Work Text:
It's snowing.
There's a strange sense of loneliness lingering in the crisp air, Giorno thinks. There is a silence, except for the soft whistling of the wind blowing against his face and making him shiver. Lights are on, decorative ones in all colours, flashing; the streets by the villa are empty. Despite this, they are a beauty in themselves, and the blanket of white only enhances it.
Giorno closes the door and walks outside. The falling snow covers his footsteps.
There's just Giorno, and the lights, and the wind, and the snow, and nothing else. It's a comfort, in a way, and for a moment, he allows himself to forget everything that's not this.
As he breathes, Giorno can see the puffs of air leaving his mouth, like small rising clouds. He'd always been fascinated in them as a child, running around in these same streets, what felt like centuries ago, now.
Giorno moves further away from the building, dragging the gates open. It was silly of him not to bring a coat, but he felt he would lose something if this moment ended now. There was no point in going inside.
Closing the gate of the villa, Giorno walks in no particular direction. Aside from the odd passer-by, he has no company. It's cloudy, he can see as he looks up, but he can make out the vague mirage of the moon.
Street lamps guide him as he walks whilst the rest of the world is standing still. The winter is cold and dead, yet hauntingly beautiful. It's almost lifeless- a stark contrast to the other seasons which are myriads of shifting natural hues, leaves and flowers and plants. Instead, any semblance of colour is artificial, made of string lights that flash and glow, some depicting festive messages and images, some merely hanging from brown, shadowy buildings.
Giorno's thought process reaches an end once the sea is visible in front of him. The Mediterranean waters are also frigid and lonely, he thinks. They're not still, and the waves still crash onto the rocks, but it feels quiet for some reason. He finds a bench, and brushes off some of the snow before taking a seat on the damp wood.
It isn't entirely pleasant, but Giorno feels tired now. Standing up is tiring. It weighs him down, and makes his legs ache. Sitting down is a relief from that feeling, if nothing else.
Now it's just Giorno and the silence again.This has become a common occurrence for him, especially with the amount of work he's usually piled with, always scattered over his desk and giving him no opportunity to even talk to anyone else.
Giorno doesn't know what exactly had propelled him to leave the villa and walk this far. Distantly, he thinks about the others. Maybe they're enjoying a warm drink right now, huddled together in heaps of blankets in front of the fire. Maybe they're decorating the christmas tree, or watching a movie together.
Did they notice he'd gone? Giorno highly doubted it, with how little he's seeing them these days anyway.
He doesn't mind. Not too much, anyway. Who would blame them?
Maybe he's just too scared to face them now that he has to explain himself. Seeing Abbacchio's apprehensive face, Bucciarati's worried expression that he always wears whenever Giorno is in danger…
Giorno shakes his head. No. He doesn't want to have to see that now. They're supposed to be safe. Diavolo is dead. Everything's supposed to be just fine now.
So why does it feel like there's a gaping hole in his chest which wasn't there before, which was filled with an emotion he can't quite remember?
Time passes. Giorno doesn't know how long he's there for, whether he's even awake. But at some point the stillness breaks as Giorno realises someone is behind him. He turns, to see the unreadable face of Bruno Bucciarati.
"Giorno." He acknowledges him, but says nothing else, before extending his hand. Giorno takes it.
Bucciarati leads him back through the streets. It's a different route to the one he takes, Giorno realises, even if it looks similar. He isn't as bothered to pay attention anymore, and he enjoys this new, temporary silence whilst Bucciarati leads him home.
***
They walk through the gate of the villa, stopping to let Bucciarati close it, before heading back to the house. Two pairs of footsteps crunch in the snow.
It's strange, Giorno thinks. Perhaps in the morning those footsteps will no longer be there, and this night will never have happened. Another small, still moment would be lost in the flow of time.
The doorway's warm hues contrast with that of the snow. Giorno sees every brick, every groove in the wood of the door illuminated by the dim yellow light hanging above. With a small click, he hears the door open and as he steps inside, the snow stops falling on his head.
In all this time, Bucciarati has said nothing. Even now, he wordlessly gestures for Giorno to sit.
That is, until he hears someone storming towards them, and he quickly turns—
"What the hell were you thinking?" Abbacchio isn't shouting, but Giorno can hear the restrained anger in his voice. He stiffens and puts on that same, stony, professional front before speaking again.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Abbacchio."
"Leone," Bucciarati intervenes. "This isn't necessary. We found him, no?
"Bruno, you know damn well that you feel the same way."
Bucciarati sighs.
"I do know. But now is not the time."
Abbacchio's expression softens when he sees Bruno's again.
"Have you called Mista and Narancia?" he asks.
"No. Can you do it now?"
"Okay," he says a little gruffly, before leaving towards the kitchen, where the phone is. Bucciarati turns to Giorno, giving him a silent apology.
