Archive of Our Own ^beta

There were lots of things Giorno liked about living at the big mansion in Cairo. Sleeping in his own big bedroom. Having lots to eat. Living with people who could see his Stand.

But out of all of them, he loved hanging out with Papa best.

Just lounging around together on Papa’s bed, like they were now - Papa, with his legs languidly crossed where he reclined, a large, leather-bound volume open on his lap; Giorno lying with his head at the foot of the bed, one leg dangling off the side, arms stuck up holding his book six inches above his face. Nothing except the quiet crackle of the fireplace, the pleasant perfumed musk of the bedroom, and the touch of Papa’s leg against his own. Giorno felt he would like to stay in such a moment forever.

Except… holding his book like this made his arms kind of tired.

Yawning, Giorno laid the book down onto his face, covering him up to the eyes like he’d been tucked into a snuggly quilt. Slowly, he arched out his arms in a long, luxurious stretch, curving his back like a cat in the sun. Dropping back down on the mattress, he closed his eyes, smiling a little to himself.

‘Papa?’ he asked, muffled by the book, still on his face. It was an old paperback, and it smelled really good.

The thumb and forefinger of「The World」appeared in his vision, pinching the top of the book’s spine. It carefully lifted it off his face, laying it open on his chest.

‘Yes, Giorno?’ came Papa’s voice.

Giorno’s head lolled to the side to look at him. ‘Papa, when you were a little kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?’

Papa’s amber eyes flickered up from his reading, a slight curl to his lip. His hair was loose and unstyled, as it always was in the evening - it tumbled in long curls past the marble lines of his cheekbones, spilling down his neck like spun gold. ‘Well, when I was very little, I wanted to be a vampire.’

‘Oh,’ said Giorno. ‘So you did it!’ 

(That was just like his Papa, now that he thought about it. If anyone was going to figure out how to become a vampire simply because they wanted to, it would be him.)

‘Ah, but then when I grew older, I changed my mind.’ Papa looked up at him properly, pointing one clawed finger in the air. ‘I realised there wasn’t much money to be made in vampirism, so I trained as a lawyer instead. But although I was good at it, I had no real affinity for the profession.’ 

He turned back to his book, the tip of one fang glinting in his smirk. ‘So I had to settle for being a vampire, after all.

‘Huh,’ said Giorno. Turning his eyes back up to the red canopy above, he pondered for a few moments. 

‘What’s a lawyer?’ he asked.

‘A lawyer is a man who helps people when they break the law.’

Giorno looked over at his Papa again, brow creasing slightly. ‘Isn’t that a bit bad?’

Papa turned towards him. His eyes glittered in the firelight. ‘I, too, wish this was a perfect world, Giorno,’ he said, splaying his fingers delicately over his heart. ‘But everyone needs legal representation.’

The two of them lapsed into silence again. Giorno stared up at the canopy, listening to the soft sputter and hiss of the fire. He touched the book where it lay on his chest, but decided he’d had enough of it for today.

Giorno yawned again, eyes fluttering with drowsiness. ‘Papa?’ he asked.

‘Yes, Giorno?’

‘If you could have named me, what name would you have picked?’

Papa smirked over at him. ‘An easy question,’ he said. ‘You would have been DIO Jr.’

Giorno wasn’t sure what else he had been expecting, really.

There was a light rapping of knuckles on the door then. ‘Lord DIO?’ came the cool, composed voice of D’Arby, although Giorno thought he heard a slight, uncharacteristic note of uncertainty in it. ‘There’s someone here to see you.’

Papa’s eyes narrowed slightly, staring at the door. Giorno understood why - it was an odd time for visitors, considering Papa generally instructed his followers to keep themselves scarce in the evenings. That time was reserved for Giorno, or for whatever mysterious things Papa got up to on those nights he sent Giorno downstairs to play video games with D’Arby (or, as he was known on said nights, Uncle Terence).

But if D’Arby had brought them all the way up here, it was probably important. Papa trusted his judgement on these things.

Papa preened back a loose curl, smoothing it behind his ear. ‘Send them in,’ he commanded, turning his attention back to his book.

The door opened. With the heavy clunk of cowhide boots and clanking of metal, in strode a tall, fair man - grinning the sweaty, glinting grin of a man who knows he’s about to push his luck. Behind him, clinging to his pants leg, stood a young, olive-skinned boy, frizzy dark hair framing his unhappy little face like a cloud. Giorno gasped. 

The boy looked up, and the two of them met eyes. Immediately, his despondent face beamed wide with surprise - then crumpled with tears. ‘Giorno!’ he wailed, letting go of his father’s leg to hold out his arms. Giorno saw Papa’s head snap up.

The grinning man gave a tilt of his ten-gallon. Giorno saw his hand shaking slightly. ‘Howdy, m’lord.’ 

‘Mista!’ Giorno cried. He leapt off the bed and flew across the room, throwing himself into his taller friend’s arms where they met in the centre of the room, nearly toppling both of them to the ground. Giorno grabbed the boy’s face with both hands in his excitement, his blue eyes shining like stars. ‘Mista, Mista, I’ve missed you so much!’

Mista’s eyes wobbled with silver, lip quivering as he clutched his friend close. ‘Giorno…’ he whimpered, sniffling, and lowering his head down against the other’s shoulder. ‘Gior-noooooo…’

‘Hol Horse.’ Papa’s deep voice boomed out in the small space. Giorno felt Mista flinch.

(Giorno had always been impressed by Papa’s voice - how one word from him could wrap your soul in silk, and the very next could make you feel like you were teetering on the edge of a seething, bottomless black pit. It was a quality he hoped he would inherit when his voice broke.)

Hol Horse’s grin, by some anatomical miracle, stretched wider. ‘Lord Dio,’ he managed, swallowing. ‘And Giorno!’ he exclaimed, spinning on his heel, flinging out his arms towards the boy like a showman presenting his finest trick. ‘How are ya, my sweet little pal?’

‘Hi, Uncle Hol,’ said Giorno, smiling up at him. ‘I’m okay.’

‘Aw, glad to hear it!’ he said, mussing the boy’s thick golden curls, his massive, splitting grin tinged with something genuine.

In an instant, Giorno felt the powerful aura of a Stand swirling behind him, curling protectively over his back - the huge, gleaming metallic hand of「The World」smacked Hol Horse’s out of his hair. The man, fairly, yelped at the sudden shock of its appearance - Giorno felt Mista stiffen with fright, wide black eyes gazing up behind him.

Papa’s low voice seemed to slither round one’s body like a great, hissing black snake. ‘I sincerely hope this intrusion is justified, Hol Horse.’

‘Of course! Of course,’ said Hol Horse, throwing up his arms. For a few moments, he actually managed to point his grin towards Papa, lying with his arms crossed over his broad marble chest, eyes glinting like fiery coals. Then he (understandably) careened his attention back towards the two boys.

‘Listen, kid,’ he said, crouching down to Giorno’s level, but leaving a careful distance between them. ‘Can you do me a favour? I got some important business to take care of downtown, and I need you to keep Guido here company.’ He smiled sympathetically at Mista, his eyes crinkling with fondness. ‘Don’t like Cairo much, do you, bud?’

Mista shook his head, dark locks frizzing out wildly. His lip was wobbling again.

‘Mista, why are you crying?’ Giorno asked, gently brushing away the tear tracks shimmering on his friend’s face.

