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Chapter Text

The gang sat around their usual table at the restaurant while Bruno was off doing his business. Mista was buried in some shitty novel, Abbacchio was buried in his music, and Narancia and Fugo were buried in a surprisingly calm conversation. Giorno looked around, before grabbing a newspaper sitting haphazardly on the table and beginning to read the headlines and some figures, showing the most recent polling data for the upcoming election. Giorno honestly didn't get politics for the most part, but some of the stuff the businessman candidate was saying had him a bit worried, if only due to a personal connection.

---

The boy had come to Italy so long ago, recently beginning to pass as a "regular" Italian kid (that term was annoyingly loaded, but whatever), especially with his new blonde hair. He remembered the times at school when he'd go into the bathroom, studying his features when he knew he was all alone. He used to hate them, resenting the fact that they were why he'd had to receive racial abuse, as if he could somehow control it.

Kids were cruel.

There were a couple other nonwhite kids at his school, with whom he'd had a silent sense of camaraderie. It was the only real comfort he remembered getting from peers that had nothing to do with the mafioso he saved. It was genuine. These were the kids he'd end up grouping with for projects, the ones who didn't hurl abuse at him, the ones who understood. Compare that to the others. Even after saving the mafioso, the white kids, even (maybe especially) the ones who suddenly became racial justice activists as soon as it became trendy, all seemed to be...resentful...of having to be nice to him. They'd have these wild, wide smiles, as if they were trying to prove to themselves that they weren't some kind of bigot. Even if he didn't know or understand the minutiae of race relations in Italy, Giorno still could sense how fake these people were. Maybe it was due to his inability to trust others, but Giorno never had to deal with the soul crushing realizations most nonwhite kids got when they learned their white peers were racist. Guess there were some benefits to assuming no one ever meant well.

Sometimes Giorno wondered why he'd adopted his Italian name so readily. Logically, he should've hated anything to do with his stepdad, right? The man had only given him the name because he was "sick of that half-breed freak," which should've made it revolting to him, right? Giorno decided he'd figure it out later.

Giorno got older and decided to engage in crime, one of the only paths he thought could give him control over his life. Naples' economy was shit except in tourism, so taxi scamming it had to be. Thinking more about his little operation, he internally recoiled with the memory of how he'd had to start purposely doing his makeup in such a way to hide the eyes that revealed his heritage. People didn't like immigrants much down here, and he sure as hell wasn't going to let his hustle suffer for it, no matter how conflicted it made him feel. On a brighter note, there was something funny to him about scamming people who might've been disgusted by him otherwise.

Giorno continued this makeup routine after joining Passione, knowing how some of these organizations felt about ethnic non-Italians. He wasn't going to take that risk and jeopardize his dream. 

Didn't make him feel less disgusted. 

---

Snapping out of memory lane, Giorno went back to the newspaper, getting two words into the article before Abbacchio snatched it.

"What's this," he demanded, his voice gruff and dismissive as always.

"Just some polling figures." Giorno paused, leaning over to look at it again. "Seems like the center-right coalition is leading. Not by much, though."

"Let me see that," interjected Fugo. After being the second person to snatch the paper from someone, he looked over the numbers. "Interesting. Here, have it back." He handed it back to Giorno, smiling softly.

"Wonder who's gonna win..." Narancia trailed off, surprisingly soft spoken.

"Since when do YOU care about politics?!" Mista set down his book, his expression incredulous as he stared holes into the shorter boy.

Well, now everyone had added something. Everyone but Bruno. Where the hell was he?

Speak of the devil. Giorno watched Bruno walk in, looking almost angelic with steps light as air.

"What are we discussing here? Ah-the election." Giving his trademark smile, he returned to his seat. "Oh, and the food will be here shortly."

On one hand, Giorno hoped that food would make them silent about this so that he didn't have to deal with anything potentially unsavory-- ignorance is bliss after all. On the other hand, he was curious as to what they believed.

"So, Bruno," Mista said, as eloquent as ever, "what do you think about the election?"

Bruno pursed his lips briefly, pondering the best answer to give. "Well, promise me none of you will get mad if you disagree. It's just politics." He looked around at all of them before continuing. "I'm in support of the center right alliance, as much as I don't like their businessman candidate. They're hard on drugs, care about regional autonomy, and at least some of its constituent parties are pretty small government. All of these would help us in Passione."

"They're also hardliners against immigrants, it seems," interjected Giorno, reading over the article and doing all he could to make his expression unreadable.

"So what?" Unsurprisingly for Giorno, this came from Abbacchio.

Great, yet another reason for him to hate me.

Giorno didn't realize he'd failed to suppress his sigh, which was quickly waved away by Abbacchio with a characteristic eye roll, before continuing on. 

"I've been a cop. I've seen what immigration's done to this country. We don't need anymore."

"Forgive me, but that's a bit harsh, don't you think?"

Fugo, you're my saving grace. Giorno, happy for the moment, sipped his water again to hide the smile that threatened to creep. The dark blonde continued, not at all scared of the inevitable argument.

"Most immigrants are just here for economic opportunity, right? So why should we close off our country to them? I remember reading a history textbook that talked about it-- how Italy is a mosaic today, diverse both culturally and genetically, because of our history of immigration. Besides. It's not a good look to be racist." Beaming in a bit of self-importance, Fugo relaxed his back into his seat, having chosen just the right ism to make an ex-cop look like shit.

There's the real motive. Giorno felt sickened for letting himself believe he'd have some kind of saving grace. Fugo was nice and all, but...

"I'm not racist. Don't try that shit on me, brat." Abbacchio sneered, glaring at Fugo. "You've been on the streets. We all have! How many immigrants do you see there? If they're truly so indispensable to Italy, then why are almost all of them dirt poor and sucking money from the social system? And if you accuse me of making this a race thing, I will slam your head through this table before you can even think about Purple Haze."

Damn. That was loaded.  Giorno refilled his glass from the communal pitcher, his glass almost completely empty.  

Mista took the opportunity to grab the newspaper from Giorno's area and begin to read it, as if looking for something rather than just trying to get informed.

Abbacchio swirled his glass of wine, pursing his lips, having realized how terrible his previous statement made him seem. Staring into the vivid red of the wine, he continued, uncharacteristically conducting a bit of damage control.

"The system is overburdened. I just think our resources would be better used helping people who are already here rather than bringing in new ones. Help the current immigrants, then see where we go from there."

Hm. Surprisingly nuanced.  Frankly, Giorno had expected the goth to start some racist tirade, which he was pleasantly surprised to not have had happen.

"This isn't America." It was Mista's turn for the hot takes. "I don't know if you guys have noticed, but our GDP has stopped growing." Mista set the newspaper down, hiding the article containing the new information. "It's pathetic. Our economy can't handle this kinda thing! Besides, are we even big enough for more people?"

"Italy's always been a country of emigrants, not immigrants," Fugo stated, firmly. "Did you know almost 30 million people left Italy between the 1860s and the 1980s? We need more people to fill in the gaps. Our replacement rate won't cut it."

