Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Again,” Bruno says, brandishing his sword. The shine of its polished metal reflects light from the gaudy torches that illuminate the training room. 

Giorno stands, swiping a hand across the sweat dripping down his forehead. His hair has already fallen out of its meticulous updo, and the laurel wreath that signifies his royal status has been knocked askew, a result of his mentor’s brutal training. With difficulty, he raises his own blade to meet the oncoming strike.

This time, he’s ready. When Bruno rushes toward him, Giorno sidesteps, using his sword to knock the hilt of Bruno’s out of his hand. It clatters to the ground, the sound bringing a grin to Bruno’s face.

“Good,” he says, slumping to the floor. “That was much better. You’re a quick learner, Your Highness.”

Giorno has asked his mentor to drop the title countless times now but to no avail. If Bruno is anything, it’s unflinchingly polite. 

“You are a good teacher,” Giorno replies, settling down next to him. They both take a moment to catch their breath, the sound of their heavy panting echoing through the training room. 

Giorno’s eyes wander over to the other side of the room, where an array of various polished weapons — knives, spears, and bows — stand at attention.

“Bruno,” he says, “what weapon did you fight with when you were alive?”

Most of the other shades who wander the House speak of their lives in vague, detached sort of ways—as though it happened in a dream or happened to someone else. Meanwhile, Bruno talks of the surface only in short, nostalgic bursts —sometimes fond, sometimes sorrowful. Rarely specific. Nevertheless, Giorno hordes every little piece of information that he can get. 

“It depended,” Bruno replies.

“On what?”

“My role in battle, as well as who my opponent was.”

Before he had died, Bruno was one of the strongest warriors in the world. At least that’s what the other shades in the House whisper. They say he could cut through armies with ease, and that opponents would run in the opposite direction the moment they saw him coming. His prowess in battle was legendary, and rumor had it that even immortals watched his exploits with rapt attention. Considering that Dio had hired him as Giorno’s personal teacher, they must have been more than mere rumors. 

“I usually used a spear,” continues Bruno. “They have better reach, but they’re a bit slow.”

“What about a bow? Or a knife?”

“Sometimes,” he says, his voice taking on the tone that tells Giorno that he’ll have no more luck trying to pry any answers out of him. “Want to try a different one?”

Giorno slides his eyes over the assortment of weapons but shakes his head. “No, thank you,” he replies. “I’m fine with my sword.” The words come out a bit more firm than he intends for them to.

Bruno glances at him, tucking a strand of black hair behind his ear. “Your power…” he begins hesitantly. “Have there been any developments?”

He shakes his head. Almost automatically, his fingers trace over the inscription carved on the blade of his sword, ‘luck’. It’s ironic; luck seems to be the one thing missing in his life.

“My mother thinks that I am just a ‘late bloomer’,” says Giorno.

Bruno nods. “The Lady Erina is as wise as she is strong.” He hesitates. “And your father?”

“Padre says that it doesn’t matter when my power comes, and that since I am his son, I was born great.”

“That’s kind of him.”

“It is,” Giorno agrees. Though perhaps it wasn’t too surprising. The last thing Dio would ever do is admit his own shortcomings — that graciousness extends to Giorno as well. 

Bruno gives him a sidelong glance. “And you?”

“Me?”

“What do you think?”

He takes a moment to formulate his thoughts. His first instinct is to say that it doesn’t matter. Yes, all gods have powers, but the fact that he doesn’t have one does not detract from his status. He is still a god, an immortal, and Prince of the Underworld. 

It is rare for a god to be proficient with weapons, but his parents had insisted that Bruno train him in swordsmanship from a young age. Though he has no power, he is confident with his sword skills. 

“If my power awakens, that is good,” Giorno says slowly. “But if not, then that’s still alright.”

Bruno gives him a measured look. “You know,” he begins, a significant weight to his words, “when I was alive, people were convinced that I had some kind of power. They would constantly ask me what I was hiding. ‘No mortal can fight like that,’ they used to say. I had to be at least a demigod, if not a full-fledged god. People would sneak into my bedchambers at night and hold their knives to my throat, desperate to find the secrets to my battle prowess.”

“What did you tell them?” asks Giorno, curiosity piqued. 

“Before I killed them, you mean?” He smirks. “The truth, of course.”

Giorno waits for an answer, but Bruno seems to thrive off of keeping him in suspense. “And that was?”

“That it was simply a result of my training. Nothing more, nothing less.” Bruno stands and offers Giorno a hand. “Ready to go again, Your Highness?”

Giorno allows himself to be pulled up. Once they’re both standing, he meets his mentor’s gaze evenly, raising his sword. “One more time.”

The first thing he notices as he exits the training room is that the hallways seem to be unusually silent. There’s normally no shortage of shades passing through, and they’re quite loud as well, with their favorite topic of conversation being how they died.

Giorno had found it quite morbid when he was younger, and once he asked his mother about it. She’d gotten a fond look on her face when she kneeled down to his eye level.

“You’re right,” she said. “Death is a sensitive topic for some mortals. But for these shades who have just passed over, talking about their death is their way of reminding themselves that they used to be alive.”

“Can I ever die, Erina?” Giorno asked. Calling his mother by name was one thing that he had inherited from his father. She’d never liked it when he addressed her by any other title.

Erina had gotten a pained look on her face. “No,” she said firmly. “For mortals, death is the beginning of an entirely new existence for them, one that they’ll have for eternity. Immortals, however, are already in that state.”

“What happens when someone dies?” he asked.

She’d taken him by the hand and walked down the hallway until they reached the large red pool that was opposite his father’s throne room. 

“That’s the Pool of Styx,” she said. “You see how the shades are coming from there? That’s where everyone, be they mortal or immortal, go when they die.”

“How come we don’t see any gods come out of there?”

Unexpectedly, his mother had laughed. “Oh, we used to,” she said. “Before you were born, the Olympians” — and here Giorno had perked to attention, eager to hear any stories he could about the legendary Olympians outside of his father’s scorn of them — “used to kill each other all the time. For immortals, my son, death is something that can be taken lightly. It’s used as a way to settle disagreements, usually. The Olympians would climb out of the Pool on a regular basis, and your father was never very happy about that.”

“Does that mean that they don’t fight anymore?”

“I don’t know,” Erina said, the corners of her lips pulled down. “Maybe they don’t have much reason to fight anymore.”

Lost in his reminiscing, Giorno is pulled out of it by the hesitant approach of one of the shades.

“Your Highness,” the shade murmurs, bowing low to the floor.

Most of the shades down here all have the same appearance: they float around the House as nothing more than transparent shapes. Even their voices have the same papery feel to them.

The first time Bruno had mentioned that he used to be alive, Giorno hadn’t believed him. His mentor, with his shiny black hair and flowing robes, hadn’t looked a thing like the other shades.

Bruno had laughed. “That’s because when you see shades here in the House, they’ve only just died. They haven’t gotten a chance to settle back into their form. Once they move on from here to other parts of the Underworld, the form they take on will look more like how they looked when they were alive.”

“Is everything alright?” Giorno asks now, frowning ever so slightly. 

The shade casts a panicked look over their shoulder. “Ah, of course,” they say, “but if I may offer a humble suggestion, Your Highness, the throne room may not be very comfortable for you right now.”

“And why is that?”

“If you permit me to speak candidly, Lord Dio and Lady Erina do not seem very happy with each other at the moment.”

That explains the tense atmosphere in the hallway. Giorno had always suspected that there was no love between them, but he could never find the courage to ask. Normally they stay out of each other’s way, each with their own duties to manage both here in the House and in the rest of the Underworld. When they do fight, though, it’s legendary. Already, Giorno can feel the walls of the House shaking. 

The shade continues speaking, trying their best to stop Giorno from going, but to no avail. 

“Thank you for telling me,” Giorno replies politely, before pushing past them.

The only thing that his parents have ever been able to agree on is anything to do with Giorno himself. Despite how they feel about each other, it’s evident that they both care for him. Therefore, he’s the best one to break up their fight.

Giorno has just reached the doorway to the throne room when the sound of his own name stops him in his tracks. He knows that he shouldn’t. His parents are full-fledged gods with more power and responsibilities than he could ever dream of. What they talk about is none of his business. In the end, though, curiosity wins out.

Stepping closer, he presses his ear to the door.

“—he’s not a child anymore,” Erina is saying. “You can’t keep this from him forever.”

“What I do or don’t keep from him is none of your concern,” his father replies icily.

“As long as I’m here, Dio, it is my concern,” she retorts. “And what of his power?”

“My son has no need for a power,” says Dio. “And if I were you, Erina, I would remember your place. Need I remind you that you’re not his mother?”

It takes all the effort that Giorno has to stay silent at that. 

“I may not be his mother,” Erina says eventually,“but he is still my son. This is what’s best for him, and he deserves to know.”

Dio scoffs. “Giorno has no need to focus on important things.”

Erina’s voice grows as sharp as the blade of Giorno’s sword. “Don’t you dare call Jojo unimportant,” she hisses.

“Don’t mention that name in my house,” Dio hisses back.

Even from his place outside the room, Giorno can feel both of their respective power crackling as they try to hold it back. At this point, he’s genuinely worried. They’ve never actually fought each other, but he’s also never heard them this angry at each other before. 

“If you don’t care for the way that I raise my son,” says Dio, “then you are free to leave. I, Dio, think that is quite a generous offer. I admit you have been…helpful here in the House, but no matter. If that is what you wish, then I will set about finding a replacement.”

Erina clicks her tongue in annoyance. “Stop that. You know as well as I do that I’m not leaving. And we both know it’s not you that I’m staying for.”

Giorno hears the echo of her footsteps as she walks across the room. 

“And by the way,” she says, “you’re not his only father.”

“Really?” asks Dio, voice positively dripping with mirth. “That’s odd. I don’t seem to see any other fathers around here. That’s just as well. I won’t have my son raised by a coward.”

The words fall like shattered glass, perfectly poised to cut whoever was first to touch them. For a moment, it’s deadly silent in the room. Just when Giorno starts to worry that maybe they really have both killed each other after all, the door to the throne room bursts open. He quickly steps back into the shadows to avoid being seen.

Erina storms past without even noticing him. Her robes sweep behind her as she retreats down the hallway. Giorno doesn’t even have to look in the doorway to know that Dio is probably lounging on his throne, far too pleased with himself.

The remnants of the overheard conversation swirl around in Giorno’s mind, and before he can stop himself, his feet are taking him along the same hallway that Erina went, eager to chase after her for answers. 

While Dio may be in charge of the rest of the Underworld, Erina is the one who ensures that the House is running smoothly. All kinds of beings work in the House: zombies, vampires, even some shades who were so grateful to not be sent to Tartarus that they pledged their allegiance to Dio and Erina.

Technically for employees, the Lounge is the designated breakroom, and it isn’t uncommon to find everyone stopping by every so often for a drink. Giorno himself is allowed inside, but he’s never found a specific reason to. The wine served at the bar isn’t bad, but drinking it alone isn’t exactly preferable. The main benefit of the Lounge is that Dio never goes in. He says that he finds it unpleasant to converse there with his employees, so he leaves that area for Erina to manage, which she does so with an alarming amount of gusto.

She could have made Dio’s life eternally more difficult down here if she so chose — perhaps she had every right to. But Erina does not possess a mortal’s pridefulness, and her commitment to the Underworld and the House is absolute.

The Lounge is expansive, and shades fill the entire room, some at work and others simply relaxing. Small groups crowd around tables, fervently murmuring to each other with their heads tucked close together. Giorno gives them a wide berth as he passes, not wanting to interrupt. 

On the other side of the room is a bar, where shades perch on barstools with glasses of wine in their ghostlike hands. Dio insists that only the cheapest wine be served in the Lounge, adamant on keeping the most expensive casks for himself. A stone oven flickers merrily in the corner, and the head chef, Tonio, busily chops onions. He throws Giorno a cheerful wave. 

Erina stands at the center of the room, delegating tasks to the working shades. He'd expected her to be angrier, but she positively lights up when she sees him enter.

“Giorno!” she calls, waving him over. “How was your training with Bruno?”

“It went well.” He hesitates. His first instinct is to ask about what he just overheard, but he can’t do that without admitting that he’d been eavesdropping.

Erina hums. “Bruno was very happy about your progress in his last report, and your father and I were glad to hear it as well. I must say, I’m elated that you’ve taken to swordsmanship with such alacrity.”

Erina hides anger well; if Giorno hadn’t just heard Erina’s fight with Dio, then perhaps he wouldn’t have noticed it, but now it’s impossible to ignore. Her shoulders are stiff, and the corners of her mouth are tight. 

The desire for answers burns at the forefront of his mind, but concern for her prevails. “Erina, are you alright?” he asks hesitantly.

At his words, her practiced smile drops. “You heard that, didn’t you?”

It doesn’t even occur to him to lie. “Yes.”

“How much?”

“All of it,” Giorno admits.

Erina sighs. She waves a hand, immediately dismissing the employees who'd been so desperately trying to listen in, before beckoning Giorno out of the Lounge and into the corner of the hallway. 

Once they're completely alone, she speaks. "I told him this day would come," she says, more to herself than to him. “You have questions, I suppose?”

“Several,” says Giorno. He turns the words over in his mind, deciding on which to ask first. “You said that—that Padre is not my only father.”

Erina nods carefully. 

“Then, does that mean you’re not my real mother?”

She hesitates. “Not by birth, no,” she admits. "But please believe me when I say that you are my son in every way that counts. I've never thought of you as anything less."

It's ironic, her being the goddess of darkness. The dark isn't supposed to be comforting, but to Giorno, Erina has never felt like anything other than home.

"I know," Giorno says sincerely. "And no matter what happens, you will always be my mother, Erina."

She gives him a tremulous smile, smoothing her hand over his hair the way she used to when he was young. "Now, as for the matter of your parentage-"

Erina is cut off and Giorno watches, horrified, as she seems to gasp for air, the words getting caught in her throat. He makes a noise of alarm and moves to help her, but she just waves him away.

"Are you alright?" he asks once she's appeared to have caught her breath.

She has a dark look on her face. "I forgot about that," she mutters. "One of Dio's conditions for me to live here was that I could never speak to you about your parentage. My word wasn't enough for him, and he made me swear by the water of the Styx.”

Swearing on the Styx is an unbreakable oath; certainly not one to be taken lightly.

"Why? Why go to such lengths to hide this from me?"

Erina doesn’t meet his eyes. “That's something you'll have to take up with him."

“And you can’t tell me anything?”

“The oath was quite specific,” she says. “I can’t tell you anything that you don’t already know.”

"What I don't understand is why?” he asks, indignance coursing through him. Why would you stay here with him?"

"For you, of course," Erina says. "But beyond that..." she hesitates. "There are many things that you don't know about Dio; things I cannot speak about. I know it may seem difficult for you to understand, but he is not as cruel as he seems. For everything he's done, he had his reasons."

"He'll tell me about them himself." As he's leaving, Erina touches his shoulder, stopping him.

"Before you go, there's something you should know," Erina says. She looks as if she's choosing her words carefully. "That sword I gave you when you were young... it used to belong to a friend of mine."

Her voice is filled with nostalgia, and Giorno turns to face her. He has the impression that there's more to this story than he originally thought. 

"It's been a long time since I last saw him," she continues, meeting his eyes deliberately. With a start, he realizes that she must be talking about his father. Trust Erina to be able to find a workaround for her oath. "But he was my best friend. Selfless, kind, and so helpful."

"Was…is he a god?" Giorno asks.

Erina nods. "An Olympian."

"Where is he now?"

"I wish I knew," she says regretfully. “But what I do know is that if anyone can find him, it’s you.”

The throne room is by far the most elaborate room in the entire House of Dio. The shades that previously took cover to escape from Dio and Erina’s fight are now back, standing in a line that streams out the doorway and extends all the way back to the Pool of Styx, from where new shades emerge almost constantly. They wait patiently, mostly due to the large sign on the wall declaring that no fighting is allowed in the House. Giorno doesn’t even want to know what kind of shades had brought about that rule. 

He slips in the doorway beside the line, making his way to the front of the room. Normally, he would feel bad about cutting in front of line and interrupting the shades’ death process, but right now he can’t be bothered.

Dio’s throne is ornately crafted, with a large desk to match. The ridiculous feather quill he insists on using is curled between his fingers, and the large stack of paperwork on the desk is taller than he is, almost completely obscuring him from vision. The shade standing before him is visibly trembling as he recounts their life.

“Padre,” Giorno calls, marching toward Dio. “We need to talk.”

“Padre is busy right now,” Dio retorts, not even looking up from what he’s scribbling on the paper in front of him. 

Giorno refuses to be deterred. The shades in line glance back and forth between the two of them nervously. 

“Either we can talk,” he begins, “or I can start asking around about the matter of my parentage.”

Part of Giorno wishes that his father would show some kind of emotion, something that proves these accusations mean something to him. Instead, Dio looks like this conversation will be nothing more than an inconvenience to him. Waving a hand, he dismisses the grumbling shades in the line. 

“So, you found out, then? I assume you were eavesdropping at the door. Rather unbecoming behavior, but I suppose there’s no countering curiosity.”

“Were you ever planning on telling me?”

Dio leans back in his chair, giving Giorno a bored look. “Why would I?”

“You didn’t think I would want to know that I’ve been lied to my whole life? You didn’t think I would want to know about my father?”

Finally, the first sign of emotion cracks Dio’s emotionless mask and peeks through. “That man,” he spits, “is not your father. Trust me, my son. I, Dio, did you a favor by shielding you from this.”

Giorno stands firm. “That wasn’t your decision to make.”

Dio leans forward, eyes him with a strange look. “What is it that you want?”

“Answers. Who is he? Where is he?”

A smirk pulls at the corner of his father’s mouth. “I don’t know.”

“Erina said he’s an Olympian.”

Just as fast as it appeared, the smirk disappears. “Erina said that, did she?” Dio says, humming thoughtfully. “So she found a way around that oath of hers. What else did she tell you?”

Giorno watches his father closely for any sign of a reaction. “She said that no matter what you did, you had your reasons.”

Dio’s jaw tightens. “That was awfully generous of her.”

“You know where he is, don’t you?”

Dio scoffs.  “I, Dio, know everything.”

Giorno may not know everything, but he certainly knows his father better than most. Dio fancies himself a good liar, but only to people who don’t know him that well. 

“Is he in the Underworld?”

No reaction.

“On Olympus?”

Dio stretches out his hand, studying his nail polish with rapt attention. Giorno ruminates on any other possibility; once the answer hits him, he knows without a doubt that it’s the right one.

“The Surface?” he asks.

There. It’s almost unnoticeable, but Dio’s eyebrow jumps ever so slightly.

“My father is on the Surface,” Giorno repeats, more certain now.

Dio sneers. “I don’t see how it matters,” he says, gesturing to their surroundings. “You are of the Underworld, my son, as am I.”

“But he isn’t. That’s why he can live on the Surface, isn’t it?” he asks. 

Giorno narrows his eyes, thinking back to the mortal souls that climbed out of the Pool of Styx. They came from the Surface, did they not? If they came from the Surface to the Underworld, then why shouldn’t it be possible for him to go the other way?

“I’m going to find him,” he states.

“That’s rather bold of you,” Dio replies, “to so carelessly state your plans to me. I, Dio, am ruler of the Underworld. No one goes where I don’t wish them to.”

“Then I’ll be the first. If you’re the king of the Underworld, then I’m the prince, aren’t I? I may not have as much power as you do, but I am strong enough to get out of here.”

Dio meets Giorno’s gaze, looking down on him from the throne. His golden eyes are like mirrors as they catch the light and reflect it back brighter than before, making it impossible to look him full in the face — a reminder, perhaps, that Giorno is not his equal. 

“You think you can just walk out of here?” A laugh, rough and grating, forces its way out of his throat. “I have armies so fierce that mortals and immortals both tremble merely at the thought of them. The Underworld is a maze almost as ferocious as the Labyrinth of Daedalus. If my vampires do not tear you apart, then the chambers of my domain will cause you to lose your mind. Is that what you want, Giogio? Death?”

“What would you rather me do, Padre? Go back to pretending like my other father doesn’t exist?”

“I wouldn’t particularly mind if that were the case.” Dio drums his fingers against the desk once, twice, before he relents. “So be it. If you want a fight, then you shall have one.”

Giorno pauses. “So you’re letting me go?”

“We shall see how soon you change your mind.” With that, Dio goes back to his paperwork. “You know where the door is, I trust?”

Despite living most of his life in the Underworld, Giorno quickly realizes how little he actually knows about it.

He’s heard rumors passed around in hushed voices throughout the hallways of the various monstrosities that work under his father’s command. The Furies are at the top of the list: three feared beings each with their own unique terrifying methods of attack. However, even the lowliest of beings on the food chain down here are still formidable enemies. The claims around the House were that his father tends to prefer vampires — for what reason, Giorno isn’t quite sure.

As soon as Giorno steps out of the House, a chill runs through him. The lights and chatter from behind him is drowned out as soon as the heavy stone door slams shut behind him. The room that he finds himself in is tinged in green, and the walls are made of stone. A sinister atmosphere hangs in the air, almost oppressively. As a god, Giorno doesn’t need to breathe, and yet he finds himself struggling to get air into his lungs.

There’s nothing in this chamber, and yet Giorno walks forward hesitantly. It’s almost too quiet here. If there’s anything he knows about his father, it’s that Dio’s threats are anything but idle. He makes his way to the door at the other side of the chamber, which should open for him on its own, by his authority as Prince. No matter what Dio throws in his way, he won’t be able to stop that.

But the door doesn’t budge. Giorno hesitantly taps on it, but to no avail. If the door won’t open, then that means that something else is keeping it closed.

He turns, scanning the room. At first, he doesn’t see anything, but a shadow in the corner of the room makes him pause. It could just be a trick of the torchlight, but Giorno grips his sword anyway, steadying himself. 

A blur streaks toward him faster than he can blink. It’s only on pure instinct that Giorno raises his sword reflexively, thrusting the point forward. The blur, which turns out to be one of his father’s rumored vampires, jolts from the force of his blow. In the blink of an eye, the vampire simply dissolves, leaving the blade of Giorno’s sword streaked with blood. He sends up a silent thank you prayer to Bruno for insisting that he train so often.

Suppressing a disgusted wince, Giorno recalls the advice Erina had gifted him along with this sword.

“Treat the sword right,” she’d said, “and it will do the same to you.”

Balling up a corner of his robes in his hand, he swipes it across his sword, cleaning it of any blood. If his suspicions are correct, there will be more vampires up ahead, and this definitely won’t be the last time that his sword will taste blood. It’s more about the gesture — if the sword knows that he values it, then their bond will grow. Once it shines again, Giorno turns.

The door, which had previously been sealed shut, now glows softly when he approaches. 

It seems like in order to move on from each chamber, he simply has to defeat all the enemies within. There’s nowhere else to go but forward, so Giorno proceeds through. 

It’s only been a few moments since he’s left the House, and it’s quickly becoming apparent that Dio’s promise to stop him was not at all an empty threat. Hordes of vampires make their way towards him as soon as they see him. Giorno’s grip on his sword tightens in response. He hadn’t realized how different live targets would be than Bruno, who never had any intention of hurting him during their training. 

His sword cuts through the vampires easily enough. For a moment, he feels a bit of guilt at easily snuffing the life from them, but then his teachings come back to him. The Underworld is the one place where death is only temporary. These vampires that he’s killing will simply be reborn in the Pool of Styx in his father’s palace. 

Briefly, he wonders what that must feel like, to be slain and formed anew, to be yanked through space back to the place that he is from.

He figures out the answer all too quickly.

Giorno does his best to take on the vampires, but he’s quickly outnumbered by the masses. It only takes one to catch him off guard. It sneaks up behind him. Before he has the chance to turn, its nails dig into his throat just under his skin, and he feels the unpleasant sensation of blood being sucked out of him.

Exhaustion sneaks up on him, and his vision grows fuzzier by the second. His knees buckle, and the last thing he sees is the remaining vampires descending eagerly upon his tired form.

Chapter Text

Giorno has walked by the Pool of Styx countless times — even having gone as far as sticking his hand in it as a child — but this is the first time he’s had the unpleasant experience of climbing out of it.

He doesn’t have the feeling of falling into the Pool; it’s more as if he simply appeared in it fully submerged in the span of an instant. The blood red water feels like nothing, neither cool nor hot to the touch. Water weighs down his robes and drips down his back, pooling beneath his feet on his father’s priceless rugs.

Slowly, Giorno raises a hand to his neck, searching for the wounds the vampires left, but his fingers feel no puncture wounds, no holes digging into his veins, no stray drops of blood. The only thing he can feel is smooth, unmarked skin, with the exception of the raised portion of his star-shaped birthmark. Even the pain from the wound has disappeared, fading away until it’s nothing more than an unpleasant memory. 

It’s unclear how long it has been since he left — time works strange here in the Underworld, and immortal beings have the added benefit of not aging, so it’s not something that anyone ever keeps track of.  Part of him expected the House to look…different, at least a little bit, but it looks the same as always. 

The only reaction he gets is a few confused looks from the shades. A handful of them whisper to each other at his sudden appearance. Bruno always used to say that gossip travels through the House faster than anything; Giorno imagines that it won’t take any time at all for him and his excursions to become the new topic of conversation.

Movement behind him catches his eye, and he turns to find a shade climbing out of the pool behind him. The shade’s appearance is diaphanous, as they always are before they’ve officially checked in with his father. 

“Hey, out of the way—“ the shade starts to say in a thin voice. Abruptly, they cut themself off as their eyes fall on the wreath resting atop Giorno’s head. Apparently, even new shades have heard of him. The thought is strangely flattering.

“Forgive me,” the shade murmurs, bowing low to the ground. “I didn’t know it was you, Your Highness.”

Giorno draws himself up to his full height, trying his best to look dignified even while dripping wet. “It’s alright,” he says, waving the shade away.

He squeezes as much water as possible out of his braid before tossing it over his shoulder. Cautiously, he eyes the hallway in front of him. In order to go back to the exit, he’ll have to pass by the throne room. With any luck, his father won’t be there. Giorno doesn’t know much about his duties, but official business often takes him outside of the House to other parts of the Underworld.

Unfortunately, luck seems to evade Giorno once again.

Dio lounges at his resplendent desk like before. He’s pushed aside the large piles of paperwork in front of him in favor of touching up his lipstick in a small mirror clutched in his hand. Giorno doesn’t quite blame him. New hoards of dead come through almost every day, and cataloguing them is an endless task that stretches on forever. 

Mortal lives are alarmingly fragile. Then again, at the speed with which he was just taken down, he could say the same about his own.

Rubbing his lips together, Dio looks up at Giorno’s arrival. “Ah, here he comes,” Dio purrs, far too amused. “How was your little excursion, my son? I heard you couldn’t make it out of Tartarus.”

Of course his father’s lackeys would be out there keeping an eye on him.

Giorno steels himself. “I’ll do better next time,” he says, though he isn’t sure if he’s convincing himself or the god before him.

“Next time?” his father asks, raising an eyebrow condescendingly. “You aren’t intending to give up this ridiculous little idea of yours?”

“Not quite. After all, Padre, you went to all that effort to stop me, didn’t you? What kind of son would I be to simply let that all go to waste?”

