Chapter Text
Giorno isn’t sure if he ever loved his mother.
He knows she never loved him. She treated him like a tumor gained from standing in the ultraviolet lights of God. Blasphemy to remove, but still disgusting.
He needed his mother. Wanted her to come home desperately, but it was because of a biological need. Without her he would die. Of course, he wasn’t consciously thinking that as a small, vulnerable thing, but that was the pure reasoning.
Love between a parent and child is a result of millennia of trial and error. It made the most sense for the passing on of genes to protect those genes, release oxytocin and nurture. His mother simply didn’t produce enough oxytocin, a natural variation in a population.
He definitely doesn’t love her now.
—
Fugo has started to idolize him.
In some ways, this was intentional. He is Don of Passione, creator of life, a merciful savior. He is acutely aware of the power dynamics at play, and keeps an air of distance.
But he is not a god. Diavolo thought himself one. His father thought himself one. But they are both gone and beaten into dust. All self proclaimed gods burn.
He will be punished soon if Fugo doesn’t stop. Humans are animals too, and Giorno is human despite the Speedwagon Foundation’s many tests. Half Japanese, Half British, Half vampire. Those numbers don’t add up, so he ignores them.
He is an introduced species, but is now inseparable to the ecosystem. He will keep it that way.
—
Giorno used to be scared of bugs. From his crib he would watch the cockroaches that infested the apartment crawl over the floors, alien and threatening. He vaguely remembers from his mother’s complaints that they are called gokiburi in Japanese.
Time does not heal wounds, but exposure therapy certainly does.
Bugs became less scary after watching them for hours with nothing else occupying his attention. He didn’t have toys.
They investigate new things with curiosity, and start quivering in excitement when they find something edible. They are skittish and hide when there are any loud sounds. They have big eyes and stand up taller to look around, antennae waving.
They never hurt him and were more scared of him than he ever was.
He didn’t grow to love them or consider them his friends. He didn’t shed a tear when they were finally wiped out with his mother’s generous amount of bug spray, but he did feel a kinship. They were both burdens, but unlike them, he was going to live.
—
His attempt to make Fugo see him as human backfired.
Maybe his mistakes were too calculated, mistakes in themselves. He would hang around Fugo with his hair down and makeup scarce, hoping to make himself approachable. Flawed, but not in a way that would shake Fugo’s trust in him. He would divulge opinions even when no one asked. It felt wrong, unnecessary, but there couldn't have been any harm in telling Fugo he likes sweets, right?
He was very wrong. If anything, Fugo’s devotion has only increased. It shifted into him being something untouchable to someone to grasp. He flits around Giorno anxiously, reminding him of the girls who swarmed him once he was blonde and white-passing.
He's glad Fugo has found a hobby but the constant baking and offering of sweets has made him feel embarrassed. He hasn't shared any opinions since, now dodging even when asked.
Strange. When he was younger he longed for affection, but now it just feels uncomfortable. A snake in molt, a bee drowning in honey.
—
When he and the world saw him as a little girl, certain things were expected of him. Be polite and unassuming, demure and pure. Most of what he gathered from his mother though was that gender is a performance.
She was just as cruel as his step-father, but they let it out in different ways. His stepfather’s beatings were a demonstration of masculinity, power and violence and dominance. He affirmed his fragile ego by bullying an elementary schooler.
His mother let her aggression out through clipped words and veiled threats. She was too invested in her femininity to hit him, it would backfire against her performance of a beautiful mother able to balance a child and social life.
She taught him how to apply foundation and style hair, even if unintentionally. How to guide power instead of acquiring it only through brute force.
Gender is a performance, and at the very least he can respect his mother for the fact she acted it perfectly.
When he first started transitioning, the beatings had long since stopped. His mother was never connected to the anonymous mafioso, though. He was unsurprisingly kicked out.
He took the car and considered it a going away gift.
—
Giorno knows that love is important. It has to be with how obsessed everyone seems to be with it. Holidays and novels and lives dedicated to the pursuit. Maybe it does have positive effects, people in relationships are often giddily happy. Mista’s rom-coms make him cry but he still seems happy to have watched them.