"But like...they'll not be...yknow...Italian Italian, yknow?" This time it was Narancia speaking, his expression genuinely bewildered. "Like, yeah maybe their nationality. But yknow...this is Southern Europe. We have our own identity, yknow? Our own culture and shit." 

Fugo, looking ready to make another absolute zinger as far as he was concerned, frowned disapprovingly at Narancia, shaking his head.

"Just say you mean white, Nara. It doesn't matter how dark we tan." 

"Fugo!" Bruno was shocked, never having seen this kind of behavior from his soldato before. 

"It's true." Fugo sipped his water, filled with self satisfaction. 

"Have you guys noticed? Giorno's been awfully quiet," Narancia stated, looking into the boy's blue-green eyes, framed delicately with soft eyeshadow Narancia had just now noticed. 

Oh god, oh fuck. Oh god, oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. 

Giorno kept on repeating profanities in his head, trying to figure out what to say to keep these eyes off of him. Being near this entire conversation was uncomfortable, with Narancia's insinuations, Abbacchio's 'concern', Bruno's willingness to ignore the struggles of immigrants, Mista's closed borders policy, and Fugo's self righteousness. 

"Well...I didn't think I had anything worthwhile to add." Giorno scratched his arm, hoping he didn't sweat off his makeup. 

"Don't worry Giorno. We care what you think." Bruno flashed that motherly smile at him, the one that compelled you to spill all your secrets.

"Immigrants come here for a better life, that's all I think. I don't see any reason we should limit people from chasing their dreams." Giorno took a sip of his water, praying for the food to arrive. "Besides, racism is a big problem here. Maybe more diversity will help with that." 

"Ain't no way Italy is racist," Mista groaned. "People see one asshole and then act like this entire country is one giant shithole." 

"To be fair," Fugo interjected again, "Look at how we treat the Romani." 

That set something off, because Abbacchio looked as if he was going to hurl at the mere mention of their name.

"Fucking moochers. Of course I hate them. And you can't call me racist for it, since they're white too." Abbacchio smiled, matching Fugo's smugness. 

"Actually, they're descended from people who came from Northern India. So yes, Abbacchio. You ARE racist."

He's way too pleased with himself. Giorno looked off to the side, watching the clock to see how long this horrendous experience had dragged on. 

Not long at all, but it felt like an eternity. Giorno began to tune out the small argument that had broken out between Abbacchio and Fugo, who spoke about minorities like they were just pawns in his own egocentric battle, useful discussion topics for when he wanted to dunk on others. Despite his unreadable face, Giorno was absolutely done with this white people shit, but alas, his foot had been stuck in the bear trap that was this conversation.

--

Giorno hated his mother, having given up on any kind of warmth and affection at an age that was far too young. However, he had to admit she was right in her distrust and disgust for some in the country they were now calling home. Most were blunt with what they thought, but there were a select few who'd read about race relations by some self-flagellating white liberal or another, and then repeating the false platitudes of acceptance and self-hatred that Giorno and his mother just found...annoying. It was all so empty, so hollow. So devoid of life or what seemed to be genuine care. Why all the masochism, he wondered sometimes. Why all the insecurity? 

Giorno had wondered, when first meeting his new gang, how they'd feel about him if they knew he was half-Japanese. He'd hoped they wouldn't give a shit, but he'd yet to know if that was right or not.

--

"As I was saying earlier, Mista," Giorno continued, trying to ignore the mention of the Romani since that was an argument that would take at least a day, and wouldn't go anywhere. He'd learned from a young age how deep people's hatred towards them was here in Europe, which Giorno never really understood. Neapolitans especially should've understood how difficult it is to get up when the world constantly knocks you down, he'd think. But he couldn't say it out loud. Being too outspoken would draw too much attention and could potentially impede his dream. Instead, he resigned himself to milquetoast statements, not wanting to ever rock the boat too much.

"I remember in school when everyone would be absolutely...cruel....to the nonwhite kids. It was gross." Giorno tried not to look personally effected by this, even if the little microexpressions of sadness and disgust gave him away. 

"You probably just had a school full of dicks. I never saw anything like that." Mista seemed...offended? Typical white guy. Giorno wanted to run away before he got mad and said something he couldn't take back. He could not afford to lose even an ounce of control.

'Of course you didn't see it,' he wanted to say. 'Not like your white ass got called slurs every day.' 

Despite his best efforts, Giorno's couldn't help but show his disgust when he rolled his eyes, one of the most genuine displays of emotions his team had ever seen from him. He cared about them, but he was smart enough to know they wouldn't be some kind of super understanding angels either.

The conversation still stung.

Rubbing his tongue on the inside of his cheek, Giorno bit back his words, not wanted to compromise himself to whatever biases and bullshit these guys had. He liked being seen as a person instead of just his race, and he wasn't about to ruin that calm little stasis. 

So that was why he embraced his Italian name. 

"I'm going to use the bathroom." Giorno got up, and walked as fast as he could there, partly so he could be alone and away, and partly because he'd drank so much water.

While inside, he studied his face intently again for the first time in what seemed like forever. He didn't hate his features anymore, which coincided with when he began to summon Gold Experience. To see his soul so golden, so shiny, and so beautiful, was...exhilarating. Ironically, that was when his golden hair came in, the exact trait that made people assume he was just some other white kid from Naples. 

Giorno looked in his eyes. He'd gone from being disgusted by them to beginning to view them as neutral. Neutrality was all he wanted, with no moral judgement passed on his face in either way. The ones who were blatant with their racism would tell him his eyes were gross, while the ones who self-appointed themselves as progressives would never shut up about the "otherwordly" beauty of non-European ethnic features. Giorno looked at their vivid turquoise color, wondering if that was why no one had managed to notice his background. He wondered if they'd notice anything if he took his makeup off and showed his face as it is. After using the toilet and washing his hands, Giorno stared at the water coming from the faucet before shaking his head, not feeling comfortable enough to go barefaced.

After fixing up his hair, Giorno sighed, opened the bathroom door, and began to walk back to the table. 

Chapter Text

Looking done up and normal again, Giorno walked back to the table with feigned serenity, begging his face to betray nothing. He'd read about microexpressions-- how they're viewed for less than half a second but still picked up on subconsciously, and he wasn’t about to let anyone detect anything. 

It didn’t mean he was any less annoyed. 

He took his seat, pursing his lips a little upon noticing that the food still had yet to arrive. 

“Bucciarati? What’s taking the food so long?”
“What do you mean? It’s barely been a few minutes since I said it was coming.”
“Oh. Apologies.”
“You’re not usually the impatient type. Is something wrong?”
“...No. I’m just really hungry.” 

With that, Giorno gave his capo a smile, hoping it’d get the young man’s eyes off him and that he’d ignore the lack of conviction in his voice. Bruno narrowed his eyes for a second, before seeming to decide it wasn’t worth any argument and dropping it, smiling back at Giorno and going back to the discussion he was having with Fugo. Giorno could hear imprints of some historical event they were interpreting together, allowing himself to breathe. Finally, the conversations were back to normal. 

