keypad, one she keeps a golden hand poised over top of.
(May we speak?) she repeats.
Giorno nods.
(Speak, then.) She types in something on her keypad, and something changes. Giorno’s human legs press together and fuse. His human spine shifts and twists, a familiar dorsal fin sprouting from his back. His human nails harden and lengthen into claws, and his fingers string themselves back together, the webs repairing them. His vision unfocuses, then refocuses. His gills reopen themselves, and his fangs grow back in.
His heart skips a beat. He’s himself again.
(Go ahead,) the woman invites him. (It’s a shame you don’t know how to use that experience yet. Otherwise I wouldn’t have to do that.)
Giorno shakes his head. Who are you?
She gives him an odd look. (You.)
His fins flare. You can’t be me. I’m me.
She gives a thin golden smile. (What do you suggest I am, then?)
Somebody else. He swims around her. No matter what, she’s always facing him. I’m not in the business of sitting on water and giving random people human bodies.
(Would you like to be?)
He bares his teeth. What kind of answer is that?
(I can arrange that,) she replies. (You have a friend, don’t you? Though you’d hesitate to call him that to anybody watching. Maybe you’d be more at home with him on land with you.)
Mista… He jerks up, lunging towards her. How do you know about him? he demands. A part of him wonders what Mista’s doing right now. Whether he’s worried for him. Of course he is, but doubt still eats at Giorno.
She simply backs away without moving. (I’m you,) she says again. (Whether an aspect or simply a representation of the whole, I haven’t figured out. After all, I’ve only existed for, say, a day.)
So you did this to me? Giorno can almost feel human teeth, human legs, human lungs, churning under his skin. Why?
(We’re both learning,) she says instead of answering him. (I will say, because I know, that you were right. It was that cut on your hand that brought me into existence.)
Giorno’s eyes narrow. How?
(That, I don’t know. I’m you, after all, and you certainly don’t know what you injured yourself on.)
He still isn’t buying it. If you’re me, then how did you know something I don’t?
She pauses for a moment, golden hand on her golden chin, then answers: (Take your eyes. Do you know how they work?)
… He wants to say he does, but… He shakes his head.
She nods. (Parts of you will know things that you yourself don’t. But with practice, there are aspects you may take control of. Think of how you can move and focus your eyes. You may not know how they work, despite the reality that they do. Nevertheless, you can command them as you please.)
Are you saying you’re like that? He swishes his tail.
(Maybe. We’ll learn that together.)
… He doesn’t like this much. But, if she means what she says, then he can’t see any choice but to trust her on her word. What should I call you?
(Whatever fits.) The horizon behind her is starting to turn blue. The sky, light, and the ocean, dark. (You might already know what you wish to call me. Ask for its name, if you would.)
Giorno looks around. Will you still be there when I wake up?
She smiles, typing on her keypad. The clouds are turning white. The sun is changing hues. The gold is gone from the sand. (Are your eyes still there when you sleep?)
Before the burst of color can reach her, Giorno wakes up.
He’s still human. The knowledge hits him like a slap to the face, but it doesn’t hurt to realize as much as it hurts his legs to move. He gasps in shock when that pain hits him.
“Awake?” asks the other person, the one that was next to Narancia on the beach. His hair was curly then, but it’s straight now.
Giorno nods, stretching out and letting out a huge breath he didn’t know he was holding.
The person, now in sight, mirrors the breath, putting a hand over his mouth as he does. “You woke up in the morning, which is one thing you have over Fugo.”
Giorno nods. That’s normal, he imagines saying.
“You woke up in the evening last night, so you have the whole day ahead of you. I imagine it’ll be long.” He folds his arms. “Also, you smell. You should at least get cleaned up before you do any of that.”
Giorno lets him pick him up, noticing that it’s a little easier to walk today, even if it hurts just as much.
The person takes him to another room, then, after sitting him down, pulls some levers and turns some knobs that start water pouring into a basin against the wall. Giorno doesn’t pay much attention to what he’s doing after noticing the mirror on the countertop, which he picks up and stares at himself in.
He’s… different. His eyes are the first thing he notices: they’re the same color as before, but the color is restricted to a small ring around his pupil. The rest of his sclera is white. He wonders why he thought it was so pretty on Fugo… On him, it just looks, well, human. It’s odd.
He opens his mouth next, trying not to freak out even though his heart is pounding. As expected, it’s completely different. His teeth are a lot smaller, and only four of them look sharp. He can’t imagine tearing flesh with these.
He takes a quick look at his hair last. It looks… dry. He touches it, and the texture makes him shudder. He’ll need to get it wet again, and soon. It’s also a mess-- he’ll need to redo it, he thinks, as he takes out his braid and undoes his curls, which makes many an unpleasant sound in his ears.
But taking his hair down reveals something. He pulls the mirror closer, and, sure enough, there are tiny flowers made of gold throughout his hair. He can’t seem to touch them-- they disappear when his hand gets close.
“Looking for lice?” asks the other person. Giorno puts down the mirror and looks up. He forgot he was here. “Don’t worry. They probably drowned.”
It’s a joke, Giorno thinks, but he doesn’t have it in him to laugh. He goes back to the mirror.
“I ran the bath for you. Don’t worry about soap yet, just rinse yourself off. Holler if you need anything.” With that, he leaves.
Giorno… guesses he should take off his clothes. He’s wearing a white button-down that’s a little too tight to be comfortable, and loose pants with a texture a little too much like scales and coloration like his own. Both come off with a little fiddling, and he gets in the water.
It’s a lot warmer than he was expecting, but, considering there’s no space to move, it’s more comfortable, too.
But, he realizes, as warm as it is, it’s water. If he somehow managed to change back now, he’d be able to breathe it.
(Do you want to change back? asks the woman from his dreams. The golden woman.)
He nods.
And, slowly, he shifts. It’s like his dream again, but it’s real. Flesh becomes fin, his lungs dissolve, and he can sing again. He puts his head under water and relaxes. This whole thing might be confusing at best and inexplicable at worst, but he managed to get something right. He can rest now, in the body he’s used to.
Something’s wrong, though. The water’s burning him, and it’s not just the temperature. He feels like he just brushed his entire body against a stinging anemone. His gills, too… It’s like he swallowed lava. It hurts .
(It’s burning you, the golden woman says. She sounds like she’s concealing fear. I need to turn you back.)
Do it, Giorno says, out loud, and he hears her keypad moving. And for once, he’s glad to open his throat and breathe, in and out, like Narancia taught him.
The remnants of his tail, too large to change into legs, lie over top them like a blanket. Another click from the keypad, and they encircle them and fit comfortably over them. Like the pants I was wearing earlier.
Relieved as he might be, his body and eyes are still burning. He turns his hand over and winces as he sees the reddening between his fingers left over from his webs.
(Get help.)
Giorno takes a breath. He tries out the syllables under his breath until they sound right, then, with another, deeper breath:
“ Narancia! ”