Chapter Text
She couldn't believe, at first, what Giorno was mumbling to both her and Mista, during that awfully warm night back in Naples. The world turned on its axes and around the Sun, uncaring, unbothered, without anything—or anyone— capable of putting a stop to it.
“Perhaps,” she remembered the way he avoided their eyes desperately “I could bring them back.”
And all of them knew who ‘them’ was referring to; she could recall Mista's borderline desperate tone of voice asking, begging for confirmation; she saw the David by Michelangelo's eyes in the conflicted expression Giorno wore. She didn't react. She didn’t know how to react.
It was scary, how much power a boy her age seemed to hold in his fingertips and it was obvious Giorno himself didn't like that, from the way his hands were morphed into fists, close to his body. Sometimes she entertained the idea that Diavolo and the blonde were much more similar than she would like them to be: but Giorno’s furrowed eyebrows, with the crease that seemed to belong in between them, and bitten lower lip were enough proof to showcase that they were polar opposites—of the same spectrum, however.
“If you are ready to kill, then it means you are ready to be killed,” he told her, when Mista left the room, clearly shocked by the revelation that the people he mourned could have been brought back, “and if you want to play God, you have to face the consequences.”
Giorno spoke like an adult, like he lived thousands of lives equal or even worse than the one he currently carried on. His words were heavy, as omnipresent as the responsibilities he had to carry on his shoulder every day and every time, a modern day Atlas: similar to him, he had no sins other than just wishing the best for people like him.
She nodded, fully knowing she will never understand what that sort of weight —as heavy as the world itself —on one’s soul could ever feel like.
The day after, still as warm but with a slight fresh wind going around, Giorno explained to her alone that Bucciarati died twice—Mista couldn't stomach anything more about the subject.
Both times, he omitted, because of Diavolo, she theorized.
Not only that, but apparently Abbacchio had died on a beach and Narancia was begging him to do something about the situation.
Trish didn't spend a lot of time with Narancia, somehow she felt her heart break for him at the thought of his death; she was almost thankful that he didn't witness either of Bucciarati's (no matter how wrong the whole context was).
“You don't have to, but you can be there when they… wake up.” Giorno suggested. Though he wouldn’t say, she knew he was begging for her to be there with him; they both knew Mista psychologically couldn't do it.
When she declined the offer, she felt like a monster; she felt like her father when Giorno started to tremble slightly, while he apologized for even asking.
The day they came back to life, both Mista and herself weren't home to witness.
She felt a sting in her heart when she accepted Mista’s request of… simply not being there whereas she rudely turned down Giorno’s, but she felt more comfortable doing virtually nothing with an almost complete stranger who helped assassinate her father rather than witness whatever Golden Experience Requiem should have done to a bunch of corpses.
And she wasn’t lying to herself either: she may have insulted Mista more than once but he was genuinely a nice guy, nice enough to ask her if he could simply talk anyhow. What an odd question, she thought, while he ordered a couple of ice creams for the both of them, an odd question from an odd man, makes sense.
“It’s weird, right?” he asked, not even looking at her or the ice cream currently melting in his grip. They decided to go to the beach, where they both sat on the sand and let the sounds of the sea try to soothe both of their minds. “Like, I’m not stupid to think this whole situation is weird?”
“You need to define ‘weird’ for me, Guido,” she replied, scooping a bit of her ice cream inside of the little pink container “you and I aren’t really the definition of normal, just so you know.”
She hid a smile in the scoop she quickly shoved in her mouth when Mista snorted.
“Okay, you got a point there… but, like, the whole resurrection thing… it’s weird.”
“Yeah, it is weird. Would you rather leave them as dead, though?”
Mista didn’t answer.
“I know that dead things should stay like that. Dead, I mean. But if I had the possibility to bring back my mother, I’d take it in a heartbeat. If Giorno can bring them all back, why are you so weirded out by this?”
She thought she was being nice; that by sharing her point of view, Mista could have perceived the whole situation from another perspective. If the way his grip on the ice cream cone completely destroyed the delicate wafer, making the scoops falling on the sand, meant anything, then she completely got the whole situation horribly wrong.
“They were my family.” Mista said coldly. “They were all I had. All I needed,” the other hand gripped his hat “and I lost them all. Do you understand? You may have lost your mother, but Abbacchio, Narancia, Bucciarati…” he sounded close to tears and Trish felt sick “they died because Giorno needed them to. I don't even know if I'm mad at him. I mourned them, I missed them, I didn’t even have the strength to see their bodies, and all of a sudden all of this doesn’t matter. Was their pain all for nothing?”
He turned towards her. His tears rolled down his cheek, his mouth not showing the sadness his eyes were practically bursting with. The Lamentation of Christ was happening on Guido’s visage and Trish felt her hand limping the hold around her own cup of ice cream.
“This feels wrong to me, Trish.” He breathed.
“I understand,” she breathed, her hand going to cup his cheek. Even if they basically didn’t know each other, even if they saw the same situation in opposite ways, his pain resonated with hers in ways she didn’t even realize people could “and what you feel is okay. You’re okay, Guido. We’ll see them soon,” she felt her throat closing, a sob threatening to crawl out of her mouth “your family is coming back.”
Mista took her hand and placed it between his, looking at her with teary eyes and honesty: full, beautiful, heart wrecking honesty.
“It’s yours too now, Trish.” he whispered. “It’s our family.”
With Mista crying in public like a newborn and some mascara stained tears falling from her own eyes, Trish understood one thing: nothing could make relationships stronger than grief.
The way back to the mansion was silent. The quietness was tense and unlikely after the heart to heart moment they shared not even half an hour before.
As they stepped in front of the door, Mista walked in front of her, the way his shoulders set and an occasional sniffing the only proof of their previous wholesome act.