Dio makes a conflicted face, as if he isn’t sure whether to praise or scold Giorno. “How kind of you, Giogio,” he says. “I hope you’ve brushed up on your manners. There are lots of my minions who just can’t wait to fight with you out there, and I wouldn’t want you to be rude to them.”

“Not at all, I’d be honored to meet them.”

Their gazes meet, the same cold determination reflected back on both of their faces. In an instant, it’s broken, and Dio turns his attention back to the mirror in his hand.

“I’ll have one of the shades put some towels out for you,” says Dio casually. “It can’t be comfortable to climb out of the Pool of Styx, and I’d rather you didn’t drip quite so much.” The end of his sentence takes on a distasteful tone. 

Next time, Giorno might accidentally drop one of his father’s rugs in the Pool. Sidestepping the line of shades, he exits the throne room. Perhaps it would do him better to talk to someone who isn’t actively trying to hinder his attempts at escape.

He finds Erina outside her chambers, and she brightens upon seeing him.

“How did it go?”

Giorno lets out a heavy sigh. “Not great,” he admits. “The vampires…” 

“I thought as much,” she replies. “Dio’s minions are plentiful. That’s why I took the liberty of getting some help for you.”

“Help?” Giorno frowns. Who would be willing to go against his father to help him?

“I sent a message to the Olympians.”

“The Olympians? Why would they help me?”

Erina wrings her hands. “They’re your relatives on your father’s side. They aren’t too fond of Dio, unfortunately — there’s always been bad blood between them. But I called in a favor. I didn’t tell them too much, just that you’re trying to escape the Underworld. They offered their help.”

“They did?”

“Our family has been separated for much too long. They might not admit it, but everyone wants the same thing — to see it whole again.” Her expression turns mischievous. “Well, that and something else. All I had to say was that Dio wasn’t a fan of this idea, and all the Olympians were suddenly on board. They’ll take any chance to fight, I swear,” she says, shaking her head affectionately.

“Anything I should know about them?”

“They’re really very nice,” says Erina. “Just give them a chance. And, er, do your best not to insult them, all right? Some of their tempers can be…well, explosive would be putting it mildly.”

Giorno nods, digesting this new information. “Erina, thank you. Truly.”

She reaches out, straightening his headpiece fondly. “Thank me by making it out of here.”

As he exits the House again, he braces himself to be greeted by more vampires. He isn’t expecting to see an Olympian waiting for him, especially not so soon after talking to Erina. 

The man — the god — before him is enormous, easily as tall as Dio. Giorno’s spent his whole life seeing Dio as the largest god around. Now, seeing someone who easily rivals his size is more than a bit alarming. Raw power radiates off of him, an aura of strength.

The god’s muscles bulge with every movement, and he kicks off the wall he was previously leaning against once he sees Giorno approach, grinning broadly.

“Hi, there!” He bounds over, his striped scarf flowing behind him, and he puts his hands on his knees, leaning down to meet Giorno’s eyes. “You’re Dio’s kid, right?”

“That’s me,” Giorno confirms hesitantly. “I’m Giorno.”

If possible, the man’s grin gets even wider. “I’m your Uncle Joseph! Heard you’re looking for old Jonathan, so I’m here to lend you a hand.”

Giorno’s lips shape the syllables of the name carefully, committing it to memory. His father, the same man that Erina had called Jojo — his name is Jonathan.

“Erina’s your mom, right?”

Giorno simply nods. No need to explain his complicated family to this man, especially when he himself isn’t all too familiar with the exact details.

“She took care of me for a while when I was little,” Joseph continues. “I got a message from her, asking me to come help you out a little. And you know Erina! She’s one goddess I wouldn’t want to be on the bad side of, but I’m sure you know all about that. She’s scary when she’s mad.” He breaks off, shuddering exaggeratedly.

For a moment, Giorno is confused. Kind, sweet Erina, scary? But then he thinks back to how she sounded when she was fighting with Dio. and suddenly Giorno knows exactly what this man is talking about. 

Joseph extends out a hand. “Well, what are you waiting for? Grab on and I’ll have you out of here in the blink of an eye!”

Stiffening, Giorno takes a step back. Erina had told him not to offend any of the Olympians, but there’s no way he’ll be taking Joseph up on his offer. “I mean no disrespect,” he says, “but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.”

“Oh?” Joseph doesn’t look mad, merely curious. “Why’s that?”

“This is my fight. I have to do this alone.”

Joseph slowly lowers his hand. There’s an unreadable look on his face, but his eyes glint with something that looks unmistakably like pride. Giorno gets the strange feeling he’s passed a test of some sort.

“Well, that’s a relief! I was kind of hoping you’d say that,” says Joseph. “See, the thing about the Underworld is, I’m not really allowed to be here. The last thing we want is to start any wars between us and your old man. Erina lent me some of her power so I could come in undetected, but I can’t interfere with anything physically.” He gestures around them. “Can’t kill anything down here, and I can’t touch you.” To demonstrate, he steps closer, attempting to touch Giorno. Instead of making contact, his hand simply phases through Giorno’s, as if made of mist. 

“So then,” Giorno begins carefully, “what are you doing here?”

“Well,” Joseph says, “I may not be able to do much, but what I can do is lend you some of my power. And this is a gift, so no refusing!”

Truthfully, Giorno appreciates the gesture. The vampires had previously overwhelmed him much quicker than expected, and the lack of his own power rears its head ostentatiously. Without it, there’s only so far he’ll be able to get, and that won’t be anywhere near the Surface. 

“Thank you,” Giorno says, the words fighting not to get caught in his throat, “but I’m afraid I still don’t quite understand. Why would you risk yourself to help me?”

Joseph frowns at him, looking confused. “What do you mean? We’re family, aren’t we?”

Family. The word runs through Giorno’s mind, distorting itself. Joseph had referred to himself as Giorno’s uncle, hadn’t he? And they’d never even met before. Was the simple fact they were related enough for Joseph to sneak his way in here, just to help some nephew he’d never met?

“Alright, here it comes,” Joseph says, holding his hands up. “Brace yourself, kid.”

Before Giorno even has time to blink, a flash of purple light erupts from Joseph’s palms, heading straight for him. It washes over him, bathing him in a feeling of warmth and security. A clump of purple vines has wrapped itself around his sword. They look dangerous, covered in sharp thorns, but when he tries to touch one it doesn’t hurt at all.

“My power’s called Hermit Purple,” Joseph says, a touch of pride tinging his voice. “It’s got the ability to divine information. With that, you’ll be able to see enemies’ attacks before they happen. It’s not much of an advantage, but it should give you a split second to react.”

Giorno nods at him gratefully, before glancing around the chamber hesitantly. “The vampires…” he begins, finding the chamber completely empty. 

“Ah, yeah, you’re safe from them here,” Joseph says. “Even though I’m not exactly physically here, my aura’s still strong enough to ward them off. They should still be in the chambers beyond this one though. A moment of safety is all I can offer you, unfortunately.”

“And your power,” Giorno says. “This is…I can’t thank you enough.”

Joseph brushes him off good-naturedly. “Thank me by getting out of this place! It’s creepy — how do you even live here?”

Unconsciously, Giorno smiles at hearing the same words Erina had told him earlier. Immortality comes with many things; it’s still a bit difficult to think about Erina and how old she actually is, not to mention her powers. If she has the power to shield an Olympian from Dio’s detection, then he truly doesn’t even know the half of her abilities. 

Giorno bows his head in gratitude. “I suppose I should be going now.”

Joseph nods. “Good luck, little nephew! Don’t forget, I’m with you every step of the way! Well, unless things go wrong and you die. In that case, you’re on your own!”

A flash of light blazes through the chamber, and once it dies down reveals that Joseph has disappeared. Giving the thorns another long look, he proceeds to the next chamber.

Hermit Purple turns out to be just the edge that Giorno needs to make it past the vampires. His reflexes are sharp from training, and this power serves to supplement that strength. The visions that Joseph’s power brings are like nothing Giorno’s ever experienced before. A premonition sits in the back of his mind, and he hears a small voice in his head telling him to duck or roll out of the way. Each time he does as told and turns to see a vampire behind him whose claws have narrowly missed sinking into his neck. His reaction time is fast enough that he’s able to duck and take out the vampires before they are able to dodge.

His trust for the Olympians grows. Giorno isn’t stupid, he knows what a fragile state he’s in currently, both emotionally and physically. It would have been easy for Joseph to feed him lies, to give him a power that would actively hinder his escape attempts. However, instead he offered the truest show of generosity that Giorno’s ever experienced in his life. Not for the first time, he questions his father’s opinions and stories of the Olympians. 

Although he has to wonder — the bitterness with which Dio speaks of the Olympians seems personal. If the Olympians are Jonathan’s family, then it serves to prove that perhaps Dio’s animosity is not truly with them, but with Jonathan. What would cause that kind of hatred? And more than that, why exactly did Jonathan leave the Underworld? What would make him leave behind his home, as well as his son?

The need for answers burns at the forefront of Giorno’s mind, and he cuts through the hordes of vampires with ease, his only goal in each room the chamber door in front of him. 

With Giorno’s newfound power, he can’t quite tell if the vampires have increased in number or not. Clearing each chamber is easier than before but still, he isn’t used to fighting this much. He might be immortal, but a god can certainly get tired. With each swing of his sword, fatigue builds up in his muscles. His reaction time to Hermit Purple’s commands is getting slower. The most he’s offered is a few seconds’ break in each chamber once it’s empty, but he can’t stay still for long. Each time he tries, he can’t stop himself from wanting to keep moving forward, to see just how far he can make his way out.

For the first time, though, he’s gotten far enough that he can actually see the secrets of the Underworld that Bruno taught him when he was little. The ever-shifting chambers of the Underworld are here in action. It’s clear that the chambers Giorno finds himself in this time are different than the ones before his last death. 

The layouts of each chamber look different, only the slightest bit. The formation of the walls, the shape of the room, the location of the torches — they all seem like they’ve shifted. 

Every chamber follows the same routine. The moment that he comes in through the chamber door, it slams shut behind him, echoing through the small room. Groups of vampires turn at the sound, setting their sights on him. Once they’ve all been disposed of, Giorno heads for the exit, venturing into the next chamber. 

Occasionally, he’ll find a chamber that has two exits, a proverbial fork in the road. The two exits always look identical, and if the chambers are always shifting around, then he supposes it doesn’t make much difference as to which one he chooses. Still, he can’t shake the thought that each choice he makes is the wrong one.

Maybe this is another one of his father’s attempts to stop him, to psych him out enough to come sulking home with his tail between his legs.

Dio has ways of watching over the Underworld from the comfort of the House — maybe he’s watching Giorno right now. The thought gives Giorno extra strength, and he continues pushing onward.

Although Hermit Purple allows him a split-second advantage, the vampires are so great in number that it cannot warn him of all of their presence. It seems to prioritize the ones that are closest to killing him. From each fight, he walks away alive, but not unharmed. His skin is covered with wounds and scratches that sting each time he moves. Each time he raises his sword, it is harder than the last, and his muscles groan in protest. His robes, previously so crisp and pristine, are now torn almost to ribbons and streaked with blood — both his and the vampires’.

With each chamber that he clears, his mood never falls. The number of wounds that he’s accumulated is going up, yes, but he’s also getting closer and closer to the Surface. He doesn’t know if it’s just wishful thinking, but in each room, the atmosphere seems different, as if he’s actually heading up one chamber at a time.

Finally, he arrives at a chamber door that looks a bit different than all the others. The other exits were just a heavy block of stone that slid open when he approached. This one glows faintly — the opponent behind this door must be stronger than the others thus far.

Dio’s promise had to show its face at some point, he supposes. The opponents so far have been tough, but they have been nothing but vampires. At his disposal, his father has no shortage of opponents for Giorno, from the wretches of Tartarus to the famed enemies of legend. Giorno holds out a hand in front of the door, which intensifies in its glow ever so slightly, recognizing his status as he stands before it. It slides open, the sound echoing through the empty chamber.

He musters up what’s left of his courage before entering the newly open chamber before him.

As the heavy stone door slams shut behind him, Giorno braces himself for another deadly encounter. Instead of a room full of vampires, he finds himself face to face with someone that he’s only heard about through feared whispers. 

The figure — the man — before him looks terrifying. Red eyes study Giorno, shining in the torchlight. A pair of brightly colored wings extend from his back; they’re streaked with blues and purples so bright that they seem to be warning Giorno away. Gold bracelets hang from his wrist, surprisingly ornate considering the rest of his appearance. Dark brown curls fall onto his forehead, and he smiles at Giorno, exposing sharp pointed fangs in a surprisingly boyish grin.

There’s no doubt in Giorno’s mind: this is one of the infamous Furies.

“Hi, there,“ he says. “So, you’re Prince Giorno, right? I just wanna confirm. I’d hate to kill the wrong person.”

“That’s me,” says Giorno. “And you must be one of the Furies.”

“Yep! I’m Mista, the oldest,” he says. “That sounds cool, but it just means that I get all the annoying jobs.”

Giorno doesn’t know whether or not he should be offended by that.

“I mean, not that fighting you is annoying or anything,” Mista rushes to say. “When I got this job, I was excited to, you know, meet you and stuff.”

“You were?”

“You’re practically a celebrity down here, boss! Everyone’s been talking about you and your escape attempts.”

The nickname catches Giorno’s attention; it’s unusual. As they talk, Giorno doesn’t let his guard down for even a second, but Mista seems to have no such stipulations. He grabs something, an oddly shaped device, from where it’s slung around his waist and begins spinning it around idly.

“What is that?” Giorno asks.

Mista follows his gaze. “Oh, this?” He steps closer. Giorno stiffens automatically, but the Fury isn’t trying to attack. At least, not yet. “It’s my weapon! Pretty cool, right?”

Giorno thinks back to all that he’d heard about the eldest Fury brother, both from Bruno and from gossip among the shades in the House. “I thought your weapon was a whip,” he says.

Mista nods. “Yeah, it used to be,” he says. “Then once, I was talking to this one mortal shade that I was punishing — he was a pretty cool dude, wonder where he is now — and he was telling me about these new weapons that humans made. They’re called ‘guns’, apparently. He was going on and on about how cool they were, so I asked him to describe one to me.” Mista flips the gun in his hand for emphasis. “I think it suits me more than the whip.”

Agreeing might put him on Mista’s good side, but Giorno has bigger concerns than whether or not the Fury’s weapon suits him — namely, staying out of range of said weapon.

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance that you would let me pass?”

“Sorry, boss,” says Mista. To his credit, he does look apologetic. “Orders from Lord Dio are that I’m supposed to either kill you or die trying.”

“It doesn’t sound like your employer cares about you very much,” Giorno says. 

“Personally, I’m trying to stay on his good side for as long as I can,” says Mista. “You didn’t hear it from me, but the Underworld job market is kind of hell.”

As soon as the words have left his mouth, he strikes.

The Furies are whispered about, certainly, but nobody has spoken about their specific methods of attack. The few who have seen it didn’t live to tell the tale. Raising his sword cautiously, Giorno stands with his back to the wall. He won’t let Mista sneak up from behind him.

The wings on Mista’s back beat ferociously as he rushes toward him. Despite their size, they seem extremely adept at speed. Each time Giorno raises his sword, the Fury darts out of the way in no more than the blink of an eye. He doesn’t seem to be attacking, oddly enough; he stays frustratingly out of reach, far beyond the range of Giorno’s sword.

Hermit Purple, which has been strangely silent thus far, shouts a warning in Giorno’s head. The contraption in Mista’s hand is pointed right at him, and Giorno prepares to duck out of the way. It shoots some kind of small bullet at him at high speed, and Giorno’s just dodged out of the way when a stinging pain erupts in his chest. The gun shot out multiple bullets, not just one. Hermit Purple only warned him about the first one.

Dizzyingly, Giorno stumbles and drops to his knees. The bullet is small but no less dangerous than a blade. He presses a hand to his wound; it comes away covered in blood. The adrenaline coursing through him makes the pain bearable, but the wound is no doubt worse than it looks. Already the corners of his vision are getting blurry, and each breath he takes is shallower than the last. 

The last thing he hears is Mista’s voice. “Come back soon, alright boss? This job can get kinda lonely sometimes.”

The most that Giorno can manage in response is a weak chuckle before the waters of the Styx claim him once again.

Chapter Text

The moment he awakens in the Pool, he immediately proceeds back to the exit. Both Dio and Erina must be otherwise occupied, as they’re nowhere to be seen. Just as well — he’s not in the mood to stop for a chat. In a matter of seconds, he’s out of the House and in Tartarus once again.

The ever-changing chambers of the Underworld never cease to surprise him. Giorno wonders how anyone ever makes their way through, but then perishes the thought. He’s probably the only one who’s ever tried. His father, along with all those who work for him, has the ability to simply teleport to any location in the Underworld that he wishes. Giorno, unfortunately, was never granted the same privilege, as he never had any reason to leave the House. And if he didn’t already have it, there’s no way that Dio would let that power fall into his hands anytime soon.

As he fights his way through, the hordes of vampires are no problem, but the absence of Hermit Purple’s voice in his head is conspicuous. Giorno laments the loss, but it doesn’t affect his gratitude in the slightest.

By now, he’s settled into a routine once again, and he enters the next chamber with his sword already raised. No vampires rush out to receive him, to his suspicion.

Giorno scans the room apprehensively. From what he can see, the room’s only occupant seems to be a shade at the side near the wall. He’s seated on the ground, back resting against a giant boulder.

Shades are sent to other parts of the Underworld after checking in with his father, but most mortals end up in Elysium. Shades in Tartarus are usually given Dio’s most creative punishments, and only the truly evil mortals end up here.

The shade turns to look at him, swiping a lock of vibrant pink hair out of his face. Giorno tenses in anticipation but, to his surprise, the shade merely gives him a wide grin.

“Hi, there!” he chirps, springing to his feet. “Oh, wow, you’re the prince, aren’t you?”

Giorno can’t manage much more than a startled nod in response, attention caught by something else. Now that the shade is standing, Giorno sees that a chain is wrapped around his foot tightly, with spikes digging into his ankle. The other end tethers him to the boulder.

“I’m Doppio,” the shade continues. “Come, sit down, please! Sorry I don’t have much to offer, but I don’t really get visitors out here often.”

“Please, don’t worry about it,” Giorno says. The shade doesn’t seem like a threat, and it would be rude to not take him up on his offer. He walks over and slides down to the floor opposite Doppio.

As he does, he has to suppress a wince, and he clutches his side. He hadn’t noticed it earlier, but now that he has a moment of respite, a stab of pain shoots through him. One of the vampires must have grazed his side with its claws. 

Following his gaze, Doppio blinks in surprise. “Oh, you’re bleeding.” Before Giorno can even speak, he turns to grab something behind the boulder, and emerges with a bottle of Nectar in hand. “Here,” he says, holding it out.

Giorno recoils. “I can’t take that from you.” Nectar is incredibly difficult to come by, even for those in the House. Outside of the large quantities that Dio keeps for himself, it’s scarce, reserved for the gods — Giorno himself has only tasted it a handful of times. It must have been infinitely more difficult for this shade to find some, even more so for him to willingly offer it to a stranger like this.

“But you’re hurt, and you’re the prince,” Doppio protests. “Don’t worry about me, I can always get more. Besides, I heard about what you’re doing!”

“You did?”

Doppio nods. “Gossip travels fast around here. Shades, vampires, even the Furies — no one’s immune to it.”

“Then you know why I’m trying to leave?”

The shade looks a bit sheepish. “Ah, yeah, trying to find your other dad, right? I wish I knew something about him; I’d tell you for sure!” Doppio leans in eagerly. “Personally, I think you can do it. I’m rooting for you!”

“Thank you,” Giorno says after a moment. It’s unequivocal that this shade is being punished for something that he did in life. Dio doesn’t shy away from punishing sinners, and his punishments are usually legendary for their cruelty. This shade, however, is so positive that it almost hurts. 

The sound of the chain echoes through the chamber again. 

“Doppio,” Giorno begins cautiously. Erina had said that death was a sensitive topic for some mortals, and the afterlife is tied into that. Bringing it up might not be the best idea, but he can’t let Doppio’s generosity go unreturned. “You’ve done so much for me. I’d like to repay you if I can.”

Even before he’s finished his sentence, Doppio is already shaking his head. “Oh, no, your Highness. I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that.”

“You aren’t asking, I’m offering,” he persists. “Your stay here in Tartarus, it’s eternal, right? What if I could get you out of here?”

Doppio thinks about it for a moment before shaking his head gently, a smile on his face. “No, thank you, your Highness,” he says. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it. But…I wasn’t a good person during my time in life. This is my way of atoning for it.” He sees the look on Giorno’s face. “It’s not so bad! From what I’ve heard, this is actually one of Lord Dio’s tamer punishments.”

“That, I don’t doubt,” Giorno says. 

“And besides, this punishment reminds me that I don’t have to be the same way that I was on the Surface,” Doppio continues. “The afterlife is eternal. I’m not locked into being the same person I once was.”

Giorno nods, absorbing the shade’s explanation. He may not be familiar with the exact specifics of Doppio’s words, but it doesn’t escape him how admirable the shade truly is. Despite Doppio’s words, Giorno makes a mental note to check on the shade’s case when he next gets back to the House. There must be something he can do for him — this kindness will not go unreturned.  

As soon as Giorno steps through the door, a scathing female voice rings out through the room, instantly putting him on his guard.

“Took you long enough.”

Giorno whips around in search of a threat. Instead, he finds a goddess. He doesn’t know if that’s preferable or not. 

The power that radiates off of her is different than that of Joseph’s. It doesn’t feel as overt, but more like a viper, sitting just beneath the surface, waiting for a chance to strike. She clears her throat irritably, reminding him that he hasn’t responded to her.

“Sorry?”

She doesn’t even bother to look up at him. Instead, she leans against the wall, inspecting her nails which, like the rest of her appearance, are flawless. She couldn’t look more out of place in the dark gloomy depths of Tartarus, and yet she doesn’t look like the location bothers her at all. 

Giorno steps closer hesitantly and resists the urge to flinch when the woman’s gaze finally lands on him. She eyes him conspicuously, spending extra time on his hair and clothes. 

“Personally, I wouldn’t have chosen robes with that much vampire blood on them, but I guess that’s just me.”

Giorno is fairly sure that he’s struck speechless.

“Actually,” she continues, “it’s a Fury you’re after, isn’t it? Maybe he’s into that kind of thing.”

“Um,” Giorno says, finally having recovered enough to speak actual words. “Did Erina send you?”

“Please,” she says, waving a hand at him flippantly. “Nobody tells me anything. I hear about it. The prince of the Underworld, fighting his way out to find his missing father? Right now, you’re all the rage on Olympus. Though, from what I hear, you’ve been fighting some distractions on your way.”

That, combined with her earlier line about Mista, finally jolts something in Giorno’s head. “You’re the goddess of love,” he breathes.

She inclines her head, looking pleased to be recognized. “You can call me Trish,” she says. 

“My apologies, but how exactly are we related?” 

“We aren’t,” Trish says shortly. “I’m not technically an Olympian if that’s what you mean. I’ve just solved enough of their idiotic love problems that I’m kind of an honorary member of the family at this point.”

“And…you’re here to help me?”

“In a way.” 

Walking closer, she waves a hand over him. At first, it doesn’t feel like anything has changed. However, once he looks down, his royal robes are back to their original impeccable state, all traces of blood and grime gone. Raising a hand to his head, he finds his hair is perfectly braided back and out of his face.

“Thank you,” he says, attempting to hide his confusion. All gods are eccentric in their own way, but at least Joseph was straightforward. It’s anyone’s guess what Trish’s intentions are. 

“Don’t thank me yet,” she says, crossing her arms. “I don’t know how all the other gods can stand watching you fight your way through here all the time.”

Giorno stays silent. From what he can see, her moods seem to be a bit volatile, and the last thing he wants is to get on her bad side. He’s no stranger to capriciousness, especially not after having grown up with Dio, but at least his father is a known evil.

“Honestly, watching you and that Fury dance around each other is making me want to throw something. I almost chipped a nail during your last fight.”

“Hold on a moment,” Giorno sputters. “Mista? What do you mean ‘dancing around each other’?” 

Trish doesn’t respond. She merely studies Giorno, a knowing gleam in her eyes. 

In the following uncomfortable silence, Giorno continues to ramble. “Besides, Mista works for my father. We’re hardly even friends — he’s just an obstacle in my path.”

Trish rests her chin in her palm. “You really are an Olympian, aren’t you?”

Of all the things Giorno expected her to say, that wasn’t on the list. 

“Lucky for you, idiots in love are my specialty. And after dealing with most of your family, you should be no trouble at all.”

Giorno doesn’t even have time to absorb this new information. “Wait, are you saying you’re here to help me with Mista?”

“Isn’t that what you want?” she asks, tilting her head to the side. Giorno has the feeling that her question is supposed to be rhetorical. 

“I want to get out of the Underworld,” he says, frowning. “I want to reach the surface. I want to meet my father.”

“Seems to me like there are some elements missing on that list of yours. Besides, there might just be a way for you to get everything that you want.”

“Really? How?”

Instead of answering, she puts her hands together. Similar to what Joseph did, a flash of pink light erupts from Trish’s palms. Giorno looks down at his sword, expecting to see something like Hermit Purple wrapped around it, but there’s nothing there. “What did you do?” he asks.

Trish pulls a hairclip out of her hair, twirling it between her fingers. Quick as a flash, she flicks it at Giorno. If her visit to the Underworld is anything like Joseph’s, she can’t touch him. Her hairclip, though, he’s not so sure about. He makes to dodge out of the way, but the hairclip reaches him before he can. To his surprise, as soon as it comes near him, the air in front of him shimmers and turns pink, thickening into what looks like a shield of some kind. The clip bounces off of it and falls to the ground, leaving him untouched. 

“My power is called Spice Girl,” Trish explains. “It will soften projectiles, like arrows or bullets, which if I’m not mistaken, are your Fury’s weapon of choice.”

She doesn’t even wait for any kind of thanks, immediately turning to leave.

“Trish,” Giorno calls, stopping her. Though she may be cryptic, there's one question that refuses to leave his mind — one that the goddess of love is best suited to answer. “May I ask you something?”

She turns her head back toward him in acknowledgment. 

“My parents—“ he breaks off, not knowing how to word the question. “Dio does not wish to speak of Jonathan any longer. But they lived together at one point, did they not?”

Trish fixes him with an irritated glare. “You know they did,” she says. “And I know you’re not trying to waste both of our time by asking things that you already know. So what is it that you’re really asking?”

Giorno inclines his head in apology. “My fathers…were they in love?”

She studies him for a moment. “Yes,” she says eventually.

“Then why did Jonathan leave? And why does Dio hate him so much?”

Trish clicks her tongue, a sound that immediately makes him think he’s gotten something wrong. “I don’t know why Jonathan left,” she says, in a voice softer than he’s heard her speak in yet. Frankly, he hadn’t thought she was capable of it. “But the second question, well, that’s easy enough.”

“It is?”

“Your father refuses to speak of Jonathan not because he hates him, but because he still loves him.”

Giorno fights through numerous chambers of vampires, more so than before. The power that Trish had so generously bestowed upon him doesn’t offer any help with these enemies, as they don’t fire any projectiles at him. Far be it for him to question her judgment, though. He’s on his guard, even more so than usual, and by the time he fights his way through the chambers, he’s about to drop from exhaustion. He allows himself to sit down for just a moment’s rest before proceeding further.