Then Mista spoke. 

“So. Giorno. What was all that about?”
“...What do you mean?” 

That was what was said on the outside. On the inside, it went a little more like ‘Please shut up (x30).’

“Why were you so mad earlier? Doesn’t seem like you.” 

To his credit, Mista seemed genuinely concerned for him, which brought a little warmth to Giorno’s heart. What didn’t bring warmth to his heart was how everyone was now staring at him, waiting for his reply in a way that made him feel like they were a pack of wolves and he was a butcher fresh off of work. 

“Well...I guess I was kind of...uh...annoyed. That you weren’t believing what I said.”
“Why do you care so much? Not like it personally affects you or anything.”
“Can we just stop talking about this, Mista?”

Well, he hadn’t helped make it less awkward. But hopefully this entire line of conversation would be over and the iciness would be forgotten once some new topic of discussion came up. The tension did come as Mista uttered out a hushed sorry and the group gingerly went back to their previous discussions, of which Giorno still didn’t know if he should join. Narancia, as emotionally intelligent as ever, noticed this, and stopped whatever rant he was subjecting Mista to. Facing the youngest boy, he gave him his saccharine smile and immediately tried to thaw the ice. 

“Giorno! Have I ever told you how much I loooooove your eyeshadow? I literally just noticed it when you were talking earlier and I couldn’t help but think about how it frames your eyes. I’ve never seen anyone do it that way! Not to even begin talking about your color choice! It suits you soooo well! You're like our little barbie!”

Unsure of how to respond, Giorno gave a smile, genuine but conflicted. On one hand, he was flattered that his handiwork was noticed. On the other hand, he was terrified that his handiwork was noticed. Awkwardly smiling back at the shorter boy, Giorno hoped they’d think he was shy or something. Maybe crafting a shy side could help him in the long run, he thought, while also scrambling to come up with words to guide the conversation away from him. 

“Thanks, Narancia. You’re very observant. I love that about you.”
“Damn bro, really?”
“Yes. Why would I lie to you?” 

The orange skirted boy beamed, looking more than ready to hold the new kid in the deepest hug imaginable. 

“Y’know, you should give Abbacchio some pointers. I’ve tried telling him that the lips are too harsh, but he refuses to listen. Sure, there’s style, but at least choose a color that doesn’t wash you out. Motherfucker already looks sicklier than a-”

Before Narancia could continue, a napkin was thrown at him, the surprise shutting him up. It was curious, Giorno thought, that Abbacchio, harsh as he could be, chose the softest item to use as a projectile. An almost parental level of care in someone only four years older. The way they sometimes jokingly referred to Abbacchio and Bucciarati as the ‘parents’ was endearing, as well as something he’d found himself starting to agree with. In some strange quirk of life, those two had taken up a pseudo-parental mantle, filling a void present in everyone else’s. However, one could not ignore the fact that these two were the same age as the drunken college students that’d sometimes wander this side of town, far away from the familiarity of the University of Naples but brazen in their willingness to toy with the present, as their futures were assured. No one in the gang could say that; this life was deadly. Everyone lived through their days as if they could get killed or arrested at any moment, having thrown their futures away with the first smile that said they wanted to join. 

In this world, you made whatever bonds you could. And Giorno needed to cement the ones this gang offered, and that required hiding until either A) he could figure out if they would be racist to him or not, or B) even if they were bigots, the bond would be too deep for them to abandon him. There was a slim chance for a third option, one where they genuinely wouldn’t care, but that would come with its own bullshit. The last thing he wanted to be was the token minority who sets the white person up for a character arc where they lose their bigotry, validate the audience that they’re not racist, and get the actor an Oscar, but if that’s what he needed to achieve his goals, a little bullshit could be tolerated. But what was the line between that and a whole pile of manure?

He’d cross that bridge when he got to it.

“Hey Giorno?”
“Yeah?”
“I just realized. I’ve never seen you without any makeup on.”
“Narancia?”
“Yeah?”
“Let’s keep it that way.” 

He didn’t mean to sound so curt when he said that, but maybe it was for the best he set this boundary. Last thing he needed was for them to splash water on him or something like that. 

“Come on. You’ve seen all of us all raggedy looking. We won’t judge.” He said that with a wink, looking over at Abbacchio with a snide little smirk.

Giorno had a few options and not much time to weigh them. He could say he was insecure with how he looked, but then Bucciarati’s meddling ass would force him into some kind of self love bullshit. He could instead say that he didn't want to be seen in such a manner, but then they’d all probably grow cold to him and gain the impression he was some kind of narcissist who jacks off to the sight of themselves. Besides, it’d really make them want to see him as he really was, and this time it’d be out of spite rather than love. No way he was going to say that option then.

“Giorno?” Snapped out of his thoughts by Bucciarati this time, he suddenly turned to face him.

“What is it?”
“You’re quiet and you’ve got that whole… thinking look again. What’s on your mind?”
“I’m trying to think of a way to uh….respond properly to Narancia.”
“Hmm.”
“Forgive me for asking, but what were you talking about with Fugo?”
“Just something about post-World War II economic recovery. I can’t make heads or tails of most of it personally, but Fugo seems to know a weird amount.”

When the cheese-clothed boy donned an offended expression at that statement, Giorno let himself breathe again. Now that Fugo was in arguing mode, the focus was no longer on the conversation with Narancia, one the boy would probably forget about anyways. Not wanting to miss this, he turned his head towards Fugo, listening intently for whatever pedantic argument would ensue.

“It’s not weird to know about your own country, Bucciarati.”
“It was just a joke, Panna. Calm down. Besides, I was just confused at the fact you knew so much. You see, I never took you for the particularly patriotic type.”
“Our country has its many faults. But I’m allowed to feel pride at the economic miracle, am I not?”
“That is true. After all, we went from a country of poor farmers to the modern one we have today. I’ll be honest, that’s how deep my knowledge of the specifics goes.”
“Well, Bucciarati, the US hated the Soviet Union so much that they included us in the Marshall Plan, that’s one reason. Then the Korean War happened, and they wanted metal and other things like that, which also helped our economy. But I’d say that the European Common Market probably did the most. Pretty much the precursor to the EU, which we were a founding member of.”
“That’s very interesting, Fugo. I guess I’m wondering, what do you consider the ‘many faults’ of Italy?”

As he watched him lean back with a smug little smile again, Giorno knew this was either going to be informative, self-serving, or both. And judging by the tone the last political conversation set, probably both.

“Well, setting the colonization and being a fascist Axis power aside, let’s just talk about the damn Kosovo war. We just let NATO use us to help bomb the Balkans. Pitiful.”

Abbacchio threw his head back, a characteristic eye roll to punctuate before beginning to speak.

“And we still took in a bunch of refugees. Come on Fugo. We’re not Satan incarnate.”
“I bet East Africa disagrees. I swear, I’m ashamed to be Italian sometimes.”