The way his eyes shine is strange. The ever-present caring is still there, but now it's mixed up with so much complexity that even Giorno struggles to read it. Perhaps he's just reluctant to; only now does Giorno realise how Bucciarati might have felt when he saw Giorno's empty office looking as if it had been hit by a storm, papers everywhere, before finding Giorno alone in the snow.
Bucciarati leads him into the living room, nodding to the sofa. Giorno sits.
"Giorno."
Giorno realises that, up until now Bucciarati has said nothing to him but his name. He wonders what he is thinking. The way he says his name is different this time. Expectant. What is he expecting? For Giorno to pour out every feeling, every thought he has had this evening? Or simply for him to confirm his presence? Uncertainty hangs low in the room, and Giorno knows he needs to be cautious.
His reassurance is that he still knows, no matter how curious or worried or scared Bucciarati is, he isn't persistent. Either Giorno explains himself now, or he doesn't. He never has to do anything.
So now, he simply shakes his head and breaks eye contact. He's scared that if Bucciarati looks too hard, he'll be able to meticulously unwrap every small experience Giorno's had, and be able to analyse how he's feeling constantly.
Bucciarati accepts this, even if Giorno knows that he himself would've found it frustratingly vague, and straightens.
"Stay here," he says. "I'll bring you some hot chocolate."
Giorno waits.
The doorbell rings at some point. He suspects that Abbacchio's answers it, as the footsteps don't sound like Bucciarati's.
More people walk inside, silent, but there's a hint of tension in the air. Giorno feels strange as the two people walk into the room and realisation washes over him once more.
Mista and Narancia look like shit. Mista is without hat, hair frazzled and looking as if he hadn't slept at all for days.
But Giorno knows that it hadn't been days, of course. What time is it now? He hadn't looked at the clock before he left.
As the two of them look at him, Giorno doesn't know what to say. His face feels hot; his eyes are burning but he doesn't know why. He stares at Mista, not even daring to blink. He can't bring himself to look at Narancia.
"You—" Mista begins, before pausing. He takes a breath, seemingly gathering himself:
"You don't need to act as if you aren't feeling anything." Narancia finishes for him.
The words hit Giorno like a punch to the stomach.
He knows that they're right, but he hates the terrible truth in Narancia's words. He hates how, now, he can feel his eyes watering, and he still hasn't blinked but now it's because he can't let a single tear fall— he can't embarrass himself further, and he's already come this far.
He hates how Bucciarati chooses that particular moment to walk into the room, a mug of steaming hot chocolate in his hands.
"Giorno. What's wrong?" he asks, gentle as ever. Giorno hates this, too. Why is he still so kind? After everything Giorno has done, used him, scared him, why does he still care so much?
The lack of response seems to alert Bucciarati a little. "Giorno? Can you hear me?"
There's a clamour in Giorno's ears. He nods stiffly.
"Can you take a deep breath?"
Mista and Narancia are gone. Or are they? Giorno realises with horror that he doesn't know. Maybe they're just out of his field of vision. Maybe they left the room, but Giorno is blind and clueless.
Time is stopped, or slowed (Giorno can't really tell) but everything is definitely sluggish in a way Giorno can't quite explain, as if everything is happening before his eyes, but it actually isn't.
He breathes. Or tries to, at least. It feels like it requires more effort than it should, and Giorno isn't very aware as it is.
"Yes, like that." Bucciarati's voice still rings clear. That provides a reassurance to Giorno. He's an anchor, and Giorno is the boat he's preventing from flowing astray. He still feels woozy, uncertain, but once Bucciarati seems confident enough that Giorno is calm, he hands him the mug.
"Here, try to drink some. Small sips."
Giorno lifts the drink up to his mouth, keeping his hand as still as possible. The hot liquid burns down his throat as he swallows.
Mista and Narancia walk towards him, seating themselves on each side of him. They look considerably more relaxed, but worry still lines their features. Buccciarati leaves the room with the empty mug.
"It's-" Giorno tries to start, but his voice is hoarse and sounds funny, so he coughs instead. Mista rubs his back. Narancia asks if he's okay.
"It's okay. I'm fine," he says. How convincing that is, Giorno doesn't know. Narancia frowns.
"Are you sure, man?"
Giorno nods. "You don't need to act like I'll go off at any second. Everything's fine."
"Hm."
There's a pause, in which Giorno realises that neither of them believe him completely. He tries to change the subject.
"How pissed is Abbacchio?"
Mista snorts. "Eh," he says. He doesn't elaborate. Giorno thinks all his effort is going into trying not to laugh, for some reason.
"He's just worried," Narancia adds, mirth also evident in his expression.
"Yeah. It was funny to see how quickly he seemed to calm after Bucciarati gave him one of his looks ."
" Leone. " Narancia attempts to mimic Bucciarati's voice. Mista pretends to huff and sigh dramatically, before turning away.