Mista sniffled, clutching the other boy’s wrist. ‘I’m scared, Giorno!’ he said, his voice high and quivering. ‘This place - it’s so dark, and weird, and there are spider webs everywhere, and everyone is naked, and, and…’

He glanced over at Papa again, which turned out to be a bad idea because the aforementioned man was now standing much closer, right at the end of the bed, wearing an expression of barely-contained bloodlust, pointed directly at Hol Horse. The latter returned his stare with a very, very sweaty smile. 

Ignoring this odd stalemate, Giorno beamed up at Mista. ‘Don’t be scared, silly,’ he said, reaching down to give his hand a reassuring squeeze. ‘This is my Papa’s mansion. It’s the safest place in the world for anyone who isn’t a Joestar.’

Mista blinked down at him with a nervous frown. ‘But… aren’t you a Joestar?’

‘No, he is not,’ Papa seethed immediately, more towards Hol Horse than anyone else. He was looming over the other now, bloody eyes swirling with violence, rippling with palpable menace. His huge, eerily pure white jaws gleamed in a snarl. Hol Horse slowly, perhaps in a way intended to seem casual, turned his head towards Giorno, something rather desperate in his grin.

Giorno had other priorities, though. ‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered to an anxious-looking Mista, staring up at the extremely large, extremely murderous-looking man currently leering down at his father. ‘It’s a bit of a sensitive subject for Papa.’

Hol Horse cleared his throat. ‘Ah - say, Giorno, your English is getting really good!’ He was standing there with his arms crossed, trying extremely hard to ignore the vampire breathing down his neck. It definitely could have been more convincing. His anemic-blue eyes were practically screaming at Giorno - ‘Help me out, little man, or your dad is gonna have one hell of a midnight feast!’

Giorno was only too happy to oblige. The idea of having Mista round to play was not something he was about to pass up. And, also, you know - he’d rather Papa not kill anyone, if it could be helped.

Giorno smiled sweetly up at him. ‘Thank you, Uncle Hol,’ he said. ‘Papa has been helping me a lot. Maybe Mista and I can practice together while he’s here.’

‘Atta boy, said the grinning eyes, before they spun back towards Papa. 

The amber stare was immediately on him then - those spiralling vortexes of unspeakable horror that had moments ago been striking mortal terror into the secret, yearning heart of Man, were now a little bit taken aback.

‘Giorno,’ Papa began with a snarl, but not a very good one - he had switched too rapidly between Hol Horse and his son; his fury was confused by Giorno’s innocent gaze. ‘Surely you do not believe I can accept this impudence --’

‘Well, this is fantastic!’ Hol Horse interrupted, fists on his hips. Giorno got the distinct impression that he was getting ready to run before anyone could contradict him. A good technique, actually. Marching backwards in the direction of the exit, he snatched off his hat in a sweeping farewell gesture. ‘So long, Giorno buddy! Take care of Guido for me!’

‘Do you have to go, pa?’ called Mista, still clinging to Giorno’s hand, dark eyes fearful.

‘I’ll be back real soon, kiddo, don’t you worry!’ he sang back, pulling his hat back on with a rakish tilt. He gave the boys one last brilliant flash of his grin, spun around towards the door, and found himself an inch away from Papa’s huge, monstrous, bare chest. Bloodless as marble.

(Giorno couldn’t see his face then, but he got the feeling Hol Horse was wondering whether he’d pushed his luck a little too far this time.)

Slowly, reluctantly, Hol Horse looked up.

Despite the orange glow of the fire lighting the room, Papa’s face seemed to be shrouded in inconceivable shadow. His eyes were hidden in the blackness; only his mouth remained, parted in a curling sneer. Glimpsing the glittering knifepoints of his fangs, bared in his snarl, one couldn’t help but hear the thin hiss of the desert cobra.

Not for the first time, Hol gulped.

‘You come here, Hol Horse,’ Papa declared, voice thundering, despite not even being very loud. ‘You invade my bedchamber. You desecrate my peace. You insult my presence with your filthy blood. You lay your hands on my child.’ His thick, clawed fingers descended in hooked cages, poised at the man’s throat. The heavy gold ring on his left hand flamed bright in the glow, like an eye of fire.

‘And you dare to presume you may impose yourself upon me - that you may use the house of DIO as an amenity at your disposal?’ His hair had begun to move strangely; curls twisting and writhing like a nest of snakes, rising to the ominous song of a charmer. 

Then, in a flash of blinding gold, it flared up in a great gleaming flame above the three of them below, casting a black shadow over the room. The tendrils thrashed in a towering, hypnotic dance - they began to weave into one another, twisting into thick ropes, erupting with pulsing, fleshy cords as they snaked down towards their target.

‘Perhaps it is time to correct this insolence.’

From the ends of the ropes, thick, pointed stingers began to emerge, shining like an insect’s carapace. As they neared the horrified face of Hol Horse, the long spikes unsheathed from their cluster of barbs, oozing with fluid.

Hol Horse stood there, paralysed, watching them close in. Every screaming instinct to run was smothered by the blood-red glare of undead eyes, glinting out of their darkness. The shadowy blackness seemed to engulf the whole room, eclipsed entirely by the vampire’s massive silhouette, godless buds of flesh curling closer, closer, closer ---

‘Papa, stop it!'

Both men stopped. The tendrils hung frozen in midair as their wielder paused, that same look of disoriented evil in his eyes as he stared behind Hol Horse. The strange darkness over his face had evaporated.

Hol Horse twisted round to look.

Giorno stared up at Papa, wide blue eyes unwavering as they met his face. His arms were wrapped around a trembling Mista, whose face was half-hidden in Giorno’s shoulder. 

‘You’re scaring Mista!’ Giorno scolded.

Mista sniffled hard, clinging tight to Giorno’s pyjama top. 'Please don’t hurt my pa, Giorno’s dad,’ he managed, quivering behind his dark curtain of hair. 

Hol Horse turned back around.

Papa stood there, beneath the still, suspended maze of snakes above him. His red eyes flicked back and forth between the pale, sweaty man whose brain he was inches away from spearing, and that tiny, resolute face, framed in a tangle of shimmering gold. He had the sharp, furrowed expression of someone encountering a very unexpected problem.

‘But, Giorno--’ he began.

‘Please, Papa, just let Mista stay,’ Giorno said, blinking his long eyelashes. ‘You’ll be back soon, won’t you, Uncle Hol?’

The bloody gaze flicked in his direction again. Hol Horse stared straight ahead, pale eyes enormous. He swallowed again, and nodded.

‘We’ll be good, Papa,’ Giorno said, looking at him with his big blue eyes. ‘Promise.’

Papa stared doggedly down at him for a few seconds. Giorno felt Mista’s hands clutch tighter.

Glancing up, Giorno noticed that the frozen tendrils above had begun to waver - trembling slightly, like limbs held in the air too long. They reminded him a little of wobbling spaghetti noodles, dangling on a wooden spoon.

Then, all at once, the whole vast framework collapsed. Swinging down in great flopping arcs to thunk heavily onto the floor, one of them smashed into the large, cluttered vanity at Papa’s side, sending several perfume bottles and an open tube of green lipstick tumbling to the floor; another one smacked a glass candle-holder off a shelf, spitting large gleaming shards everywhere. The ropes unravelled as they fell, fleshy buds retracting into the folds like startled snakes - hair splattered across the carpet in sprawling blond waves.

The three of them stood there, utterly mute. Hol Horse’s mouth was open.

Giorno had never seen that before.

Papa was shrouded in a long, pale blanket of hair. Slowly, he brought one hand up to part the curtain across his face. 