Ugh. Not the faux self hating bullshit. Giorno had seen it time and time again, another weapon in the arsenal of virtue signaling. This time, he decided to say something, if only to make sure no one commented on him being quiet later.

“Come on, Fugo. Hating yourself won’t fix anything.”

The boy was too stunned to speak. If he wasn’t on such a virtue signaling high, he would’ve given back a sassy retort, but instead he just seemed offended at being disagreed with. Giorno had seen it all too many times– a circle of people discussing politics, and the one motherfucker who refused to let anyone speak beyond a brief interjection, and Fugo seemed to have set himself up this way for the group, Giorno concluded, considering how his repertoire of knowledge rendered him some kind of authority to the rest of them. Seeing no choice but to try and keep the conversation alive, Giorno continued on.

“I’m not saying you’re stupid or anything. I just don’t think self-hatred here does anything but…uh…yeah that’s it. It just doesn’t do anything.”
“I digress. You can’t stay positive when you’re aware of all the bad things that have happened. Awareness is important, Giovanna.”
“You’re right about that, but it still doesn’t do anything.” Fugo rolled his eyes and simply reverted back to the conversation he was having with Bruno, who in turn just shrugged the magenta boy’s way, as if to say ‘don’t worry about it, I’m as confused too.’

Was Fugo being deliberately obtuse, Giorno wondered. Was he purposely ignoring the point that none of this bullshit accomplished anything? Noticing he was starting to get heated, he took a deep breath, smiling as he noticed the food approaching. Today he’d asked the waiter to surprise him, and hopefully the outcome was something interesting. 

It wasn’t, being some pasta dish he’d had before, but a welcome sight indeed. Hopefully if his mouth was occupied with food, no one would bother him for the rest of the day. Should he just leave unannounced and take today as a personal day? So much he could do, now that he was a high school dropout. It was curious, he thought, how every nefarious criminal action he did eroded at every Asian stereotype people had. He never really thought about it before, but now it had just come to his mind, he couldn’t help but smile a bit to himself, if only for a brief moment. Hopefully no one caught that.

Apparently, god was not on his side today, as this time it was Abbacchio who caught it. Why everyone had to be in his business today, he’d never know. The goth had mellowed out to Giorno in the months that had passed since he joined, but there still was quite a bit of tension. While he hated to stereotype, knowing that Abbacchio was a former cop didn’t really help ease any tension– after all, cops didn’t have the best of reputation in general, even worse among immigrants. 

Naples wasn’t a diverse place, and Giorno only knew a few other kids who weren’t ethnically Italian. Near the south of the city by Piazza Garibaldi, close to the sea, he remembered there being a community of north Africans, many of them migrant workers, and both the cops and the general public being shitty to them. There were some south Asian migrants strewn about, as well as a few east Asian ones, and some sub saharan Africans as well. All in all, it didn’t add up to much, exemplified by the fact that in school he’d known one Bangladeshi kid, a couple Moroccans, and a girl from Senegal. She’d been nice, a year above and the closest thing to a friend that place ever gave him. Shame she’d had to move  away, he thought. He also remembered at least a few people from the Balkans here and there, but overall he knew this city was pretty much among the least cosmopolitan of all the major Italian ones. Why his mom and step dad chose to stay in Naples, he’d never know. 

On the plus side (?), the self flagellating kind seemed to be rarer here than in other parts of Italy, with the average person here being so relatively ignorant that at least they said what was actually on their mind. One of the many downsides was that at least self-congratulating masochists tended not to crack down on immigrant communities for existing as often as the people here did. When the guards at the airport found out he wasn’t originally from Italy, all he remembered was how tense he felt, and while they didn’t harm him physically, they did start meddling and asking for bribes a lot more. Numbers didn’t lie— violence against immigrants was disproportionate down south, and Giorno worked hard to make sure he’d never be at the receiving end. 

Now, back to whatever the fuck Abbacchio was doing. Ah, glaring, just like usual. 

“What’s so funny, brat?” Abbacchio spat the words at him as if they were tobacco.
“Why do you care?” Ooh. Sassy.
“Who the fuck smiles with a nose exhale out of nowhere?”
“Is it illegal to remember jokes now?”
“Tell it to me then, if it's so funny.”
“Respectfully, no. I hate repeating things. Now let me eat, I’m famished.”

Not waiting for a reply, he began to scarf down the food like a kitten being fed at any given time. He didn’t lie, he was famished. Old habits die hard, and a childhood spent being malnourished lead to forgetting to eat as a teenager and having to retrain your body to have a normal hunger response, which he’d managed to achieve with some success by this point. Ironic, that joining a gang had him eating much more than he used to. 

“I don’t care how hungry you are, I just need to make sure you aren’t laughing at one of us.”

Setting down his fork with and swallowing down what he was chewing, he took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment, and began to speak.

“With all due respect, what the actual fuck would I be laughing at?”
“You argued with Fugo and acted all curt with Narancia and Mista.”
“How the fuck was that even an argument, Abbacchio? And how is just explaining that something bothers me being ‘curt’? Am I not allowed to even talk?”
“Tell me the joke then.”

With another sigh, he tried to think of something to say on the fly. Massaging his sinus to buy time, he thought of something golden, hoping that saying it would make them shut up and just let him eat. 

“Alright. Alright. Here goes.”

He glanced around at the table as he prepared to deliver what he considered comedy gold, with Fugo and Bruno twiddling with their food to deal with the awkwardness, Narancia and Mista seeming eager to hear it, and Abbacchio continuing to glare. 

“What do you call it when a sensei puts his balls in your face?”

They all looked at him silently. 

“Karateabagging.”

Narancia and Mista laughed a bit, mostly at the mention of balls, Abbacchio surprisingly found it amusing and chuckled a little, and Bruno didn’t get it. Then there was Fugo.

“That’s so insensitive, Giorno.”

If there was a camera to stare into, Giorno would be burning holes into it. 

Chapter Text

Giorno stared at the other blonde boy for a moment, trying to think of a proper response.

“What are you looking at me for? I’m not the one who makes fun of other people’s languages.” Fugo took a sip of water to punctuate, setting it down with more smugness than Giorno thought possible. 

Glaring at the cheese suited young lad some more, he was incredulous. Even if Giorno wasn’t Japanese, how was wordplay offensive? Hopefully that logical exercise could end this argument, even if it did mean Fugo would hate him for the rest of the week.

“It’s just wordplay, Fugo. I don’t see how it’d be offensive.”
“People’s languages are important to them. And it’s in bad taste to do it with the language of people who are minorities here. Let’s be real, Giorno. We don’t see many east Asians in Italy, and especially not in Naples.”
“Well, I-”
“Making a joke out of languages does nothing but normalize making jokes about the people. Just saying.”

Well shit, Fugo did kind of have a point there, even if said point was lathered with layer after layer of self-righteousness. The purple eyed boy was happy with his victory, feigning humility when he noticed the looks the others gave him. Maybe he should just let him win and let this die, Giorno thought.

No way. That’s fucking stupid.  