Finally, he makes it to the now-familiar chamber that Mista resides in. When he enters, Mista is lounging against the wall, tossing his gun from hand to hand. 

“Hey, you’re back!” he says, lighting up upon spotting Giorno. He straightens up, clearing his throat. “I mean, uh, you’re back,” he says, deepening his voice the slightest bit. “You won’t get past me, Prince of the Underworld. Time for you to die again.”

Mista pauses, but he doesn’t attack yet. He’s looking at Giorno as if he’s waiting for a response.

“How was that?” he says after a moment. “Did I sound good? All official?”

“I suppose so,” Giorno says, taken aback. “You sounded quite…menacing.”

“Oh, good,” Mista says, flashing him a smile that is very much the opposite of menacing. “You ready to fight?”

“I don’t suppose we could skip that part this time?” Giorno asks. He already knows what the answer will be, but he figures it couldn’t hurt to ask.

“Wish I could,” Mista replies, and to his credit, he sounds like he means it. “But word around here is that your old man’s been on the warpath lately, and trust me, the last thing I wanna do is piss him off even more.”

“Well, I guess you’re right,” Giorno acquiesces. Even normally, Dio isn’t exactly the most pleasant god to be around. Some of his disappointment must show through on his face, for Mista looks conflicted.

“Okay, how about this?” he asks, looking around the chamber as if to make sure that no one will overhear. They’re the only two in the chamber, but Giorno chooses not to mention that particular point. “What do you say to me giving you a head start?”

“What?” Giorno asks, genuinely surprised. The Olympians had shown him kindness, but they are his family. Trish had also helped, in her own specific way, but clearly, she had some kind of ulterior motive in mind. Mista, though, is against him. Giorno wouldn’t call him an enemy, exactly, but he’s certainly an opponent. He has made it very clear where his loyalties lie, and Giorno can’t fault him for that. “If this is out of some kind of pity, then rest assured—“

“It’s not,” Mista insists, holding up his hands. 

“Then why? You just said you’re trying to avoid angering my father, so why would you risk doing exactly that when you don’t gain anything in the process?”

Mista runs a hand through his already messy hair. “Look, it’s just…I don’t know exactly how to say this. You know about my family, right?”

Giorno nods. “Your brothers?”

“Yeah. We’ve been through a lot together, and it’s always been just the three of us. We never knew our parents, and we never really cared, I guess. We’ve been happy, without having anyone else.”

Giorno watches him carefully. “Why are you telling me this?” he asks finally.

“Because I heard about what you’re trying to do,” Mista says. “Lord Dio didn’t really give me any specifics — just that I had to do anything I could to stop you from proceeding out of the Underworld.”

“That sounds kind of tame for him,” Giorno remarks.

Mista cracks a grin. “Actually, his version had a lot more threats, but I took those out. But then I heard about the real reason you’re heading out of here, to find your dad. And I started thinking, y’know? What if I was separated from one of my brothers?”

“What would you do?”

“Probably exactly what you’re doing right now.”

Giorno pauses. “Who told you? Why I’m getting out of here, I mean.”

Mista suddenly looks bashful. “You know the mortal, Buccellati? The one that was the strongest hero on Earth?”

He allows himself a small smile. “I’m familiar with him, yes.”

“My brothers and I used to watch his exploits when he was alive,” Mista says. “We were never allowed to talk to him back then, and even though he’s got a job at the House too, our paths never cross that much.”

“And he told you about my father? About Jonathan, I mean.”

“Not just me,” Mista says, shaking his head. “He told pretty much everybody. At the last employee meeting, he waited until Lord Dio was gone and told us the whole story. He must really care about you.”

“He does,” Giorno says, allowing himself a small smile. “So everyone wants to help me?”

Mista pulls a face. “Well, not everyone. Some people take their jobs more seriously than others.” He pulls out his gun, flipping it around in his hand. “Which is probably what I should be doing now.”

“Well, I thank you for the consideration,” says Giorno, “but if we are going to fight, I would prefer it to be a fair one.” 

The Fury’s courtesy is not shocking exactly, but definitely a welcome surprise. The Olympians, Furies, even shades like Doppio — encouragement from every corner is being sent his way.

Mista looks like he wants to argue, but he relents. “Alright,” he says. “You’re the boss here.” 

As Mista points the gun at him, Giorno’s first instinct is to duck out of the way. He knows what those bullets feel like tearing through his chest, and he has no wish to experience that again. However, he stops himself from doing so. Even now, when he’s out of combat, Trish’s power still shimmers lightly in his vision, and the knowledge that he has it hasn’t left his mind. Trish had done him a great service by offering him use of her power. The least he could do is have faith in her abilities.

“What’s this?” Mista asks, the previous jovial look on his face replaced by one that’s cold and calculated. If nothing else, Giorno respects the dedication he puts into his job. Trish’s earlier words echo through Giorno’s mind, and it takes some effort to expel them. “You’re not even going to dodge?”

“You’re not the only one with a few tricks up his sleeve,” Giorno says, standing firm. Taking a deep breath, he forces himself to remain still as he stares down the barrel of the gun. 

The gun goes off, and the sound of the shot echoes through the chamber. 

That should be the last sound Giorno hears before his chest erupts in shooting pain, but this time there’s nothing that follows it. The pink barrier before him ripples once again, and the bullet simply bounces off of it.

Giorno relaxes, letting out a soft sigh of relief. Mentally, he thanks Trish.

Mista isn’t nearly as happy. “What was that?” he demands.

“You’re not the only one who wanted to help me out,” Giorno says, reaching for the hilt of his sword. 

“Aw, I knew I shouldn’t have offered,” Mista says, before lunging for him. 

Giorno isn’t worried about the bullets anymore, confident that they can’t touch him. What he is a bit worried about, though, are the rest of Mista’s abilities. The gun was just one weapon of many in his arsenal. With his enormous wings, he moves quickly, and he slashes at Giorno with his long sharp talons. 

Trish said that Spice Girl only guards against projectiles, so this time Giorno ducks out of the way, not wanting to take the risk. He swings his sword in Mista’s direction, but the Fury is too fast for him, easily avoiding the attack.

Despite the addition of Spice Girl, Giorno is still at a rather large disadvantage. This time, he doesn’t even have the benefit of Hermit Purple, and all of his senses are on overdrive as he tries to keep Mista and his talons within view at all times. No matter how many times he swings his sword, it never connects. 

Mista is no less formidable in this fight, but something about him is different. He lacks his earlier grace. It makes sense, Giorno supposes — almost everyone else around here chooses to fight at close range, but Mista is one of the only ones who fights at a distance. He’s clearly out of his comfort zone without his gun.

Quickly glancing down at his sword, an idea strikes Giorno. If Mista is already off his game, then the best thing to do would be to throw him off even further. Instead of rushing toward him, Giorno backs away until he’s at the wall of the chamber. 

“Giving up already?” Mista asks, stalking toward him. The question seems like it should be laced with an undercurrent of smugness, but the words sound nothing but genuine. “That’s fine with me, you’re the boss here after all—“

Tuning him out, Giorno pulls back his arm, and using the last remaining amount of his strength, throws his sword at Mista.

Miraculously, it connects. 

Mista looks down to the sword, now buried deep in his chest, before his eyes slide up to meet Giorno’s. “You got me,” he says, surprised, before he collapses onto his knees. 

Giorno doesn’t even register moving. One second he sees Mista fall and the next, he’s crouching by his side. Dimly, a small part of Giorno’s brain acknowledges that this could just be some kind of trick and that Mista could blindside him with an attack at any moment, but the pain on Mista’s face looks real. It’s a pain that Giorno has felt himself.

“I’m sorry,” Giorno says, reaching helplessly for Mista’s wound. Blood spurts out from it, and he wonders if he should do something to staunch the bleeding, but it’s too late. By the look on Mista’s face, he knows.

“Don’t be,” Mista says, giving him a weak smile. Despite the pain in his voice, he still sounds quite upbeat. “I’ve been doing this job for too long anyway. This way, I get to go back to the House.”

“My father will be mad,” Giorno warns.

“Eh,” Mista says, lifting one shoulder in a half shrug. “Mad doesn’t scare me. One of my brothers has a nasty temper. Lord Dio shouldn’t be a problem. Besides, don’t worry about me, alright? You just keep on going.”

“Mista,” Giorno says, gently grabbing on to one of his hands. “Thank you.”

And that’s the last thing he says before Mista’s body disappears. Giorno knows that Mista will be climbing out of the Pool of Styx momentarily — he’s done it himself, after all — but it’s a bit different to see it from this perspective. 

In the absence of Mista’s body, Giorno’s sword lies on the ground, the hilt facing toward him. With nothing left to do in this chamber, he picks up his sword and proceeds further.

As soon as he exits the chamber, heat slaps him in the face. The smell of sulfur and ash permeates through, and he coughs a few times in surprise.

He’s only vaguely heard about this place, but seeing it now is a surprise. Beating Mista must have allowed him access to the next section of the Underworld, Asphodel. This chamber is empty of all enemies, so he allows himself a moment to catch his breath. Pools of lava line the edges of the chamber, and he gets too close to one of them on accident. A bubble erupts in the pool, shooting out small droplets of lava. Giorno tries to dodge, but not seeing it coming proves itself to be a disadvantage. Luckily, it misses his skin, but the droplet quickly burns a small hole right through his robes. 

In Tartarus, all he had to worry about were the enemies. Here, it’s like the very Underworld itself is trying its best to hold him back and prevent him from escaping. Standing in that chamber, surrounded by the flaming river Phlegethon, it takes all he has to keep moving.

The chambers here are different as well. Instead of a door to proceed forward, there’s a small raft awaiting him.

Tentatively, he steps on it. It sways a bit but manages to hold his weight with no problem. Almost as if it were waiting for him to step onto it, it slowly departs, drifting through the river on a course only known to it. 

As it approaches the next island, the equivalent of a chamber, Giorno can make out the silhouettes of enemies, eagerly awaiting his arrival. 

The enemies in Asphodel look slightly different. No longer vampires, these enemies look more shadelike. Zombies, Giorno recalls. As soon as he steps off of the raft, they lunge at him. At first, their transparent appearance has Giorno a bit worried, but it turns out to be for naught — although they aren’t entirely solid, his sword still has no problems slicing through them.

The vampires in Tartarus had no weapons to speak of, simply relying on their sharp talons to cut him with. These zombies, on the other hand, come equipped with a large variety of different weapons — arrows, daggers, even explosives.

Spice Girl is useful against the projectiles but lends no help when a zombie shoves Giorno to the side and right into the Phlegethon. He barely has time to feel the pain before he’s pulling himself out of the Pool of Styx once again. 

Chapter Text

Luckily, Dio isn’t at his desk, so Giorno is spared any kind of scathing remark from yet another one of his failures. 

Exhaustion has seeped its way into his bones, and each step he takes feels heavier than the last. Perhaps a few moments of rest would do him good. Before he knows it, his feet have carried him into the Lounge, and he’s scanning the room for an empty seat. There’s an available stool at the bar, and he’s halfway to it when he realizes that the occupant next to it is a familiar face.

“So,” he says, hopping onto the stool. Dio has the bad habit of making everything in the House the right size for himself, which often puts Giorno at a disadvantage. Perhaps his shorter stature is from Jonathan. “Was my father mad at you, then?”

Giorno makes quick eye contact with the bartender and signals for a drink. Almost falling over himself in his haste, the shade rushes to do as told. 

Setting his glass down heavily, Mista runs a tired hand through his hair. “A bit,” he admits, “but nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Giorno glances around the Lounge. The surrounding shades and employees are all glancing his way, but the looks seem to be more awed than suspicious. Even so…

“Am I allowed to be here talking to you?” he asks, nodding his thanks to the bartender as a wineglass is set in front of him. “I mean, we’re still opponents out there, aren’t we? Wouldn’t this be consorting with the enemy or something?” The words are said with a teasing lilt, but Mista doesn’t laugh.

“You don’t have to worry about that anymore, boss,” Mista says. His smile doesn’t exactly reach his eyes. 

Once the implications of those words hit, Giorno stiffens. “He fired you?”

“Not exactly. More like he gave me an extended vacation. Without pay.”

“So he fired you,” Giorno says flatly. “Let me guess, he gave you the speech about how he ‘doesn’t tolerate failure’.”

“Something like that,” Mista agrees. “I gotta admit, I stopped listening around the list of his own accomplishments.”

Despite the severity of the situation, Mista’s voice deepens to mimic Dio’s drawl, and Giorno can’t help but let out a laugh.

“What about you? What are you doing here? I thought you’d be off, you know, fighting your way out.”

“That was the plan,” Giorno agrees.

“I gotta say, I was pretty surprised when you beat me,” Mista says. Then he must see the look on Giorno’s face, for he rushes to amend his words. “Not that I don’t think you’re strong or anything, because you are! Strong, I mean. I just meant that I wasn’t expecting your power. Not that I don’t think you aren’t powerful—“

“Mista,” Giorno says, laughing lightly. “It’s all right, I know what you meant.” Trailing off, he takes another sip of wine, feeling sad. “I suppose my father would have been quite unhappy to hear about your defeat,” he muses. “Knowing that I’m not the failure he thinks I am must have been quite a shock.”

The words are said quietly, mostly to himself, but Mista overhears him. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “Look, boss,” he says, taking on a softer tone. “I won’t pretend to understand your family problems, especially between you and your parents. But all I know is that your dad’s got his own reasons for not letting you out of here, but I don’t think it has anything to do with you.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Giorno asks, mystified.

“All I know is that when I climbed out of the Pool, your dad was interrogating me. About you.”

“Me?”

“Uh-huh. Don’t get me wrong, he was still pissed at me for failing at my job, but he seemed awfully curious about what your condition was. You know, whether or not you were hurt.”

“Huh,” Giorno says, slumping back in his seat. “I didn’t expect to hear that.” Draining the rest of his glass, he gets to his feet.

“You heading off again?” Mista asks.

Giorno nods. “I made it all the way to Asphodel last time, but I still have a long way to go.”

“For what it’s worth, I’ll be here cheering you on the whole time,” Mista says, smiling. 

“Thank you, I appreciate it.”

Suddenly, the smile on Mista’s face drops. “Oh, also,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just...be careful, alright? Even if I won’t be out there to fight you, there’ll be others. And some of them, well, let’s just say they aren’t as nice as I am.”

Giorno stares at him, confused. “Who?”

Mista groans. “Well, when Lord Dio fired me, he sort of already got some replacements. My brothers.”

“Your brothers,” he repeats. “The other Furies?”

He nods. “Watch out for them, alright? I’m pretty sure they have no intention of going easy on you.”

This time, Giorno isn’t surprised to see another god waiting for him. The nonstop generosity confused him at first, but now it’s a welcome sight — especially considering that he would have died several times over without the help of divine intervention.

All the gods are immortal, and the fact that they can take on any appearance they wish makes it almost impossible to guess their age. The god before him looks like he can’t be much older than Giorno himself.

His eyes are immediately drawn to the god’s strange hair, slicked up into a pompadour, but he doesn’t comment on it. He isn’t one to judge, especially not with his own hairstyle.

The god bounces over to meet him. “Hiya,” he says excitedly. “You’re Giorno, right? My name’s Josuke.”

“Hello,” Giorno replies, a bit mystified in the face of so much enthusiasm. 

Josuke sizes up Giorno for a moment before grinning broadly. “Oh, man, I thought I was the smallest god, but we’re practically the same size!”

Giorno knows how he feels — a life spent around Dio has instilled the same thought in his mind. Even Erina towers over him, much to his displeasure.

Eagerly strolling around the chamber, Josuke takes in every inch of it. “Nice place,” he comments.

“I’m not much of a fan of it myself.”

“Oh, right, trying to get out of the Underworld and everything, right? Heard you met my old man, too.”

Giorno frowns, studying him for a moment. “You’re Joseph’s son?”

“Yup! Guess that makes us cousins, huh?”

In hindsight, it’s a bit embarrassing that the resemblance didn’t strike Giorno earlier. Both of them carry the same excitement with them, like it has spent too long bubbling up inside them and now has to get out somehow. It also doesn’t escape Giorno’s notice that Josuke has done another thing that his father did — immediately accepted Giorno as part of the family. His heart warms.

“Your father was very kind to me,” says Giorno. “To be honest, I wasn’t quite expecting it. I heard that my father Dio isn’t exactly on the best terms with the Olympians.”

There’s something about Josuke that allows Giorno to speak more freely. Joseph displayed the same enthusiasm, but he seemed older, more imposing in a way. Talking to Josuke makes him feel like there are no barriers between them.

“I don’t know much about that,” admits Josuke, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Honestly, I don’t hang out with the rest of the family all that much. But from what I’ve heard, I don’t think my dad has much of a problem with yours.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, my uncle? Sure. But my dad said he’d help out because of your mom — uh, Lady Erina, right?”

Giorno nods. “He said that she took care of him for a while when he was younger.”

“Then he came and told me to come down here. I mean, not that I minded or anything,” says Josuke. “But I think he just wanted to give me something to do so I’d stop going down to Earth all the time.”

“Earth? You mean you go to the Surface?”

Josuke looks momentarily confused before his face brightens with recognition. “Oh, yeah, I guess for you Earth is up, right? I like to go down sometimes. Mortals make the best clothes, and every time I head down there, there’s something new!”

The Surface has always been a mystery to Giorno, both with his father’s and Bruno’s reluctance to speak of it. What must it be like, he wonders, to have trips there be nothing more than a casual excursion?

“Hey, when you make it out of here, I’ll take ya! It’ll be tons of fun, and I can introduce you to all my pals.”

“That sounds amazing,” says Giorno. “Thank you.”

A thought occurs to him.

“Josuke, whenever you were on the Surface, did you…did you ever hear anything about my father? Jonathan?”

As soon as he asks the question, Giorno knows that it won’t lead to anything. 

Josuke shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says, and to his credit, it sounds like he genuinely means it. “I mean, I’ve heard about him a little. He’s my dad’s brother, so I’ve heard his name pop up once or twice, but I don’t know where he is now.”

“That’s alright,” says Giorno. A faint stab of disappointment hits him, but he does his best to push it down. 

The faint noise of groaning can be heard from beyond the chamber’s exit, and Josuke immediately pulls a face. “Aw, man, that isn’t those vampire things, are they? I heard about those.”

Giorno laughs. “They’re worse than they sound.”

A smirk lights up Josuke’s face. “Well, let’s see if I can help with that.”

By this point, Giorno is familiar with the routine, and the light that washes over him this time, he greets like an old friend. It’s purple, a slightly different shade than Joseph's, but reminiscent of it all the same. 

“Pretty cool, huh?” Josuke says, matching Giorno’s smile. His tone is proud, edging on smugness, but Giorno doesn’t mind. “My power’s called Crazy Diamond.”

“What does it do?”

“Oh, you are gonna love this! It’s the ultimate — uh, whatchamacallit, deux ex machina. If some vampire gets you and you feel yourself about to die, this baby will bring you back!”

“So, it will save me from death?” Giorno clarifies.

“Yup, but only once, okay? Better to save it until you need it,” says Josuke. “Sorry about the limitations. When I’m using it then I can heal myself as many times as I want, but when I pass it off to other people, they only get one chance.”

“No, this is perfect,” says Giorno. He couldn’t have asked for a better power to aid him. “Thank you, Josuke.”

Josuke grins. “See you on the other side, cuz!”

As Josuke vanishes in a puff of smoke, Giorno is left standing in place, eyes fixed upon the spot where he disappeared from. A thought crosses his mind: does he carry that much resemblance to his own father?

Crazy Diamond’s power hums lightly, a constant presence that he can’t ignore, though he does his best to do so. If he can only heal himself once, it’s better to save it for something really worthwhile. Wasting it on one of these vampires is useless.

By now, his body is used to the familiar motions of fighting. He hacks his way through hordes of vampires almost on autopilot, and by the time he reaches what used to be Mista’s chamber, his blade is dripping with blood. He pays it no mind. By now, even the sight of blood has become a familiar one, especially if the blood is his own. 

Hesitantly, he steps into the chamber, before stopping in his tracks. Mista had said his brothers would take his place, but Giorno wasn’t expecting to have to face off against both of them at the same time.

The resemblance between them is clear. Both Furies before him have large wings on their backs just like Mista, although theirs are slightly varied colors. But the first time Giorno walked in here, Mista had a focused look on his face, one that said he was ready to do his job.

These two seem a bit different.

“Fugo, look!” one of them says to the other excitedly. They don’t seem to have noticed Giorno yet. He’s juggling several silver objects with varying levels of success, and it takes Giorno a moment to notice that he’s actually juggling knives.

The other Fury pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a long-suffering sigh. Clearly, this is not the first time they’ve fought. “Narancia, enough,” the one named Fugo says. “You’re going to hurt yourself, and we’re going to end up back at the House without even starting our job. Is that what you want?”

“We’re not going to fail,” Narancia says, rather whiny. “I thought you said the only reason Mista died is because he was too busy making goo-goo eyes at the prince instead of focusing on his job.”

“Shut up!” Fugo snaps. “You better not repeat that in front of Mista, got it?”

The two of them dissolve into bickering, and Giorno hesitates a moment before stepping forward.

“Hello,” he says tentatively, interrupting them. “You must be the Furies.”

Fugo immediately falls into a defensive crouch. “The prince, I presume?”

“Wow, the prince!” Narancia says. Now, he’s balancing the tip of a knife on one finger, and Giorno suspects that he doesn’t even realize he’s doing that. “We’ve heard a lot about you!”

“I could say the same,” Giorno returns just as pleasantly, though his grip on his sword doesn’t falter. He falls into a defensive stance of his own, eyeing them warily. He supposes he could have asked Mista just how exactly these two attack, but he perishes that thought. That wouldn’t have been fair to Mista. Besides, what kind of prince would Giorno be if he can’t even defeat these two? “I suppose you’re here to kill me?”

“Nothing personal,” Fugo says, bearing his teeth. A sharp fang catches the light, and Giorno resists the urge to shiver. “Just doing our jobs.”

Fugo seems ferocious, but from what Giorno can tell, Narancia already seems quite unpredictable. Even on their own, he wouldn’t feel comfortable taking them on directly. Both together are bound to be exceedingly difficult.

As he expected, they strike together. Quickly dodging a swipe from Fugo’s claws, Giorno puts as much distance between them and himself as possible. Until he knows just exactly how they fight, he doesn’t want to get too close to them. 

Narancia holds out his knives ostentatiously, so that seems rather straightforward. Fugo, though, he isn’t quite sure about. He isn’t holding a weapon, and he’s only tried to attack with his talons so far. Maybe he doesn’t have one?

As Narancia approaches with an array of blades, Giorno sidesteps, directly into Fugo’s range of attack. He hopes that this gamble is the right one, as he slices at Fugo’s chest. Fugo avoids it but makes no further moves to attack. Seeing this as his opening, Giorno runs toward him but stops in his tracks. His vision is getting blurry, and his throat is getting raw. But that’s impossible, Fugo hadn’t even touched him.

Signaling Narancia to stay back, Fugo gives him a knowing look. “Let me guess,” he says, irritatingly matter of fact. “Your vision is blurring, your throat hurts, and you’re finding it hard to breathe, right?”

Giorno shoots him a glare, which is probably made less effective by the fact that he’s doubled over in pain.

“Soon, your lungs will collapse,” Fugo continues. “And your flesh will start to decompose.”

It certainly feels like that’s exactly what’s happening to him. He gasps for breath. A wave of nausea sweeps over him, and he swallows down the taste of bile. 

“Man, you don’t look so good,” Narancia says, watching him warily. 

“That’s the point,” Fugo says irritably. “We aren’t being paid to hang out with him, Narancia.”

Narancia hums. “Do you think we should do anything? Or will your power finish him off?”

“Hard to say,” he replies, not taking his eyes off of Giorno. “I mean, every time I’ve used it on you, you died.”

“That’s different! You said that you did that on accident!”

“Right. On accident.”

As soon as they both get distracted by their squabbling, Giorno forces himself to straighten up. The pain is still there — if anything, it’s actually gotten worse. Normally, all he would want to do is lie down and embrace the looming death. But in this case, he has another option. It doesn’t matter if he’s in pain; he won’t die. Crazy Diamond will make sure of it, Josuke said, and right now Giorno trusts that. 

Giorno staggers forward, placing himself between Fugo and Narancia. Fugo’s talons are still dangerous, and maybe having his back to them isn’t exactly the best idea. But Fugo’s posture has changed. No longer outwardly aggressive, it looks like he’s merely watching and waiting to see the effect his power is having on Giorno. If anyone is going to attack him now, it’ll be Narancia. 

An idea quickly forms in his mind. It’s risky, and there’s no guarantee that it will work, but right now he doesn’t have any other alternative, and he’s quickly running out of time. Mista had said he was used to anger — now it’s evident that he was talking about Fugo. And from what he’s seen of these two, Narancia doesn’t exactly seem like the sharpest blade on the rack. Speaking of blades…

“Narancia, right?” Giorno gasps. His throat seems a bit better now, but not by much, and it’s still an effort to get air into his lungs. “Those are some pretty nice knives.”

“You like them?” Narancia’s face lights up in glee. “I just sharpened them, but nobody appreciates them like I do. Mista’s too in love with his gun, and Fugo’s just mean—“

“Narancia,” Fugo hisses from his place by the wall behind Giorno. Giorno sneaks a quick glance in his direction, and it looks like his prediction was right: Fugo looks extremely tired. Using that power of his must have taken some energy out of him; he doesn’t look like he’s in any position to attack. “We’re not here to hang out! Hurry up and finish the job.”

“Oh, right,” says Narancia. He looks down at his collection for a moment and then, seeming to come to a decision, pulls one knife out. “Sorry about this, your princeliness.”

“No worries,” Giorno says, watching the knife carefully. He only has one chance to do this, and he needs to time it exactly right. Narancia draws the knife back, preparing for a throw. The second Giorno sees the knife leave his hand, he ducks. All the muscles in his body scream in protest as he throws himself to the floor, but he ignores it.

The knife whooshes past Giorno to lodge itself firmly in Fugo’s chest, who looks down at it with an awed look on his face. Giorno breathes a sigh of relief, which comes a bit easier as Crazy Diamond slowly heals all his injuries. A new burst of energy rushes through him, and he easily pushes himself up into a standing position. 

Narancia watches Fugo with an open-mouthed look of surprise. “Fugo,” he whispers, taking a step back. “I didn’t mean to—“

With a roar so terrifying it makes Giorno rear back, Fugo charges at Narancia. This must be a common occurrence, however, because Narancia’s hand immediately grips the hilt of another knife. Stepping back until his back hits the wall, Giorno watches as the two Furies engage in a deadly fight. 

He can barely tell who’s winning, as Fugo’s talons and Narancia’s knives swipe at each other with ferocious speed. The last thing he wants to do is get in the middle of that, so he simply waits for an opening. 

After a while, the two finally separate. Panting hard, they glare at each other. Blood seeps out of multiple wounds, and they’re covered from head to toe in scratches. 

Now is Giorno’s time to strike. Endowed by the energy given to him by Crazy Diamond, he rushes over. “Say hi to Mista for me,” he says before he skewers them with ease, both of them too worn out to even defend themselves.

