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"It’s unfortunate, but you were born useless.
And however you struggle,
Nothing is left for you
But a future of abject misery."
Giorno Giovanna strove for utility. As the newly-appointed Don of Passione, he certainly had been doing something everyday — mostly paperwork, or helping the team on hits when he felt a bit stir-crazy. (Just like old times, even if “old times” were not that long ago.) However, while he was thankful everyone had managed to make it out of the Diavolo Debacle just fine, he hadn’t really had a chance to rest. Much to his horror, he’d noticed—and pointedly ignored—that he’d been beginning to slip. Sometimes, while signing yet another form, pens became pheasants, cups became kittens, and plants sprung from his planners.
These outbursts were not conducive to running the mob in an efficient fashion.
It irked the ever-loving crap out of him, that his body wasn’t built to run this hard for this long, that he couldn't just throw down a shot of espresso... Not even Gold imbuing him with a life energy jolt every once in a while against his better judgement would work.
Giorno Giovanna had spent at least 10 years of his life trying to be “useful.” Even so, the words that his stepfather had lanced at him throughout his childhood had stuck with him—to the point where they had become his Stand’s cry. In a kind of reclaiming, however, these words were in Japanese, the language of his youth. Something his stepfather couldn’t take away; something that was his .
Every time he’d talk to Gold, even if there was some alternate meaning beneath the words (like Pikachu, doomed to pika pika ‘til the end of their days), he was acutely aware that, unlike the vocalizations of the other Stands of his team, Gold’s were the same ones he’d whisper when berating himself. On his worst days, it helped to vocalize what he felt deep in his core. Who was he to contradict the intrusive thoughts, the one truth that he knew he could never avoid?
Useless. I'm useless. 無駄だよ、僕は。[Muda da yo, boku wa.]
Repeating this mantra, he went through his days. His façade had fooled his teammates; enough so that every time Bucciarati looked at him with pride in his eyes as they stood above an enemy’s corpse, a pang of guilt stabbed him through his core. They believed that he was worth something. Giorno didn’t believe it, but like everything in his life until this point, he knew that if he faked it long enough, maybe he’d begin to.
“ What the fuck does Gold say?”
“What?”
Mista took a bite of some almond-filled nougat. The box sat beside him, with a dainty little oil portrait on its crushed cardboard. One of the Pistols climbed into the box, while another tapped on Giorno’s hand. It was very sweet; like their user, the Pistols were very physically affectionate. Not that he was one to talk; Gold Experience was all over Mista, resting on him from behind, placing his head on the gunslinger’s shoulder while wrapping his arms around his torso.
The other members of his squad were seated around the table, chatting away in one of their valuable moments off. They’d worked hard; after stopping yet another splinter faction, Fugo finally had taken his first cup of non-caffeinated tea or coffee in weeks, Narancia and Trish were doing their nails, and Bruno and Abbacchio were chatting about where would be best to go to dinner that weekend in celebration.
“ Muda.” Gold nodded in response to the question.
Mista chuckled, patting the Stand’s forehead; Giorno felt the pat on his own head, and couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, that. What does that mean? Is it, like, some kinda pun? Are you always in a bad muda ?” He stopped, eyeing the table expectantly to see if anyone noticed his pun.
No one laughed.
He cleared his throat, cheeks flushed. “Like, my Pistols talk, Spice talks, Purple Haze… uh… snarls in pain—”
“—Hey, Mista, you know his mouth is sewn shut.” Trish piped up. “Be nice. Fugo can’t control that.” Fugo shot her an appreciative glance as Narancia hummed in agreement. The fact that he didn’t blow up at Mista said a lot about how much he’d grown in his anger management. Even so, he clenched at his cup and took a long, long drag on the tea. Giorno felt sorry for the guy.
“Okay, fine, fine. Sorry. Anyway, Purple Haze has some trauma to work through, Aerosmith whirrs, Sticky’s all like, ‘arri’, and, Moody Blues is... silent.”