“Fugo.”
“What?”
“I get your point. But trust me, the Japanese don’t care. Besides, it’s probably more offensive for you to be outraged on their behalf.”
“I really expected better from you. You were the one other person who defended immigrants. Like, I was so moved when it messed you up to the point where you had to take a break from all of this. But damn, now you’re out here acting like I’m the bad guy for defending people?”

Giorno was too stunned to speak. The normally expressionless boy blinked slowly before covering his face with his hands, exhaling into them as he processed whatever the fuck Fugo was talking about. When he took his hands away, he saw Fugo eating in a self satisfied way somewhat reminiscent of a TV pundit. At the sight of Giorno looking back up, Bruno casted a sympathetic look at him, complete with an awkward smile and scrunched nose. Abbacchio was snickering a bit, enjoying the drama between the teenagers. Mista and Narancia seemed as if they didn’t really get what happened, which was a bit of a godsend for Giorno. 

Maybe it would be best to let this thing die. After all, Fugo obviously didn’t end friendships over people being bigots, considering he was still on very good terms with the rest of the team, so maybe Giorno could just pretend to be yet another racist Neapolitan. 

I’d die before I do that.  

There was a lot he was willing to do, but to live a life where he had to pretend to hate his own? That was disgusting. He hated his mother. He hated her face. But he no longer hated his own, even if most of it came from her, and he was proud of that fact. His stepfather had banned him from speaking Japanese as soon as he realized it meant that he wouldn’t be able to understand the discussions between mother and child, but that hadn’t stopped Giorno from speaking it in private, retaining as much of his mother tongue as he could even as it started to decay. After all that, why the fuck should he start rejecting himself now?. This argument, pointless as it was, was now about personal honor. Would anyone really give a shit if he was bigoted? No, not really, but it wouldn’t change the fact that in their minds he’d be just like them, and even if they didn’t know it, he’d be betraying himself during every waking moment. There was no way he would ever be able to respect himself after doing that.

Guess it’s time. Whatever happens, I can deal with it.

“Fugo. I can assure you with full conviction that I’m right.”

Not one to pass up a good argument, he looked up from his meal and engaged the donut headed boy.

“Oh? How so, Giovanna?”

Oh, he was going to savor these few moments before dropping the news. Purposely building up tension, he gave a serene little smile in the direction of Fugo’s self satisfied smirk, reveling in the knowledge that it’d contort into something like shock soon enough. 

“Well you see, I’m Japanese.”

His prediction was correct, as Fugo’s little smirk sank like the force of gravity was doubled. Glancing around, they all looked surprised, albeit in different ways. Bucciarati was downright perplexed, with a head cocked to the side and eyes scanning Giorno’s head to try and steal a glance at some roots. Abbacchio had furrowed eyebrows, scanning the magenta motherfucker’s face for signs of a lie. Mista was incredulous, with an open mouthed smile and raised eyebrows as he elbowed Narancia. Narancia was glancing at Giorno and Fugo back and forth, a crooked smile on his face as he took in the sheer hilarity of it all.

Giorno? Well, once the satisfaction of dunking on liberals wore off, terror set in. 

Well. Shit. Either I’m going to have to get rid of the boss alone or it’s going to be really awkward from now on.

He looked down at his pasta and began eating it again, hoping this funny moment would wear off, he could finish his meal, and they could all just treat this the way he assumed normal people did: as something unimportant and absolutely irrelevant to any further activity. However, this team, himself admittedly included, was a bunch of overdramatic younglings from one of the least diverse parts of Italy, and the logical part of his brain knew that getting them to drop it would be a Sisyphean task.

Narancia’s exuberant cadence broke the silence.

“He got you GOOD, Fugo! Bet you didn’t expect that.” 

“To be fair,” Bucciarati interjected, “I don’t think anyone would’ve guessed. After all, it’s not like he’s ever expressed anything Asian.”

What the hell does that mean?

“If you ask me, I think he’s trying to fuck with us,” Abbacchio added. 

“Come on Giorno. Tell Fugo the truth! You got the poor guy all messed up!” With Mista’s addition, everyone but the resident political scientist had added something. Well, Giorno couldn’t have them all thinking he was lying. 

“I’m telling the truth. My mother is a Japanese woman. My other half is white, yeah, but I’ve never really known it.”

Fugo looked up to meet his gaze, lips pursed, before unlocking them to speak.

“I’m sorry for what I’d said. The whole implying you were racist. Really. I truly am.”
“To be fair… you didn’t know-”
“You see, that’s what I’m wondering. Why didn’t you ever tell us?”

How could someone that smart be that fucking stupid? Giorno was perplexed. Befuddled. Downright hornswoggled. At first he hoped it was a joke, before glancing around at his team only to be met with the sight of faces eager for an answer, which confirmed the more logical suspicion that no, it was dead serious. 

“We live in Naples. That should tell you enough.”
“Come on Giorno,” Mista muttered, “That doesn’t explain anything. Besides, this city isn’t that bad.”
“Of course you wouldn’t see it.”
“What does that mean?”
“Mista. You’re white and Italian. Don’t make me explain what’s so glaringly obvious.”
“And you literally look white. I’m not stupid. No way anyone thought you were anything unusual.”
“I’m blonde because of my stand. And I make sure people don’t know I’m Asian.”
“Why the hell would you do that?”

Raising his eyebrows and blinking slowly, Giorno found himself at a loss for words.

“Giorno… ,” Bucciarati butted in, “Do you think we’d think anything different of you?”

After a brief pause, he gave his succinct answer.

“Yeah.”

Bruno wasn’t happy with it, to put it mildly. The man was both miffed and mortified at the personal offense levied against him. Abbacchio, who had so far been enjoying the drama, now rushed to the defense of his compatriot’s bruised ego, jabbing a finger in Giorno’s face.

“Listen here brat. You should be more grateful. Not many of you-” he searched for a word that wouldn’t make Bucciarati yell at him later- “immigrants get a life like this.”

‘Santo Cielo, is this exhausting.’ 

Seemed like he had to explain what was obvious after all. 

“I am grateful. But look at the conversation we’d just had. Why the fuck wouldn’t I believe you’d think worse of me? Bucciarati said the issues faced by someone like me aren’t important to him, Narancia wouldn’t ever consider me Italian, Mista straight up wants to close the borders, Fugo keeps jacking himself off and you… Madonna, do I even need to explain this?”

Abbacchio seemed relatively unphased, parsing the answer and nodding as it made logical sense to him. A flash of being offended lit up his face as Giorno reached the end, making the already perpetually sour young man’s face even more dour. A huff is all that left his mouth as he went back to simply surveying the drama, as getting involved was nothing but exhausting. Giorno breathed a sigh of relief as Abbacchio went back to his food. Nervously, Giorno glanced around at his offended team, an awkward half-assed smile on his face as he tried to eat. 

A kid can’t even have lunch without everyone being all up in his business. Can’t have shit in Naples.

“So like. How do you do it?”