Gripping a thick lock of limp blond tendrils in his fist, he stared at it with the most dramatic look of betrayal Giorno had ever seen. It appeared that this particular characteristic of his fleshbuds - that they keeled over the moment Papa’s heart wasn’t in it anymore - was also news to him. Though it did make sense that he hadn’t known before - he wasn’t usually very open to having his mind changed.

At least, he hadn’t been, before Giorno.

‘So…’ Giorno ventured, breaking the silence. ‘...Mista can stay?’

If any living soul other than Giorno had dared to say such a thing after what had just transpired, they would have likely been little more than a thin red paste seeping into the carpet by then. 

And yet, something about his little face, that sweet young voice… the murderous fury in those terrible amber eyes seemed to short-circuit as they turned on the boy, fizzling out in resignation.

Instead, they turned to Hol Horse, who was standing there staring at him with very wide, very pale eyes, and a mouth that was trying extremely hard not to smirk. His gaze kept drifting down the spaghetti-string trails, which were now sheepishly withering back into their wielder’s scalp. He actually met the scarlet gaze this time, not even cringing when it hardened into murderous points again.

(Yeah, it was pretty hard to seem intimidating after something like that. Even for Papa.)

Papa bared his fangs, glinting at their knife’s edge. ‘Leave my house, Hol Horse,’ he growled, voice like black ice. ‘Before I change my mind.’

The two boys looked at one another. Even through the shaking and the tears, Mista managed to return Giorno’s triumphant smile.

‘Oh, yessir,’ said Hol Horse, a definite grinning edge to his voice. His expression was blown-wide and nervous, but in an almost excited way, like a thrillseeker on a cliff’s edge. Evidently he’d decided that, no, he hadn’t pushed his luck to its limit yet. And now that the vampire couldn’t hurt him, for fear of being told off by a child in ladybug pyjamas, who knew what he might get away with?

He bowed his head to Papa, before turning to look at Giorno. ‘Hey, kid,’ he said, flashing that brilliant grin again. He reached down to unclasp the small leather pouch hanging at his belt, and rifled through it with one hand. ‘Catch.’ 

He tossed something at Giorno - it glinted as it flew through the air.

Giorno caught it with both hands. Looking down, he saw he was holding two heavy, generously thick bars of milk chocolate, wrapped in gold foil and smooth, creamy paper. They were slightly soft to the touch, from the heat. Chocolate. Giorno looked up at Hol Horse, eyes shining.

‘All the way from Belgium, those are,’ he said, nodding down at them, obviously pleased by the kid’s reaction. ‘We were over there last week, and we thought of you.’

(This little visit had been planned well in advance, it seemed. It was nice to know Hol Horse saw him as such a dependable ally.)

‘Thanks, Uncle Hol.’ Giorno tucked a bar into each pajama pants pocket (sort of like two pistols, he thought).

Papa’s eyes were now channeling a very strong ‘what part of get out of my house did you not understand you thick-skulled yank’ energy. His face was sharp and white as death, still framed in long, straggly blond - his bloody gaze followed the man as he sauntered past, over to the door.

Standing in the doorway, Hol Horse turned to the two boys again, giving them a final tip of his hat. His eyes crinkled again as he looked at Mista. ‘I’ll be back fast as I can, ‘kay?’ he said. ‘Don’t cause Giorno no trouble.’

Mista scrubbed at the last of his tears, and nodded. Hol smiled at him.

Then, his gaze turned back to Papa. That daredevil’s look returned to his face - staring into Papa’s twitching eyes, Hol Horse had the expression of someone staring down the widening gap of a lifting bridge, fully conscious of the dark watery death below, about to floor their gas pedal.

‘Oh, and, Lord Dio?’ he said. He paused for a second, bright eyes gleaming with audacity. He grinned. ‘Love the hair.’

He turned on his heel and jaunted off down the hallway, striding out of sight.

Papa stood there, hair now hanging down to his mid-back. He was still facing the doorway, away from Giorno. He saw Papa’s shoulders convulse slightly.

‘The indignity…’ he almost whispered to himself, low and abject. ‘From such a pathetic cockroach…’

Suddenly, there was a fluttering of feathers and the beat of powerful wings, approaching from the hallway outside. In through the doorway swooped a large, dark bird, golden hood gleaming in the fire’s glow. Mista startled at the sight of it, clutching Giorno’s sleeve - the two of them stared with wide eyes as it reared up in the air above them. 

Even though Giorno knew who Pet Shop was, and was mostly used to the creature by now, the bird was still frightening - with those glaring eyes, and that mean, hooked beak. It looked utterly huge in the enclosed space of the bedroom, tremendous dark wingspan fully spread as it soared down towards its master.

Papa stepped back, absent-mindedly holding out his arm for the falcon to land on. It settled with a fluttering rustle of feathers, ruffling out from its body where it sat perched. Papa looked over at the bird, dejected eyes holding none of their usual amber glow. Pet Shop’s round eyes glittered back at him, glinting with obvious intelligence.

Giorno often seriously wondered whether Papa and the bird had some kind of psychic connection. It wouldn’t be Papa’s weirdest ability, and the two of them really did sometimes seem like they could communicate without words, across species lines. Right now, they really did appear to be having some kind of silent conversation - Papa’s dulled eyes following the creature’s movements, watching as it twitched its ugly head towards the door, hard gaze searching its master’s face. It appeared to be suggesting something.

Looking down at Pet Shop, Papa’s expression slowly changed - an odd fire flickered back into his eyes, lips quirking slightly. 

The bird extended out its wings slightly, feathers flaring with menace - clearly asking for permission to take off. Papa regarded it for a moment, eyes glowing with dark amusement.

Giorno was watching his face with unease. ‘Papa…’ he warned.

Papa smirked at the bird. With his other hand, he made an affirmative gesture, motioning towards the open door.  Eyes burning with fierce loyalty, Pet Shop launched itself into flight, diving across the room and sweeping back out into the hallway.

In his peripherals, Giorno saw Mista glance nervously at him. Giorno was still staring at Papa, smiling after the bird with haughty pleasure.

‘Papa,’ he said. ‘Please don’t tell me you just--’

A loud screeching rang out from the stairwell below, bouncing off the walls. ‘GODDAMN SON OF A BITCH BIRD!’ screamed Hol Horse, echoing beneath a cacophony of high-pitched squawking and flapping of wings. ‘GERROFF! AAAAUGH!’ The sound of leather boots stumbling hard down stone steps faded out into the distance, accompanied by more shrieking.

Mista looked slightly green.

‘Papa!’ exclaimed Giorno.

Papa turned to look down at him, hand on his chest, appearing almost affronted. His smirk hadn’t completely left his face, though. ‘Giorno, you know I don’t control Pet Shop,’ he said. ‘He’s quite intelligent enough to make his own decisions.’

‘You told him to do that!’

‘I haven’t a clue what you mean,’ Papa remarked, swanning past the two boys, back over to his side of the bed. He draped himself over it like a lion. ‘I didn’t say a word.’

Giorno sighed. He turned back to Mista, shaking his head. ‘Sorry.’

Mista stared back at him with a drawn, haggard look. ‘Giorno, you live here?

Giorno brightened a little. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But I really like it. It’s not usually like this.’ 

‘It isn’t?’ Mista asked, dubiously.

‘No, no,’ Giorno assured him. ‘I mean, Papa hardly ever sets Pet Shop on people.’

‘...Oh.’