When they entered their unfamiliar walls, the air was tense: the silence felt artificial, almost a parody of the previous lack of sounds of before.
Trish knew Giorno was in the home: she could feel him, and other three auras of sorts, much more dim than his. She felt the need to turn her head towards the kitchen just near the entrance and Giorno Giovanna was standing near the table, a glass of water in between his hands.
Giorno seemed tired, shaken to his core, face calculatingly blank, hair disheveled and complexion much paler. He tried to look resolute, put together, but anyone with a pair of working eyes could have easily looked through his facade. For how Giorno looked, she was feeling relieved, in a very guilty way.
“It was a success.” he said, his voice quivering—for tiredness? For the godly act his mortal body pursued?—, looking somewhere between her and Mista’s head.
“That’s…” Trish started; she didn’t know how to feel about the situation, still, she lied, “good to hear, Giorno.”
Her green eyes met Giorno’s and though exhaustion painted his features he looked almost proud of himself; it wasn’t a misplaced pride nor the kind that made Trish’s skin crawl, it was deserved. Her awkward phrasing felt like praise to him.
That was until Mista barked a hollow laugh.
It wasn’t the snicker she heard before, nor the giggles he and Narancia used to share, it felt… mean, evil, cynical in a way that sounded wrong coming out of his throat.
“Oh, yeah, sure… it’s very good to hear that now you have some more slaves to do your bidding, O Glorious Giorno,” he went on, looking at Giorno with a disgust that made a shiver run down Trish’s spine, “what’s next? World peace? Or! Or, or, better yet,” he clasped his hands together, bringing them close to his cheek, in a sign of fake innocence “world domination?”
“Mista?” she asked, truly puzzled at his behaviour. Giorno, instead, kept his seemingly cool-headed persona.
“What?” He quickly turned his head towards her. “Did I lie? Tell me, Lord Giorno, wouldn’t you like that?”, every word he spoke, every syllable, it was dripping with venom, and Trish couldn’t figure out the reasoning; didn’t they speak about it? Didn’t Mista say that his family—theirs now— was coming back? Why was he so… angry?
“Guido, don’t put words in my mouth.” Giorno replied, just as cold as before. “We both know I did this for the better, I don’t need to explain why I did what I explained to you beforehand. If you didn’t want this,” his voice got steadier “you should have simply told me so.”
“Who do you think you are,” Mista growled “to bring back people who died for your stupid dream—”
“Don't.” Giorno interrupted, his tone harsh and his eyes holding an emotion Trish wasn't used to seeing “Don't you dare, Guido.”
“Oh… Oh! Of course! I can't call your dream 'stupid', but you can fucking resurrect people at your will! Silly me!”
“Mista—”
“What is it, Giornuccio, aren't I enough?” He pointed to himself “Are you bored of me?” He jammed his thumb on his sternum, hard enough that Trish's own breath hitched “What, I can't do what the Almighty God Giorno Giovanna desires?”
Giorno didn't answer: Trish was relieved.
“You are pathetic, Giorno.” Mista spat “If I died, you wouldn't care. You'd make me come back, even if I didn't want to, just because you are a selfish asshole.”
And with that, Mista left the room, making sure to slam the door hard enough to make the small painting of Mary Magdalene that was hanging close fall to the ground. A hollow echo from the tiles was the only sound left in that room.
Trish didn't understand where the outburst came from: it was scary to see how angry and just mean Mista got all of a sudden, and she found herself asking why. She wanted— needed to voice her confusion when, suddenly, Giorno started to move towards the door.
His steps, although tired and unstable, held resolution. He got close to the painting, unfortunately ruined as the glass went all over the place, the picture itself untouched.
“Trish.” He started “Am I doing something wrong?”
“No,” she said in a too fast hurry, truthful, apologetic tone trying to atone for Mista's actions “you’re doing something good, I don’t think you’re hurting anyone.”
The silence stretched uncomfortably, making Trish want to bite her newly manicured nails. She tapped her boot on edge, worried for so many reasons: both Giorno and Guido were in a great deal of emotional and psychological pain and neither of them would never admit it: Giorno’s resolution into following his dream matching oddly with Mista’s need of a lighthearted moment of emotional vulnerability. Trish felt useless, seeing them in pain like that, without knowing what to do—if she could do anything at all.
“For what I gathered,” Giorno cut her train of thoughts “Mista is experiencing the five stages of grief,” he knelt, taking the innocent picture from the floor “he’s going through the second one: anger. He’s angry. I believe about the... situation, but it seems easier to take it out on me.”
Suddenly, a dim light emitted softly in Giorno's hand, the pieces of glass slowly but surely returning to their original place.
“It… Golden Experience Requiem goes beyond what I know,” he went on, “sometimes I’m scared of what he’s able to do,” he turned to see her in his eyes, his expression thoughtful and woeful “Mista is right. I am a God. But I never asked for this.”
Mary Magdalene laid in between Giorno’s hand, silent in her penitence, while the room seemingly oozed with regret.
“Giorno, you are doing good, aren’t you?” she tried.
He didn’t answer.
“You can’t expect everyone to be okay with this. It’s a pretty scary thing, you know, being able to simply… create life, I guess. But you’re doing it because you believe it’s a good action, don’t you?”
“No,” he said, putting the painting in its original place. “I’m doing it because I have to.”
He moved towards the door, opening it with a tired hand.
“They aren’t fully awake, they’re in a deep slumber,” she realized he was talking about them “maybe tomorrow they should be up.”
Before leaving the room, Trish could have sworn, Giorno mumbled a tiny “you and Mista are more than enough”, closing the door softly, as to ease the previous blow.
Trish wanted to cry.