Giorno looked up, swallowing down the food in his mouth and rather uncharacteristically groaning. Usually he’d be more graceful, but they were driving him to his wit’s end.

“How do I do what, Mista?”
“How do you hide it so well?”
“Remember how I said I never wanted to be seen without makeup?”
“Yeah.”
“Exactly.”
“But like, how do you do it?”
“Mess with the colors and shadows a certain way. I don’t fucking know, I just was sick of getting called a goddamn ch**k every day.”

Giorno made sure to use the exact word he’d heard Mista utter last week. 

Hmm. It seemed Giorno overestimated the momentary shock value hearing that slur would bring, as they seemed surprised for only a moment, confirming to him that to them, a word like that meant next to nothing. It wasn’t just Mista— he had heard several of them utter slurs before. Now he felt nothing but guilt for having made himself grin and bear it. He could do this whole ‘defeating the boss thing’ alone, right? Gold Experience had enough power, didn’t it?

No it didn’t. Despite their… issues, he needed them. He was too proud to admit it, but this whole conversation hurt. Truly and on the deepest levels, he did care about them all (yes even Abbacchio), and seeing this come from them was probably the most disheartening thing he’d experienced. At least the kids from when he was in school weren’t his friends. Their racism was tolerable, since for the most part they were his enemies. But this gang was the closest thing to family he’d ever had, and now he knew everything he’d ever experience with them from here on out would be at least somewhat tainted. As much as he’d want to give a bunch of snappy little retorts, he didn’t have the luxury of a zero tolerance policy. Who else in Passione would take him in? Who else did he have? Who else did he care about? Who else on this planet cared about him?

Mista did care for him, he knew that perfectly well. On some level, he knew they all did. Now, however, they had new knowledge on him, and he couldn’t help but wonder:

Would Mista use that word on him during an argument? 

Would Abbacchio’s patience run out someday, and would he treat him the same way he’d seen cops treat immigrants growing up?

Would Bucciarati throw him to the wolves if he ceased to be useful? 

Would Fugo drop the self-righteous act as soon as any issues came about? 

Would Narancia ever truly accept him? 

There was always a sense that the way he fit into the little equilibrium the team had was tenuous at best, even after being here for as long as he had. Now, there was no doubt in his mind he’d thrown it out of proportion. They were like a cell, and he’d felt like extra sodium in the bloodstream.

Ghirga’s giggle broke the silence, the older teen finding some kind of hilarity in the tension. 

“You should’ve seen the look on all of your faces! Come on, you all say that kinda shit all the time! Especially you, Abba-” Narancia was cut off by another napkin being flung his way by the man in question, this one stolen from Bucciarati. 

“I don’t need the little brat knowing that, you tiny bastard!”
“Well fuck me, sorry for trying to lighten the mood.” 

“I already knew, Abbacchio,” Giorno interjected. “I pay too much attention to things, as you like to say.”
“You know what I still don’t get, Giovanna? Why did you make a joke about Japanese stuff in the first place? Also what were you laughing about right before, because it obviously wasn’t that.”
“It was the only funny joke I could think of on the fly. And I was just thinking about how… ok you know how people got these stereotypes about us east Asian people being super law abiding and successful but only in a conventional way? I just thought it was funny that no one ever knew how I was just walking around and disproving it. Just by existing.”
“I’ve been around Italy. Trust me kid, those stereotypes are not accurate at all.”
“Oh really?”

Was this Abbacchio’s way of trying to be nice? Giorno also wondered— was this going to be offensive, disgusting, or both?

“Go to Milan. There’s this one area. Nothing but Chinese hookers.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Yeah. I loved it there.”
“Huh?”
“These Asian girls… damn. They got this whole exotic look to them. Not to mention…”
“I don’t want to hear it.”

Upon seeing the disgusted look on the newest soldato’s face, Abbacchio absolutely lost it, with Narancia and Mista joining in. Bruno found it distasteful, but didn’t say anything beyond huffs, while Fugo had begun going on a rant to Narancia about how he shouldn’t laugh at that, flashing judgy looks to the other two laughing the entire time. 

More of that. Please, Fugo. I don’t even care if it’s just for ego boosting.

“I’m just fucking with you, kid! You should see the look on your face!”
“It’s disgusting, Abbacchio. Of course I have a look on my face.”
“Don’t be so sensitive. It’s just a joke. Like that karateabagging thing. Didn’t you say that kinda shit is not that offensive?”
“Yeah, because that was a pun. This is just gross.”
“It doesn’t even apply to you. You’re not a woman.”
“There’s no way you’re genuinely this fucking dense. What is this, some kind of new humiliation ritual?”

“Giorno! I will not have you speaking to a superior that way,” Bucciarati butted in.
“So he can just say anything, but I can’t react?”
“That’s just his sense of humor. We all know that.”

The small amounts of bullshit had become an entire pile of manure. After swallowing down the last couple bites of his food, he calmly set the cutlery down on his plate, wiped off his hands and face, and got up, interrupting the murmurs of conversation, much quieter than usual, addressing his leader directly.

“Listen, Bucciarati. I know you were just trying to mediate. I know you just wanted the topic to die and for us to just continue as normal.”

After straightening out his outfit a little and grabbing his wallet and indestructible Nokia, he continued. 

“I need to be alone, so I’m going to leave for a bit. You have my number. I’ll be down by Piazza Garibaldi if you need me. It’s not like we had anything planned today anyways.”

Without waiting for their reactions, he began to leave, giving a courteous goodbye to the waiter and stepping out, enjoying the warm breeze on his face.

Truth is, he was still hungry. There was usually some kind of good food down in that area. Usually he had a plan when he went out, but not today. As he walked down the street and began his trek, he formulated his next steps. Said steps were to buy some cheap street food, and then maybe go a little south of the area near where the docks were, find a seat, and maybe play Snake on his phone for a bit. 

Yeah, that sounded like a plan. 

Chapter Text

Now what?

Giorno stepped outside of the restaurant, taking in what felt like the deepest breath of his life. He walked away briskly, wanting to get as far from the restaurant as possible. The sunlight bleached everything in front of him, with his skin almost paper white and the world desaturated. What a turn that little lunch outing took, he mused to himself, heading towards the bus stop and waiting patiently. He took a moment to look around. The people at the stop were interesting. There was a foreign woman, vaguely brown in a way Giorno couldn’t place. She was talking to a flaxen-haired local who had his arm around her, the two of them speaking in English. There was a reticent old man with a bag of groceries and an expression reminiscent of someone who’d only ever consumed lemon juice. There was a North African guy around Giorno’s age chewing on a cigarette.

Huh. Strangely cosmopolitan bus stop. 

He locked eyes with Giorno for an imperceptible moment. Giorno didn’t know how to interpret the guy’s expression. It was most likely just a stranger acknowledging the existence of another stranger, but today had Giorno overthinking. A lot. What did that guy see in Giorno when he saw him? A local kid with elaborate hair? Or did he know that Giorno also had an immigrant background? 