At this point, Giorno is used to seeing an Olympian upon exiting the chamber of the Furies. The god before him looks an awful lot like Joseph and Josuke, so he’s certainly an Olympian. Both of them, however, greeted Giorno with a large grin. 

This god greets him with a glare. 

His brain makes the connection automatically. This god looks like Dio. They have the same large build, same feeling of authority that they both command with ease. They’re both scary, but in different ways. Dio is snarky, with an ever-present smirk on his face that has the effect of throwing his opponents off guard and making them feel inferior. This god is different. His brows furrow in what looks like anger, and his stare is cold as ice. 

“Hello,” Giorno says cautiously.

The god responds merely with a grunt.

The silence begins to grate on Giorno. “You must be an Olympian.”

“And you must be Dio’s son.”

For some reason, the response leaves Giorno a bit taken aback. Every other Olympian he’s met so far — which, granted, is not that many — had been so quick to emphasize the connection between them and himself. Joseph had called himself Giorno’s uncle. “Cousin,” Josuke had called him. Neither one of them had referred to him as Dio’s son. Instead, they had only seen the Olympian part of him.

This god doesn’t seem to want to do that.

Giorno raises his chin challengingly. From the look of this god, he can easily kill Giorno with a single blow, and perhaps it isn’t wise to go up against someone like this, but Giorno can’t help himself. 

“Yes, that’s me,” he says. “My name is Giorno.”

The god inclines his head slightly. “Jotaro.”

In contrast to every other Olympian, Jotaro makes no move to speak, looking instead as if he’s waiting for something. Giorno tries to remember what he’d heard about the Olympians’ relationships to each other. He had heard shades whisper about the so-called ‘Big Three’, three gods of equal status and relation. Joseph had mentioned that he was Jonathan’s brother, and something tells Giorno that this is the other one. His uncle, he realizes, though he doesn’t think Jotaro would appreciate him bringing attention to that particular relationship.

“Are you here to help me?” Giorno asks finally.

“Do you think you deserve it?” Jotaro shoots back.

Logically, Giorno knows that is a perfectly viable thing to ask. Divine intervention is not an easy thing to come by, and the gods don’t just help anyone. They always have their own reasons for helping. To be honest, this is more of what he was expecting from the Olympians. In that respect, Joseph and Josuke were the odd ones out, simply offering their help because he’s family. Even Trish seemed to have her own agenda, though what exactly that was is anyone’s guess. 

“Yes,” Giorno says confidently. “I do.”

Jotaro crosses his arms, making him look even more intimidating. He merely fixes Giorno with a look, studying him intently. Giorno meets his gaze evenly, looking for anything within it — for acknowledgment, recognition, encouragement, or what, he isn’t exactly sure. He supposes that’s another thing that Jotaro and his father have in common. It doesn’t matter if you don’t want to; you’ll always find yourself subconsciously trying to impress them and earn their approval.

Jotaro takes a step toward Giorno, towering over him. Resisting the urge to lean back and step away, Giorno remains in place. 

Although Jotaro continues glaring, he raises his hand, which fills with the now familiar light of Olympian power. As it washes over Giorno, he braces himself. He’s expecting it to feel angry or hostile, but it doesn’t. Toward him, it feels almost protective.

“It’s called Star Platinum,” Jotaro says gruffly. “It will increase your strength.” He eyes Giorno’s arms dubiously, but thankfully chooses not to comment on them.

The whole exchange feels very transactional and businesslike. Giorno chooses to look on the bright side. Jotaro wouldn’t have helped if he thought of him as undeserving. This is honestly better than he could have hoped for.

“Thank you,” Giorno manages to say. It’s unclear if Jotaro hears him or not, for he simply vanishes into thin air. Giorno might have imagined it, but it looked like a hint of a smile flashed across Jotaro’s face. 

Star Platinum’s power runs through Giorno, and it incites an odd feeling within him. Almost on reflex, his fists clench. It’s not anger, exactly, but it feels like something within him is buzzing, making him restless. Oddly enough, he kind of wants to hit something. Eyeing the chamber door, he proceeds further. This should be no problem at all.

Well, as long as he avoids the numerous pools of lava. 

Asphodel is just as hot and unforgiving as ever. The zombies that he killed last time seem to have replenished their numbers, but at the same time, the rafts are back as well. The one beneath his feet wobbles precariously, and he struggles to stabilize himself. 

Without Crazy Diamond to protect him any longer, he dances away from the lava. Dio would certainly have a laugh if Giorno died by simply tripping and falling into the lava.

Star Platinum proves to be a valuable asset. Giorno’s sword was never very heavy before. He’s trained with it his whole life, so it is usually a comfortable weight in his hand. Now, with super strength? It’s completely different.

With one swipe of the sword, he could previously take out two zombies, maybe three if he was lucky and the angle was right. The sword now is practically weightless in his hand, and he swings it back and forth effortlessly, cutting through swarms at once. The zombies don’t even have a moment to react before he slices them in two. 

Briefly, he wonders if this is how Jotaro uses his power. The god wasn’t carrying a weapon; instead, he had cloth wrapped around his hands. He must use the power in its true, raw state, by punching. Giorno’s never thrown a punch in his life — his father would call it barbaric to do so. He wasn’t sure if super strength would be a power that would complement his swordsmanship, but luckily he was wrong. 

Surprisingly, many of the chambers don’t pose as much of a threat as Giorno initially thought they would. After making his way through Tartarus, both his strength and stamina have increased, and he cuts his way through with ease.

A breathless hope fills him. Could it be? Could this be the time that he makes it all the way through?

By now, though, he’s been out here long enough that he should have known nothing would go his way.

As his raft travels to what must be the tenth island — he’s lost count at this point — he sees no enemy silhouettes in the distance. That’s his first clue that something is off.

Giorno is on high alert as he steps off of the raft. It’s quiet, save for the sound of hissing lava. Is the island empty? Hesitantly, he steps onto the next raft, but it doesn’t move.

There’s an enemy in this chamber.

A loud crowing noise causes him to turn, sword instinctively raised. He’s met with a familiar being flying down to him, and he stares into the cruel eyes of Pet Shop. Recognition glints in the bird’s eyes, but its stance doesn’t relax in the slightest.

Giorno was never allowed around his father’s bird growing up. “Pet Shop is a working bird, not a house pet,” Dio used to say. And indeed, his words were true. Giorno sees nothing of a pampered pet in the bird. 

Instead, it’s a spawn of hell, born and bred to keep watch over the fiery region of Asphodel. Even the times he’d seen Pet Shop in the House were few and far between.

Giorno can understand having the Furies overseeing torture, but the bird always felt like a bit of a strange choice to him. That was until he heard the story of Prometheus and the eagle.

Idly, Giorno wonders if he can somehow talk the bird into letting him pass, but it squawks at him threateningly, as if daring him to do exactly that. With no other choice, he has to fight Pet Shop. 

The bird doesn’t even give him a second; immediately, it swoops down at him, wings extended to their full span and talons held out. He ducks out of the way and immediately tries to get in a hit with his sword, but it’s too fast for him.

His weapon is not suited for this fight; Pet Shop definitely has the advantage here. To make matters worse, the bird doesn’t have to worry about lava. He doesn’t even know which Olympian power would aid him here; clearly Star Platinum isn’t enough. Crazy Diamond might have helped, but only temporarily. Hermit Purple wouldn’t even have helped; Giorno is making sure to keep Pet Shop within his view at all times, so at least he can avoid any surprise attacks. 

Pet Shop swoops down on him again and again, talons aimed right for his neck. Giorno’s forced to sidestep repeatedly, and the small island feels confining as he toes the edge of the lava over and over.  It becomes a struggle to avoid tripping over his own feet, especially with the momentum from each swing of his sword carrying him.

He swings his sword, and he manages to graze one of the bird’s wings before sharp talons sink into his neck.

Chapter Text

Even though Giorno is back in the House now, every breath he takes still carries with it the taste of ash and sulphur. Death has healed his wounds, but it does nothing for his robes, riddled with burn marks and soot.

His first instinct is to simply head back out the door and give it another try, but he stops himself. Facing Pet Shop with the same weapon again will only lead to the same result. Giorno goes to the training room, intending to have a look at the other weapons there. Maybe one of them could be helpful in the fight against his new enemy. 

To his surprise, the room is already occupied. 

Bruno is sparring with another, someone with his back to Giorno. He watches in awe for a moment. Every time he’s seen Bruno fight, it’s always been against him. He’s never had the opportunity to actually watch him afar. His mentor fights smoothly and swiftly; his skill is undeniable. It’s easy to see why he was revered as such a great hero on the Surface. 

His opponent, though, seems to be able to keep up with no real strain. They fight in sync, dodging and parrying and stabbing together.

Giorno draws his eyes away from their swordplay long enough to see the wings on the other man’s back. 

Mista swiftly disarms Bruno, bringing their spar to an end. They bow to each other and turn, noticing Giorno at the same time. 

“Your Highness,” Bruno says, inclining his head. After a second, Mista follows his lead, bowing.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” says Giorno. “I only came for the weapons.”

“That’s alright, we were just finishing up,” says Bruno. “Mista, thank you for the spar.”

“Nah, I should be thanking you. If it weren’t for this, I’d have been still sitting in the Lounge.”

Bruno laughs and leaves the training room, though not before squeezing Giorno’s shoulder encouragingly as he passes.

“Mista,” Giorno acknowledges. “Nice to see you.”

Mista looks at him with a look that can only be described as reverent. “Boss, what did you do?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You killed my brothers.” Contrary to his words, his tone is rather light. “No one’s ever killed one of them, let alone both at the same time!”

“Are they angry?”

Mista waves a hand flippantly. “I mean, yeah, but whatever.”

“I didn’t think you would be this casual about that,” admits Giorno. “Not going to fight me on their behalf?”

“Ah, they’ll get over it. They’ve been giving me hell lately — no pun intended — so consider this payback.”

Giorno looks over his shoulder, peeking into the Lounge. “Are they here?”

Mista shakes his head, leaning in conspiratorially. “They’re banned.”

“From the House?”

“Yeah. As soon as you killed them, they came out of the Pool, and they were so angry they kind of disregarded the ‘no fighting in the House rule’.”

“Oh, no,” Giorno says. “What did they do?”

“Broke some of your dad’s stuff.”

Dio was extraordinarily possessive about his things, especially the decor of the House.

“Your mom, Lady Erina, was so mad. I wasn’t even there, I was in the Lounge, but even I was scared.”

Giorno resists the urge to smile. Only his mother could frighten the legendary Furies. 

The display of weapons behind Mista shines in the torchlight enticingly. Giorno crosses the room to stand in front of them, with Mista hot on his heels.

“Mista,” he says, not taking his eyes off of the weapons. “I don’t suppose I could ask for your opinion about something?”

Mista bounds over eagerly. “Sure you can!” he says. “Though I don’t know how much help I’ll be. What do you need, boss?”

Giorno huffs out an exasperated little sigh at the nickname but chooses not to say anything about it. There are worse things to be called, he’s sure. He doesn’t mind it so much. 

“I’m having some trouble with an opponent in Asphodel,” he begins. “I’m not sure if my weapon is right for the battle.”

“Who is it?”

“Pet Shop.”

Mista’s answering groan is immediate. “That mangy bird? I’ve never fought him, but I see your problem.” He gives Giorno an impressed look. “You’ve made it pretty far out there.”

“It will all be for nothing if I don’t get past Asphodel,” Giorno replies. 

Joining him in his examination of the weapons, Mista nods. “Which one of these can you use?”

Giorno’s face heats up, embarrassed. “None,” he admits. “I was trained with the sword my whole life.”

Mista hums, deep in thought. “Well, you’ve done four runs so far, haven’t you? No wonder it didn’t work out — that’s bad luck!”

“I…suppose so,” he says. He doesn’t exactly see the logic there, but Mista sounds so certain that he can’t bring himself to say anything.

After a moment, Mista speaks up again. “I have a thought, and it might be insane, but just hear me out, okay?”

Startled, Giorno nods.

“What if, instead of one of these weapons, you took another one out there?”

“Which one?”

“Me.”

Giorno’s gaze snaps over from the weapons to Mista. “What are you talking about?”

“Look, I’m just gonna come out and say it,” Mista says. “I’m going crazy here, boss. Ever since I’ve been fired, your old man’s refusing to hear me out. I’m a fighter, ya know? I can’t just sit around here forever, drinking in the Lounge and hanging out with the shades.”

Giorno frowns. “I don’t quite seem to understand.”

“Well,” he says, smirking. “What if I help you out a little? You and I could take that bird down together.”

Giorno studies him carefully, looking for anything to contradict his words, any hesitation, but he finds none. On the contrary, Mista looks determined. His wings beat back and forth ever so slightly, as if he isn’t able to contain his anticipation.

“This is not your fight,” says Giorno.

“I know,” Mista replies, “but what if I want it to be?”

Giorno watches, speechless, as Mista slips one of the gold bracelets around his wrist off. 

“Here,” he says, pressing it into Giorno’s hand. “I haven’t used it in a while, so it should only have enough power in it for one summon. You can use it to call me to your side out there.”

As far as rank in the Underworld goes, Giorno has far more than Mista. He’s well within his rights to refuse, and perhaps he should do so, but the look on Mista’s face is so earnest that he finds himself reaching out.

Giorno slips the bracelet onto his own wrist. Its heavy weight lends a comforting presence.

“Mista,” he says. “I’ll never forget this, you know.”

“It’s nothing, boss.”

“It’s everything and you know it.”

Giorno’s path out to Asphodel is uneventful this time around. The chamber of the Furies is conspicuously empty, and he offers up a silent apology to Mista’s brothers. 

The gold bracelet hangs from his wrist, loose enough to not be confining but tight enough that he can’t ignore its presence. It feels a bit like Mista’s presence hasn’t left his side since he left the House.

Unexpectedly, Trish’s words play back in his mind. 

“I want to get out of the Underworld. I want to reach the surface. I want to meet my father.”

“Seems to me like there are some elements missing on that list of yours. Besides, there might just be a way for you to get everything that you want.”

Hearing her voice in his head is more than a little irritating, and he pushes it out in favor of focusing on the enemies before him. 

For a second, Giorno wonders if he should actually call on Mista for help in defeating Pet Shop. If he can only use the bracelet once, then would it be in his best interest to save it? If — no, when he does manage to get past Pet Shop, there will no doubt be many stronger enemies in his path.

It hasn’t escaped Giorno’s notice that there hasn’t been an Olympian to greet him this time around. They must know he has other help.

He makes it to and through Asphodel much quicker than ever before. He’s getting stronger — repeatedly killing and dying to the wretches of the Underworld is turning out to be an amazing training routine.

Before he knows it, he’s already stepping off the raft that takes him to the island where Pet Shop lies in wait.

The bird, preoccupied with grooming its feathers, looks a bit surprised to see that Giorno has returned. Dio must still be expecting him to give up, he thinks with a surprising amount of bitterness. Pet Shop’s talons gleam red in the light of the lava, giving them the impression of dripping with blood.

Bringing his arm up, Giorno grips the gold bracelet. “Mista,” he says, “I need you.”

The bracelet begins to glow, getting warmer. In the midst of the heat of Asphodel, it should be unpleasant, but instead, it’s quite the opposite. 

The bird, having no concern for Giorno’s current predicament, gives him no time to await Mista’s arrival. It swoops down on him, wings stretched out to their full span and talons extended toward him. Giorno swings his sword, feigns striking to the left, but at the last second switches sides. He’s triumphant as he manages to catch Pet Shop’s wing with the blade.

Unfortunately, that didn’t seem to impede its flying ability at all. All it did was make it angrier.

Pet Shop screeches, but the sound is cut through by the now familiar sound of a gun going off. Bullets whiz through the air, almost too fast for Giorno to see. With wide eyes, Pet Shop jerks from side to side to dodge them all. The bird’s speed is incredible, but it’s definitely caught off guard, and the wound in its wing is holding it back.

“Sorry for the wait, boss,” Mista says, coming to stand by Giorno. “Had to change my weapon back into a gun — thought the bird would like that more.”

“On the contrary,” says Giorno, “you’re right on time.”

Pet Shop dives at them again, this time aiming for Mista. He rolls out of the way, yelping as he comes close to the lava.

“Oh, man, I knew there was lava in Asphodel, but I didn’t think it would be this close!”

“Watch out,” warns Giorno. “I think the bird is trying to corner us back into the lava.”

Mista springs back to his feet and aims his gun again.

“How many bullets do you have?”

He pulls a face. “Not as many as I would have liked.”

“Then we shouldn’t waste them,” Giorno decides. “Let me see if I can lure him toward you.”

“You’re in charge, boss.”

And with that, Giorno lunges. Pet Shop flies high, staying frustratingly out of reach as Giorno swipes at it. Putting the bird between himself and Mista, Giorno leaps. His blade isn’t high enough to reach Pet Shop, but he succeeds in herding the bird toward Mista.

The Fury pauses, weapon raised.

“What’s wrong? Shoot at him.”

“I don’t wanna shoot you, though,” says Mista, sounding panicked. 

“You won’t,” Giorno asserts. “I trust you.”

The look on Mista’s face changes, looking a lot like the determined one he’d worn the last time they fought against each other. He nods before taking aim and firing off a series of shots.

Even with distance on his side, he somehow misses. Or rather, it’s not that he misses, but it’s that Pet Shop manages to avoid each one of his shots. The bird screeches once again, but this one sounds different than the last time; more taunting.

Giorno turns, studying the layout of the island that they’re on. It’s too small for them to split up and approach Pet Shop from either side, and Mista’s fear was right. He might not shoot Giorno, but standing right in the line of fire seems a bit too much like taunting fate.

His sword won’t work here. There’s no way he’ll be able to reach Pet Shop with his blade, and even if he does, he won’t be able to do enough damage. Mista’s gun is their only chance.

Sheathing his blade, Giorno makes his way to Mista’s side, all the while keeping a watchful eye on the bird. For now, it isn’t attacking; instead, it watches them, awaiting their next move.

Mista has a frustrated look on his face. “My aim is never off,” he mutters, “but that damn bird is moving too fast. It’s too far. I can’t hit it!”

An idea comes to mind, and Giorno lays his hand on top of Mista’s, gripping the gun with him. “Let me help,” he says. “You never know until you try.”

The island is small, and they’re practically standing on the edge. With no other way to brace himself, he wraps his other arm around Mista’s waist, their faces pressed close together. He prays that the feeling of his face heating up can be attributed to the heat of Asphodel, as well as the tension of battle.

Shutting one eye, he keeps the other firmly locked on Pet Shop, who has started whizzing back and forth through the air to avoid being shot. Giorno guides their hands together so that the gun is lined up with Pet Shop’s path.

“On my mark,” he whispers. Mista doesn’t verbally respond, but his hand on the gun tightens. 

Pet Shop flies further and further away.

“Now!”

The sound of the gunshots reverberates through Giorno’s ears, a result of his close proximity to the weapon. Their aim was perfect. The array of bullets soar through the air, and as Pet Shop flies out of the way of the first few, the last one hits right in the middle of the bird’s chest.

The bird’s body doesn’t even reach the ground. In midair, as it falls, it dissolves almost immediately, now reborn in the Pool of Styx.

It takes Giorno a moment to realize that he’s still holding on to Mista, and he rushes to let go, almost making them both stumble in the process.

“…Well,” says Mista, wiping his forehead. “That takes care of that.”

Together, they turn to look at the raft up ahead. It’s only big enough for one person. Giorno had known that they would need to part ways, but now with adrenaline from the fight still pumping through him and the feeling of Mista's hand in his lingering, it's harder to admit it.

Mista must see the hesitation on Giorno's face, for he speaks up first. "Look, boss," he says. "I mean this in the nicest possible way, but don't come back any time soon, alright?"

Surprised, Giorno chuckles. He gives Mista a grateful smile before stepping forward onto the raft. "Don't worry," he says over his shoulder. "I don't intend to."

As he steps through the exit, the sulfur smell of Asphodel fades away, and his lungs fill with fresh air. He recalls his education, learning about the different sections of the Underworld. If memory serves him right, he’s now reached Elysium.

Something about this place seems different than the rest of the Underworld. With each step he takes in Elysium — each step that brings him further to the Surface — there’s something different. A tingling feeling, a bit like the Olympians’ powers, but much more muted. It must be his body reacting to the clean air.

Elysium is beautiful, and with good reason: only the best mortals are offered a chance to spend their afterlife here. The chamber is filled with statues depicting heroes of old, now overrun with moss. A thin layer of fog covers the ground, spreading around his feet with each step he takes. The river Lethe runs through here, but in constrast to the fiery Phlegethon, its flow is nothing more than a gentle hum.

The lack of lava is also a major plus. The ground is soft beneath his feet, but it doesn’t seem dangerous, and gingerly putting his full weight onto it doesn’t bring about any destruction, so he breathes a sigh of relief. 

“Nice, huh?” says a voice. “Personally, I’m a fan of all the green.”

Giorno’s expecting an Olympian, so seeing this one isn’t a huge shock. The woman — she’s really more of a girl, now that he’s looking at her — looks excited to see him. She bounds over to him in a way that reminds him a bit of Josuke.

“Hey, cousin!” she says. “I’m Jolyne. You’re Giorno, right?”

“Yes,” Giorno says. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

To his surprise, she bursts out laughing. “Wow, Josuke was right, you are super formal.”

He frowns. “I’m sorry,” he tries to say, but she simply waves a hand, brushing him off.

“Nah, don’t worry about it, it’s not a bad thing. One of my dads is kinda like that too, so I’m used to it.”

“One of your dads?” he asks.

Instead of replying, Jolyne sinks down to the ground, sitting down and crossing her legs. She pats the spot next to her. “Sit down,” she says. “You look like you could use a break.”

He doesn’t know if that’s necessarily true — he feels like he could take on a dozen more chambers with ease — but it would be rude to refuse. He takes a seat next to her. 

“You, me, and Josuke are pretty similar, you know,” she remarks. “We’ve all got two dads.”

“I’m assuming you’ve met both of yours, then,” Giorno says with a sigh.

Jolyne looks a bit guilty. “Yeah.”

“Are you and Josuke not siblings?”

“Nope, he’s my cousin too, just like you are.”

“Then your father is…” he begins, unsure if he’s on the right track.

“I think you met him a while ago,” she says. “Jotaro.”

Giorno’s brain grinds to a halt, and his words die before they reach his throat. Jolyne must see the look on his face, for she tilts her head to the side curiously.

“Does that surprise you?”

“A bit,” he admits. “I was expecting you to say Joseph. You and Josuke seem very alike.”

“Yeah.” A thin layer of fog covers the ground, and Jolyne swirls a hand through it absently. 

“If you don’t mind my asking, what is your relationship with your father like? Or perhaps with both of them.”

Rather than reacting to the question defensively, Jolyne instead relaxes further, as if she’s been wanting to talk to someone about this. “One of my dads — Kakyoin — he’s alright. He isn’t technically an Olympian, but when he and my other dad got married, he moved onto Olympus, and then they had me. He’s, I dunno, cool I guess? We do stuff together sometimes.”

Giorno waits patiently. 

“But my other dad…he’s really hard to get along with. And live with. And talk to.”

He resists the urge to add some of his own opinions onto that. 

“He’s not a bad guy, though,” Jolyne continues, looking conflicted. “Or at least, he isn’t all bad. You know how when gods are born, it takes a while for our powers to come in? I was really scared to get mine, and when I finally did, I had no idea how to control it or anything. But my dad was the one who sat by me and helped me.”

“That’s nice of him,” Giorno remarks.

“And completely unexpected. I remember that day, I was crying really hard. Kakyoin tried to calm me down, but I wouldn’t listen, so he sent Jotaro instead. I was expecting some kind of insult, you know? Something like “stop crying”, “toughen up”, something that would prove to me that he was just as unfeeling as I always thought he was.”

“What did he do instead?” Giorno asks, completely enraptured in her story.

“He told me about the day he got his own power,” Jolyne says. A fond look overtakes her face. “He told me about how he was just as scared, but he had someone to help him through it, so that’s what he was going to do to me.”

“Who helped him through it?”

Jolyne shoots him a sideways look. “Your dad.”

“What? Dio?”

Shaking her head, she gives him a gentle smile. “Jonathan.”

Jolyne’s words conjure up some old memories Giorno has of Dio, like how Dio had reassured him about the lack of his own power. Maybe Jotaro and Dio have more in common than Giorno had originally thought. 

“You seem very different from your father,” Giorno remarks. “Much more…forthcoming.”

She laughs. “Thankfully. Don’t get me wrong, my dads and I have a lot in common, but I got some stuff that’s all me.”

That makes Giorno wonder about himself. What is he comprised of? How much of him is a mirror of Dio? Perhaps more than he cares to think about. But then, how much of him is Jonathan? He’s never even met the man, so that’s impossible to decipher. How much of him is all himself? He doesn’t quite understand what that means.

“Your father didn’t seem to care for me much,” Giorno remarks. He shoots for a casual tone, but some of his hurt slips through.

“My dads and Dio have a complicated relationship,” she says. “I don’t know much about it — most of it happened before I was born — but the impression I got is that they never really cared for each other.” She lets out an annoyed laugh. “It’s been centuries, and they still can’t get over it. I wouldn’t worry about it too much. He’ll come around.”

“So if your father hates me and my father, then does that mean you…?” He trails off hesitantly.

Jolyne’s eyes widen. “Oh no, of course not! I don’t have anything to do with that stuff, and neither do you. Josuke feels the same way.”

The words make Giorno breathe out a sigh of relief. 

There’s noise coming from beyond the chamber door; it sounds suspiciously like the metal clash of blades. Giorno pushes himself to his feet, with Jolyne following suit. 

“Alright,” Jolyne says. “I’ve stalled you long enough. Time to give you something in exchange, yeah?”

“You haven’t done anything of the sort,” Giorno assures her. “I liked talking to you.”

She grins. “Right back at you, cousin! Now, hurry up and get out of here so we can talk more often.”

Just like the rest of her family had done, she presses her hands together and light erupts from her palms, heading right for Giorno.

“My power’s called Stone Free,” she explains. “It takes some getting used to, but it’ll give you a huge speed boost. I hope it works well with your power!”

Giorno pauses. “My power?”

Jolyne tilts her head. “Well, you’re a god, aren’t you? You must have a power.”

“Not that I know of.”

“What about your dads? What are their powers?”

“Even I don’t know Dio’s,” he says. “He only uses it in combat, so it’s a well-guarded secret. And I haven’t heard anything about Jonathan’s…”

He looks at her eagerly, but she only shakes her head. “Sorry, I don’t know anything about it either.”

Giorno visibly deflates. 

“But don’t worry,” she says. “From what I hear, you’re doing real good down here! You’ll be at the Surface in no time, and then you’ll find him.”

“Thank you,” Giorno says gratefully. Perhaps offering comfort is an Olympian trait, if even Jotaro is good at it from time to time. With each family member that he meets, his resolve grows stronger. “Someday, I will show you the House.”

Jolyne grins. “Only if I can show you Olympus.”

If Giorno remembers correctly, Elysium is home to the best mortal fighters. Bruno had told him about it. He’d said that after his time as a hero on Earth, he would have gone to Elysium himself, but Dio had appreciated his skill and intelligence and hired him to work in the House and watch over Giorno. The heroes of Elysium genuinely enjoy fighting. The afterlife brings many things with it, but one thing in particular is that the shades no longer need to fear death. 