Mista was still eyeing his surroundings with uncertainty, one arm crossed nervously over his chest. He needed a bit more reassurance than that, Giorno knew. Gently, he reached to take his friend’s hands in his own again. Looking up at him, he met Mista’s quivering dark eyes.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said with a smile, eyes shining with quiet confidence. ‘I’m here with you. Nothing bad will happen.’

Mista looked back at him. Squeezing Giorno’s hands tight, the dark, frizzy head nodded - his face was still nervous, but he managed a tiny smile. Giorno beamed back at him.

‘What do you want to do now?’ he asked Mista. ‘We have video games downstairs, if you want to play. Terence won’t mind if we borrow them for a bit. Or we could explore! That’s my favourite thing to do around here. You know I haven’t even seen all the rooms yet? We could go find some new ones together.’

Mista smiled slightly at that, but then his face dropped a little. Rubbing at one of his eyes with his fist, he sighed. ‘That’s really cool, but...'

Closing his eyes, he leaned into Giorno, wrapping his arms around him again. Giorno hugged him back, glancing up at his friend’s face, properly noticing for the first time just how exhausted Mista looked. His complexion was a washed-out beige, and there were defined dark hollows beneath his eyes. His cheeks were still a little blotchy from crying.

Mista dipped his head down against his friend's shoulder again, his hair tickling his throat. ‘I’m just tired, Giorno…’ he mumbled. ‘The flight over here was really noisy. And it’s so hard to sleep on a horse, even on the back…’

‘You came over here on a horse?’ Giorno asked, hugging his friend tight. ‘Couldn’t you have got a taxi?’

Mista yawned, deep and long. ‘That’s not the cowboy way,’ he murmured.

Giorno supposed that made sense.

‘Well, that’s okay.’ Giorno lifted his head to look at Mista again, smiling softly. ‘We can go to sleep. Papa will read to us.’

Papa, who had been silently observing, was now staring at Giorno as he made his way back over to the bed, red eyes sharp and slightly perturbed once again. He watched as Giorno clambered up onto the high bed, and gestured his friend over.

‘Come up here, Mista,’ he said, holding out his hands.

‘Oh, Giorno,’ Papa said with distaste, sneering as his son pulled the other boy up. ‘The stench will get in the sheets…’

Giorno blinked at him for a moment, before quickly turning to Mista. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Papa only means the scent of your blood.’

Papa grimaced. ‘Well, actually--’

Giorno’s head whipped around to shoot a glare at him, curls tossing over his hard little face. He shook his head ever so slightly.

Papa shut up.

Fortunately, it seemed like their exchange had mostly been lost on Mista. He was looking at Giorno with a puzzled expression. ‘My blood?’ he asked.

'Yes. Papa is a vampire, so he can pick it up.’ Giorno shuffled up further on the bed to give Mista some room, smoothing down the crumpled sheets as he went. 'He’s used to my scent, but other people’s can be a bit strong.’

Mista didn’t move. He stayed perched at the edge of the bed, staring stricken at the very large man behind Giorno who had, less than five minutes ago, been about to skewer his father. Papa stared back, looking down at Mista the way one stares at a freaky-looking insect on the wall.

Mista glanced back at Giorno, the same grim, exhausted look from before in his eyes. ‘Your dad… is a vampire?’

‘Yeah,’ said Giorno, smiling, holding his chin a little higher. He supposed it was pretty unusual, and there were definitely parts of being a vampire that didn’t seem so great. But Giorno couldn’t help being a little proud of having such a cool dad, even if he was a bit strange sometimes.

He turned to more important matters then - running his hands over his pockets, feeling the smooth lines of the chocolate bars tucked inside. ‘I know you’re tired, Mista, but can we have some of our chocolate first?’ he asked, producing them both from his pockets and pressing one of them into Mista’s hands. ‘I really want to try it.’

Mista glanced at Giorno, then back at Papa. Their silent stare-off continued for a beat. Then, after a moment, Papa turned his gaze away - slowly, loftily, like he had deemed the matter beneath his consideration. Giorno saw Mista’s throat bob, the slight wash of relief that came over his expression - the acceptance that yeah, okay, Giorno’s dad is a vampire. That’s just happening now, I guess. Mista turned to him, and stared down at the chocolate in his hands.

‘Oh, um… yeah, that’s okay,’ he said, sounding uncertain. ‘But… these were both supposed to be for you, you know.’

‘Yep, so I can do whatever I want with them.’ He smiled. ‘And I say that one’s yours.’

Moments later, he and Mista were tearing the paper wrappings off their chocolate. Giorno discarded his, and took one edge of the golden foil between his fingers - slowly peeling it down, listening to the slight metallic scratch as it crumpled. The chocolate was beautifully thick; a rich, dark brown slab, its edges slightly soft and melty. He breathed in its deep, delicious scent, wondering how he should eat it - keep it in the foil and carefully bite into it, or break it into pieces first?

He looked up at Mista. He had just taken a massive chomp out of his bar; fingertips stained, mouth already rung with melted chocolate. He chewed vigorously, eyeing up the bar for a second bite. It looked like Giorno had actually done him a favour by suggesting they eat first - in his exhaustion, he evidently hadn’t noticed he was also starving hungry. 

Poor Mista. Uncle Hol should really pay more attention to that sort of thing.

Mista took another giant bite out of his chocolate, which was already nearly half gone. Giorno decided he was probably overthinking this.

He broke off a square with his teeth. At once his mouth filled with a rich, creamy sweetness, gliding over his tongue like silk. The softness of the chocolate only made it better, melting almost at once into heavenliness. Giorno sighed softly. ‘It’s so good, Mista.’

Mista nodded, and devoured the last third of his bar in one bite. ‘Mm,’ he agreed, chewing thoughtfully. ‘I had tons of it in Belgium, so I knew you’d like it.’

Giorno twisted round to look at Papa again. He’d been watching them again, contemplating the two of them in silence - his eyes flickered to attention as Giorno held the chocolate up to him. ‘Do you want a tiny bit, Papa?’ Giorno asked.

Papa’s lips drew back in faint disgust. ‘No, Giorno. No human food.’

It’s really tasty,’ Giorno insisted. Out of all the things Papa couldn’t do as a vampire - go out in the sunshine, get any real sleep, feel his own pulse - Giorno had always found this aversion to food the saddest. It felt like he was missing out on something important about just being alive. Giorno was always trying to find something Papa could eat, and this seemed like a pretty good chance. ‘If you try it, you might like it.’

Papa’s grimace only deepened. ‘The taste is not the issue,’ he said, visibly shuddering with revulsion. ‘It’s the…’ He paused for a moment. Uncertainty shadowed briefly in his face. 

‘...The digestive process,’ he settled on.

Hm. There was more to that, Giorno thought. Something he’d have to probe into someday. But not today. He nodded to Papa, acquiescing, before turning back around. 

Mista, who’d been watching the exchange, looked at him, a question held in his dark eyes. Giorno just shrugged. There were a lot of things about Papa he didn’t understand - he had lived such a strange life, and he didn’t seem eager to talk about most of it. Giorno often wondered if he ever would understand.

To break the slightly odd silence that had fallen, Giorno asked something he’d been wondering since his friend had got here. ‘How are your bullets, Mista?’

Mista’s dulled eyes immediately widened, sparking with sudden energy. ‘Shoot!’ he cursed, face screwing up in frustration. ‘I forgot to feed them!’ He looked ruefully down at the chocolate’s crumpled wrapping in his hands, the sticky smudges on his hands the only sign it had ever existed.

