Work Text:
“Giorno Giovanna!”
Giorno huffed, slamming his hands down on his desk. Everything was so frustrating nowadays; ever since he had ascended to Don, he had been swamped with stacks after stacks of paperwork, and the continuing pressures of potential traitors didn’t help anything. Giorno had to work through it. However, someone had a problem with that.
He glared up at Bruno Bucciarati in response to the stern look on the older man’s face. Bucciarati had been hounding him for the good part of the last hour and was somehow only noticing now that Giorno had tuned him out as he continued to sign documents. This, however, only prompted Bucciarati to yell more.
“Bucciarati! Can you give it a rest, for once! Just let me do my work--” Giorno let out an exhale, rubbing his fingers against his temple.
“You look half dead, Giorno!” Bucciarati scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest, “Would it really kill you to take a break?” His expression had morphed into one of concern - and it infuriated Giorno to no end.
“I do NOT want to be treated like a child, Bucciarati!” Giorno yelled, rising from his chair and sending a sharp look at the older man. He pointed to the door. “Leave.”
“You are a child. For God’s sake, it’s not a fucking death sentence !” The other yelled right back, throwing his arms up in frustration and shaking his head in disbelief.
“I am not having this. Leave now .” Giorno struggled to keep his voice measured; anger quickly seething through his gritted teeth.
Bucciarati scowled, refusing to move from his spot. Giorno was suddenly very glad that everyone had left the house today; Abbacchio had taken the ‘children’ (a foolish nickname that Giorno refused to be associated with) out to the square. It was something along the lines of shopping but, knowing Narancia, it would most likely turn into an arcade trip or something.
This left only Bucciarati and Giorno in the house, alone, and Giorno thinks he would’ve preferred to be strangers over teammates. At least he would’ve gotten some fucking respect.
After Bucciarati didn’t move for a while, Giorno decided that he would head downstairs instead; he was parched, and it wasn’t him throwing in the towel - no matter what lies Bucciarati chooses to make up in his head. This was how it always ended - stalemate.
Throwing down his pen and roughly yanking the door open, he staggered through the hallway. Behind him, he could hear the hurried footsteps of the older gangster. Huffing, he turned around to face him. Somehow, the air got colder, and the lights got brighter.
“I won’t have another fucking argument over this, Bucciarati. Leave me be, I’m fine .” Giorno’s throat hurt from yelling, and he could feel tears pricking at his eyes. He wouldn’t cry; he couldn’t give Bucciarati the satisfaction of him surrendering.
“Look at yourself!” He screamed back, chasing behind him. They had gotten to the top of the stairs now, the old wooden floor creaking beneath them, “You can barely walk, your eyes look dead, and you’ve been on edge this entire fucking week. Take a fucking break already!”
There was a wave of uncontrollable anger that racked his form, shaking and shivering from rage. “I don’t care!” He took a few steps back, eyes still trained on Bucciarati. He was seething just as much, teeth gritted, and eyebrows shuffled. “Listen, I’m fine. I have work to do. If I don’t get it done, I’ll—I’ll be a liability, and I can’t be that! Just–just let me—”
He was falling.
He couldn’t feel the stairs beneath his feet. Flailing to try and grasp at anything to steady him, to keep him stable. Giorno panicked as he frantically looked around for a saving grace, and then he looked back up at Bucciarati. His previously furious expression had morphed into one of horror as he reached out his hand--
CRACK!
“Haruno?! Dear, are you ok?”
Everything hurt - his legs, his palms, and his head most of all. He couldn’t focus, vision blurring as he opened his eyes and grasped at the carpeted floor in an attempt to feel something other than immense pain. Laboured breaths, chest aching, tears pricking at his eyes.
He was at the base of a staircase, from what he could gather, and there was a figure standing over him. A blotch of light pink and brown kneeling next to him, lifting up his head and pressing something cool against the back of his head. He heard a ‘tut’ sound, followed by the figure’s hand moving away from his loose hair.
“Oh dear, that must have hurt,” That voice - that painfully familiar voice that sent jolts down his spine. He could smell her rosy perfume, but it wasn’t overpowering like it normally was. “You don’t seem to be bleeding. That’s good!”
Nothing about this was normal.
Giorno’s vision gradually cleared up, revealing the figure who was holding him.
His mother.
She was definitely her - he’d recognise those eyes anywhere, but they weren’t filled with indifference or spite like they had been before. Instead, all he could see was concern as he kept staring at her. Her hair was pinned back (not down, like it should be) into a loose ponytail, and her dress was the one she normally wore when she went out - pink, form-fitting, but she didn’t have too much makeup on like normal.
And she still had the golden ring on her index finger.
She reached a hand out; Giorno flinched.
It was almost insulting, the way his mother withdrew her hand in hurt - like she had any reason to be. She was still holding the back of his head, and Giorno made an attempt to shuffle away from her. He backed into a corner beside the stairs and took a moment to look around.
This… was his childhood home (from Italy, not the shrunken apartment in Japan) but it was cleaner. No empty beer bottles, or powder scattered across the floor. There wasn’t any sign of tattered carpet or peeling, yellowed wallpaper. Everything was neat, homely - livable. The lights above didn’t flicker on and off, and there weren’t even any bugs crawling around in the hidden corners.
Where in the hell–?
“Haruno?” That’s not his name, that’s not his name, who are you? Where is he? “Honey, I need you to breathe for me. Can you do that for me?”
“Michiko? What’s happening?”
Giorno froze up, hair standing on the back of his neck. That voice – his voice.
Pressing himself against the wall some more - as much as he possibly could - and waited as that familiar shadow lurched around the corner. He couldn’t breathe; air kept getting stuck in his throat and tears threatened to fall. They blurred his vision and he could barely see his Not-Mother’s concerned expression as she turned towards the shadow.