Fighting is not something Giorno particularly enjoys. The same cannot be said of his father, at any rate. Dio’s battle prowess is well-known, though usually there’s not much reason for him to fight. He’s heard the stories, though, whispered around the halls of the House: how his father, along with the rest of the gods, took up battle against the Titans and won. At the time, the story had fascinated him. When a common enemy was present, his father and the Olympians managed to set aside their hatred for each other and fight side by side. Only now does he understand that his other father, Jonathan, must have played a big role in uniting both parties. 

The enemies awaiting him in the next chamber look a lot like Bruno does; these must be the mortal heroes of Elysium. They have a solid appearance, not like the shades in the House. Decorated with laurels and clad in sturdy looking armor, they perk up when he enters.

“Hello,” he says cautiously. 

“So it’s true,” one of them murmurs. “The Prince really is here.”

“Are we allowed to kill him?” another one asks dubiously.

Giorno laughs. “If you can. By all means, I invite you to try.”

Stone Free’s power surges through him, and he strikes with celerity. To him, it doesn’t seem like he’s going any faster than usual, but in the time it took him to duck around behind the shades, they’d hardly turned around. Easily, he takes them down.

As they dissolve, they take their weapons and armor with them. Even their robes and decorated laurels go with them into the Styx, and all that remains is the blood that stains the blade of his sword.

These shades leave behind a small pile of gold coins.

Curious, Giorno picks one up. He’s heard of the money that shades use when alive, drachma, but these don’t seem to be that. They don’t feel solid, and they weigh almost nothing when he picks them up. If these shades left them behind when he killed them, then it’s only fair that he takes them. 

Pocketing the small pile of coins, he moves on. 

Similar to Asphodel, Elysium also has the environment working against him. Some of the chambers are lined with statues. At first, he pays them no mind, thinking that they’re just one of the many ways that his father decorates the Underworld. When he accidentally steps too close to one, the spear in its hand juts out automatically, almost skewering him. It’s only due to Stone Free’s speed that he manages to sidestep the attack just in time. 

Giorno wonders how these shades don’t get sick of fighting. A few try to strike up conversation when he enters their chamber, but the vast majority don’t say anything at all. As soon as he enters, they’re on him, ready to strike. Their fighting styles are also much more sophisticated. The vampires of Tartarus and the zombies of Asphodel attacked in packs, usually relying on brute force to get a shot in. These ones block his attacks, sidestepping and lunging at him gracefully. They’re certainly warriors.

Not for the first time, Giorno is grateful for all the times that he’s trained with Bruno. These shades are good, but they aren’t as good as his mentor. He’s used to fighting against warriors like them, and most of them pose no problem. A few of them manage to get a hit or two in before he disposes of them, but at this point, he’s no stranger to pain.

As he proceeds from chamber to chamber, the jangling of his pockets grows steadily louder as they fill up with more and more coin. Giorno is pleased with his sword, but it’s his only weapon, and he can’t help but notice how all of these shades are fully suited up in armor. He’s still dressed in his princely robes, which are a far cry from their previous prestine state. It takes him a bit longer to dispose of the shades; the armor blocks most of his sword swings, and he has to specifically aim for the gaps in their armor where their bodies are uncovered. However, he doesn’t have the same luxury that they do. Any part of his body that they aim for is vulnerable. He just has to be quick enough that they can’t get him.

He was hopeful before, but with each chamber, it physically feels like he’s going up higher and higher. It’s a bit strange to think about, that the House is now so far below him. This must be how mortals feel all the time on the Surface. 

Most of the shades that he fights don’t look surprised to see him. A few of them, like the first ones that he’d fought, seem hesitant to fight their Prince, but others seem thrilled to take on the challenge — a challenge that Giorno is all too happy to provide for them.

The number of shades in each chamber varies, and from what he can tell, there doesn’t seem to be any kind of pattern. The chambers are still random, then.

When the next chamber door slides open and he sees who is inside, Giorno’s heart drops down into his chest. 

The god of death blocks his path.

Pink hair, which was such a comforting sight to see on Doppio, looks terrifying on Giorno’s new opponent. Black robes adorn his body, and a cruel smile spreads across his face. The most terrifying part, however, is the god’s aura; it extends outward, so deadly and murderous that it practically oozes malice.

“Diavolo,” says Giorno, inclining his head in acknowledgment. “I assume my father has sent you?”

“Of couse,” Diavolo replies. “We can’t have the Prince running around doing whatever he wishes, now can we?” The words are spoken with no small amount of spite. “I’ve been instructed to send you home.”

Diavolo holds no weapon, but the threat in his words couldn’t be more evident.

Some might call it futile to avoid being killed by Death Incarnate himself, but Giorno certainly isn’t going down without a fight.

He strikes first, even as his heart bangs against his chest. Lunging, he swipes his sword out in a clean arc. Unfazed, Diavolo swiftly dodges, his movements clean and precise. In contrast, Giorno feels like he’s fumbling. Stone Free’s speed still isn’t enough to keep up with Diavolo’s as Giorno goes on the offensive.

With each swipe of his sword, Giorno’s ire grows. It feels more like Diavolo is playing with him; the god dodges each blow easily, the smirk not leaving his face. 

Giorno doesn’t know when exactly it happens — even with Stone Free on his side, he isn’t fast enough. One moment, Diavolo is against the room and the next, he’s ripping out Giorno’s throat, watching cruelly as he drowns in a pool of his own blood.

Chapter Text

Climbing out of the pool, Giorno takes a deep breath, the anger slowly fading out of him. Diavolo is the next thing standing between him and the outside world. He won’t lose to him again. 

Giorno pats the pocket of his robes and is surprised to find them completely empty. The coins that he picked up earlier are gone. For a moment, he wonders if they fell into the Pool, but then realizes that they must not last beyond a death.

His shoulders are heavy with tension as he walks down the hall, and he’s surprised to see Dio seated at his desk. He looks engrossed in the stacks of paperwork, and a hand comes up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Giorno knows his father is very dedicated — he’s always kept the Underworld running smoothly, and that’s no easy feat — but seeing it up close is always different. 

Mista’s words play back in his head, about how Dio had made sure that he wouldn’t hurt Giorno too badly during their fight.

Deliberately, Giorno walks to his father’s desk.

“Padre,” he says, announcing his presence.

“Giogio,” Dio replies, surprised. Giorno can see the moment Dio’s usual mask of snark slips over his face. “Still haven’t gotten out, I see.”

“It’s a process,” Giorno admits. “No thanks to your attempts to stop me.”

“I suppose that goes both ways,” Dio replies, a nasty smirk spreading over his face. “Contrary to what these shades like to believe, I, Dio, am neither blind nor deaf.”

Giorno pauses. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I’m well aware of all the…” he pauses, presumably to think of what word to use. “New friends you’ve made lately.” The words are spat with no small amount of venom. “Erina and I had a chat about that.”

“You mean the Olympians,” Giorno says, and a sneer comes across Dio’s face. “What did you do to Erina?” he asks, immediately expecting the worst.

“See for yourself,” Dio says, gesturing to the Lounge. Turning, Giorno sees the back of Erina’s head as she has an animated discussion with the shade behind the bar counter. “I might not have been particularly happy with her, but Erina is an essential part of the Underworld.”

Giorno studies his father suspiciously. “So you’re just letting the Olympians help me?”

Dio looks conflicted. “I may not like it, but they are your family. I suppose it wouldn’t be a complete disaster for you to meet them.”

As soon as he forces the words out, Dio turns his attention back to his paperwork. It’s a clear dismissal, and Giorno understands what he doesn’t say: he has no interest in discussing the Olympians, particularly how they’re helping Giorno.

No matter how much Dio hides it, though, Giorno knows how he really feels. He isn’t letting his hatred for the Olympians getting in the way of Giorno meeting and getting to know his family.

Giorno wants to ask about Jonathan, but that would be the surest way to make Dio shut down. A plan springs to mind. He might not be as manipulative as Dio is, but Giorno is still his father’s son. 

“Padre,” he begins, and Dio grunts in response to show that he’s listening. “I think you were right about some of the Olympians.”

“Oh?” Dio raises an eyebrow. “Elaborate.”

“You know how you described them as rude, uncouth and mannerless once?”

His father’s eyes gleam wickedly. “Which one?”

It’s a risk, but one that Giorno thinks will pay off. If there’s one thing that Dio loves to do, it’s talk about people that he hates. And from the way this god talked about Dio, it’s clear that they hate each other. Hopefully, bringing up the right thing will make Dio continue talking rather than shut down and dismiss him.

“Jotaro,” Giorno replies.

The sneer reappears on Dio’s face so quickly that he might have stopped time in the process. “Let me guess…no emotions, no manners, no sense of fashion?”

Truthfully, Giorno had been so focused on Jotaro himself that he hadn’t really noticed the god’s clothes, but he isn’t about to tell his father that. He opens his mouth to add something, but once Dio gets going it’s impossible to stop him.

“Of course, it’s not as if the opposite is much better. What was that mongrel’s name…?” Dio taps a finger to his chin in thought, but the move is so obviously practiced that Giorno stifles a laugh. Even when he’s annoyed, Dio’s pettiness and drama knows no bounds. “Ah, yes! Joseph. Last time I saw him, he had the audacity to tell me that my lipstick was ‘garish’.”

Giorno sputters. “What did you do to him?”

Dio is on a roll. “Well, if it were up to me, I would have torn him into pieces and dumped them in the depths of Tartarus, but Jojo didn’t—“

As if he’s just heard what he said, he cuts himself off rather abruptly. Hard eyes turn onto Giorno, all traces of amusement gone. “Enough,” he says. “I don’t have time to be regaling you with old stories of people who don’t matter anymore.”

“Don’t matter ‘anymore’?” asks Giorno boldly. “So they mattered once?”

Dio narrows his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be training? I’m of the understanding that you have quite the battle ahead of you.” A mean grin spreads over his face. “I must admit, I’m intrigued to see how it is you intend to beat Death himself.”

Even with the power of an Olympian, Giorno wasn’t able to beat Diavolo. If there’s anything he’s learned from his numerous escape attempts, it’s that now he needs a new strategy.

Diavolo is different than the other employees of the House. The only time Giorno has ever seen him in here is when he was receiving orders from Dio, and even then it was only for a moment. The last thing he would do is come by the Lounge for a drink. Unfortunately, that means no one really knows him.

Heading away from his father’s desk, he’s about to go to the training room when an idea strikes him. It’s not a new weapon he needs, it’s a completely new battle strategy. And who better than the best warrior of Earth, who had already told Giorno that he had dealings with Diavolo in the past?

Switching directions, he heads to Bruno’s regular spot.

As is typical, his mentor is swarmed with shades. Newly-dead shades always crowd around him, eager to meet their hero who’ve they’ve heard tales about during their time in life. Seeing Giorno approaching, Bruno waves the rest of the shades away with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, everyone,” he tells them, “just a bit of business to attend to, but we’ll talk later.”

His eyes light up upon seeing Giorno. “Your Highness,” he says, inclining his head. “You’re back. I must confess, I didn’t think I would be seeing you for a while.”

“I had hoped that would be the case, but it’s harder out there than I thought. Though I did make it to Elysium.”

“Am I right in assuming you’ve come to me for help?” asks Bruno, a touch of pride in his tone.

He nods. “I need to kill Diavolo.”

Bruno’s face falls into something more knowing and thoughtful. “The Olympians’ powers?”

Apparently, Giorno meeting the rest of his family is common knowledge at this point. 

“Useless,” Giorno replies. “No matter how powerful they are, Diavolo still kills me easily.”

After thinking for a moment, Bruno gestures him to the side. Dio had recently commissioned a set of new armchairs at the end of the hall, even though he himself never sits in them.

“How much do you know about my time on Earth?” Bruno asks. Whatever Giorno expected him to say, it isn’t that.

“Just what I’ve heard,” Giorno replies. “About your incredible strength, speed, and battle prowess. The shades whisper that you could even take on an Olympian.”

“I don’t know about that,” Bruno says, ever modest. “But I did take on a god once.”

“You did? As a human?”

Bruno casts a look around quickly. The shades pass by, giving them a wide berth, and it doesn’t seem like there’s anyone within hearing range. “That’s part of the reason Lord Dio hired me,” he says. “Sure, he thought I was capable, but I think he was worried about word getting out about what I did. I don’t think anyone but Lord Dio knows, but I trust you can be discreet?”

“Of course,” Giorno says. “Who was the god?”

Bruno smiles. “Who do you think?”

Giorno has to fight to keep his mouth from hanging open in surprise. “Diavolo? You fought Diavolo?”

“Beat him, too.”

“Was he the one who…” he trails off uncomfortably, unsure of how to say it.

Bruno understands what he doesn’t say. “Killed me?” he finishes. “No. He wanted to, of course, but he’s forbidden from killing any mortals until it’s their time to die. My time came a bit after that.”

“Why did you fight him?” Giorno asks.

Bruno hums, looking thoughtful. “He killed someone. Someone that I loved.”

“A mortal?”

He nods. “Now that some time has passed, I know that it was his time to die, but at that time, all I felt was rage. I caught Diavolo in the act, and I didn’t think.”

“But even if Diavolo wasn’t allowed to kill you, he’s still a god. How did you manage to defeat him?“

“You fight with your sword, don’t you? Tell me, what happened during your last battles with Diavolo? How did you lose?”

Giorno frowns. “He was so fast,” he says. “No matter what I did, it felt like I had barely raised my sword by the time he had already attacked me.”

“Diavolo fights with his hands,” Bruno explains. “It seems like that still hasn’t changed. I know you’re good with a sword, but it’s too slow of a weapon.”

“Even with an Olympian’s power, I was too slow,” Giorno says.

Bruno frowns. “Hmm, then perhaps the problem isn’t with your speed, but with your fighting style. I think you might be getting too predicable.”

“Predictable?” The words sting, even though they aren’t meant to.

Bruno smiles apologetically. “You have to use his own speed against him,” he says. “Catch him off guard.”

“And how do I do that?”

His mentor looks more fierce than Giorno has ever seen him; this is how he must have looked when he fought Diavolo. “I’ll show you.”

Tucking his new gift from Bruno into the pocket of his robes, Giorno rises from his armchair.

“Bruno, this is…I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Thank me by getting out of here,” Bruno says with a laugh.

“That’s what everyone says.”

“Because everyone’s rooting for you, Your Highness.” He leans in to whisper, “even your father.”

Giorno turns to leave, but then pauses. Maybe there is something he can do in return for Bruno. 

“The one you loved, the one who Diavolo…” he begins hesitantly.

Bruno nods, urging him to go on.

“Is he here? In the House?”

“No.” A look of sorrow comes over Bruno’s face. “That…was one stipulation of my punishment. I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him since that day.”

“I could find him for you,” Giorno offers.

Bruno looks as if he’s considering it for a moment, but then he shakes his head. “No. Thank you, but no. I made a mistake in life, and this is my punishment. I have my memories of him, and that’s enough. Besides, if I wasn’t here in the House, then I never would have met you.” 

Despite himself, a smile comes to Giorno’s face. “I suppose you’re right,” he concedes, though privately, he decides not to drop the matter. What good is his title as Prince if he can’t help his friends?

Giorno’s first steps out of the House this time are hesitant. He’s gotten so used to expecting an Olympian, but the chamber he stands in is empty. For a moment, he wonders if he’s early, but the gods have always shown up before.

Straining, he tries to think back to everything he knows about the Olympians. There are five of them, but whispers said that one of them didn’t live on Olympus anymore. Josuke’s and Jolyne’s other fathers technically aren’t Olympians, even though they live on Olympus. If his math is correct, there’s one left that he has to meet. Mentally, he ticks them off. He’s met Joseph, Josuke, Jotaro, and Jolyne. That’s four.

With a start, he realizes that the only possibility for the last Olympian is Jonathan.

He supposes the others could have still come by to help him, but he isn’t entitled to divine intervention. This must be their way of testing him. How far can he get alone without the help of their powers?

Gripping his sword, he heads for the chamber’s exit.

He’ll go as far as it takes.

It seems the Fates are smiling upon him this time around. Fighting hordes of vampires that threaten to overwhelm him has made him stronger and faster, and he makes it through the first few chambers of Tartarus easily, with minimal injuries. 

At last, he comes to a familiar chamber: Doppio’s. Even though he doesn’t need Nectar this time around, Doppio was so kind to him last time. It wouldn’t hurt to stop and have a little chat.

As soon as he walks into the chamber, he hears the sound of voices. Giorno ducks behind the wall to avoid interrupting. One of the voices is definitely Doppio’s. But who is he talking to? Perhaps it’s another shade?

Giorno listens for a moment, and when he finally recognizes the voice, it takes some effort to remain silent in his surprised state.

The second voice belongs to Diavolo.

Immediately, Giorno prepares himself to rush in. Even though Doppio is a shade and he can’t be killed, he still doesn’t deserve to be hurt or threatened or whatever Diavolo is doing to him.

Their voices don’t sound like they’re fighting, though. Instead, they sound…almost happy?

“I am sorry,” Diavolo says, and even those words are enough to leave Giorno taken aback. He’s never heard Diavolo say those words, and certainly not in that tone of voice. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t think he’s ever heard Diavolo speak in a tone that wasn’t dripping with mirth and antagonistic. Even when he overheard the god speaking to Dio as a child, it never sounded like this. “It’s almost time for me to go.”

“Don’t be sorry,” comes Doppio’s cheery reply. “I’m just glad you were able to come by.”

“Still, I do not like to leave your side,” Diavolo says. He genuinely sounds sad, and for the life of him, Giorno can’t understand why. 

“Me neither. I…” Doppio trails off, and Giorno doesn’t need to see him to guess that he’s probably sporting an embarrassed flush.

“What is it, my Doppio? Come, you need not be shy with me.”

“I like it when you come by. But I don’t want to cause any trouble—“

“You aren’t,” Diavolo cuts off in a voice that leaves no room for argument. “My lord Dio is aware of the relationship we share. As long as I do my job, what I do in my off time is none of his concern.”

They lapse into silence, and Giorno resists the urge to peek around the corner. No matter how subdued Diavolo sounds now, he certainly wouldn’t appreciate an interruption in what seems like a private moment.

“I must go,” Diavolo says in a tone heavy with sorrow. “But before I do, I have some gifts for you.”

“For me?” Doppio asks. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Nonsense. You deserve this and much more.”

Giorno can just barely make out the clink of a bottle. This must have been how Doppio had gotten Nectar.

“Um, Diavolo? Is it alright if I give this to someone?”

“To whom?”

“You know the Prince, right?”

Giorno expects Diavolo to say something scathing in response, but all he says is, “I’m familiar with him, yes.”

“Well,” Doppio begins, “last time he came to my chamber and he had a lot of injuries. He looked half dead, honestly. So I gave him some Nectar to help him out. I was wondering if he comes by again…”

The easiest thing, in Giorno’s opinion, would be for Diavolo to say no. His job is to stop Giorno, and more than that, the two of them certainly hold no love for each other. No matter how kind Diavolo is being right now, there’s no way he’ll approve of this.

“My Doppio, that Nectar is a gift,” Diavolo says silkily. “It is yours to do with as you please.”

And that’s when Giorno understands. For all his numerous faults, Diavolo actually does have emotions. And more than that, he can feel love.

Try as he might, he can’t stop the immediate connection that his brain makes. A god of the Underworld, who comes across as cold, unfeeling, and uncaring — but is able to feel love and affection toward another. 

That description could apply to Dio as well. 

His entrance into Elysium is just as breathtaking as last time, if not more. The same tingling feeling he felt last time is back, and now it’s even more forceful. That makes sense, he supposes. Last time, he had an Olympian’s power, which clouded his senses a fair bit. This time, what he feels is unfiltered. Nothing as conspicuous as Jotaro’s Star Platinum, but just a bit, like the tiniest brush of strength.

Flexing his fingers, he prepares himself to continue. The ever-changing layout of chambers is both a blessing and a curse. From now on, Diavolo could be in any chamber. Best to stay on his guard. 

Easily disposing of the heroes in the next few chambers and pocketing coins along the way, Giorno pauses in front of the entrance to the next one. Something about this one feels…not malicious, exactly, but still different. Keeping one hand on the hilt of his sword, he proceeds through, fully expecting to be met with Diavolo’s mean grin. 

Instead, he finds a shade.

A quick glance around the chamber confirms that this shade is the only one present. The shade’s clothes are similar to the other ghosts of fallen heroes: Greek armor, with a helmet at his side and a spear lying next to him. This shade, though, seems different. All the others have impeccable armor, and as soon as they see him are eager to challenge him to a fight, desperate to prove their status as heroes deserving of being in Elysium.

This shade looks…defeated would be the best word, perhaps. He stares at the ground with a sorrowful look on his face, and he barely glances up at Giorno’s arrival. 

“Erm, hello,” Giorno says, walking closer. He doesn’t take his hand off of his sword, however. It hasn’t escaped his mind that this could just be some kind of elaborate battle strategy, where the shade acts powerless to catch him off guard.

The shade doesn’t reply.

“My name is Giorno.”

That gets a response, if only barely. His chin lifts the slightest bit.

“I am the Prince—“

“I know who you are,” the shade interrupts tiredly. “Dio’s brat.”

Giorno is taken aback. Even the shades in Elysium who fight him always do so with some modicum of respect. While trying to cut him into pieces, they still refer to him by his proper title. The fact that this shade has both acknowledged Giorno’s position and still shown him disrespect makes him very different.

Unsure of what to do, Giorno simply remains standing in a battle-ready position.

“I’m not going to fight you,” the shade snaps.

“You aren’t?” Giorno asks, stupefied. The shade sounds as if the very idea of fighting is an enormous inconvenience.

“There’s nothing for you here.” The shade turns away, clearly ending the conversation. 

Technically, the shade is right. There’s nothing else in this chamber, and if this shade isn’t willing to help him, the best thing would be to keep moving on. But Giorno glances back at the shade. Something about him makes Giorno want to stay. Instead of heading for the exit, he drops down across from the shade. 

“Then why are you talking to me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” the shade says, though the words are less scathing than they used to be. “I haven’t heard the sound of my own voice in so long. Figured I might as well take the opportunity.”

“Do you have a name?”

He fully expects to receive no response, but instead, the shade replies. “No one’s called me by my name since I was alive. There’s only one person from whom I want to hear it.”

Clearly, he’s hit a nerve. They lapse into silence for a moment, and to Giorno’s surprise, the shade is the next to speak.

“Now it’s your turn,” he says. “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be back with your daddy in your palace?”

Giorno gapes at him. “Have you…not heard?”

“I don’t talk to anyone in this place,” the shade sniffs, looking a bit put-off.

Giorno supposes that makes sense. The rest of the shades in Elysium are well aware of his escape plan, but isolation must bring with it a lack of news. 

“I am trying to get to the surface,” he says.

The shade doesn’t say anything, but he simply raises an eyebrow in response. Giorno takes that as a sign to continue. 

“I recently found out that I have a father. Another one, I mean, other than Dio,” Giorno explains. He doesn’t usually fumble for his words, but something about the stranger’s impassive expression is making him nervous.

“And you’re trying to look for him,” the shade says.

Giorno nods. “He’s on the Surface.”

The stranger tips his head, studying Giorno. The bored look in his eye suddenly transforms into something much more calculated. “Why are you looking for him?”

“Because he’s my father.”

“So?”

Giorno is struck speechless.

“You already have a father,” the shade says, each barb cutting deeper than the last. “You’re the prince of the Underworld, who wants for nothing. So why would you leave all that behind to go searching for a man you don’t even know?”

“He’s my father,” says Giorno. “He’s family. Isn’t that reason enough?”

Unexpectedly, the shade barks out a laugh. Even though it seems genuine, it sounds harsh and grating. The smile on his face looks out of place, like he isn’t used to it anymore. Dully, Giorno notes that it’s the laugh of someone who’s forgotten how to do it. 

“I don’t see what’s funny about that,” Giorno says with a touch of heat. 

“Look at you, brat,” the shade says, still chuckling. “You’ve spent your whole life pampered in your palace. They used to call me one of the bravest warriors on Earth, and you’re braver than I am.”

Giorno stares at him, dumbfounded. That certainly wasn’t the way he expected the shade’s sentence to end. 

“Here I sit, day after day, too afraid to go look for the man who left me behind,” the shade says, so quietly that Giorno thinks he isn’t meant to hear. 

Shades aren’t like immortals. In death, they look the same age as they did in life. This shade seems to be the exception. The tired look on his face and the bags under his eyes give the impression that he’s much older. When he smiles, even if it’s just the slightest bit, his face softens and looks much more youthful. 

“So, what now?” the shade asks. “You just walk out of here to get to the Surface?”

Giorno huffs out a laugh. “If only it were that easy,” he says. “I’m fighting my way out.”

“Fighting who? The heroes of Elysium?”

“Among others. Whoever my father hires to stand in my way, usually. Though now it just seems to be Diavolo.”

The shade’s eyes flash at the mention of the god’s name. No matter how isolated this shade is from everything else in Elysium, even mortals have heard of Diavolo.

“Diavolo, huh?” the shade asks, voice measured. “Can you kill him?”

“This time I will,” Giorno asserts. “I’m certain of that.”

Standing, he nods farewell before heading toward the chamber’s exit.

“Wait,” the shade calls from behind him. 

Turning, Giorno cocks his head to the side. 

The shade beckons him over. “I don’t care how you do it,” he says. “Stab him, slit his throat, cut his head off. But whatever you do, don’t lose this, alright? I want it back.” Digging in his robes, he pulls out a knife and holds it out to Giorno, hilt first.

“You’re…giving this to me?” Giorno asks, once the shock wears off.

“Kill Diavolo, get out of here, and don’t bring it back until you find your dad.”

Giorno reaches out, closing his fingers around the knife’s hilt. “Why are you helping me?”

The shade looks sad, reminiscence tinging his voice. “I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did.”

He hesitates. “Thank you,” he says finally. “I won’t forget this.”

As he once again heads for the chamber’s exit, the knife in his hand is a familiar presence. He’d managed to contain his surprise at seeing it, but now that he’s out of the shade’s view, he needs to know. Reaching into his robes, he pulls out another knife, the one that Bruno had given him before he left.

The two knives are identical — part of the same set.

Much as he’d like to, Giorno barely gets any time to process this new realization and what it means. He’s hardly set foot in the next chamber before a group of shades descends on him, screaming out battle cries.

He isn’t ready for it, and they manage to get more than a few hits before he finishes them off.  

“Ah, and here he comes, the Prince of the Underworld himself,” a shade in the next chamber greets him. This is new. Usually the shades prefer to fight first and talk never.

Giorno doesn’t know much about social rankings on the Surface, but this shade’s clothes look different than the others. He’s decorated with more laurels, and his weapons look more dangerous than the others’. 

“I wonder, how much obol will you drop when I kill you?” the shade continues. “Perhaps Daddy gave you some allowance on your way?”

Giorno pauses. “Obol?”

The shade’s face falls, pride giving way to confusion. “You…don’t know what obol is?”

“Don’t make me say it again,” he says, a touch of heat to his voice. “I hate having to repeat myself.”