Right . He’d almost forgotten. He still had all his makeup on. Alone in the morning in front of the mirror, he’d exaggerate his eyelids to a point that looked comical to him, but unremarkable to everyone else. That was all he’d ever admit to, with a cover story about trying to look brighter or some bullshit like that. The rest of what he’d done to erase all the heritage on his face was a secret he’d take to the grave, as from what he could tell, his mask made people treat him right. 

Fucking pathetic. 

He looked back at the other immigrant guy. Did that guy know Giorno only was able to become a citizen the year before? His stepfather had taken forever to adopt him, only agreeing once he got into that fuck ass private school. That process required that Giorno lose his Japanese citizenship. His mother told him he’d only be allowed to go to the school if he did this, and as far as practicality was concerned, Giorno had to agree. Japan didn’t allow dual citizenships, and it’s not like he was going to move back there or anything. 

He probably had his old passport lying around somewhere. The one with the picture of the gloomy malnourished kid that no one ever raised questions about. The weird kid with a gaijin for a father and a neglector for a mother. Kid wasn’t accurate. Toddler. He was a fucking toddler. 

It was best not to think about this too much. 

The bus eventually arrived, and Giorno took a seat in the back, right next to the window. Hopefully he could have a peaceful day for once, as stand bullshit was the last fucking thing he needed right now. Can’t a kid contemplate his place in the world in regards to his race and immigrant background and parental issues in peace? 

The ride went by smoothly, with just a couple missed calls from the guys here and there. Giorno would hear it ring, take it out, see who it was, and then swiftly hang up. Didn’t want to be that one annoying guy who just lets his phone ring and ring, after all. Besides, they could just text him if it was THAT important, right? Eventually, there was a lull in his phone’s activity, and it seemed like they finally got the message. 

He got off near Piazza Garibaldi, walking aimlessly around for a moment to enjoy the air. This was one of his favorite parts of town. He remembered reading somewhere that nature helps you feel better, so he decided to walk south towards the docks, in the hopes that the ocean would calm him. It wasn’t going to be a short walk, exactly, but it was what he needed. A lot of other immigrants lived in this area, and he needed that sort of company of people right now. He knew full well he wasn’t here to share his feelings with anyone, but because the feeling here was different. He wouldn’t constantly worry about how others saw him, and he could finally relax a little. 

He knew, deep down, that he was being incredibly naive about this stuff right now. Tension between minority groups was always a thing, but he didn’t want to hurt his feelings any more. He just wanted to be around those who understood.

Coming upon his favorite falafel stand, he ordered a larger number than usual and a water bottle, finding a spot on a bench and setting all his shit down on his lap while he soaked up the moment. Someone in the distance was playing music he didn’t usually get the chance to hear in Naples. Seagulls flew above. The wind directly blew into his face. It felt like things were finally alright and that he could finally try to calm himself.

Slowly and delicately, he extracted all the bobby pins from his hair and undid his braid, letting the wind blow through and caress his scalp. It never got to breathe enough. He had neither a comb nor anything cosmetically useful at the moment, but fuck it, he resigned. Fuck it all. He could have his hair down for one day. It didn’t matter if the gang saw him like that— that is, however, if he even wanted to go back that day. 

He couldn’t avoid today forever. The outburst of leaving might've ruined any bond, and now the specter of that lunch would haunt every conversation. He’d be the one who’d ruined it. Taking over Passione was going to be significantly harder than he thought. 

That was to be dealt with later. Right now, it was time to eat all these falafels.

Shit .

He felt queasy. Not from the falafels, but from the thoughts he couldn’t ignore. He couldn’t ignore how goddamn scared he was. He couldn’t ignore how much he could’ve ruined literally everything. Would he get kicked out of Bucci’s squad, being forced to do petty errands for them the way they’d make most of the non white people do? After all, the Triangle of Death in Campania was an open secret. Countless Passione leadership used to make the Roma do petty tasks near there, and these Roma would then get all sick from being around all of that industrial waste all the fucking time. That was something Giorno was absolutely going to change as Don, but that goal was more and more a daydream by every passing second. 

Did Bucciarati ever do that?

The thought made Giorno nauseous. He took a long gulp of water, trying not to tremble like crazy or throw up or some combination of the two. Giorno would have to figure out a way to clean all of that up if he was ever to become Don. He’d need to fix the minds of so many people but the people he needed to be able to get to that point were just like the people he was trying to fix, and the more and more he thought about it, the more and more he wondered about the point of it all. 

Without thinking, he poured some water on his hand. He rubbed it over his face, trying to wash off the makeup. When that didn’t immediately work, he poured the water on his face, taking out his handkerchief and drying off wherever he’d put on makeup before. His heart raced like it had somewhere to be, and there in the back of his mind creeped in the fear that all of his masks were going to leave. The handkerchief was stained when he took it off, his makeup almost, if not fully, gone. He took a little more, rubbing it over his bangs to get rid of at least some of the hairspray. 

Finally, he began to eat his falafels, his stomach calming a bit from the food. It was comforting, like the hug of a mother, which he’d never admit to having wanted. He never remembered his mother holding him. Even as a child, she’d just… set him down somewhere. His stepfather held him a few times when he was trying to convince him he cared. His hugs were warm and tight, and Giorno hated that he’d enjoyed the feeling. Why did his mother stay? It was one thing to have no maternal instinct, but to ignore her own needs? Ignore the way your husband made fun of your son for being half asian as if you weren’t the cause? How did she never find insult with that? 

No, he couldn’t think about this anymore. What could he think about? Britney Spears? The political and economic state of the world right now? The trash crisis? None of them were attractive candidates for his mental energy, so he focused instead on his falafel and how the combination of spices and cooking technique made it so good, and what was special about this stand’s recipe particularly that left him always coming back here specifically. 

Why was he still starving?

Fuck if he knew. All that he could concern himself with right now was the emptiness in his stomach, scarfing down his food with an uncharacteristic lack of grace and tact, not caring who noticed. He swiveled his head around, making sure that no one he knew was nearby and that no stupid stand user was there to cause any bullshit. After eating all his food, he found a trash can overflowing with garbage and discarded the little box. He drank all his remaining water, just now noticing how the sun had taken all his energy from him. The world was still bleached of color by it, and his own veins shone a mix of blue and green underneath. The empty bottle was assigned the same fate as the empty little cardboard box thing or whatever they’re called. It was unbearable and disgusting, but Naples’ trashy predicament wasn’t blameless. 

Passione is why we’re full of trash. 

A new feeling swept over Giorno as he stared at the mountain of white bags. 

Guilt.

On a practical level, he’d justified his constant silence on most gang related topics by needing to win over allies. A lot of people had issues with the current boss, and regardless of whether or not they gave a shit about drugs, they’d support his cause of changing Passione’s power structure. What went unsaid was how they’d make the immigrants and Roma in their sphere of influence do all the dirtiest jobs. How these were the same people to whom Giorno owed some of the only kindness he’d experienced in this city. Changing these conditions were always a priority for him, he’d tell himself. He would change it as soon as possible, and he’d play the part of the regular degular Neapolitan until it was his time. 