A large hand braced against the wooden door frame - the hand he was all too accustomed to - and in leaned his step-father.
Except it… wasn’t him.
It looked like him - but his expression was all wrong. Concern plastered all over his face, and it was genuine. The only iota of concern he ever saw his real step-father display was worry that his bet had failed and he’d lost money - again. This was directed towards him - “useless Haruno.”
He was dressed well; a fitted suit with the blazer and one button of his shirt undone, hair slicked back, but not unwashed. He looked… nice. Presentable, friendly - like how a father should look. Not the strange creature that Giorno had been so familiar with before.
Not-Father raised his hand towards Giorno, and all he could do was flinch.
And he flinched - hard.
“Son?” Mockery - that’s what it felt like. This wasn’t his family, these weren’t his parents. These were… these were his pathetic wishes come to life, from whatever power caused it. He couldn’t breathe–he couldn’t breathe.
He shuffled further back into the corner, arms wrapping around his knees and tucking his head in between them. It ached, the sudden movement, and his head throbbed with unbearable pain. “Get-Get away from me.”
Voice was too hoarse, head was too sore, arms waiting to be scratched until he bled. Stop it. Stop it now – he promised Bucciarati he would stop, that he would come to him if he felt like doing it again. But Bucciarati wasn’t here - these strangers were.
“Hon, please, you’re having another episode. Get his medication, would you?” Medication? “I know this is very scary, Haru-tan, but I need you to stay awake. Just until dad comes back with your pills. It’s ok, it’s ok.”
She had moved closer, tentatively stroking his head but every touch made the pain worsen. He wanted to get away - from her, and this place. Giorno didn’t like how comforting she was, shushing him gently and carding her fingers through his hair. She’d do that before - his real mother - when she was drunk, not in her right mind.
He felt the thumping of his Not-Father’s boots in his bones as the man rushed over to the two of them. There was a pill packet in his hand and a cup of water. It was decorated - frogs. His real father wouldn’t have bothered getting him anything; whoever this man was he was frightening. Both of his Not-Parents were frightening.
“Can you lift his head, Michi?” Stop touching, get your hands off, leave him alone. “Thank you. It’s ok, Haruno. This’ll be over soon, don’t worry. You’ll be able to have a good night’s rest, and when you wake up we can start on that garden project of yours, hm? I found some nice tomato seeds we can grow together.”
This wasn’t his step-father, this wasn’t his step-father, who was he?
An object passed down his throat, water following quickly, and Giorno couldn’t stop the tears from shedding. He was confused - scared. Nothing made sense.
He wanted to go back home.
“I’ll take him upstairs, Michi. Get started on something light - soup, perhaps?”He was being carried now, strong arms cradling him. It was everything he yearned for, but he didn’t want it because these weren’t his parents–! “You hear that, Haruno? Mama’s gonna make some warm soup for you. Just sit tight, ok?”
He wanted… to go home.
"I also picked up some of those posters you were looking at before. That band you really liked, remember. The Rolling Stones, right? God, I remember when I saw one of their shows live."
Home…
"Must be where you picked up your fantastic music taste. I think I have the Sticky Fingers album upstairs in my room, actually. You haven't listened to that one before, right?"
His eyes slipped closed.
The next time he woke up, he was tucked in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, with a pounding headache.
According to the clock, it was 7:30 pm - usually, he'd be awake for much longer but considering what he'd found himself in…
All he wanted to do was sleep.
Giorno didn't think it was possible to get homesick in what should've been his own home, but he couldn't help it. The place—this house wasn't his, and yet his memories tried to trick him into believing it was.
They were flooded with positive memories of happiness, normal family things like having dinners and visiting amusement parks. Nothing like what he was used to. He couldn't quite place why he still had these memories; from what he had first thought, Giorno had simply taken the place of 'Haruno'. It was more complicated than that, apparently.
He hadn't just replaced - he had become Haruno. Memories and all.
He was a year younger than he had been. Fifteen again, and yet somehow happier, like this was the life he could've been given. Giorno hated it. He hated feeling like this was where he was meant to be. All those sacrifices… wiped away.
And yet, an unfamiliar feeling of warmth settled in his chest and he wanted to hold it close until he forgot he was carrying it at all - until it became second nature to him.
He pulled himself into a sitting position, letting the pale pink duvet slip into his lap as he looked around his room. It was...large, comfortable, nothing like the small hole he was designated to when he lived with his real mother. The walls were decorated almost head to toe with band posters and diagrams, pressed flowers and glow in the dark stickers. Childish. Innocent.
The band posters hit the hardest, he thinks. All of them reminded him of back home with the others, how lonely he felt currently without the usual racket. Giorno wasn't… fond of loud noises, but he found himself missing it right now. He could hear the tell-tale heels of his mother walking to his door.
He wasn't scared, even though every other instance had frightened him out of his mind and yet he felt strangely at home… he didn't like it.
Training his eyes on the door, Giorno watched as the door creaked open slightly and his Not-Mother walked in slowly with a tray in her hands. It wasn't like her to cook; he didn't even know if she could. There was a ceramic bowl on the tray with two pieces of bread next to it, and a glass of water with two pills.
"Here you go, love." Giorno continued watching her as she placed it on his lap and pulled a chair over so she could sit next to him. "It's your favourite!"
It wasn't. He's never liked tomato soup.
Picking up a single piece of bread he tore it apart. The least he could do was pretend to like it, just in case she turned into his real mother and flipped out on him.
She ruffled his hair, and Giorno had to stop himself from leaning into the touch. "Make sure you take these before you go to sleep, ok Haruno? They'll help you."
He stayed silent, not daring to speak as he tried eating. It was disgusting; at least there was still something of him left.