Abbacchio paused for a moment to note, “No shit he is; he has no mouth.”
“Sometimes, I wish his user didn’t, either. Yeah, yeah, I get it, you also need therapy.” Giorno could see Bruno placing his hand on Leone’s, and giving it a gentle squeeze as Guido went on: “But what the hell does ‘muda’ mean?”
“It means ‘useless’.” Giorno explained. “In Japanese.”
Guido looked at Gold with sympathy, and gave his head another pat. “Why’s that? You know Japanese? That’s pretty sick.”
“Yes; it’s my first language, actually. I’m half-Japanese, you know.” The others let out a few exclamations of how neat that was (clearly, they hadn’t) .
In the next pocket of silence, Trish asked, “Any reason he says ‘useless,’ and not ‘I’ll kick you into next Sunday?’”
“It’s useless to fight me.” The lie rolled easily off of Giorno’s tongue.
Mista beamed, patting Giorno on the back. “Damn straight! There’s a reason why you’re the boss.”
“Fuck yeah, he is!” Narancia clapped, only for Trish to yank his hand back down and scold him for trying to move before the polish had finished drying. Then, a moment of clarity in his violet eyes, he sat back down and let out a chuckle. “Oh! Ha. Bad muda. I got your joke, Mista! Good one.”
The others rolled their eyes, laughing as Giorno joined in. Gold Experience hummed gleefully.
The secret he and his Stand shared was safe.
“Giorno.”
The blond looked up from his paperwork to see a glowering Leone, who’d trudged into his office. Since the soldato was still in his pajamas, while Giorno couldn’t see the clock, he reasoned that it was late at night. Abbacchio wasn’t even wearing his purple headband; why the hell was he up?
“It’s 3 in the morning, kid.”
Giorno returned to the papers about zoning regulations for a safe house—or something to that effect; the actual text had become a blur a long time ago—and sighed. “...And?”
Leone placed his hand atop the desk, making Giorno jump in his seat. Thankfully, Gold Experience manifested before he could fall over backward, holding the chair from behind. Giorno got up with a huff and a flip of his hair.
“I woke up ‘cuz I heard you muttering to yourself.”
“What, you don’t talk to yourself to stay awake?” Gold returned into his core, crackling energy lingering in the air in his wake. He then walked back to the desk, only to be stopped by Leone, deathly serious, using himself as a human shield. He almost walked into the man’s silvery pajamas. “Abbacchio, please move.”
“No way. We’re having a talk, got it?”
“A talk about what?”
A sigh. “Just... Follow me to the den. I’ll make you some tea.”
“ Tea?”
“Yes, actual tea.” Abbacchio facepalmed, regardless of the tangible doubt, and a bit of mischievous humor in Giorno’s question. “God, you’re never gonna let me live that down, are you.”
“Nope.” Giorno couldn’t help but chuckle as he followed Leone into their living space on the floor below. They both moved into the kitchen, where Leone put on a kettle and Giorno took a seat at the dining table. Leone grabbed a couple of boxes of herbal tea and a jar of honey, placing them in front of the teen with a surprising amount of poise for someone sorely lacking sleep. The kettle screeched, snapping Giorno out of the muddled thoughts trudging through his mind while Leone poured the boiling water into two nondescript mugs.
“Did you know you were muttering loudly enough that I could hear you in the next room over? Through the wall? Considering it’s a pretty thick wall… that’s both impressive and concerning.”
Instead of answering, Giorno played around a bit with the chamomile tea bag he’d put into the mug, pulling it by its string like a cat with a feather toy.
“...You were saying that thing in Japanese, like your Stand does. Y’know. ‘Useless’, right?” The boy hummed in agreement as Leone seemed to growl under his breath. “Kid, were you sayin’ that about yourself? ”
Before Giorno could respond, he felt a bit of warmth on his back and shoulder.