Fugo seems to have a complicated relationship with love, cynical but desperate. He thinks it will fix him.
It won't. No one else can fix you, only inspire you to fix yourself.
The other day he heard the song “All You Need is Love” on the radio. John Lennon neglected his son and cheated on his wife. He wished Sheila E were there, she would have found it funny too.
Sheila E may idolize him but she seems to be aware of it. They are similar in the way they see their own emotions and ideals. She does not love him. He is grateful.
—
Once, while caring for his mother in one of her depressive spirals, she talked about DIO. About his beauty, his power, and other aspects she probably should not have told a child. How she loved him. How she was willing to die for him.
Giorno had already resolved to live, so this confused him. He realized while rubbing her back that his mother had the same wasp nest in her body that he did. The same turmoil and doubt and burning. The thought scared him.
Perhaps their whole family had it, even his father’s side. It’s possible that every single person has a creature under their skin eating them whole.
Maybe this was when he should have forgiven his mother. He's heard it helps. However, even if he realizes that she was a victim of circumstance just as much as anyone else, he doesn't forgive her. He doesn't hate her, but he doesn't forgive her.
He often wonders if Bruno, Abbacchio, and Narancia would have forgiven him. It's useless to ruminate on it. But he does.
—
Giorno found him. He found the mafioso who he saved and saved him in turn when he was a child.
The scene wasn't dramatic by any means, but the way his heart raced with hummingbird quickness said otherwise. Going through Diavolo’s records, the mafioso had apparently been keeping under the radar. He stayed small in Diavolo’s time, restricted to debt collecting and the occasional hit.
And he was alive.
Giorno had justified his lack of a search with how much work he was swamped with, but in actuality he was afraid his hero would be dead. This job had a high mortality rate.
Trembling and in a trance, he immediately called Fugo to request an audience with the man and give him the largest unused property. He had to try again since the phone had spontaneously transformed into a black-footed ferret.
—
When he went to the boarding school, people always assumed he was well off. He never denied it since he truly was. The mafioso had given him a trust fund and a generous yearly allowance (which went surprisingly quickly with suits and some textbooks).
Additionally, he soon learned that the same habits are perceived very differently depending on class. Not being interested in girls no longer made him a “fucking fag” but aloof with high standards. Missing class means you're a rebel and not a future dropout.
Liking bugs isn't weird, it's brave.
Being poor is expensive, but people love to give you things if you already seem rich.
He thought about his mother a lot those early days alone in the dorms. How she would put on her pretty dresses and expensive makeup before going out even though they barely had any food in the house. He thinks he understands her, the free drinks were probably enough to cover the cost.
He was still hungry. He resolved not to forget being poor and forgotten.
—
He misses Gold Experience. Stands are complicated, different for every person, and Gold Experience was no exception. Perhaps it was egotistical, but he loved Gold. Gold loved him back.
Mista demonstrates that stand relationships can be strange. Gold never asked for food, so he hopes he wasn't starving it.
It’s not Requiem’s fault. Requiem is exactly what it needed to be during the fight with Diavolo, pure power. It's not Requiem’s fault that it hums like office lights while Gold hummed like a song.
When Gold spoke, it spoke in Japanese. It was the only place he ever heard the language after his stepfather grew annoyed with not being able to understand. Even if he forgot most of it, it was nice. The word for ladybug is tentoumushi. He wonders how his stand learned it, who spoke it to him if not his mother.
He has fully assimilated. The fact that his soul speaks Italian proves it. He wonders why he is sad about it.
He wonders if Haruno and Gold Experience are dead. If Requiem hears his question it does not respond. The humming continues, thrumming with life energy, and it feels like guilt. It feels like wasp buzzing.
—
Mista got shot again today. The Sex Pistols swarm worriedly around them both, chattering and bullying and generally making life harder. He feels an inexplicable fondness for them.