The shade’s confusion gives way to rage. “Obol! It’s the only thing worth fighting for around here. How do you think I got these weapons?” In the face of Giorno’s blank look, the shade grows more enraged. He pulls a coin out of his pocket — the same type of coin that Giorno has in his own pocket.

“Ah, you mean obol is your form of currency,” Giorno clarifies. “Where do you spend it?”

The shade throws up his arms in frustration. “You don’t know anything about this place, do you?”

“Unfortunately, no. I seem to be a bit behind when it comes to your customs here.”

“The boatman sells all the good stuff down here. He’s the only one who’ll take obol, but his merchandise is worth it, and his prices are fair. Most of us down here don’t go more than a few battles without going to see him in between.”

Giorno frowns, confused. “But the chambers all shift, right? How do you find him all the time?”

Rolling his eyes, the shade gestures to the door. “At the chamber exit, make an offering of obol and call forth the boatman. That will shift the chambers and then the next one you enter will be his.”

“Thank you,” says Giorno before skewering cleanly through the shade’s armor. “Your help is much appreciated.”

With the addition of this shade’s obol, the amount of money Giorno now carries has become quite substantial.

He approaches the chamber door. The only offerings he’s made before were to Dio and Erina, who were both appreciative (in their own respective ways). He’s never called upon a stranger before.

He isn’t sure how many obol to make the offering with, but the last thing he wants to do is put down too few and insult the boatman. Setting down a large stack of coins, he straightens up.

“Boatman,” he says out loud. “I offer you these obol, in the name of Dio.”

Giorno expected a bit more fanfare — the ground rumbling, or something conspicuous to suggest the chambers were shifting — but Elysium is as tranquil as ever. Still, the shade had seemed genuine enough.

Giorno proceeds through the door. Immediately, he can tell that the offering worked. This chamber looks much different than the others. It still carries the tranquil atmosphere, and a layer of fog floats above the ground, but the chamber is much more spacious. The empty space in this one gives off a much more relaxing vibe, a far cry from the other battle-filled chambers.

Giorno has heard many stories about the boatman, and they all differ depending on who he hears them from. Erina told him that the boatman was an essential part of keeping the Underworld running, and should be treated as such. Dio, on the other hand, has always harbored extreme dislike for the man, though he would never share why.

Mortals have equally polarizing opinions. Some say that the boatman is cruel, and they depict him as the physical form of pure evil. Others, though they don’t dislike him and respect the work he does, still offer him nothing more than basic respect. The boatman isn’t worshipped like other immortal beings are. 

Hesitantly, Giorno walks closer. The shade from earlier hadn’t lied about the boatman’s legendary wares. Everything one could possible imagine, from weapons to armor to Nectar, is arranged in neat lines on display.

The boatman has his back to Giorno, arranging a stack of swords. He’s dressed in the same garments that Diavolo wears, ones that signify who he is and his position in the Underworld and Dio’s ranks. Although Giorno has caught glimpses of Diavolo in the House as he was growing up, the boatman has always been a mystery.

“Excuse me?” Giorno calls.

The boatman turns. The gruesome scar on his face adds to his fearsome appearance, but it is contrasted by the grin on his face, which immediately fades as soon as he catches a glimpse of Giorno.

“You—“ The boatman breaks off, seemingly at a loss for words. “How are you—“

He looks conflicted, and Giorno wonders if he should say something. The boatman’s next words, however, have him freezing in his tracks.

“How are you alive?”

Chapter Text

Giorno blinks, unsure if he’s heard the man correctly. “I’m sorry?”

“You…” the man says, almost reverently. “You’re Jonathan’s son, aren’t you?”

Giorno’s eyebrows shoot up in response. Nobody’s called him that yet. Even the Olympians, ones who acknowledge him as family, see him as Dio’s son first. How can this man so clearly recognize him as his other father’s son?

“Yes,” Giorno says cautiously. “My name is Giorno.”

“Speedwagon,” the man says, tipping his hat, though he still looks extremely shocked. 

It’s clear he’s still too surprised to say anything, so Giorno takes it as an opportunity to ask questions. “What did you mean by me being alive? Why is that surprising?”

Speedwagon’s eyes widen. “You mean you don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“About Jonathan. About why he left you.”

Giorno’s silence speaks for itself.

“Aw, come on. Don’t tell me you thought Jonathan would abandon ya for no reason?”

This man, Speedwagon, speaks of his father with much familiarity. This is new, as well. The Olympians, though they spoke of him with respect, still were quite distant. Perhaps that made sense, considering Jonathan didn’t live on Olympus with them anymore. 

“I…” Giorno hesitates. For some reason, admitting this seems a bit like a weakness. “I actually don’t know much about him.”

“Dio never told you?”

“Padre doesn’t seem to like speaking about him much.”

Speedwagon scoffs. “Ah, now that makes sense.” His attention snaps to Giorno. “What about Erina?”

“She told me a bit,” Giorno says, “but she said it wasn’t her place to say more.”

“That sounds like Erina,” he says.

“You sound like you know them all well,” Giorno comments.

“Of course! Known ‘em all for eons, now. Especially Jonathan. We’ve been friends for ages.”

“Really?” Giorno asks eagerly. “I heard he hasn’t been in contact with the Olympians. When’s the last time you saw him?”

Speedwagon looks at him, confused. “Why, just last week!”

Giorno’s heart skips a beat. “Really?” he asks. “I mean, you know where he is?”

“Sure do,” Speedwagon replies, an apologetic expression on his face, “but I can’t take you.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Underworld rules. Only mortal shades are allowed on my boat without the express permission of Lord Dio.”

“That’s all right,” Giorno says. He’s a bit disappointed, but it’s fine. Heading up to the Surface himself was always his original plan. While he’s here, though, there’s one question that he needs to ask. “Why did my father — Jonathan, I mean — why did he leave?”

Speedwagon studies him for a moment. “I don’t know if I can tell you, lad.”

“What? Why not?”

“I’m not as strong as I look,” he says, as if it pains him to admit. “And Dio is one of the strongest gods I know. There’s no telling what he would do to me if he found out I told you the truth.”

Giorno resists the urge to sulk, feeling very much like a child who just got told ‘no’ for the first time. 

He had hoped that Speedwagon would at least be willing to explain his relationship with Jonathan and explain everything about him. It’s hard not to feel cheated when it turns out all he gets in return is vague answers and cryptic hints. 

“But if this is the reason he left…” Giorno presses on, ignoring Speedwagon’s words in favor of trying to understand. The man is his father's friend, after all. “I deserve to know.” 

“Do you?” asks Speedwagon in an unreadable voice before he sighs deeply. “Look, I can’t even begin to explain this to you right now, and it won’t help any either. All I can say is you have to trust me; there’s nothing else you can do. You have to find your own answers, boy.” 

“I understand,” Giorno says, though he wishes he didn’t. “Thank you, anyway.”

“Now hold on. I may not be able to tell you about that, but that doesn’t mean I still can’t help.” Rummaging around in his wares for a moment, Speedwagon withdraws a bottle of Nectar. “Drink that,” he says. “That’ll take care of those nasty wounds you got. In the meantime, I’ll try to find some armor here that will fit you. Quite a bit smaller than both your dads, aren’t ya?”

That makes Giorno pause. He's much smaller than Dio, certainly, but he thought it must be because of Jonathan. "Am I?"

Speedwagon nods distractedly. "Oh, yeah. Jonathan is the biggest out of all the Olympians."

He almost chokes on his Nectar. Out of all the Olympians he met so far, Jotaro was by far the biggest, and he was terrifying.

Giorno pulls out his remaining obol, holding it out to him. "I don't know if it's enough-"

Speedwagon waves him off. "I can't take your money, my boy," he says. "You're Jonathan's son. It's the least I can do."

The new armor Speedwagon gave him sits comfortably on his shoulders, and the Nectar has healed all his wounds. Good thing, too, because in the next room, he finds Diavolo.

The god doesn't look angry this time, merely bored, as if fighting Giorno is an inconvenience. Which, Giorno supposes, it must be. Diavolo's conversation with Doppio sits at the forefront of his mind, making him see the god in a different light.

He steels himself, recalling all the advice Bruno gave him. This time, there's no talking. Reaching into his robes, he one of his knives. Without hesitating, he draws his arm back and throws it at Diavolo. The god, predictably, dodges, a nasty smirk on his face.

If this plan doesn't work out... he doesn't let himself follow that line of thought. This plan is all he has right now, and he'll do all he can to make it work.

Diavolo rushes toward him, and instead of ducking out of the way, Giorno forces himself to remain standing. His fingers curl around the hilt of his sword and he shifts his weight. No matter what, he needs to make it look like he's about to swing. His other hand inconspicuously creeps back inside his robes, gripping his second weapon.

As soon as Diavolo is close enough, Giorno leans to the right, sliding his sword out of its hilt quickly. Diavolo, seeing the attack coming, dodges to the left. Quickly, before the god has a chance to attack. Giorno strikes with his left hand. The knife that the shade gave him lodges itself firmly in Diavolo's stomach.

Diavolo falls to his knees, looking down in disbelief. “This knife…” he whispers, anger coursing over his face. "You—“

Sword in hand, Giorno draws closer. Diavolo attempts to lunge at him, but he’s too severely injured.  Giorno supposes that that’s one advantage he has over gods right now: he’s used to fighting while he’s in pain. Blood pools through Diavolo’s robes, leaving a mark on the ethereal green ground of Elysium.

“Have a safe trip back," he says, slitting the god's throat. 

Diavolo’s hate-filled eyes bore into his, but there’s nothing he can do. Though he may be a god, his injuries are too great for him to sustain, and in a shower of light, he dissolves. In his wake, he leaves behind the knife. 

Giorno picks up both it and its companion that he had thrown earlier. Bruno’s plan was merely to take advantage of the speed that a knife offers. He said that this was how he himself had killed Diavolo so many years ago: he’d diverted the god’s attention with his spear, and then used the knife to finish him off. Diavolo must not have learned from his last death. Though, finding the knife’s companion was definitely not part of the plan. He pockets them both — their owners will want them back.

Allowing himself to take a steadying breath, he contemplates the gravity of his current situation.

He’s done it. He’s killed Diavolo, the god of death. On shaky legs, he exits the chamber. He has no wounds, but adrenaline courses through him, and his heart pounds uncomfortably against his ribcage.

Upon exiting the chamber, he’s met with the entrance of the Underworld. Shades and gods alike usually only come in, but in his case, it will be an exit.

The doors are unguarded, and his status as Prince of the Underworld should allow him to exit through them without any problems. He hesitates, hand on the door. 

This is it. This door is the only thing standing between him and the Surface. Between him and the truth. Between him and his father.

Before he loses his nerve, he pushes with all his strength. The door yawns open, and he’s met with his first glimpse of the outside world.

No matter what Giorno thought he knew about the Surface, nothing could have prepared him for this.

The Underworld is not one that most people would describe as ‘beautiful’. Some areas have their appeal, there’s no doubt about that. The decor in his father’s House is elegant and appealing, albeit in its own way. Elysium, created to be paradise for the best heroes of Earth, is otherworldly and paradisiacal. 

This is something completely different.

The air in the Underworld — in all regions — is still and unmoving. As soon as Giorno steps onto the surface, he’s hit in the face by a blast of cold, so sudden and fierce that he staggers backward while throwing his arms up in front of his face.

Behind him, the door slams shut before glowing brightly. He turns to find it completely disappeared. It’s as if he appeared on the Surface out of thin air. He supposes it makes sense. The last thing gods would want is for some unsuspecting mortal to discover the entrance to the Underworld and enter on accident. 

There’s a noticeable lack of lava that Giorno is extremely thankful for. The ground looks solid, and though Giorno’s first few steps are hesitant and testing, it seems to hold his weight with no problem.

Above his head, a wide expanse of grays and blues stretches out as far as he can see. As he watches, it begins to change. Off in the distance, there’s a large yellow ball, and slowly it begins to rise up. The sky — he remembers its name from one of Bruno’s stories — lights up with swirls of red and orange.

It’s breathtaking, and it takes a moment for Giorno to snap out of the stupor it has induced in him. 

His robes trail on the ground behind him as he walks. All of his knowledge of the Surface comes from Bruno and other mortal shades that he’s talked to throughout his life; it takes some adjusting to match up what he’s heard with what he sees.

The ground is covered in something brown and powdery, falling through his fingers and leaving them stained with a dark color. Dirt. Small flowers burst out from it, breaking up the flat expanse of the ground with cheerful patches of color. 

He’s fairly certain he hasn’t seen anything like these flowers either in his father’s palace or the rest of the Underworld, but something about them seems to call to him, beckoning him closer. He’s powerless to resist the urge. 

Hesitant fingers reach out to stroke one of the plants. It’s fragile; he can tell that much. It feels — and he doesn’t know how he knows this, but he’s fairly certain it’s true — it feels alive. Something like instinct guides his hand, and he holds his hand above it.

The tingling feeling that he had felt when he stepped into Elysium comes back full force, rushing through him so forcefully and quickly that his head begins to spin and he can feel his blood boil beneath his skin.

Frowning, he tries to control the onslaught of energy, directing it toward his hand that’s currently hovering above the ground. The feeling brings with it a pleasurable buzzing sensation, and he watches in awe as before his very eyes, the flower begins to — there’s no other word for it — sprout. The colors in it become more vibrant and it shoots up, growing more and more before it’s at least ten times its original size.

Surprised, Giorno stumbles back, falling into a sitting position. Wary eyes stay locked on it, but it doesn’t seem to be moving anymore. It’s with a feeling of awe that he registers that he must have done that. Somehow, he made this plant grow.

His conversation with Jolyne comes shooting back to the forefront of his mind. He’d been so confident that he didn’t possess a power of his own. He’d tried his best not to let it bother him — he had other skills to compensate, like his sword. 

But now, this changes everything. He has power, all of his own. He doesn’t know how to use it yet, but he has nothing but time to learn. 

What else can he do?

On the ground, a short distance away, there lies a rock. He holds it in the palm of his hand, marveling at how similar it feels to the stones in Tartarus. Can he do the same thing with this rock as he did with the flower?

Experimentally, he closes his hand over it, once again trying to direct the energy in his body toward it. He tries to picture it, this rock growing bigger and heavier, but when he opens his eyes, he finds it unchanged.

Giorno, not to be deterred, tries again. This time, he can’t stop himself from thinking about how the flower had grown, picturing the petals in his mind. 

He opens his eyes to find a flower in his hand, identical to the one still growing out of the ground. As he processes the implications of this, his eyes widen. Could it be true? Can his power give life where there is none?

Now he’s even more curious as to what Jonathan and Dio’s powers are.

Giorno pushes himself into a standing position, dusting off his hands and his robes. It’s time to do what he came here for. Proceeding forward, he scans his surroundings eagerly.

How do gods live on the Surface? It’s practically unheard of. Gods usually live in little pockets of their own, and for good reason: they prefer to be around and with their own kind. Giorno doesn’t even know what he’s looking for, but he’s certain that whatever it is, he’ll know when he sees it. 

He’s only taken a few more steps when he realizes that he’s not alone. Across the large clearing, about twenty feet from him stands a figure. They have their back to him, their robes billowing out in the wind.

It’s uncomfortably silent as Giorno approaches hesitantly. The person before him can’t be a human. They’re too large, and their aura radiates off of them powerfully. Based on their stance, they were clearly here waiting for someone. It can only be Giorno himself — no one else would have exited from the Underworld.

It’s only when he’s close, almost close enough to touch the god before him, that he realizes who it is. 

“Padre,” Giorno says, inclining his head respectfully.

“Giorno,” Dio responds without turning around. He sounds different. Even when Dio shows kindness and caring toward him, he’s snarky and sarcastic and dramatic to a fault. Up here, with no one witness to their conversation, he sounds softer. More vulnerable, perhaps. “You made it up here, after all.”

“Disappointed?” Giorno shoots back.

To his surprise, Dio shakes his head. “No, my son,” he says, turning to face him. “I, Dio, am proud of you. You’ve done what no one, not even me, has done. In the history of the Underworld, no one has battled their way out and successfully managed to escape.”

His father’s words warm him, though he doesn’t let his guard down. “Is that why you’re here? To congratulate me?”

Dio’s expression doesn’t change, and he looks grave. “No,” he says simply.

It’s only then that Giorno takes in the rest of Dio’s attire. He’s dressed in full battle attire, armor resting heavily on his shoulders. He’s never seen him like this before, in full battle armor. This must be how his opponents and enemies see him — which, Giorno supposes, he is now.

“You’re here to fight me,” Giorno dares to breathe.

“It is my duty, both as ruler of the Underworld and as your father.”

Deep down, he knew it would come to this. His father was adamant that he not escape the Underworld. Dio used every tool at his disposal to stop Giorno and still failed. It only makes sense that he would stand against him himself. There’s no escaping this fight.

“Before we fight, I have one condition,” Giorno says. He’s never asked his father for anything a day in his life.

Dio raises an eyebrow, a trace of his old humor making a reappearance. “Oh? Then speak, my son. Honoring your request is the least I could do.”

Before he can lose his nerve, Giorno raises his chin defiantly. “Tell me about Jonathan,” he says. “Tell me why he left.”

Dio actually has the audacity to look surprised. “You don’t know?”

“Erina didn’t tell me.”

“And neither did that insipid boatman?” At Giorno’s surprised look, Dio snorts. “Please. I am the ruler of the Underworld. None can hide what goes on from me.”

“They both said that I should hear it from you.”

Hesitating for a fraction of a second, Dio shakes his head. “There’s nothing to tell,” he says far too casually. “He wanted to leave, so he left. End of story.”

Giorno sighs. “I’m going to find him, you know. And with it, I’ll find the truth.”

His father says nothing, merely raises his arms and sheds his cloak in a cloud of flames. Despite the situation, Dio’s dramatics never cease.

Giorno has never fought his father before. He doesn’t know anything about Dio’s fighting style: not his power, not his abilities, not even his weapon of choice.

Unsheathing his blade, Giorno holds it out before him.

His father’s face twists — not exactly with disgust, but with an unfamiliar mix of emotions as he lays eyes on Giorno’s sword. 

“Where did you get that?” hisses Dio.

“The sword?” he says, confused. “Erina gave it to me when I started learning with Bruno.”

“Of course she did,” his father scoffs. “Of course she gave you his sword, and of course you stand against me with it.”

“His sword? You mean…this is Jonathan’s?” Giorno studies the blade. The inscription carved on it, ‘luck’ incites a completely different meaning. The entire time, the thought of having the Olympians’ powers with him during his escape attempts had filled him with warmth and familiarity. But the entire time, he’d also had his own father’s sword in his hand, protecting him from evil and urging him along. Almost tenderly, his fingers trace over the inscription once again.

A new wave of resistance rushes through him, and he faces Dio defiantly.

Though he goes into the battle with nothing but determination, it isn’t enough. Dio’s battle skills are legendary, and for good reason. He moves fast, faster than the Furies, faster than Diavolo, faster than any opponent Giorno has faced thus far.

Dio moves so fast that it’s like time stops. There’s nothing Giorno can do to stop it. All he sees is the air around him ripple gently before pain stabs through him.

Dizzily, he looks down at the hole that’s been punched cleanly through his stomach. Blood rushes out of his wound rapidly. It won’t take long for the embrace of death to meet him halfway.

“I…” Dio looks sadder than Giorno’s ever seen him before. His father refuses to look at him, keeping his eyes somewhere to the side. “I am sorry, my son. Know that I didn’t want it to be like this.”

“Yes, you did,” Giorno spits, using the last of his strength to muster up anger in his voice. “You chose to fight me. You knew you would win. What else could have happened?”

Outrage flashes across Dio’s face. “And you chose to be completely insufferable and refuse to leave this small matter behind. Why will you not give it up? We were all much happier before you found out about Jojo.”

“The matter of my father is no small matter at all,” says Giorno. Strength is leaving his body rapidly, and he only has a few seconds left, at most. “And that’s a lie. Everyone was happier with him around. Including you. I may not be able to prove it, but I know it for a fact.” His eyes meet Dio’s angry ones. “I will bring him back. Even if it’s the last thing I do.”

And with that, Giorno breathes his last, his final breath mixing with the cool breeze on the surface.

Chapter Text

Coming back home has never felt so bleak, so hopeless. Though the Styx has healed all his wounds, Giorno still feels stiff as he pushes himself out of the Pool. After seeing what the Surface is like, the unmoving air of the Underworld is like a slap in the face.

His next trip out will be quite some time away. There’s no use heading back out there without a plan. It took him almost six deaths to be able to finally best Diavolo. His own father will be much more difficult.

First things first, Giorno walks to the end of the hall where Bruno is standing at attention, as always.

His mentor’s eyes light up upon seeing him. “Your Highness,” he calls. “How did it go? I know you’re back here, but—“

“I did it,” Giorno says tiredly. “I beat Diavolo.”

Bruno’s whole face warms. “I knew you could do it. But why do you not look happy?”

“Because the next opponent I have to face is my father.”

“Ah,” Bruno says. “Yes, that would make me quite upset too.”

“Any tips?” Giorno asks.

To his chagrin, Bruno shakes his head. “Afraid not. Me killing Diavolo was a stroke of luck, combined with some very strong emotions that got the best of me at the time. An Olympian is much, much stronger. Only a god can kill one.”

“I figured as much,” Giorno says, trying not to look too down. 

“But,” Bruno continues, “if there’s anyone I know who can do it, it’s you. You’ve already accomplished so much, and you’re much stronger than you were when you started out. And you’re a god yourself, aren’t you? All you need is a good plan, just like when you fought Diavolo.”

“Thank you, Bruno,” Giorno says. If there’s anyone who never fails to cheer him up, it’s Bruno. “That reminds me, I should return this to you.” He fishes the knife out of his robes, handing it to Bruno.

“Oh, yes, thank you—“ Abruptly, Bruno cuts himself off. He holds the knife close to his face, studying it intently. “Where did you get this?” he asks sharply. 

“The knife? You gave it to me—”

Before he’s even finished speaking, Bruno is already shaking his head. “I’ve had that knife my entire life. I know it like the back of my hand. This isn’t mine.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Giorno says, pulling the other one out. “My mistake, this one is yours.” Bruno stares at both knives as if he can hardly dare to believe it.

“Di-did you see him?” Bruno asks, in a voice that’s hardly more than a whisper. “Did he give you this?”

Giorno doesn’t know who he’s talking about, but clearly this is a sensitive subject for Bruno. “I met a shade in Elysium,” he says carefully, “and he gave me this to fight Diavolo with.”

With shaking hands, Bruno takes the other knife from Giorno, holding them side by side. “Did you talk to him? How did he seem?”

It takes the look on Bruno’s face for Giorno to finally be able to connect the dots. “He’s the man you loved,” he says, understanding. “The man you killed Diavolo for.”

Bruno nods, more a jerk of his head than anything.

“He…” Giorno fumbles for words. Perhaps it isn’t his place to do this. The shade in Elysium had made his feelings on the matter quite clear. The best thing to do is probably to tell Bruno what he wants to hear.

But something is stopping him. Maybe it’s that Bruno has played a large hand in raising him his whole life. Maybe it’s that Bruno is his friend and he wants to do whatever he can to make him happy. Maybe it’s that this situation reminds him a bit too much of both his fathers. 

“He’s not happy,” Giorno confesses. “I think he misses you. He said that he looked for you, in the beginning, but he couldn’t find you.” His sentence turns up at the end, making it clear it’s a question.

Bruno sighs heavily, leaning back against the wall. In all the time that Giorno’s known him, almost his entire life, Bruno’s always seemed larger than life. On some fundamental level, Giorno’s aware that he’s a shade. But this is the first time he’s ever seen him looking vulnerable. He looks — there’s no other word for it — he looks human. 

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Bruno says with a self-deprecating smile. “They used to call me the greatest hero of Greece. And now, look at me. I’m nothing but a coward.”

The words are familiar. They’re the exact same as the shade said.

“You’re avoiding him,” Giorno guesses. It sounds idiotic coming out of his mouth, but by the way Bruno’s face darkens, he knows he’s hit the mark.

“I failed him,” Bruno says. The words sound like a simple conclusion, but the undercurrent of hurt in his tone betrays him. “I should have done more. I should have been able to protect him—“

“What could you have done?” Giorno interrupts. He doesn’t mean for it to sound rude, more consoling. “No one can escape death, be they mortal or immortal.” The rule has been just about drilled into his head at this point. He remembers when he was young, and he asked both Dio and Erina why so many mortals had to die. They both had said the same thing.

“It was a difficult lesson to learn,” Bruno admits. “I died after him, so when he passed through the House, I wasn’t there to see him.”

“He’s in Elysium now,” Giorno says. “He said that he looked for you.”

Bruno looks alarmed by that. “He did?”

“Why wouldn’t he? You loved him enough to kill a god for him, didn’t you?”

“But I let him down.”

For the first time, Giorno is in the unique position of being the one to give Bruno advice. 

“It’s not too late,” he says. “You both have nothing but time, and you’ve spent an eternity apart. Don’t spend the rest apart as well. Go back to each other.”

Bruno’s face screws up in thought, before settling into one of determination. “Can I keep this knife?” he asks, holding up the shade’s. “Give mine back to him when you see him next.”

“You aren’t going to see him?” asks Giorno.

“I will,” Bruno says. “I just need some time. I need to prepare myself to face him again…and I need to ask your father for some time off, if he’ll allow it.”

Giorno pockets Bruno’s knife, a smile spreading across his face. “He will, I’m sure of it.”

He turns to walk away, before a doubt crosses his mind. “Bruno?”

“Hm?”

“What’s his name? The man you’re in love with?”

Bruno’s face turns fond, an expression of such love crossing his face that Giorno finds it hard to look at. “Others called him Abbacchio,” he says, wistful. “I used to call him Leone.”

Giorno commits the name to memory.

Try as he might, Giorno is never able to stop himself from heading to the Lounge, especially not when he sees Mista at the counter.

“Back again?” Mista says as Giorno slides onto the stool next to him. “You’ve been gone longer and longer.”

“And you’re never gone,” Giorno counters. “Job market still a pain?”

Mista waves a hand nonchalantly. “Lord Dio has more important things to worry about,” he says. “For now, I’m just staying put until you make your way to the Surface. Hopefully by then he’ll be in a better mood and I’ll be brave enough to talk to him without running scared.”

His words make Giorno laugh. “Imagine that,” he muses. “The famed Fury, inflictor of fear in everyone he meets, scared to have a conversation with his boss.”

Mista clutches his chest, faking hurt. “My prince, I can’t believe you would say that to me. I am forever your loyal subject.”

He maintains the facade for a moment longer before he laughs.

“Mista,” Giorno begins softly. “Have you ever been to the Surface?”

Mista shakes his head. “Farthest I’ve been is Elysium, but mostly I just stay in Tartarus. Why?”

“No reason. Just wondering if you knew how beautiful it is.”

It takes Mista a moment to understand, but when he does he almost spits out his drink. “You’ve been there? To the Surface? You made it?”

Giorno nods, unable to keep from smiling. Just a few runs ago, he’d almost lost hope of ever making it to the Surface, but now he’s seen it. Now, though, he has a new reason to lose hope.

“No way!” Mista continues. “Wait, but if you made it up there, does that mean you found your dad?”

Quickly as it had come, Giorno’s smile disappears again. “No,” he says. “I have to get past my father now.”