‘Don’t worry.’ Giorno immediately broke off another square of his own bar, and held it out to Mista. ‘They can have this.’

Mista hesitated, looking at Giorno like he wanted to refuse the gift. But then, reluctantly, he took the sticky little thing from Giorno’s hand, like the latter knew he would. Mista’s Stand got cranky when they were hungry, which really wasn’t a pleasant feeling for their User.

Mista paused for a moment, staring at the air, like he was waiting for some sort of go-ahead. Nothing happened, and after a second he blinked down almost sheepishly, before clearing his throat. He raised his hand, seemingly just to make some sort of starting gesture. He held it there awkwardly.

‘Um… 「Six Bullets」...?’ he called.

Nothing happened.

Mista cleared his throat. ‘Six, um… 「Six Bullets」?’

Then at once, there was a high, shrill squealing - a burst of six tiny yellow things tumbled into existence from the boy’s sleeve, tangled into little tussling knots as they shot out into the air. They kicked and scratched at one another with doll-size hands and feet, a shrieking and wailing cacophony of inarticulate crying.

Giorno elected to ignore Papa’s absolutely appalled expression for the moment.

‘Hey, hey! All of you, stop it!’ Mista said, trying to sound stern even as his voice strained high. His dark stare flickered rapidly between each bullet, watching them clamber over each other and lash out at everything around them, screeching the entire time. Poor No. 5 seemed to be suffering the worst of it - he was getting kicked repeatedly in the face by No. 3 while he howled like an infant. ‘Settle down!’ Mista shouted. ‘No. 3, leave him alone!'

‘That is not a Stand,’ said Papa, shaking his head. ‘I don’t even know what that is.’

Giorno glared at him.

Papa stared back, almost incredulous. ‘Look at it, Giorno.’

‘Don’t be rude,’ Giorno replied shortly. He turned to Mista, now staring up at the wrestling bullets with clenched teeth, one hand digging hard into his leg. Giorno had never seen him this flustered trying to herd in his Stand. He was flushed a slight pink.

He nudged Mista’s shoulder. ‘The chocolate,’ he murmured.

Mista jolted slightly, looking at Giorno with his mouth slightly agape. Yep, thought Giorno, he’d completely forgotten about the chocolate.

At once, Mista thrust the gooey little slab in his palm up towards the bullets. ‘Here, I have food for you!’ he shouted, voice still tense. ‘Stop fighting and come eat!’

The quality of the squealing immediately changed - it went from the squalling of cranky toddlers to bright shrieks of glee. The little yellow creatures dived towards their User’s open hand, descending on it like a flock of birds, crawling over one another to get to the sweet treat. Thankfully, they now seemed too focused on feeding to bully each other - the screaming quietened down into a soft, burbling hum of happiness.

Mista gazed down at his Stand, cupped in his palms, dark eyes clear with relief. He even gave them a fond little smile. Giorno shuffled a little closer to Mista, joining him in watching the bullets, silent and peaceful.

After a while, Giorno remarked - ‘They’re a lot louder than when I last saw them.’

‘Don’t I know it,’ said Mista, a smile twitching on his lips. ‘They even say words, sometimes.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah.’ Mista glanced at Giorno, eyes flashing with quiet pride. ‘Not whole sentences or anything, just stuff like ‘shoot!’ or whatever.’

Giorno nodded, impressed. He’d never known a Stand that could talk before, not out loud. 「Gold Experience」told him things sometimes, in its own way, and occasionally he picked things up from other Users, but only ever in that weird, quasi-telepathic Stand conversation way, that felt like a persistent little scratching in your mind until you listened to it properly - tuning in with your inner ear, Giorno supposed. 

Giorno yawned. ‘That’s a new name, too,’ he said, ‘ 「Six Bullets」.’

‘Oh, yeah. Right.’ Mista’s expression dampened a little at that. He looked away from Giorno, that odd sheepishness returning in his voice. ‘I don’t think… it’s the right one yet.’

Giorno nudged up closer against him, softly pressing against his side. Mista had been struggling with his Stand’s name ever since it first manifested about a year ago. It just didn’t seem to come to him the way Giorno’s had. The last time they’d seen each other, it hadn’t had a name at all - it had simply been ‘my Stand’ or ‘my bullets’. This new name was a start, at least, but Giorno understood why it didn’t feel right - it was too tentative, too reluctant to be unique and characteristic, like it was scared of being wrong. Which was precisely what made it wrong.

He realised something then. ‘Was that why you got so spooked a minute ago?’ Giorno asked. ‘Because it felt strange calling them that, and it threw you off?’

Mista nodded. ‘I think so. It’s ‘cuz they were hungry too... but yeah, you’re right.’ He rubbed his eyes, and sighed. He looked pretty exhausted again. ‘Ugh, Giorno… I’m never gonna figure it out, am I?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Giorno soothed, meeting Mista’s turbulent eyes with assuredness. ‘Of course you will. It’s just taking you a bit longer. My Auntie Enyaba knows everything about Stands, and she says she’s met people who don’t learn their real Stand names for ages.’

Mista snorted. ‘Yeah, I know,’ he said. ‘She was talking about my pa.’ 

Giorno looked at Mista for a blank second, unsure if he was being serious. ‘...Was she?’

Mista nodded, with a tired-looking half-smile. ‘You know he called his Stand 「Big Iron」for like, ten years?’

That made Giorno lose his words for a moment - he stared at Mista with his mouth slightly parted, searching his face for a joke that wasn’t there. From the corner of his eye he saw Papa smirk.

‘...Ten years?’ he finally managed. ‘He called his Stand the wrong name for ten years?’

Mista gave him a grim smile. ‘Yep. That’s my legacy.’

Giorno was stunned. He blinked down for a moment, trying to imagine how it would feel calling 「Gold Experience」 some other name. It would be like… like the way it had felt to transition from Haruno to Giorno. How, for months, his own name had felt strange to pronounce, wonky and foreign in his own mouth, not really his at all. Except there was no way he would ever get used to it.

‘How… how did he find out?’

‘Enyaba told him! She heard his name for it, and she called him an idiot.’

‘And he never noticed?’ Giorno asked. ‘It never felt wrong?’

‘I couldn’t believe it either,’ Mista said, shaking his head. ‘He said it didn’t feel right or wrong - it was just a name he liked. He didn’t think about it much. ‘‘I don’t go for all that sissy navel-gazing stuff,’ he said.’

‘A man who doesn’t hear his own inner voice,’ Papa pronounced from where he lounged, elegantly grooming back a strand of his (still slightly ruckled) hair. His mouth was curled with smugness, voice gleeful with contempt. ‘A pity.’

‘Papa, you also learned your Stand’s name from Enyaba.’

Papa turned his gaze away, tilting his head with the vain theatrics of a posing model. ‘I would have realised it myself, in time,’ he said, airily, as though it hardly needed explaining.

Giorno figured there wasn’t much point arguing.

There was a weak little whine then, and Mista clicked his teeth. ‘Don’t start that again, No. 3,’ he muttered, jostling the bullets in his hand. No. 3 had perched itself on top of the contented little pile the Stand had fallen into, sprawling out over the others like a lounging sultan. Its left foot was lazily kicking No. 5 in its dented little face where it lay, slightly squished beneath the other bullets, blubbering.

Mista prodded No. 3 with the tip of his finger. ‘I said, stop it.’ A murmur rose from the bullets again, unsettled slightly from their sleepy peace. 