Miraculously, it wasn't Mista’s own bullet this time. Though, that actually might have been preferable considering it was a shrapnel bullet. Multiple shrapnel bullets. In vital areas. While Requiem replaces the ripped flesh, he tries to keep Mista talking so he doesn't start screaming again.
What started out as a mission report turned into a movie plot turned into a conspiracy theory turned into a family history. The rapid tone shifts are hard to keep up with. Giorno is starting to understand why Mista’s stand can have so many arguments.
“So yeah that’s my mom’s side, but- fuckfuckfuck that fucking hurts fuck- who knows how many cousins I got on the other. That was ten in a row GioGio give me a breather.” Mista fans himself in a way reminiscent to an aristocrat clutching her pearls. “What about you? You born in Naples?”
“Oh, no, I was born in Japan. Immigrated here when I was four.” Mista’s jaw drops.
Please don't be racist. In retrospect it might have been better to lie. He repairs another wound.
“Shitfuckshit! Warn me next time, ow. But how did I not know this?”
He shrugs. “Doing another.”
Another stream of expletives. This is why he was trying to ask the questions.
“You're literally always dropping bombshells. Only mentioning you’re 15 when you're behind the seat and all. I've known you for like almost two years n- fucking Christ gentle- and I just learned you like octopus salad. Like what else are you hiding?”
“I'm not hiding anything, it just didn't come up,” He doesn't like where this conversation is going. Requiem is looking at him in what is probably worry. “This is your warning.”
“Shittttt how are they getting worse? Anyways, like, you can talk about yourself. God knows no one around here ever shuts up,” It's unclear whether Mista is being self aware or not. “Do you speak it? Japanese.”
“Not really, haven't had to in a long time. Last one.”
The conversation ends with the final scream. Mista probably wouldn't appreciate the anecdote that it reminds him of a red fox vixen’s shriek (often mistaken by passerby to be the last cries of a murder victim) so he keeps it to himself.
—
Giorno feels nauseous. His foundation is almost running off due to how much he’s sweating and he's shaking so much he’s sure it's noticeable. Sheila E sends him a worried glance, confirming it, but says nothing.
He is about to meet him. His hero. As his superior. As Giorno.
The chauffeur makes the final turn and Giorno steels himself. He forces his body to obey and reapplies his makeup in a compact mirror. He briefly wonders if it's insensitive to use a mirror in front of someone whose sister was killed by Illuso. She seems to have no reaction. He seems to be stalling.
He enters the restaurant.
What strikes him first is that he looks older. The lines on his face have deepened and his hair has gray streaks. The second thing that strikes him is that despite also growing older, being blonde, and wearing a suit that now feels embarrassing, the mafioso’s eyes light up in recognition.
“You.”
“Good evening Signore Cavatelli.” He sits down and rehearses his speech in his head quickly once again. Sheila E continues to stand. “I'm glad you could make it, I hope the time wasn't inconvenient. As you have probably gathered, we’ve met before. The purpose of this meeting is to convey my gratitude to you and offer you a higher standing in our organization.”
The man seems shocked. His expression is schooled, but his posture is unnaturally stiff and he isn't speaking. Should he continue talking?
“I now go by Giorno Giovanna and lead Passione. You might have noticed that our new policies reflect the ideals you instilled in me years ago. There is still corruption within our ranks, but I have no doubt I can trust you. Almost any position would be acceptable, and if you are willing I’d like you to be a capo and advisor.”
The atmosphere is tenser than he would have liked. He takes a drink.
“You're 15.”
“16 now, nearly 17.” The man covers his face.
“Only a kid would say things like ‘almost 17’. You’re too young to be a fucking mafia don.”
Annoyance prickles up his back but he pushes it down. “If you feel that way, you can help me as my advisor. I overthrew the previous don with my own power, I am perfectly capable.” The man doesn't have a stand, he doesn't want to stab him with the arrow either so he will probably never understand fully. He uncovers his face. He looks resigned.
“H- Giorno. You're a good person. I've respected you since you were four. But I tried to push you away from this life.”
“It was my own choice.”
“It was the wrong one.”