It didn’t make him feel any less disgusted with himself.

He’d never called out anyone for saying anything. He’d never voiced any issue. He’d never bothered going against people. For all his faults, Fugo had. Then again, Fugo didn’t have much to lose. He was still so fucking white. So unmistakably so. No matter how much Fugo spoke up, he’d never get in any kind of hot water for it. After all, this mob could find out anything. All Giorno knew they knew about him was that one photo from before he was blonde, the one he’d always worried about. 

Did they notice anything when they looked at it? He’d done this little routine for a while, stealing his mother’s makeup and exaggerating his features. After all, dark hair was a trope for Italians, and no one would assume anything from it. 

Did they notice the texture though?

His hair, even now, had the texture of his mother’s. It was straight and thick and difficult to style, which he knew they’d never believe. He’d wrestle it so aggressively into its usual style and with his favorite brand of hairspray he’d shoplifted a long time ago. That braid was the only style it was able to stay in, and even then little bits of it would fly out here and there. 

Did they notice any of those things? Passione had the resources to know anything about him. They could probably find immigration records with his birth name on it, or the adoption paperwork from just the year before or track down his mom and stepdad personally. Could they track down his birth father? Would that mysterious blonde man have treated him well? He remembered his mother telling him that he never judged based on race or ethnicity. Would Giorno have been safe with that man?

Fuck if he knew.

He walked around aimlessly a bit more, mulling over all his thoughts until they became incomprehensible. There was a building in the port he always found interesting, and he made his way to it. The walk usually took 30 minutes, but Giorno sneakily stole some random person’s bike and used that to cut his time in half, getting off right in front of the building.

It stood out, brutalist and striking, and so… different. He remembered someone telling him that it used to be a social spot for the workers, but now it stood mostly abandoned, lonely while surrounded by crowds of cars and ships. Casa del Portuale, it was called. Giorno never really had an opinion on architectural styles or on buildings in general, but this one was beautiful. It was nothing like most of Naples. It was him, and he was it. 

Would he be abandoned too?

Whatever. Looking up at it, he contemplated using his stand to sneakily grow a tree or something and get him up there, but with all the cars and shipping containers around, that seemed like more trouble than it was worth.

Whatever. Not like they’d know what to say.

Vines would be sneakier. They’d damage the facade though. But, it’d been too long of a walk to get here and not go on it, even if the building owner was probably lurking around somewhere or a few offices inside were still being used. Well shit, if only he knew where these offices were. How the fuck was he going to get up there? He stared at the building, not noticing the people around.

A worker noticed him. 

“What are you doing, kid?”

“Enjoying a building. It’s a tourist spot, after all?”

The worker gave him that stare Giorno knew all too well. The one of trying to place where he was from, knowing there was something foreign but not being able to verbalize what. Giorno’s hair was a mess and his face was bare, and for once, he was facing the world organically. 

“Get out of here.”

A large shipping container with the Danish conglomerate’s logo passed them by, and for a moment Giorno considered doing some stand bullshit involving it. However, one thing you learn quickly in a crime ridden city is how to pick your battles, and this wasn’t a confrontation he’d gain anything from having. Without any expression or words the worker’s way, Giorno hopped back on the stolen bike and rode for a bit to La Spiaggia, the park to the east. 

The ride was nice. Hopefully no one had spotted him taking the bike, especially with how striking his outfit was. He’d take it back eventually, once this little escapade was done. The guilt never left him during the 10 minutes he was on the bike. He knew he was safer than the other immigrants in this damn city, because he had at least some plausible deniability. After all, how many Asians do you know with blonde hair? There was safety in ambiguity, and he would be stupid to deny it. People were racist. But they were racist around him , proof to him that nowadays, he passed. Mostly. 

He arrived at the area. It was next to some apartments, and Giorno quickly left the area, both out of a need to not bother the residents and out of a need to ignore the way these residents looked at him. Staring in itself didn’t bother him. He’d grown up with everyone staring at everyone else. After all, it was Italy. But the gazes he’d get were different. As a child, it was disgust. His mother had received worse. He couldn’t ever deny this shared struggle they had, regardless of how little he felt for her. Nowadays, the stares he got while bare faced were intense. Intense like they were trying to figure him out. Like they saw his face and his hair and his native fluency in Italian, and had to know his entire history for some reason. Ambiguity was still preferable, though.

He hopped off his bike and walked it down to the craggy beach, sitting down while setting the stolen bike against a barrier wall. Purposely, he was in the far end of the beach away from anyone else, where he could find some true solace. He found a hole in the barrier between the ocean and where he stood, and looked into the water. Somewhere, he’d read that nature helped with your mental and emotional state, so here he was, in nature, trying to clear his head. He looked down into the water, and found his own face staring back at him like Narcissus himself. First of all, wow. He was not ugly, at all. Secondly, he stopped himself from punching his own reflection.

He almost passed as white. Other people had it worse, and he had the gall to sit here and complain at all. Yes, he told himself, his past was terrible, but his present was different. He didn’t struggle anymore, he thought, ignoring all the time he’d spent today doing nothing but think and think about something he was struggling with. 

But other people have it worse. 

He could walk around, even now, with a level of security the other immigrant kids he’d known couldn’t. Even right now, with his disheveled hair and his bare face, he was still close enough, even if only because his hair was the same color as Barbie's. After all, the cops he’d bribe down at the airport only knew he was Asian because it’d slipped out in conversation somewhere. Hiding was a game he’d managed to figure out, and he was disgusted. For someone who always told himself he was proud, why did he so readily abandon himself? He would always say it was practicality, and in all honesty it was, but the fact he was even able to do it made him reach the conclusion that he never really struggled, not like the way the others did. 

The fact that his race was very explicitly the source of a lot of his mistreatment didn’t come to mind yet. Too much guilt to get through first. After all, what teenager is ever logical about themselves?

And he hadn’t even been able to play snake yet. He whipped out his phone and began playing obsessively for a bit while ignoring the beauty of the world around him. The lull in thought made him think, and he’d remembered how people had treated him growing up. He’d only passed for the past few months or so, and even then not entirely, if the reactions of strangers were anything to go by. He’d also put on makeup nowadays to fully sell it. Maybe in another life he would’ve been a good actor.

What would Bucciarati and the guys think, seeing him like this? 

Speak of the devil .

The phone rang in the middle of his game. Bucciarati. Giorno picked up this time.

“Hello?”

“We’re sorry Giorno. Please come back to the restaurant. I… no. We really want to talk.”

Giorno didn’t respond, taking a very long moment to think, before being snapped out of the lull by his capo whose voice had gained some urgency and what Giorno swore was a hint of annoyance. 

“Giorno? You’re not leaving the gang or anything right?”

“What? No. Never.”

“If you can’t come tonight, will you at least come tomorrow?”

Giorno heard fighting and complaining in the background. He was pretty sure Abbacchio called him sensitive, and something of actual mass got thrown his way. 

“I’ll let you know,” he said, hanging up.