“Oh,” says Mista. “Wow. I do not envy you right now.”

“Neither do I,” Giorno says.

They fall into silence for a moment, before Mista reaches out. Before Giorno can realize what he’s doing, Mista gently pulls something out of his hair. The look on his face suggests that he doesn’t realize what he’s doing. 

“Sorry, boss,” he says, “I just—“

Cutting himself off, he simply holds out his hand. In the center of his palm rests a small flower petal. It must have gotten caught in Giorno’s hair when he was on the surface.

Gently, Giorno plucks it from his fingers. Now, despite the change in location, the flower petal incites the same feeling within him that it had on the surface.

“Mista,” Giorno begins, staring at the flower. “How did you know you had your power?”

“You mean my—“ Mista gestures to his side, where his gun rests in its holster.

Giorno nods.

“Oh, man,” Mista says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. It sticks up in spikes of disarray, which Giorno shouldn’t find as endearing as he does. “It’s been so long, I hardly remember. But I’m the oldest, so I got mine first. It was a bit more clear when my brothers got theirs, I think.”

“What happened?”

“Well, at first their powers were dormant. Especially Narancia. I was worried he wouldn’t even get one, you know?”

“Are your powers different because you’re Furies?”

“Kind of. I don’t really know how gods’ powers work, but for us, it’s more like our power is linked to one particular weapon. We can summon it at will and funnel our energy into it.”

“But Fugo’s is different, right?”

“Yeah, he’s always been the overachiever in the family.”

Giorno frowns.

“Here,” Mista says. “Why don’t you tell me what happened first? Your case might be different, but if you tell me about it maybe I could help.”

“I thought I didn’t have a power,” Giorno admits. “Gods usually get their powers fairly early on, and mine never seemed to manifest. When I was younger, I thought my father would be disappointed in me, but he never even brought it up. I don’t know what his power is, so I can’t even figure it out that way.”

Giorno looks at Mista hopefully, but the Fury just shakes his head.

“Can’t help you there,” he says heavily. “I’ve never even seen Lord Dio fight. Some of the others who work in the House like to speculate, but it’s all just for fun since we don’t have any proof or anything.”

“I don’t really know how powers work, to be honest,” Giorno says. “When I was younger, I asked Erina about it, but she said that even she doesn’t know much. Even if two parents have a specific power, their child might be born with something entirely different.”

“That makes sense,” Mista agrees. “I have no idea what my parents’ powers were, but me and my brothers all can do such different things that there’s barely any overlap among our powers.” He takes a sip of wine before turning to face Giorno. “So what happened to you?”

Giorno hesitates. “It started in Elysium,” he begins. “I felt…strange, I suppose. I don’t quite know how to describe it, but it felt like my blood was tingling.”

“Did it feel dangerous?”

“No,” he says. That’s the one thing that he feels sure of. “It was more like it made me feel powerful. Like it wanted to help me.” He returns his gaze to the flower petal still lying in his hand. “It wasn’t that strong of a feeling, though. I figured it was just something to do with the changing environment, since I’d never been up to Elysium before.”

“That makes sense,” Mista says. “Have you tried talking to Lady Erina? She might know more about your dads’ powers.”

Giorno hums thoughtfully.

As he approaches Erina, she seems to be awaiting his arrival with bated breath. It’s been a while since he’s come to update her on his progress, and the implications of that haven’t been lost on her.

“How far?” she asks.

“The Surface.”

Her face breaks out into a wide smile. “I knew you could do it,” she says. 

“I have to fight Padre,” he says in stark contrast to her reaction.

Her smile fades. “I gathered as much,” she admits. “I tried to talk him out of it, but he refused to listen. I knew he was stubborn, but…I had no idea he would be this against it. Even going as far as fighting you.” She scoffs in displeasure. “I have half a mind to go up there and fight him myself.”

Giorno has half a mind to ask her to do so.

“That armor,” she says. “You met Speedwagon, didn’t you?”

Giorno nods. “He said this belonged to Jonathan once.”

“It did.” She studies him for a moment. “It suits you,” she decides with a smile.

From the beginning, she’s been his most staunch supporter. At his weakest moments, he wondered if her pride in him was all for naught, if she just felt an obligation to blindly support the son that she’d raised. It wasn’t doubt in her that brought forth that thought, but doubt in himself. Regardless, now neither one exist anymore. 

“Erina,” he begins, “something happened when I was up there.”

“What?”

In answer, he holds out the flower petal. As he awaits her reaction, he feels a bit like when he was young, eager to show off his latest discovery to his mother.

“I think that—“ Giorno breaks off, swallowing. “I think that I made it grow.”

Erina holds the petal delicately in her fingers, studying it. “How big was it before?”

“It was a rock.”

That makes her gaze snap up to him. “And you turned it into a flower?”

He nods. Some of his nerves must show through. She covers his hand with her own, the familiar feeling of her touch bringing him comfort and making him relax.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you did,” she says. “Jonathan’s power was something similar.”

“It was?”

Erina nods. “He once told me that he could take something existing and make it grow. Not too much, but just enough to give it a bit of strength.” 

She gestures to the gates at the end of the hallway, which have been blocked off ever since Giorno can remember. When he was a child, he remembers constantly wishing to know what was behind them, but Dio had always forbade it.

“Jonathan used to have a garden in there,” she says. “It was a welcome sight for everyone. With the Underworld always so filled with death, having life growing within it was a big change, but not an unwanted one. Plants have never grown well in the Underworld, but with the aid of his power, they were able to flourish.”

“That’s why Padre closed it off after Jonathan left,” realizes Giorno.

Erina turns her attention back to the flower petal in her hands. “Your power seems stronger than his, I think.”

He frowns. “How can you tell?”

“Growth is life, my son,” says Erina. “Jonathan gives life to those which already have it. But you…you create life in places where it does not exist.”

Contemplating, Giorno thinks back to the strange feeling he’d gotten in Elysium, which only grew stronger as he made his way up to the Surface.

“I think I began to feel my power when I reached Elysium,” he says. “But it only manifested once I got to the Surface.”

Erina hums thoughtfully. “That makes sense,” she says. “Power comes from the spirit, and if it has never manifested before, it would be very difficult for you to use it outright. Once you got to the Surface, your spirit must have reacted to the existing life that lives there.”

“So I needed to see life once in order to be able to create it?”

“That would be my guess.”

The closer he got to the Surface, the stronger the feeling within him got. Elysium is the closest point in the Underworld to the Surface. It must have been close enough that life on the Surface was reacting to him.

“Now that my spirit has seen it, can I create life anywhere?”

Erina’s answering grin is wicked. “Well, we won’t know until we try,” she says. Swiping an empty wine glass off of the closet table, she holds it out to him. “Give it a try, but don’t be discouraged if it’s hard. This is all still new to you, and almost every god has had trouble with their power at one point or another.”

Giorno’s fingers slide over the smooth glass tentatively. “How do I…?”

“I can’t tell you that,” says Erina. “It feels different to everyone, and it should feel personal to you. Remember, you’re in control of it, not the other way around.”

Gripping the glass, Giorno closes his eyes. He thinks back to that feeling that he’d felt on the surface. He envisions it within him, pictures it flowing out through his fingertips and into the glass. He thinks about the glass elongating, twisting and turning and spiraling outward.

When he hears Erina’s gasp, he knows that he’s done it.

Opening his eyes, he finds that the glass has been replaced with a thin green vine. It wraps around his arm and stretches outward tentatively to meet Erina, who obliges it with a gentle touch. It feels like it’s thrumming with energy, vibrating at a frequency that only he can hear. It feels…there’s no other way to describe it. It feels alive.

“When I said you were a late bloomer, I didn’t expect that to be quite so literal,” Erina says with a laugh. 

“I can create life,” whispers Giorno, hardly daring to believe it. He looks up at Erina hopefully. “Death and life are two sides of the same coin. With this power, I can beat Padre, can’t I?”

“If anyone can do it, it’s you.” Erina’s answering smile is radiantly proud. “After all, you are your father’s son.”

Ever since Giorno can remember, his father’s chambers have always been off-limits to him. Time with Dio was spent either in the throne room or in Giorno’s own bedroom. Erina’s chambers, down the hall, were always open to him.

Now that he thinks about it, there wasn’t quite anything there to stop him from entering. Just his father and Erina both steering him away whenever he tried to make his way to the door. Occasionally, Bruno would be tasked to stand guard outside the door, but if Giorno himself never entered, there’s no way that any of the shades would dare to. Giorno supposes that Dio wouldn’t quite like his room being broken into, but then again, he hasn’t been very happy with Giorno lately. What’s another slight against him?

Dio isn’t here right now, and Erina isn’t likely to stop him, but even so, Giorno can’t help but feel a bit nervous as he enters his father’s chambers. Dio’s presence in the Underworld is everywhere, even when he isn’t physically here — Giorno catches himself looking over his shoulder once or twice as he enters. 

The inside of the chamber is exactly as he thought it would be. The bed is enormous, at least twice the size of Giorno’s, and luxurious silk sheets drape over it enticingly. The decor on the walls is ornate, and has clearly had a lot of care put into it. It looks similar to that of the rest of the House; Dio must have done it himself. His taste may be questionable, but it’s undeniably unique. 

Giorno isn’t quite sure what exactly he’s looking for, but he’ll know it when he sees it. All he needs is proof, something that shows that his father isn’t as unfeeling as he pretends to be. That what happened between him and Jonathan was real, and actually meant something to him. That he also wants Jonathan to return to the Underworld just as much as everyone else.

He passes by the closet — the ajar door showcases that the contents are nothing more than an assortment of Dio’s preferred skimpy attire. A large mirror stands in the corner of the room. Directly across from the bed on the wall hangs a rather gaudy portrait of Dio, posed and lounging back on his throne. 

The various knickknacks strewn across the table are pretty, he supposes, and no doubt valuable, but not what he’s looking for. His eyes zero in on the next possibility, the nightstand by the bed. Hesitantly, he slides the drawer open, and that’s when he finds what he’s looking for.

Stacks and stacks of portraits fill the drawer, almost to the point where it’s difficult to open. Sitting down on the bed, Giorno pulls them all out and begins to sort through them.

With a start, he realizes that all the small portraits on top are depictions of him. His father had never seemed all that fond of portraits, citing them as “unimportant sentimentality” when asked. And yet here he is, with portraits detailing his son in every stage of life.

Giorno lingers on the ones that depict himself as a baby, cradled in Dio’s arms. The look on Dio’s face is soft, gentle as he looks down at baby Giorno with undeniable care. Setting it aside, Giorno flips through the others. 

Almost all of the portraits depict Dio and Giorno. He doesn’t even remember when most of these were made, and by the looks of them, he was very young at the time. Some of them include Erina. Even back then, his parents don’t look happy to be in each others’ presence, but it’s evident that they’re putting aside their feelings to stand alongside Giorno. The thing that’s perhaps most surprising is that the pictures all look rather worn. There’s no dust on them, nothing to indicate that they’ve been shoved in this drawer and ignored for years. Instead, the edges of the pictures are worn, as if someone has been gently running their fingers over them.

He stops when he comes across the portrait hidden at the bottom of the stack, one that depicts his father alongside a stranger. 

In the portrait, Dio looks happier than Giorno has ever seen him before. Instead of his usual clothes, a silky robe is draped across his face. The harsh lines of his face are softened into something more carefree. It’s how he’s looking at the other man, though, that’s the most telling. Dio looks at his companion almost reverently, with an expression that can’t be anything but love.

The other man in the portrait must be Jonathan. 

Gripping the portrait frame with renewed focus, Giorno studies the portrait. Jonathan is a large man, even larger than Dio in frame. Giorno’s own small frame comes to mind.

He doesn’t quite know how to explain it, but he feels a connection with this man in the portrait already. With tousled blue hair and a boyish grin, he has his arms slung around Dio’s shoulders, and the two of them look happy as can be. 

Jonathan looks kind, Giorno thinks as he studies the portrait. He looks every bit the gentleman that Erina and Speedwagon had described him as.

The frame of the portrait is smudged, as if someone has been running their fingers over it.

This portrait is the proof he needs. Dio wasn’t telling the truth up on the Surface — he did love Jonathan, and he still does.

If he needed more proof, there’s a ring laying in the back of the drawer, probably Dio’s wedding ring.

Gently replacing the stack of portraits where he found them, Giorno stands. This time is the final one, he feels it in his bones. He’s going to get answers from Dio. He’s going to defeat him.

And he’s going to bring his father home.

Chapter Text

There’s a sense of finality as he steps out into Tartarus — hopefully for the last time. 

The entire Underworld is unexpectedly quiet this time around. Giorno finds himself constantly looking over his shoulder, awaiting the return of either Diavolo or another one of his father’s lackeys sent to stop him. He looks out for the Olympians, too, awaiting their sudden appearance in each new chamber that he enters, but none arrive. Giorno tries not to be too disappointed by this.

The vampires of Tartarus feel less aggressive as they block his path, and he slays them with no problem. His father’s armor adds another layer of protection, bringing with it more confidence than he would have otherwise had. It’s as if the very Underworld itself is conspiring to give him what he wants. The chambers change as usual; he can’t be certain, but it feels almost as if the path it provides him through Tartarus is the shortest one. 

He doesn’t pass through Doppio’s chambers, or the Furies’. The journey to Asphodel is quick, and before he knows it, he’s perched on one of the rafts. Even they seem to travel across the Phlegethon faster than normal, though that may be his own anticipation projecting. 

The zombies, too, pose no trouble whatsoever. Giorno sends up a silent prayer of thanks upon finding Pet Shop’s island empty. He proceeds upward to Elysium.

The shades of Elysium drop more obol upon their defeat, but he doesn’t pick it up, leaving behind shimmering gold piles in each chamber he ventures through. There’s no time to waste, and besides, he doesn’t need any more armor or weapons. 

There is one specific chamber that he wishes to visit, and if he thought the Underworld itself was helping him along this time, his thoughts are confirmed when the occupant of the next chamber turns out to be exactly the shade he wanted to see. 

The shade sits ever moping but looks up at the sound of the chamber door sliding open. 

“You’re back,” he acknowledges. “Did you get him?”

Giorno nods. “Your help was invaluable.”

At his words, the shade actually looks a bit embarrassed, and he waves a hand as if to brush off the compliment. “You’re back, though. Did you die?”

The bluntness of the question, strangely enough, doesn’t throw Giorno off at all. “Yes,” he says, “at my father’s hand.”

The shade’s perpetual mask of boredom falls momentarily to reveal a stunned look. “Oh,” he says.

Giorno traipses over to sit beside him once again. “Your name,” he begins. “I know it’s not me you wish to hear it from, but would it be alright if I used it?”

Surprise flickers over the shade’s face. Giorno withdraws the knife — Bruno’s knife — and holds it out. The shade’s eyes widen with understanding.

“Alright, then,” he says, reaching out and gripping the hilt of the knife like it’s a lifeline. “Let’s hear it.”

“Abbacchio.”

At the sound of his own name, Abbacchio visibly wilts, like all the tension has seeped out of him. “I’d almost forgotten what it sounded like,” he whispers, more to himself than Giorno. He turns his attention to the knife. “Where did you find him?”

“He lives in the House,” says Giorno. “He’s been my teacher ever since I was young.”

Abbacchio frowns, processing this new information. “Does he know I’m here?”

“He does now. I told him.” Giorno pauses. “When you died, he killed Diavolo to avenge you.”

At that, the shade jolts up to a sitting position. “He did what?”

He nods. “With the knife that you’re holding.” He neglects to mention the fact that he’d had the same reaction upon hearing that piece of news. 

Abbacchio runs a hand through his hair. “Of course he did,” he mutters. “He was always too reckless.”

It’s odd, but reckless doesn’t exactly seem to describe Bruno. From the way his mentor acted, Giorno had always had a feeling that he used to be a bit more different during his life on the Surface. One doesn’t simply become the greatest warrior in the world without having some semblance of recklessness. Besides, fighting Diavolo may have been reckless of Bruno, but it was also a lot of other things: brave, selfless, and most of all, it demonstrated his capacity for love. 

“He said…he said he’s coming here. To see you.” The rest of it is up to Bruno to explain; Giorno has already intruded enough. 

“He said that, did he?” Leaning back, Abbacchio grasps a handful of his robes and begins to polish the blade of the knife. “Then I’ll wait for him. You go on, brat. Go kill your father or whatever it is that you intend to do.”

Giorno stands, but then pauses. “Will you be alright here alone?” he asks, immediately feeling foolish for doing so.

Instead of chastising him, though, the shade smiles. “I’ve waited this long for him,” he says. “What’s a little while longer?”

Bidding him farewell, Giorno proceeds into the next chamber. Once again, he keeps feeling like there should be something big up ahead — the return of Diavolo or Pet Shop, for instance. But the chambers contain nothing more than the usual array of Elysium’s heroes. There are also a plentiful number of spear-wielding statues, ones that he takes great care to avoid. 

At last, he reaches the great doorway that separates him from the outside world. ‘Go kill your father or whatever it is that you intend to do,’ Abbacchio had said. Giorno doesn’t exactly know what it is that he intends to do. All he knows is that this time, he won’t be losing.

Giorno pushes open the door, stepping outside to confront the final obstacle in his path.

Even though he already knows what to expect, stepping on to the Surface is somehow even more incredible than last time. 

He takes a deep breath, allowing the sensation of his power to run through him and flow through his veins. Its presence endows him with vigor and strength. 

Slowly, he makes his way to the figure standing in front of him, each one of his steps nearly silent against the hard ground.

The wind carries with it his words.

“You’re still in love with him, aren’t you,” says Giorno. It’s not a question.

Dio doesn’t respond, doesn’t move, doesn’t give any indication that he heard Giorno’s words.

“I found the picture,” he continues. “In your chambers. Why is he not in any of my baby portraits? Did he…” Giorno finds the courage to ask the one question that’s been haunting him ever since he found out about Jonathan. “Did he leave because of me?”

That finally makes Dio turn. He faces Giorno without any masks or pretenses.

Dio looks supremely uncomfortable, and Giorno braces himself to be met with yet another rejection. That’s why it surprises him when Dio waves a hand, summoning two chairs.

“Have a seat,” he says, taking one himself. It doesn’t escape Giorno’s notice that Dio’s chair is much larger and more ornately embellished than his own. 

Hope rushes through Giorno. “You’re actually going to tell me?”

Dio crosses his legs. “I suppose so,” he says, with just a touch of annoyance. “At this point, I don’t see it making much difference. I doubt you’ll stop asking, and there’s no chance of you making it past me, so I suppose you’ll have to have some knowledge to satisfy yourself with.”

Giorno takes a seat, wondering if his father is actually doing him a favor or not.

“So,” Dio says, lacing his fingers together. Some small part of Giorno regrets asking him. Dio used to tell him bedtime stories when he was little, and they were all so horribly dramatic and embellished that he went to sleep every night wondering what was true and what wasn’t. Now that Dio has his attention, he isn’t likely to give it up. “Where do we begin?”

It sounds like a rhetorical question, but Giorno decides to speak up anyways. “Speedwagon told me that you two were in love.”

Dio sneers. “Speedwagon is an idiotic boatman who wouldn’t know the truth if it slapped him in the face.”

“So it isn’t true?”

“Jojo is full of negative qualities,” Dio says as if it’s a fact. “He’s a coward. He’s weak. He’s spineless.” He starts ticking off qualities on his fingers, and if Giorno doesn’t stop him, this could go on for hours.

“Padre, you didn’t answer the question.”

Dio sighs dramatically, but the look on his face falls away to reveal something more sincere. “Jojo…your father and I first met many millenia ago. I, Dio, didn’t like him at first. I still don’t, sometimes. We took up arms against the Titans, and in the process, we ended up on opposite sides.”

Giorno’s eyes widen, but he carefully schools his expression into something more neutral as he listens. 

“I beat every single one of the Olympians…except for him,” Dio says, as if it pains him to admit it. “He was the only one who could match me.”

Despite his best efforts, Giorno can’t help but interrupt. “That was all it took?”

His father looks genuinely confused. “Is that not enough?” he asks. “Is that not what everyone wants — to find one who can stand by their side as their equal?”

Those words swirl around Giorno’s head, leaving him speechless. He’s never thought about it like that before.

“And then, you were born,” continues Dio, looking at Giorno with unexpected fondness. “You asked if he left because of you. In a way, he did.”

“What do you mean?”

Dio pauses, and when he speaks again, he sounds choked up. “When you were born, my son, you weren’t born alive.”

Giorno’s breath catches in his throat. “I was dead?”

Dio nods gravely. “Jojo was distraught. He needed time to grieve, he said. Time alone. I told him if he wanted to leave so much, then he was free to.”

“And so he went to the Surface,” Giorno finishes, understanding dawning on him. “But you…I’m not—“

“Dead?” Dio scoffs. “Of course not. I, Dio, would never let that happen to my son. I went to the Fates.”

His father, who never asks anyone for help, had bowed before the Fates?

“Erina was their apprentice at the time, and as she was a friend of Jojo, she assisted me in pleading my case.” Dio’s mouth twists into a sneer, but he can’t hide the gratefulness in his voice. “The Fates couldn’t be persuaded, at first. I, Dio, may be god of the dead, but even I cannot cheat death.”

“Bruno told me about the Fates,” Giorno says, recalling one of his childhood lessons. “They do not offer their help without receiving something in exchange.”

Dio gives him a pleased nod. “Very good. Yes, after they were worn down enough, they agreed to bring you back in exchange for a price.”

“What did you give?”

“What do you think?”

Understanding hits Giorno like one of Mista’s bullets. “My father,” he whispers.

Dio deepens his voice, presumably mimicking the Fates. “I am forbidden from traveling out of view of the Underworld’s entrance. I am forbidden from ever contacting Jojo while he’s on the Surface. The only way I can ever see him is if he comes here of his own free will, and he’ll never do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because he blames me.” Dio sounds like it pains him to admit it. “For what happened to you.”

For the first time, Giorno finds himself confused by his father’s words. From everything he’s heard, Jonathan is kind and caring. Forgiveness should come easy to someone like him, should it not? He doesn’t exactly sound like someone who would blame his husband for their child’s death.

“Padre, are you sure?” Giorno tries to ask. “Is that true?”

“The god of the dead cannot keep his own child alive,” he replies, as if the answer is obvious.

His father’s facade, always seeming so impenetrable, shows its cracks for the first time. “You blame yourself.”

“Enough,” Dio commands, power blazing from him. “You speak of things you do not understand, my son.”

Once again, he sheds his cloak in flames. Giorno readies his sword and meets his father in battle.

The ensuing fight passes by in a blur. Giorno’s power courses through his limbs, guiding each and every one of his movements with an adroitness that he’s never felt before. He stabs, slashes, ducks on a loop. Dio certainly isn’t going easy on him — if anything, it’s the opposite. 

The one advantage he holds ends up securing his victory: his father doesn’t know about his newfound power. 

Dio’s eyes widen as vines burst from the ground, wrapping around his arms and legs and holding him down. Solemnly, Giorno holds the tip of his sword to his father’s throat. The weight of this moment seeps into his words.

“You lose, Padre.”

“What are you waiting for?” hisses Dio. “Do it. Kill me.”

Giorno pulls the sword back, sheathing it. The vines gently unwind themselves under his command. “And save you a trip back to the House? I don’t think so.” He offers his father a hand. Dio looks surprised, but takes it, allowing himself to be pulled up to a standing position.

“The reason you tried so hard to stop me,” Giorno says. “It’s not that you thought I would bring him back here. You were scared that I wouldn’t come back.”

Dio is ostentatiously silent. “I am of the Underworld,” he says after a moment. “You are not.”

“You’re wrong,” says Giorno firmly. “I am the Underworld’s Prince. It has always been and will always be my home.”

His father closes his eyes, looking more unguarded than Giorno has ever seen him before. “Go,” he says. “I, Dio, give you my permission.”

They both don’t mention the fact that Giorno has never asked for and doesn’t need his permission.

“Will you come with me?” Giorno asks, hating how he sounds like a frightened child.

Dio just shakes his head. “I can’t go further than this point from the Underworld,” he says. “I will wait here for you, if that is what you wish.” His face suddenly transforms into an annoyed sneer, eyes fixed on something over Giorno’s shoulder. “Besides, you won’t be going alone. I think you have some visitors.”

Giorno follows his father’s gaze to the edge of the clearing, where the familiar sight of the Olympians greets him.

“You don’t want to come say hello?” Giorno asks, a teasing edge to his voice.

Dio looks as if he wants to throw something. He noticeably turns so that his back is to the Olympians.

In one sudden motion, he pulls Giorno in for a hug. “Bring him back,” he whispers.

As soon as Giorno draws closer, Jolyne and Josuke practically pounce on him. They’re talking at the same time, and their combined voices wash over him in a way that feels surprisingly familiar by now.

“Hey, you made it out!” Josuke says. “Man, I knew you could do it.”

“Me too,” adds Jolyne. She lowers her voice, leaning in conspiratorially. “Did you kill Dio?”

“No,” Giorno says, “but I beat him.” Even saying it out loud is crazy. He still can’t believe that that even happened.

Jolyne lets out a low whistle. “I don’t even know if my dad could do that,” she says. “You’re like crazy strong, huh?”

“I don’t know about that,” he says, face heating up against the chill of the wind.

“Uh…” Josuke jerks a thumb toward the clearing where Dio is clearly trying to pretend that he isn’t watching. “Is he coming, or…?”

“He can’t,” says Giorno. “He can’t go more than a certain distance from the Underworld, so he said that he’ll wait for me.”

“Huh. That’s nice of him.”

“I expect that it isn’t entirely for my benefit that he’s doing so.”

Josuke laughs, slinging an arm around Giorno’s shoulders. Giorno should be appalled by the action, but instead, it just feels nice. He leads Giorno out of the clearing, where Joseph and Jotaro are waiting. Joseph smiles and waves cheerily; Jotaro still glowers, refusing to make eye contact, but he definitely looks less angry than last time. Giorno counts that as a win. 

“Trish isn’t with you?” Giorno asks.

At his words, they all exchange a look. He isn’t quite sure what it’s supposed to mean.

“You met Trish?” Jolyne asks.

“Ah, she can’t help herself,” Joseph says, waving a hand dismissively. “She loves poking her nose into our business, and she’s drawn to helping Olympians. Not that surprising, is it?”

“Don’t worry,” says Jotaro. “You haven’t seen the last of her. No matter how much you may want to.”

Giorno doesn’t exactly know whether that’s a good thing or not. Trish hadn’t seemed rude, more…confusing. Perhaps being the goddess of love comes with the territory. 

“C’mon, kid,” says Joseph. “We’ll take you to see your old man.”

“Is it far from here?”

“Nope.” Joseph gestures for them all to follow him as he begins walking. “I think that he couldn’t bring himself to be too far from the Underworld, if you ask me.”

“No one did,” grumbles Jotaro. 

As the two of them dissolve into bickering, Jolyne and Josuke sandwich Giorno between them.

“So,” begins Jolyne, “if you beat your dad, then that means you found your power, didn’t you?”

Giorno nods.

“Well?” asks Josuke impatiently. “Show us!”

He still has Mista’s gold bracelet hanging from his wrist. Slipping it off and closing his hand around it, he concentrates for a moment. He opens his hand to reveal the flower that he’d turned it into. He doesn’t know why flowers are his go-to choice, but something about them come easy to him. 