That's when he stills. He truly doesn't know what to say. Something in his chest twists uncomfortably. There's a prickle behind his eyes he hasn't felt for a long time.
Luckily, he hasn't cried for over a decade. He doesn't think he can anymore.
—
When he finally was able to pull himself together to respond, (He doesn't know how long that actually was) Sheila E was yelling. Something about how the man didn't know anything and disrespect.
He ordered her to stop, he knows, and said something, but he honestly can't remember what. The room was too bright and loud.
They left at some point. They're in the car. It's still too bright.
“Don't listen to that old man. He’s not even a stand user and dumb as a rock. Or Murolo.”
He’s not. He knows Sheila E is trying to support him but this isn't helping.
“He’s probably a traitor too, worked for the old boss.”
He needs to calm down. Sheila E needs to stop talking.
“Hasn't done anything good in his entire worthless life.”
Everything good about himself he owes to that man. His fingers clench.
“Sheila E. Silence. I don’t want you insulting Signore Cavatelli ever again.”
Something in his gaze must have scared her, she looks like she was slapped. She bows her head and obeys. Even the chauffeur seems to be making an effort not to make any noise.
The car ride is silent. Requiem hums in tandem with the wasp nest.
—
There are protocols in place in the event that he is indisposed. Polnareff assumes the role of leadership. Paperwork is sectioned off to Fugo. Mista assigns missions.
Even in the event he dies, Passione will likely be given to the Speedwagon Foundation. They'd do some serious remodeling, but nothing would really change besides maybe the whole murder aspect. Despite how busy he felt, there's no real point to him.
There wasn't any point to any of this. To the deaths, to the pain, to anything.
At the end of the day, none of his supposed ideals were his. He spouted what he imagined his hero would say without thinking about why. He didn't even really care about drugs until Buccellati, but Buccellati was good and he hated drugs so they were bad. It feels laughably simplistic, now.
He read once that the color blue doesn't really exist in nature. It only reflects the light that bounces off it.
He feels like his guiding light suddenly disappeared and his blue has faded completely, leaving a husk. He has no color of his own and he's melting into the black of his room.
He hasn't left this room or showered for three days. He’s lucky he hoarded snacks in here, a habit he’s kept his entire life. He never thought he'd really use them. It's mostly crackers and dried meat so Requiem supplements his diet with fruit.
He summons Requiem to transform a brooch into some grapes and its eyes look directly into him. The strange feeling he gets might be what caused people to hit him when he did the same thing as a child.
“Arise.” The voice is mechanical and somehow echoes even when speaking quietly. The eyes never close.
“Gold didn't talk back.” It feels cruel to say and he wonders if Requiem can feel the twinge of regret. He doesn't apologize.
Requiem doesn't say anything. The whirring and humming Requiem constantly puts out is already giving him a headache. When the grapes are ripened, the stand doesn't disappear like it normally does. Instead Requiem suddenly and forcefully grabs his face, drags him up spluttering, and shoves a grape down his throat. He is too shocked to do much of anything but choke.
“Why did you do that?” He wheezes, beating his chest.
“I apologize. I was trying to feed you. I thought you would choke if you ate lying down.”
“I did choke. Are you trying to kill me?”
It's meant to sound accusatory but even to his own ears it sounds frightened. If his stand tries to kill him there’s nothing he could do. He knew that Requiem gained some independence with the arrow but the thought that Requiem actively wants to sabotage him is terrifying.
“I want to protect you. I misjudged the power necessary.”
His heart is still racing. He hasn't heard Requiem talk this much in a while. It still hasn't disappeared.
There's a long pause. The room is dark and cluttered, wrappers scattering the floor.
“A-na-ta wo sho-u-ri-ta-i.” The syllables are awkward and unnatural.
But it’s with that that he realizes that Requiem has heard or at least felt every thought. Requiem knows that Giorno is scared of it and misses Gold. And it hasn't said anything.
Requiem knows that everything feels wrong and hopeless and useless. And it made him grapes and tried to remember Japanese. He starts to cry, something not even Gold Experience got to see.