“Oi. Your Stand.”
“Muda.” Gold, at being acknowledged, nuzzled Giorno.
Ah. That’s what that was. “What? He has a mind of his own; always has, even before we unlocked Requiem.”
Leone clenched the handle of his mug. “Fuckin’...” He groaned. “Giorno, it’s 3 AM, neither of us should be up this late, and I’m this close to taking some cooking marsala and dropping it into this peppermint tea if you don’t just talk. I heard you insulting yourself. No beatin’ ‘round the bush.”
Before Giorno could even speak, Gold floated over to Leone, and leaned against his back. Aghast, Giorno managed to stammer out, “Gold, what the—!”
The Stand hugged Leone from behind. With a wry chuckle, Abbacchio patted Gold’s head. “Wow, Gold’s clingier than Narancia; that’s impressive.” He seemed unperturbed.
As he spoke, Moody Blues emerged, making his way over to Giorno. He said nothing; just put a hand on Giorno’s. Blushing a bit, his own hand twitching, Leone managed, “God, Moody…!”
Gold Experience, with a gasp, hugged him tighter, interpreting his sheepishness as distress. After a good moment of what appeared to be silent screaming, he finally managed to choke out, “Well, the jig’s up.”
Leone shook his head, appearing to have difficulty getting out the words. “Kid, you may be my don, but you’re still 16. I don’t wanna know what kinda baggage you’ve got, but insulting yourself ain’t the way to deal with it. I’ve…” He trailed off. Then, after swallowing his pride: “I’ve been there before. I know it isn’t easy. Look, it sounds corny as hell, but try to make it ‘I’m not useless’ when you’re doin’ something next time, ‘kay? What’s that? Muda… ”
“ Muda ja nai, boku wa.”
“Yeah, that. Say it enough, and you’ll believe it. It does wonders. And, ‘fore you ask— yes, that was a Bucciarati-ism. Blame him. Now, let’s put our Stands away, drink our tea in peace, and pretend we never had this mushy moment.”
“ Capische.” Giorno nodded as he squeezed Moody’s hand. Then, after a wave from each, the spectral figures disappeared into thin air in tandem, leaving the two mobsters to sit in silence, sipping their tea.
Giorno finally spoke, voice small, but full of gratitude: “...Thanks.”
After finishing their drinks, Giorno got up first; drowsiness was finally beginning to hit him, but he figured he’d at least attempt to repay the favor. “I can grab your mug if you’d like.”
“Have at it.” He handed his mug to Giorno. Or, at least, tried to. Giorno’s body seemed to move a bit slower than his brain, and before Gold could grab it, the mug fell to the floor and shattered.
Giorno must have been as obviously distressed as he felt; before he could say anything, Leone got up and wordlessly grabbed a broom. “Don’t worry about it. Hey. What did we just say?”
It took everything in his power to resist falling into the cycle he’d been using for years. Even so, he powered through. "Muda ja nai, boku wa."
“Good.” Leone patted his shoulder. “And, don’t worry; the mug was crappy anyway.” With that, the white-haired man went back to sweeping, leaving Giorno to sit down and rationalize what had just happened.
He felt a tap on his shoulder. “All right, Don Giovanna, it’s time to hit the hay. C’mon.” Giorno looked up to see him gesturing for him to stand.
As Giorno got up, following Leone in silence, he felt a warmth in his core. This feeling was foreign; it was the same feeling he got when Gold gave him a hug. When Narancia took him aside to gush about Snoop. Maybe this was friendship. It was a nice change. He pondered this as he tumbled into bed, remembering Leone's words.
「無駄じゃない、僕は。」
I’m not useless.
It was going to take more repetition for it to really stick, but like everything else he performed, he knew it would come with time. Even so, for the first time in a long time, Giorno didn’t feel useless. His body finally fell into slumber; his mask was beginning to fracture.
It was small, but it was a start.