Papa was staring again, lip pulled into a sneer as he watched Mista wrangle with the fussing Stand. Giorno watched his eyes narrow, flickering over his friend with naked disdain, and felt a tug of annoyance in his throat. He loved Papa, he really did. But he could be so unkind.

‘Papa,’ Giorno said, voice soft and edgeless. He hoped Mista was too preoccupied to pay much attention to what he was saying. ‘You say all the time that there are no bad Stands.’

Papa looked over at him. He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowed at Giorno, like he expected better from him. ‘There are no weak Stands, Giorno,’ he said. His eyes swept over Mista again. ‘But there are certainly unimpressive ones.’

Giorno’s lips tightened. ‘Mista’s bullets are impressive,’ he muttered, watching his friend painstakingly tip half the gabbling bullets into his other palm, trying not to drop them as they wriggled and squirmed. ‘I bet you’ve never seen a Stand that can talk.’

Papa waved a lazy hand in the air, sweeping the point away. ‘A Stand has little use for words,’ he said. ‘They are not meant for conversation.’

Giorno stared silently at him, feeling his chest flicker with things he wouldn’t say. He looked over at Mista, who was now holding two wriggling handfuls of bullets, pinning them between his fingers as they lashed at each other, tiny voices rising into shrieks. His dark eyes were wide and darting again, face pinched with panic.

‘You were being so good before,’ he said, voice strained. ‘Please…’

Giorno shuffled up closer to him, returning to his side. He curled his arm beneath Mista’s, intertwining them as he cupped his friend’s tightened fist in his own hand. Mista breathed softly, body going less taut as he leaned into Giorno’s shoulder.

‘I’m trying to unsummon them, but they won’t let me,’ he murmured, smudged dark eyes lingering on his Stand, struggling in his hands. His voice was thin and colourless. ‘I can’t even control them.’

Giorno stroked his thumb over Mista’s hand. The bullet held between Mista’s ring finger and pinky, No.6, snapped at him with its tiny jaws, belting out a squealing roar. Giorno’s face twitched with a smile.

‘They’re bored,’ he said, waggling his thumb slightly, watching No.6 follow it with tiny, seething eyes. ‘They want something to do.’

Mista glanced at him, then looked back down at his Stand. ‘I think you’re right,’ he said, gently clasping No.6 tighter between his fingers before it could lunge at Giorno’s thumb. ‘But pa’s got my gun. And I’ve got nothing to fire.’

Giorno thought about this for a moment. He gestured for Mista to wait, then hopped down off the bed. Carefully treading around the shards of smashed glass from earlier littering the carpet, Giorno made his way over to the vanity. It was very large, made of dark mahogany and intricately patterned with gold outlines, curling up its curved legs and snaking round its large silver mirror. It was so beautiful that Papa was almost justified in owning it, despite having no reflection.

Giorno tiptoed carefully over, running his fingers over the drawers beneath the vanity’s cluttered surface. He pulled open the one at the very end, reached in, and pulled out a round.

‘What--’ Mista started as Giorno held it up to him, its brass casing shining with a dull gleam. ‘Why d’you have that?'

‘Your dad gave it to me,’ Giorno said as he stepped carefully back across the room towards the bed. He set the bullet down on the scarlet sheets, and clambered back up. ‘I turned it into a butterfly for him once.’

Papa was looking at him strangely. ‘Giorno, why was it in my vanity?’

‘I tried to scare you once by turning it into a spider,’ Giorno said, looking him in the face. He didn’t see any point in lying. ‘But I don’t think you ever found it.’

Instantly, Papa’s shoulders tensed up straight, as he fixed Giorno with a wide stare. ‘Giorno,’ he said, voice fanged with genuine offence. ‘You sincerely believed that I, DIO, could be frightened by mere vermin?'

Giorno didn’t reply to this, instead turning back to Mista (and ignoring the very dramatic ‘Giorno!’ that was thrown after him). Mista was looking back past him, wide black eyes full of apprehension as he stared silently at Papa. He glanced back at Giorno - he seemed to search his friend’s face, like he was afraid to ask what was on his mind out loud. Giorno hoped his inner ‘yeah, I know’ came through in his small smile, as he wordlessly offered Mista the bullet in his outstretched palm.

Mista stared down at it for a moment. Careful not to lose hold of his Stand, he picked up the bullet with his free thumb and forefinger. His own bullets immediately quietened at the sight of it, every one of them suddenly transfixed by its brassy gleam. No.5, who was closest to it, reached out its little hands to try and touch it. Mista himself seemed preoccupied by something else though - he glanced up at Giorno again.

‘You know…’ he murmured, speaking softly in Italian. Immediately Giorno’s throat tightened - he could only think of one reason why he’d have suddenly switched languages. He shook his head at Mista, eyes wide, but it was too late.

‘...My pa says that a proud man’s hurt is more dangerous than any viper,’ he said. His mouth was upturned slightly, like he felt a little guilty.

Giorno said nothing, simply nodded at Mista with a vague smile. He could imagine the expression that Papa, who could not only hear an earthquake happening in Libya, but also had spoken Italian for over a hundred years, was making behind him. Mista was very lucky not to be anyone else right now. Giorno decided he’d better hurry this along.

‘The bullet, Mista,’ Giorno pressed, leaning forwards slightly as he cupped his friend’s hand in his own again, soft palm cradling his knuckles. ‘Show us your Stand.’

Mista seemed to suddenly remember what they were doing, and he sat up straighter. ‘Right,’ he said, nodding, and considering the bullet between his fingers again. He tilted his head to the side as he looked at it, thinking. ‘I guess… I could just throw it?’ he said. ‘They could still kick it that way.’

‘Yeah, good idea,’ Giorno assured him, nodding as slowly slid backwards on the bed, reaching back to find Papa’s tightly-curled fist where it rested on the sheets. He laid his own gentle hand over it, guiding himself into the space beneath Papa’s arm. Settling himself against his vast, statuesque side, leaning his golden head softly against a huge bicep, he looked up at his father.

Papa could never quite manage to glare at Giorno, but his expression right then was fairly close - pale lip curled with sourness, red eyes glinting. Giorno only gazed at him, soft firelight dancing on his long, fine eyelashes, the most subtle of smiles playing on his rosebud lips.

Papa said nothing for a long, long moment. His scowl waned slightly; Giorno watched the points of his fangs disappear. Then, sharply, the arm over Giorno’s shoulders curled tightly around his body, pressing him closer into Papa’s side - done in one quick motion, as though it might be less noticed that way.

Giorno breathed a silent note of laughter. He tried to get a look at Papa’s face, but he had already turned decisively away, long gold left trailing over his shoulder where he had craned his head away. Giorno could only see the tensed line of his jaw, pale and inscrutable.

It didn’t really matter. Giorno resettled his head against Papa’s arm, hair falling gently over his face, smiling to himself.

Papa was no viper, Giorno thought, not really. Vipers didn’t have soft spots.

Mista was sitting up straight now, gazing down at his bullets with a determined gleam in his eye. The familiar solidity of a bullet in his hand seemed to have snapped him into focus. He’d released them from between his fingers - they clambered excitedly over his hands, all of them focused on the shiny little treasure in their User’s palm. Giorno could hear them babbling their almost-words quite clearly, like young children still learning to talk - he could hear half-snatches of Italian, trace hints of English. It was oddly delightful.

Mista nudged the eager little creatures over onto his left hand, as he readied the bullet in the other. ‘All of you play nice, okay?’ he said, looking down at his Stand. ‘You’ve got to work together.’ His gaze lingered, Giorno noticed, on No.5 - clinging to his thumb like a little baby monkey, away from the buzzing little cluster the other bullets had formed.