"—And then he blushed. It was hilarious. I've never seen Abbacchio blush in my whole life."
At that, Narancia lets out a laugh. Mista loses it, and Giorno smiles.
Hearing that makes Giorno feel...good. Better, if not fully good. It's as if a small weight has lifted off his shoulders. Abbacchio isn't truly mad. His yelling isn't exclusive to when he's mad. Giorno misunderstood earlier, out of fear.
The anxiety that they'll ask him why still lingers, however. He knows they are avoiding the topic on purpose, but even then, does he truly have a reason?
He supposes in the end that it simply boils down to him not feeling necessary anymore. But trying to convince them of that won't work.
He knows that Bucciarati won't ask him. But Giorno still feels an obligation to tell him , if not anyone.
He gets up suddenly. Mista makes a questioning noise.
"It's nothing," Giorno tries to assure him. "I'll be back in a minute or two."
"If you say so."
"You can sleep, you know," he says to Narancia, who looks up at him through half-lidded eyes.
"N-No. I'll stay awake, that's fine. I'm not tired." Giorno tries not to laugh at that. He walks out of the room and into the kitchen, where Bucciarati still is. He doesn't notice him walking in, so Giorno speaks.
"I didn't mean to."
Bucciarati doesn't quite jump , but his figure stiffens slightly upon hearing Giorno speak out of nowhere. It's such a subtle motion that few would've noticed it, though.
"Didn't mean to what, Giorno?" he asks.
"To. Uh. Whatever just happened. I went outside, and I got carried away walking is all, I'm sorry." Giorno has a feeling Bucciarati is aware that isn't the whole truth, even though he isn't really lying either. Even Giorno doesn't really know what compelled him to walk so far from the villa.
"You don't need to apologise."
"I disagree."
"Why so?"
"I left without warning. After not speaking to any of you for days."
"You had work."
"You would've seen my office." He leaves out the 'in a complete mess' part. It's implicit in his words, anyway.
"I—" Giorno tries to say again, but Bucciarati cuts him off.
"Giorno. We understand. Stress affects everyone."
"Still," Giorno protests, because he feels that even Bucciarati must think that some of the fault lies with him.
Abbacchio chooses that moment to enter the kitchen. Even if he doesn't show it, Giorno suspects that he must've been listening from outside.
"Nothing that happened tonight is your fault, kid. Get that into your head." Blunt, straight to the point. He knows Abbacchio won't say any more than this. He nods meekly.
"I'm serious. Take me seriously. I'm not—"
" Leone ," Bucciarati says softly, and Giorno almost wants to laugh, because he realises Narancia's earlier impression is not all that inaccurate.
"Regardless," Bucciarati continues, "I think it'd be best that everyone rested now."
Abbacchio makes a small grunt, because it"s obvious that unresolved issues are still present but clearly he doesn't want to disagree with Bucciarati. Giorno, to be honest, is glad that this is an opportunity to leave the room, and gathers himself.
"I agree," he says. "I'll take my leave."
Bucciarati nods. "Rest well, Giorno."
***
His room is tidy, at least (even if it's from disuse). It's refreshing, rather than being in his office.
Giorno doesn't really feel like sleeping, though. He walks to his office, and picks up a random report, before returning to his room, making himself comfortable on his bed and picking it up to read.
However, it becomes apparent within a few minutes that nothing on this page will actually get absorbed into his mind.
He puts it aside— there's no point in trying to read anything if his thoughts are a jumbled mess.
He wonders if Mista and Narancia went home. He knows Bruno and Abbacchio were staying in the villa, but Mista had been staying with his sister for Christmas, and Narancia had gone with him.
There's silence, but this time it's more frustrating than comfortable. What's the point in Giorno sitting here, idly, completely useless? He can't even sleep right.
Words from earlier ring through his head. Affirmation turns to scorn as Giorno thinks more and more. Surely they weren't telling the truth. How could it have possibly not been his fault? Since he was a child, he'd learned that people lie. They lie too much. Surely that applies to Bucciarati and the others too. Surely—
***
Giorno opens his eyes. He's lying in an awfully uncomfortable position on the bed. His muscles ache as he tries to move, and he realises that exhaustion must've taken him under, because he would never lie down like this for a whole night voluntarily.
He gets out of bed. He might as well, now that he's awake. It's 11am anyway, he needs to get to work.
As soon as he walks downstairs, he finds chocolate pudding on the table, as well as a note. It read:
'Had to leave for some business. Rest today- B'
There's also a small christmas tree, put up and decorated, now standing proudly in the living room. He smiles at the flashing decorations, and when he realises that the tree is decorated with little ladybugs in all colours.
As he eats the pudding (it feels strange, eating pudding in the morning, but Giorno isn't exactly bothered by this), he remembers a feeling hole in his chest, both last night and a lifetime ago. But, when he searches for it now, he finds that he can't.
There's no snow today. Maybe it will be a fresher start.