Jolyne and Josuke lean toward him to study it.

“That’s so cool,” murmurs Josuke. “Can you turn it back, too?”

Giorno does as requested, slipping the bracelet back onto his wrist.

Jolyne slaps him on the back enthusiastically, perhaps a touch too hard. She must not know her own strength, just like her father. “See, I knew you could do it,” she says. “So, what’s your power called?”

“Oh,” he says, taken aback. “I hadn’t really thought about it yet. How did you all pick yours?”

“Just gotta pick something that sounds right to you,” says Josuke, with the superior air of someone who’s already gone through this process. “Might wanna think about it for a while, ‘cause once you pick one you can’t go back.”

Jolyne scoffs. “That’s not true!” She turns to look at Giorno. “It’s your power, yeah? You pick what it’s called.”

He nods thoughtfully. He hasn’t even thought about picking out a name for it. Something that sounds right? Josuke is right, he does want to think about it for a bit.

“Hurry up, you three,” Jotaro calls over his shoulder. “We’re here.”

The area they’ve brought him to is undeniably beautiful: a wooden cabin sits proudly in the center. A river flows around it, gurgling cheerfully. Flowers and plants of all different shapes, sizes, and colors burst from the ground. Giorno steps closer, almost drawn to them. It’s only when he brushes his fingers against a petal that he realizes this place is humming with power.

“Huh,” murmurs Joseph. “Nice place. He should have invited us over sometime.”

Giorno feels out of his depth. He looks back toward the Olympians — for comfort, reassurance, or something else, he isn’t sure.

Surprisingly, Jotaro is the one to speak up. “You’ll be fine,” he says. “Go on. We’ll wait here.”

Jolyne and Josuke look like they want to protest, but one look from Jotaro has them nodding in agreement.

“Just be yourself,” says Joseph, giving him a blinding smile and a big thumbs up. “He’ll love you.”

It’s ironic that he’s more scared of meeting his father than he ever was of dying. At least Jonathan isn’t likely to stab him or sink his nails into Giorno’s throat. Hopefully, anyway.

Taking a deep breath, Giorno raps his knuckles against the door hesitantly.

“Just a minute,” a voice from inside the cabin calls.

The next moment is one of the most terrifying of Giorno’s entire life. He shifts uncomfortably, resisting the urge to fix his hair or smooth his robes. 

Finally, the door swings open, revealing the god from the photographs, the god that Giorno has spent so long searching for.

Jonathan tilts his head to the side curiously. “Can I help you?”

“My name is Giorno,” he says. “I’m your son.”

Jonathan stares back at him with a look that can only be described as bewildered.

“I’m sorry?” he says.

“I’m your son.”

Unexpectedly, the expression on Jonathan’s face melts away into one that can only be described as furious. Despite hearing tales of his kindness, Giorno has no doubts as to how powerful this god actually his. After all, he’s an Olympian, and he was able to fight Dio.

“Look, I don’t know who you are,” Jonathan hisses, “but if this is some kind of joke, then it really isn’t very funny. I think you should leave.”

Giorno holds up his hands. “Please, this is no joke. I assure you I’m telling the truth. I’m Dio’s son, and I’ve come from the Underworld.”

Jonathan steps closer, studying Giorno intently. All his life, everyone has told Giorno that he’s the spitting image of Dio. He used to not like that, but now, he couldn’t be more grateful for it.

“You look just like him,” Jonathan murmurs, almost in awe. “Are you really him? Are you really Giorno?”

Giorno has barely nodded before Jonathan is engulfing him in a hug. His father is massive, and it seems he doesn’t know his own strength as he practically crushes Giorno.

Wounds from his fight with Dio still sting, but he can’t even bring himself to feel the pain as he tentatively hugs Jonathan back.

“Come in, please!” Jonathan says, gesturing Giorno inside his cabin. The grin on his face is wide, and his enthusiasm is exorbitant. “I’d love to hear everything, the whole story. Do you like tea?”

Giorno smiles. “I love tea.”

“So Dio sent his vampires to kill you?” Jonathan asks.

“Among others,” says Giorno. The tea has long been drunk.

“I have to say, that does sound like him.” Jonathan runs a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in spikes of disarray. It reminds Giorno of the way his own hair used to look before he began taming it in his usual updo. “Giorno, my son, I need to apologize to you.”

“What for?” he asks, mystified.

“As a father, I should have been there to raise you. It was my duty to be a part of your life, and I failed. I should have been more like Dio — I should have done more to try to save you—“

“Father,” Giorno interrupts. “Please, don’t think like that.”

He doesn’t notice what he’s called Jonathan until he sees the god tearing up. He’s spent so long thinking of Jonathan as his father that it only feels natural to call him that.

“I hold no resentment toward you,” he continues. “Toward either of you.”

Jonathan gives him a teary smile. 

The longer that Giorno stays here in this cabin, the more relaxed he grows. Everything about this place — the tea, the scent of the flowers, his father’s presence — is so different from the Underworld, yet he finds it all comforting in a different way.

“That’s my old sword,” Jonathan says, eyes falling on the holster leaning against Giorno’s chair.

“Oh, Erina gave it to me when I was younger,” Giorno says. Tentatively, he holds it out to Jonathan. “Do you…want it back?”

Immediately, his father shakes his head. “No. If it helped you come here, then it has treated you well. Besides, it was a gift — far be it for me to take it from you.” He hesitates. “How is Erina?”

“Good. She misses you a lot, though.” 

“I miss her too,” he admits. “I miss my whole family.”

“Your family…” Giorno trails off, amending his words. “Our family offered me much assistance. I couldn’t have made it here without them.”

“I am grateful to them for helping you,” Jonathan says. “I know that sometimes they can be…difficult, but kindness comes easy to them.” He lets out a shaky sigh. “I haven’t seen them in a while. I just needed some time alone, but…I think time got away from me. One of the drawbacks of being immortal, I suppose. I hadn’t realized that it’s been so long.”

“Have you been here the whole time?” asks Giorno.

His father nods. “At first, it was hard. I couldn’t go back to Olympus, but I didn’t want to be too far from the Underworld. And I wanted to be alone, so I wanted to live a bit further away from most mortals.”

“It must have been lonely,” he says carefully.

“I won’t lie, it was,” Jonathan admits. “But I think that’s what I needed.”

“Is it still what you need?” Giorno holds his breath, terrified of the rejection he might receive. “Will you come back to the Underworld with me?”

Before he’s even finished his sentence, Jonathan is already on his feet. “Of course,” he says. “You’ve come this far for me; how could I say no?”

Predictably, the Olympians are all excited to see Jonathan. Giorno stands at a bit of a distance, politely giving them space as they greet each other. 

Joseph chatters on to Jonathan, not letting anyone else get a word in edgewise, while Jotaro hovers by them. Escaping the chaos, Jolyne and Josuke make their way to Giorno’s side.

“How’d it go?” asks Josuke.

“Good, I think,” he replies. “He’s coming back to the Underworld.”

Jolyne’s eyes are fixed on his father. “So that’s Uncle Jonathan,” she says. “He’s…big.”

“You said it,” Josuke agrees. “I didn’t think there were any gods bigger than Uncle Jotaro.”

“Hey, Gio, how come you’re so small? Is your other dad tiny or something?”

Jolyne smacks Josuke atop the head, ignoring the way he cries out in protest. “You can’t just ask something like that, idiot,” she hisses.

Giorno can’t help but laugh at their antics, so like that of their fathers. “It’s alright,” he says. “No, Padre is rather imposing as well. I think my size may be due to the circumstances of my birth.”

They both pause in their scuffle to give him a questioning look. “Whaddya mean?”

“I wasn’t born alive.” Not noticing the shocked looks being thrown his way, Giorno continues. “I imagine that must have contributed to my size in some way.”

“Oh, Giorno,” whispers Jolyne. “I didn’t know. That’s why your dad left, huh?”

“That explains so much,” Josuke says. “When Lady Erina asked us to help you, our dads seemed really surprised by the request. They must have known.”

It doesn’t escape Giorno’s notice that even as Jonathan talks to his brothers and greets Jolyne and Josuke, he keeps shooting glances at Giorno. He seems curious, and he keeps looking over like he’s afraid Giorno will disappear at anytime. For some reason, that makes Giorno’s stomach feel like it’s sinking.

The entourage of Olympians heads back to the clearing with the entrance to the Underworld. The walk which felt so long the other way, feels far too short now, and Giorno shifts uncomfortably as they all turn to look at him expectantly. Each time thus far that he’s met the Olympians, they’ve been the first ones to leave. This time around, it feels strange to be the one who leaves them behind.

“Will you all come too?”

Joseph shakes his head. “I don’t think so, little Dio.”

The nickname doesn’t bother Giorno; it sounds more affectionate than anything else, surprisingly enough. 

“I think all of you down in the Underworld need some time to adjust,” he continues. “But fear not, you haven’t seen the last of us! Besides, if you ever get sick of Dio, come by Olympus. We’ll be happy to have you.”

“Thank you,” Giorno says, smiling. “And please don’t forget my offer. We would be glad to have you in the Underworld.”

“You sure?” asks Joseph, a dubious look on his face. 

“I would be glad to have you,” he amends. “And I know Erina would be as well.”

Jotaro tilts his head thoughtfully. “If I came, it would piss Dio off,” he says thoughtfully. “I’ll stop by sometime.”

Giorno huffs out a laugh at that.

“Thank you,” he says. “All of you. For everything. I am truly grateful to be able to call you all my family.”

Josuke blinks at him, his eyes looking suspiciously wet, and playfully shoves him. “Alright, enough already,” he says. “We’ll be back soon, you hear?”

With a chorus of goodbyes, waves, and smiles, the Olympians vanish in the blink of an eye, leaving Giorno alone with his father.

Jonathan perks up when Giorno turns to face him.

“Are you ready?”

Jonathan casts a look out toward the clearing. “He knows I’m coming, right?” he asks, suddenly looking hesitant. 

Giorno nods. “He said that he would wait here for us.”

“And he’s okay with you coming here? Bringing me back?”

“Well, he wasn’t at first,” says Giorno, resisting the urge to mention how much of an understatement that is. “But I managed to change his mind eventually.”

“Huh,” says Jonathan, looking mildly surprised. “I didn’t think Dio would ever change his mind.”

“I can be quite persuasive when I put my mind to it.”

Jonathan laughs. Even his laugh is so different from Dio’s. Dio makes it a point never to showcase any real amusement, and his laughs reflect that — they’re supremely calculated. Jonathan, on the other hand, seems to have no such constraints that he bounds himself to. His laughter sounds free, unrestrained, happy. 

“Somehow, I don’t find that hard to believe,” he says, patting Giorno on the shoulder affectionately. 

As they walk into the clearing, for a moment, Giorno doesn’t see Dio, and he worries whether he turned back and left. What if his mind hasn’t truly changed, and he isn’t ready to allow Jonathan back into the Underworld.

The closer they get, though, he sees that that’s not the case. Dio may be many things, but he wouldn’t break a promise, and definitely not one made to Giorno. 

Instead, he’s standing by the entrance to the Underworld, leaning against the door in a way that’s obviously staged. He’s trying too hard to look nonchalant, making a show out of studying his nails.

Giorno clears his throat as they approach, and Dio looks up dramatically. “Giorno, you’re back,” he says. “Come, then, are you all done with your little excursion?”

By the looks of him, he fully intends to not acknowledge Jonathan’s presence. Giorno wonders if he should cut in and say something, but Jonathan beats him to it.

“Hello, Dio,” he says. “It’s good to see you.”

Dio’s gaze slides over to rest on him. “Oh, Jojo, I didn’t see you there,” he says mockingly. “So, are you coming with us or do you intend to run away again?”

Giorno inhales sharply, casting glances between them with a worried look on his face.

To his credit, Jonathan takes the insult in stride. “That depends,” he replies. “Am I allowed back?”

“Giorno wishes it, so yes. Though if it were up to me, the answer would be different.”

“That isn’t like you, Dio. You don’t usually bother to listen to other peoples’ wishes.”

“Well, my son is different.”

Jonathan stiffens ever so slightly. “Well, since our son has invited me, of course I will come.”

“Wonderful,” Dio says with a grin that shows off all his pointed teeth. 

The door to the Underworld opens wide, and the three of them step through, together.

Chapter Text

Though the Underworld might be familiar to Giorno, seeing it from the top down throws him off balance. He’s so used to fighting his way out that he’s never even thought about going back down the other way to the House. 

For a moment, he wonders how exactly they’re all going to get back. Dying would be the easiest way to come back to the Pool of Styx, but he doubts Dio would agree to that suggestion. A splashing sound draws their attention, and they all turn to see Speedwagon and his boat in the river beside them. 

“Ahoy, there,” he calls, waving enthusiastically. “Does anyone need a ride?”

“Speedwagon!” Jonathan says joyfully. “That would be great!”

However, he makes no move toward the boat, instead staring at Dio almost expectantly. Dio has a sour look on his face, but eventually he relents.

“I suppose it would be fine just this once,” he says.

They all step into the boat delicately.

“Jonathan, mate, I’m glad you found your way back,” Speedwagon says. “And Giorno, it’s good to see you again. Finally made your way out, yeah?”

Giorno nods in appreciation. “Your help was invaluable,” he says, and the boatman protests good-naturedly.

The boat ride back to the Underworld is longer, but definitely more preferable to dying and coming back in the Pool of Styx. Speedwagon stays toward the back of the boat as he rows, out of earshot — probably trying to give them all some privacy. 

Dio and Jonathan both seem to want to sit facing Giorno, which places them in the uncomfortable situation of sitting side by side in the boat. The boat was made to carry the souls of mortals; it’s definitely too small to be carrying gods.

They’re both pressed up against either side, trying their best to avoid touching each other. Giorno doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Dio turns to face Giorno. He seems unwilling to talk to Jonathan in front of Speedwagon.

“Giogio, we haven’t talked about your new power,” he says casually, as if Giorno hadn’t tried to kill him with that exact power.

Jonathan perks up visibly upon hearing Dio’s words. “New power?”

They both turn to face him with the same interested look on their face, although Dio is trying harder to hide his. Briefly, Giorno wonders what it must have been like to grow up like this, with both of them instead of just one. He thinks it might have been nice, though there’s no use dwelling on what could have been.

It’s easier to show it than to explain. Once again grabbing the bracelet around his wrist, he repeats his earlier demonstration. Holding it in his palm, he closes his hand around it, focusing all of his energy on it. He opens his hand up not a second later to reveal the flower that he’s transformed it into.

Jonathan looks delighted, going as far as to applaud at the display. “That was lovely,” he praises. His gaze slides over to Dio. “It seems a lot like mine, doesn’t it?”

Dio scoffs in response. “If it makes you happy, you are free to believe that.”

Sensing an impeding argument, Giorno quickly interferes. “Erina told me about your power,” he says. 

His eyebrows crease, and his eyes take on a curious gleam. “Your power must be the effect of growing up in the Underworld. Death is a part of you, isn’t it? Your power reflects that.”

“I think you’re right,” Giorno says. “I wasn’t able to manifest it until I reached the Surface for the first time — Erina said the same thing that you did.”

“Wonderful,” says Dio, voice positively dripping with bitterness. “You two have matching powers, then, is that it?”

Jonathan purses his lips, annoyed, but he doesn’t rise to the bait.

Giorno has seen Dio act in many ways, but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen his father act so openly antagonistic toward anyone. Normally, he says that others aren’t worthy of his anger. 

Speedwagon must sense the antagonism in the boat, for he begins to row ever so slightly faster. The river traverses through the entire Underworld, and the boat passes through all three regions, through Elysium, Asphodel, and finally through Tartarus.

After that initial attempt at striking up conversation, all three of them fall silent. This is definitely new territory for Giorno. He wants to talk to Jonathan more and get to know him, but he worries that doing so might make Dio more annoyed. Giorno tries to catch Dio’s eye, but his father must know that he’s unhappy with him, for he steadfastly avoids making eye contact. 

Eventually, the boat reaches the entrance to the House, and Speedwagon docks it effortlessly. “Good luck, Jonathan,” he says, before turning his attention to Giorno. “And you, lad, don’t be a stranger, alright?”

He doesn’t say anything to Dio, who seems to prefer it that way anyway. Dio gives him a nod, so subtle that it’s as if his head didn’t even move at all. Speedwagon must be used to that treatment, though, for he salutes anyway. 

Bidding farewell to Speedwagon, the three of them make their way to the elaborate doors of the House. Giorno studies them, trying to hide his awe. He’s never entered this way, and the exit from the training room that he uses is small, certainly not anything like this. He sneaks a glance at Jonathan, who doesn’t look surprised by the sight of the door. Sometimes, Giorno forgets that his father used to live here for so long. 

Dio stands in front of the door and simply raises a hand, causing the doors to swing open in response. 

Giorno turns to Jonathan, who’s taking a deep steadying breath. “Welcome home, Father,” he says with a smile. 

They’ve barely walked in before Erina is rushing at them. She grabs Jonathan first, hugging him enthusiastically, before doing the same to Giorno.

“You did it!” she whispers in his ear. “I’m so proud of you.”

He doesn’t reply, but he hugs her tighter, hoping that the simple action expresses all of his gratitude. By the look on her face, she understands.

Erina even goes as far as to hug Dio, who looks disgruntled by the affectionate gesture. It doesn’t escape anyone’s notice, however, that he doesn’t push her off. 

“Erina, it’s so good to see you,” says Jonathan.

“Jojo, I missed you so much,” she cries. “What have you been doing? Where have you been?”

As Jonathan and Erina catch up, Giorno edges backward until he’s standing by Dio.

“What are you doing?” he asks, not bothering to hide his annoyance. 

“I’m sure I have no idea what you mean,” Dio says haughtily.

“You’re being rude,” Giorno says matter-of-factly. “You’re acting like you don’t want him around. And I know that’s not true, so why are you being like this?”

The accusation finally makes Dio drop his practiced expression, and he whirls on Giorno with an expression of fury. “What am I doing? You should be asking him that! Look at him, acting like he never left.”

“Padre,” Giorno says softly. “You can’t blame him for that.”

“Can’t I?”

“You were the one who told him to leave.” 

Dio shifts uncomfortably, his glare softening into a pout. “Well, he didn’t have to listen to me.”

Giorno had always thought that his father’s facade was impenetrable. He doesn’t know when Dio became so easy to read — or maybe it’s only that way for him.

“He doesn’t blame you for what happened to me,” Giorno says softly. By the minute stiffening of Dio’s shoulders, that’s exactly what he was worried about. “And you don’t blame him either, right?”

Dio doesn’t respond.

“I’m sure things in the House have changed a lot since Father last lived here,” he continues. “And I think he would appreciate if someone showed him around.”

Dio glances over at him, a rare moment of kindness. “You don’t want to spend time with him?”

“I do, but I didn’t know he existed until recently. You’ve both have been apart for years. You need this more than I do.”

Dio considers him for a moment. Unexpectedly, he reaches out and ruffles Giorno’s hair, knocking his laurel headpiece askew. “You are strong, my son,” he says. “Truly worthy of my name.”

In Dio’s eyes, that is the highest compliment he could give someone.

“I suppose I could open up the garden again,” he continues. “Jojo might…appreciate that.”

“I’m sure he would,” Giorno says. “But before you go, I have a request.” 

Dio rolls his eyes dramatically. “As if I have not done enough for you,” he says with a teasing lilt to his voice. “Ask, my son.”

“There’s a shade in Tartarus who offered me help on my escape attempts. I ask that you lessen his punishment.”

“Which one?”

“Doppio.”

Dio pulls a face, but looks like he’s thinking it over. “Well, if he helped you,” he begins, “then I suppose I shall…consider it.”

“And you should give Bruno some time off.”

“Erina said the same thing,” he grumbles. “Well, if you are able to best me in battle, then he has certainly done his job in teaching you swordsmanship skills. I shall grant it.”

An unexpected rush of fondness hits Giorno, and he hugs his father. “Go,” he says, “talk to him.”

Dio straightens to his full height and stalks forward, interrupting Jonathan and Erina’s conversation. “Jojo,” he says, “come. I, Dio, will grant you the privilege of showing you around.”

Jonathan looks bemused, but allows himself to be dragged away. 

Erina, too, merely laughs at the sudden absence of her conversation partner. “They haven’t changed,” she says fondly.

“I’m worried about them,” Giorno admits. “They don’t exactly seem happy to be back together, do they?”

Erina surprises him by pulling on his braid playfully. “You worry too much,” she chides. “If there’s one thing you should know about your parents, it’s that their relationship is turbulent. That’s how it’s always been. They’ll sort things out on their own, don’t worry. You’ve already done so much for them. They’re both here now, and that’s what’s important. ”

She leans in conspiratorially. “Besides, they’re both absolute softies. I think they missed each other too much to truly be angry. You just watch, give it some time and they’ll be all over each other again.”

Involuntarily, Giorno feels himself pulling a face. “The Olympians said to give you their regards,” he says, trying to change the subject.

Erina smiles. “I should go up to Olympus sometime soon,” she says. “It would be nice to see Joseph and Jotaro again, and I still haven’t met their children.”

“I think you’ll like them. They’re very…energetic,” says Giorno. 

She laughs. “Somehow, that isn’t hard to believe.”

With the new arrival of Jonathan, Giorno can see the shades in the House already whispering to each other, surprise showing through even on their transparent faces. If the news of his return hasn’t already reached the depths of the Underworld, then it will soon enough. 

Erina follows his gaze, landing on the closest group of shades in the Lounge whispering with their heads together. Even from here, it’s obvious that they’re happy.

“They’re happy for you,” she says. “Everyone was rooting for you too make it out of here and bring Jojo back, and you’ve done it. The people are proud of their prince.”

A wave of embarrassment hits Giorno. “I’m sure that isn’t true,” he tries to say weakly. 

“Oh, but it is,” Erina says gleefully. “Now, go on. I’m sure there are plenty of people who were eagerly waiting for your return. No need to hang around here with me.”

He frowns. “But I like talking to you.”

“From what I hear, you like talking to a certain Fury more.”

Mortified, he heads down the hallway, the sound of her laughter following close behind him.

Giorno finds Bruno in his usual post by his father’s chambers.

“I heard that Lord Jonathan is back,” Bruno says. “Congratulations. I knew you could do it.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he replies. “By the way, I gave your knife to Abbacchio.”

Bruno’s eyes widen. “What did he say?”

“That he’s waiting for you. And I might have convinced my father to give you some time off.”

“That’s more than I deserve,” says Bruno, smiling. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

“Before you go, though, I think my father Jonathan would like to meet you,” Giorno says. 

Bruno bows his head. “I would be honored to,” he says. “And I would love it if you came and visited us in Elysium sometime. I know Leone and I would be thrilled.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Giorno approaches the now open garden hesitantly, taking it all in. He doesn’t want to interrupt, but it looks like that won’t be a problem. Both of his fathers look pleased to see him, and they wave for him to come in, gesturing him closer. 

Erina was right, they already look much less annoyed than they did before. He supposes that it’s true — time does heal all wounds. They’re certainly standing a bit closer to each other than necessary. 

The garden is quite beautiful, still maintaining the look and feel of the Underworld. The skull decorations that his father is so fond of line the walls of the garden. The lines of soil, though, are absent of any plants. They must not have been able to grow without Jonathan’s presence in the Underworld.

“You’ve never been in here, right?” asks Jonathan. “This used to be my garden.”

“It’s beautiful,” he says. “And if your garden on the Surface was anything to go by, this one must have looked even better in the past.”

Jonathan looks sheepish at the compliment, while Dio looks a bit put off by them talking about something that he doesn’t know. The fact that he doesn’t respond with an insult, though, is proof enough that he’s willing to give Jonathan a chance. 

Jonathan looks at Dio, seemingly for encouragement, and Dio nods subtly. Giorno gets the feeling that they’ve been talking about him. 

“Giorno,” begins Jonathan, “would you like to work on the garden with me? With both of our powers, it should be no trouble at all, and I think that by adding yours, the plants might actually grow better than they did with just mine alone.”

Giorno is touched, not only just by the offer, but by the fact that his father looks nervous, almost as if he thinks he’ll be turned down. And by the look on Dio’s face, he doesn’t just approve of this, he must have offered Jonathan the suggestion. 

“I would love to,” he says, “but would it be okay if Padre helped as well?”

For the first time, open surprise shows on Dio’s face. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t have a problem with that,” says Jonathan quickly. 

Dio is silent for a moment. “I suppose that I could push aside some of my duties,” he says. “Besides, I, Dio, should have a hand in the decorating of the House.”

“Come here, Padre,” says Giorno. “I’ll show you what kinds of flowers I can make.”

Using his power here in the Underworld is a bit different, as he doesn’t have the addition of the sunlight to help him. His body, though, seems to have adjusted to his power’s presence; it only takes a few minutes for him to figure out how to use it.

It takes almost no time at all for the garden to return to its former glory. Giorno may be able to make any kind of plant, but Jonathan is the one who has a knowledge of all of them. All he has to do is describe it, and Giorno can make it in an instant. Even Dio can’t hide how impressed he is.

“I think I’ve chosen a name for my power,” says Giorno.

His fathers both turn to look at him expectantly. “What?”

“Gold Experience.”

Jonathan beams. “I like that name.”

“It suits you,” agrees Dio.

Giorno expects to find Mista in the Lounge, but he’s surprised to find him out by the exit, gun strapped to his waist once again.

“You’re leaving?” he blurts out.

Mista looks delighted to see him. “Boss, you’re back! And I heard you found your dad.”

“I did.”

“Guess Lord Dio’s in a pretty good mood because of everything,” says Mista. “He gave me my job back and everything.”

“Oh,” says Giorno, disappointment hitting him. “I suppose you’ll be quite busy then.”

“I was about to say the same thing to you,” Mista says. “I mean, you’ve got your dad back, and the Olympians and everything, right?”

“That’s true,” he admits. “But I was actually about to ask if you would come with me.”

“What?”

“You said that you’ve never gone beyond Elysium,” says Giorno. “Well, I haven’t seen much beyond that either. Having someone by my side would be preferable to going alone.”

Mista still looks confused. “And you want that someone to be…me?”

Giorno laughs lightly. “I thought that I had been making my intentions clear, but I suppose not. Yes, Mista, you. In case you haven’t been able to tell, I’ve grown very fond of you as of late.”

“Oh,” Mista says, proceeding to flush a very deep shade of red. “Well, uh, the feeling’s mutual, boss.”

He doesn’t let it show on his face, but hearing that his feelings are returned brings with it an immense amount of relief.

“But what about your dad?” Mista continues. “Will he be okay with me leaving? I mean, I just got my job back.”

“I’m sure I can persuade him to give you a few days off,” says Giorno. “Maybe more. Now that he knows I can beat him in a fight, I don’t expect him to refuse.”

Mista, unexpectedly, laughs. “You really beat him?”

A smile tugs at Giorno’s lips. “I’d thank you to not go spreading that piece of information around,” he says. “I don’t think he would appreciate it much.”

“You’re telling me,” he agrees. “Looks like you’ve got a full plate, boss. Going to Olympus, the Surface, getting to know your dad, your Olympian family…damn, that might take a while.”

“Well, that won’t be much of a problem,” says Giorno. “We’re immortal, after all. What do we have if not time?”