Mista smiled slightly, nodding down at the tiny thing. ‘And let No.5 take the lead.’

There was a murmuring among the little group of others, all of them turning to look at the meekest of their number. Giorno watched little No.5 freeze where he lay curled against his User’s hand, staring back at the group -- before slowly, timidly, climbing to his feet, and joining the little throng. The others did not obstruct his passage, not even No.3 - they quietly allowed him amongst themselves, before they all looked back up at their User. Mista nodded back at them.

‘Alright.’ Mista turned over the bullet in his palm a few times, like he was charging it up. Then he took it between his fingers, and looked over to his Stand in his other hand for the moment of truth. ‘Ready?’

A burst of excited buzzing erupted again, the little creatures leaping and hopping over one another in anticipation. ‘Focus!’ said Mista, and it fell silent again.

‘Good,’ he said, and turned back to his other hand. He pulled his arm back into a throwing poise, looking straight ahead of him. He held it there for a moment. Giorno leaned forward slightly.

In one quick, fluid motion, Mista’s arm flew up and tossed the bullet into the air. ‘Go!’

With a whooping squeal of delight, No.5 soared up in a yellow arc of lightning towards the airborne target. The other five followed right behind, leaping through the air in a joyous, shrieking gaggle, careening forwards, seeming all to move as one as they aligned themselves mid-flight, pulled their tiny legs back in one simultaneous swoop and --

‘Shoot!’ cried No.5, and the bullets kicked.

The bullet rocketed straight into the bedroom door, shattering a massive hole through it with an explosion of splintering wood. Mista gasped like he’d been shot.

For someone who didn’t breathe, Papa’s sigh was quite impressive. 

Mista slowly, creakily turned to look behind him, his face blanched a sickly beige. His expression reminded Giorno of that weird painting in one of Papa’s big art books; the one with the person screaming. The bullets hung limp in the air, scattered about Mista’s head like shards of shattered yellow glass, many of them with the same look as their User. No.5 was clutching at Mista's ear now, cringing.

‘... Sorry,’ he choked out eventually, black eyes trapped staring at Papa, so wide they looked like they might fall out any second. ‘I didn’t-- I didn’t---’

Yep, it was exactly as Giorno had guessed, before Mista had even thrown the bullet. In his total concentration on commanding his Stand, he’d forgotten to give them something to actually fire at.

‘Mista! Mista, it’s okay,’ Giorno said, holding up his hands to his violently shaking friend. There really wasn’t anything for him to worry about - even if he wasn’t under Giorno’s protection, there wasn’t much for Papa to get angry at. In this house, doors were never safe anyway.

Mista seemed not to hear him however, manically shaking his head as he babbled on. ‘I really didn’t mean to, Giorno, I didn’t-- I didn’t think about where--’

‘Papa understands it was an accident, it’s alright. Don’t be frightened.’

The two of them both glanced up at Papa. His red gaze had drifted into the middle distance, like a resting eye-roll; his sullen scowl defanged and bloodless. It seemed like any anger in him had pretty much already fizzled out into resigned irritation. ‘Bloody brats,’ he was probably thinking.

Giorno looked back at Mista, his pink smile soft and faintly amused. ‘Besides, it won’t really matter in a moment.’

Mista stared at him. ‘Huh?’

The bedroom door exploded outwards. Mista shrieked and threw himself forwards for cover as a blast of mahogany wreckage shattered out into the room, swallowing everything with a billowing plume of dust. The screaming bullets dived in unison to their User, fleeing back into nonexistence as the spattering cloud of sawdust buffeted him.

Papa immediately yanked Giorno by the scruff of his neck like a puppy, pressing his face against his side, shielding him. Giorno still got a filthy lungful, hacking and sputtering, rubbing the debris from his eyes. He struggled against Papa’s hold, turning to get a watery glimpse of the silhouette emerging from the dust.

A massive, looming Stand hovered there, blank golden stare cutting through the haze. Its dripping jaws unhinged, stretching out into a vast, unfathomable vortex, bruise-coloured and swirling. From its abyssal depths clambered a human figure, seeming to almost stagger and flail on the distended edge of the mouth, graceless in his maddened haste. The figure eventually stumbled to his feet, and threw himself across the room over to the bed. His fists gripped the bedposts, so hard it looked like they could snap.

‘Lord DIO, I heard a gunshot, is there an assailant?’ His voice was hoarse and breathless, his long chestnut hair tossed in a devastated wreck over his shoulders and into his eyes. His dark, flushed stare was transfixed on Papa, so fiercely that they might have been the only two people in existence.

Papa sighed. ‘No, Vanilla Ice,’ he said, plucking a thin shard of mahogany from Giorno’s curls. ‘Everything is quite alright.’

Vanilla Ice didn’t move. He just stared blankly at Papa. His grasp on the bedposts didn’t loosen - all the tension in his hands now had nowhere to go. He glanced at Giorno.

‘Mista was showing us his Stand,’ said Giorno, stroking his friend’s thick rumple of dark hair that was now splayed out on his lap, which was where Mista had decided to throw himself. Slowly turning to peek up at the intruder, Giorno saw his expression - wide black eyes like two exclamation points, mouth drawn with both fear and exhaustion. The look of someone who’d been scared to death twice - terrified, but also, y’know, kind of annoyed. He quickly hid his face again.

Vanilla Ice looked back at him.

‘It shoots stuff,’ Giorno offered helpfully.

Papa was gazing at the desecrated remains of the bedroom door, the raggedy skeleton of it still intact now hanging sadly off its hinges. ‘Vanilla Ice, I do believe I’ve mentioned to you my preference that you use the door.’

Giorno never would have believed he’d see Vanilla Ice blush, but here it was. He’d done a good job at keeping his expression iron-hard as usual, but he couldn’t stop the creeping pinkness inching up his throat, treacherous and telling. He snatched his hands from the bedposts, pinning his arms stiffly to his sides. ‘I…’ he started, voice rasping slightly. ‘...profoundly apologise, my Lord…’

‘It is of no importance.’ Papa’s eyes were closed, low voice straining with lethargy. This had all become too much for his delicate constitution, it seemed. He gave a vague wave of his hand. ‘You are dismissed.’

‘Yes, my Lord.’ Vanilla Ice - slow and rigid, like he was afraid any extraneous movement would leave room for further failure - turned to leave the room. As the rubble crunched beneath his bare feet (it must have been painful, but he didn’t show it), Giorno noticed the flushing had crept up the back of his legs as well.

Reaching the barely-there ruins of the bedroom door, he paused for a second, staring down at it. Giorno saw his head bow slightly. Then, sheepishly, he reached for the brass handle, which came off in his hand. He jammed his fingers through the opening between the frame and yanked the door open, darting out through the gap. The broken handle was still clenched in his fist as he left.

Giorno smoothed over the thick cloud of hair again, rubbing at his still-itchy eyes with his other hand. ‘He’s gone, Mista.’

A pair of murky eyes turned up to look at him, curtained by the dark fringe of hair falling gently over them. Glancing behind him, Mista lifted himself by his elbows up off Giorno’s lap. He looked back at his friend again, his face pinched. 

‘Are you sure it isn’t always like this?’ he asked.

Giorno looked away, a smile flickering across his face. He gave a light shrug of his shoulders, pressing imperceptibly closer into Papa’s side.

Then he met his friend’s eyes again. ‘Bedtime?’

At this word, Mista looked like a man lost in the desert being offered a full canteen. Bleary eyes smudged with exhaustion, he nodded.

Soon after, the two children were tucking themselves into the scarlet sheets, kicking their legs to shake off the layer of dark dust that had settled over it. Giorno listened out for Papa’s objections, already preparing his sweetest, sleepiest look as a counterattack. But Papa stayed quiet. Smiling a little to himself, Giorno wondered if he was tired too, in his own strange vampiric way. Looking around at the state of his bedroom - smashed glass and shattered door remains all over the floor, everything covered in sawdust, not one but two children invading his bed - Giorno saw why. For once in his life, he was the drained one.

As the two of them settled down together, Giorno felt Mista’s sigh against his cheek. ‘Guess I really am screwed, huh?’ he murmured, voice low and shapeless.

Giorno turned his head to look at him - his loose golden curls mingled with Mista’s long, dark tangle where they lay close. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

‘My Stand,’ said Mista. ‘I messed everything up.’

Giorno paused. Then he shifted over onto his side, wriggling down a little to look Mista in his eyes. Though they were already drooping closed, Giorno could see the unhappiness held in them. He shook his head a little.

‘Mista,’ he said, his sleepy eyes softly glimmering. ‘You didn’t mess anything up. You were amazing.’

Mista’s eyes blinked a little brighter. ‘Huh?’

‘You controlled them perfectly,’ said Giorno, his serious gaze never leaving Mista’s. ‘The moment you gave them something to do, they listened to you. No.5 led the group, exactly like you told him to, even though he never does that stuff. And all of the others followed him - even No.3. That was what you wanted from them, so they did it.’

Mista was staring at him, eyes suddenly quite wide. Giorno could see sparks lighting behind them - the look of someone seeing things from an entirely new angle.

Then he looked away again. ‘Still…’ he mumbled, voice still tinged with doubt. ‘I didn’t give them a target...’

‘That was just a silly mistake,’ said Giorno, shaking his head again. He wasn’t going to let Mista convince himself he’d failed, not even if they had to talk all night. ‘You’re still getting used to all this - and anyway, you’re tired. It was bound to happen. But with the important bit - Auntie Enyaba calls it ‘channeling’ - Mista, you were incredible.’

The other boy’s dark eyes twinkled, velvet black and starry. ‘You…’ he said softly. ‘You really think so?’

Giorno nodded. ‘You stopped thinking about it. You just did it.’ He bowed his head closer to Mista’s, voice lowering into a murmur as he smiled. ‘That’s how you’ll find your name, too. Promise.’

Mista smiled back at him, mellow as butter. His hand came up to brush against Giorno’s where it rested between them, and Giorno saw that the look in his eyes had changed. The clouds from before had parted, leaving only the rich, dark sky beyond. Full of promise.

Mista’s smile faded a little then, eyelids drooping down. Everything suddenly seemed to catch up with him at once - fear, sadness, determination, excitement, plain exhaustion - and he shifted slightly where he lay, dark frizzy curls falling over his face as he drifted. Giorno was surprised he’d even lasted this long. He curled in closer to his friend, feeling a deep heaviness behind his own eyes. Still, he lolled his head over to look up at the other person in this room that he loved.

‘Will you still read to us, Papa?’ asked Giorno. He probably should have said ‘me’, really - Mista’s mouth had already fallen slightly open, whole body melting into the cuddly warmth beneath the sheets. If he wasn’t asleep already, he definitely didn’t need any help. 

But one story wouldn’t hurt. Giorno blinked up at Papa.

Papa sighed again, uncrossing and recrossing his legs as he sunk lower into the sheets. He is tired, Giorno thought.

In spite of this whole display, though, Giorno could see the large ghostly arm of 「The World」reaching underneath the bed, down to the neat little pile of books stacked there. The only books in the whole mansion that Papa allowed to be kept anywhere other than a shelf. Giorno’s stories.

‘Which one?’ he asked quietly.

Giorno yawned. ‘...Call of the Wild, please.’

‘Again.’ Not a question, simply an observation. ‘Do you know I have never read the second chapter of that book, Giorno? You have never been awake for it.’

Instead of answering, Giorno closed one soft hand over two clawed fingers, letting his eyes fall shut. He shifted next to Mista, leaning his head to the side, tangling their hair together again. He could hear Mista’s soft breathing against his ear.

Papa was still for a few moments. His hand was motionless in Giorno’s grasp. Then, there came the soft creaking of Papa readjusting himself. The whisper of old pages turning.

Finally, in his low, soothing voice, Papa began to read. ‘Buck did not read the newspapers, or he would have known that trouble was brewing, not alone for himself, but for every tide-water dog, strong of muscle and with warm, long hair, from Puget Sound to San Diego…’

*

*

*

‘...He tried it again, with the same result. The onlookers laughed uproariously, and he felt ashamed; he knew not why, for it was his first snow.’

Reaching the end of the chapter, Dio paused. Eyes flickering over the room, he saw that the fire was beginning to fade, bathing everything in a soft red glow. The bedroom was still warm, though - he could feel it against his cool skin.

Beside him, Giorno lay silent; silky curls settled over his face, the gentle rising and falling of his side just visible from beneath his scarlet cocoon. The other one was quiet too.

Dio brought his hand to rest on the crown of the little golden head, gently twirling the loose whorls of hair between his fingers. No response. Fast asleep, of course.

He closed the book in his lap, and allowed 「The World」to reach down and return it to its (slightly dusty) place. His own hand stayed in Giorno’s hair, slowly stroking, taking care not to accidentally wake him. His red eyes considered the sleeping child, glinting in the dullness.

Keenly observant, his little Giorno. Good at endearing himself to others. Quick to soothe insecurity, to provide sweet comfort to the lost. All excellent qualities. Perhaps the outrage he had suffered this night had been worth such observations.

...Perhaps.

Just then, he heard someone coming along the hallway outside. Recognising the light tread at once, he called out - ‘D’Arby.’

A few seconds later, there came the squealing sound of the battered-up bedroom door being pushed open. The lithe figure of D’Arby stepped neatly into the room, bowing his head. ‘My lord?’

‘Giorno will be sleeping in here tonight. After he wakes, could you please see to...’ Dio gestured vaguely at the shrapnel littering the floor, the smattering of jagged glass beside the vanity, the general state of the door. ‘...This room.’

D’Arby gave a courteous smile, and a slight bow. ‘It will be done, my lord.’

He made to open the door, but Dio spoke again. ‘Terence.’ His tone had changed slightly.

‘Yes, my lord?’

A scowl passed faintly over Dio’s face again. ‘Why did you let Hol Horse in?’

D’Arby bowed again, lower this time. ‘My deepest apologies, Lord DIO. I recognised the child he had with him as one of Giorno’s friends. I imagined some sort of arrangement had been made, that perhaps you were…’

Dio’s eyes narrowed. ‘That I was what?’

‘Well…’ D’Arby’s smile twitched ever so slightly. ‘Babysitting, I suppose.’

Dio stared silently at him, lip curling back. Perhaps sensing the dark menace in the air, D’Arby quickly bowed his head once more, pulled the door open with a dying screech, and slipped out of the room. Dio was sure he was still smiling as he left.

Babysitting. Him. DIO. Lord of the night. Dark angel of the East. The ignominy.

He slid down on the bed, lying down beside Giorno. Crossing his arms, he closed his eyes, suddenly feeling more exhausted than he had in over a century. He breathed a long, irritated sigh.

When would it end?