—
He knew the sick excuse wasn't going to last long but the knock still surprises him. Requiem shimmers in the outskirts of his vision.
“Giogio? It’s Fugo. Are you okay? Can I come in?” Fugo’s vocal chords were fully replaced but he tends to speak a little quieter after the accident. It's endearing but he hopes it doesn't hurt.
Giorno briefly looks around his room before deciding that there is no way in hell he’s letting anyone see him like this. How did his underwear get on the lamp?
“Sorry Fugo. I'm still contagious.” He throws in a cough for good measure. Even though he can't see Fugo’s face he gets the feeling he isn't buying it. He wonders if he can make viruses. Most biologists believe they are not alive, but-
“I have a mask.”
“The room is infected.”
“Then we should call a doctor.”
“It's not serious.”
“If it's not serious it should be fine for me to come in.”
He doesn't answer. The door stays locked.
“Giorno… Sheila E said something went wrong at your last meeting. We’re all really worried.”
The plants on his windowsill are dying. The door stays locked.
“Have you been eating? No one’s seen you come out. I can prepare you something?”
He wants to go back to sleep. It's peaceful, he hasn't even been dreaming. The door stays locked.
“You've been gone for four days now, Mista’s throwing a fit.”
…
The door stays locked. If he keeps still enough maybe Fugo will forget he exists and go on with his day. Minutes pass. Fugo’s shadow remains, lit by the ornate chandeliers he knows are in the connecting hallway.
“Giorno, I'm not going to leave.”
Well. Jurassic Park isn't exactly the best source for life advice. He knew watching movies with Mista was impractical. He ever so slowly rolls out of bed, joints cracking all the way. He lazily puts on a robe, drinks some faucet water without looking at his reflection, and unlocks the door. The yellow that overtakes the room when it opens seems blinding.
“Fugo.” Despite his shame at how disheveled he is right now he looks him right in the eye.
Fugo has always reminded Giorno of a deer. He's gangly with big eyes that seem even bigger with his white eyelashes. He’s pretty and awkward and seems to be intimidated by Giorno even when half alive with ratty hair. He really is wearing a mask.
“Giogio…” Fugo’s gaze rapidly flits across the room. Probably a combination of nervousness and concern over the small piles of trash.
“What was it you wanted to do?”
“Oh! Um… I mean- I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I am. Thank you for your concern.”
“He is not.” What?
Gold Experience Requiem’s form seems to curl protectively against Giorno’s, far too stiff for a humanoid figure. Fugo looks a little taken aback. Right, this is the first time he’s actually met Requiem.
“Pannacotta Fugo, the scarab’s fall is slow and harsh, wings remain but the desire to fly is lost. With truth hidden and light scattered, a gentle wind must be given.” With that, the stand leaves them both. Giorno stands there for a few more moments then slams the door.
—
Luckily, Requiem was vague enough that Fugo still isn't really sure what’s going on but he gathered enough that he thought it was necessary to tell their entire inner circle his stand betrayed him.
Mista comes every morning threatening to break down the door if he doesn't come out and eat real food. Giorno had to resort to stacking books at his door to prevent cracks the Sex Pistols could slip through. He's gone with a different emotion every time for the last three days. First was a joking sort of neutrality, laughing about how bad Fugo’s overreacting. Second was concern, asking what was wrong a lot more frantically.
Today was anger. While he knows it was an act meant to pressure him into leaving his comfy deathbed, the furious pounding only made him feel even worse. He huddled into his blankets and pretended he didn't exist, just like when he was Haruno. It's not like it's that far off. He feels empty, the cicada molt left behind. There's no reason for a shell to do anything other than decay.
Sheila E is always outside. She is his bodyguard after all. He can hear her fiddling with trinkets she found in the mansion. She stops fidgeting whenever he moves at all. She hasn't come to talk to him yet. She likely took his last order to heart. Guilt eats at him and his stomach both.
Fugo comes in the evening. He never sits, even though he stays longer than Mista. Just leans against the wall and talks and theorizes. Polnareff can’t go down stairs so Fugo takes his messages, too.
He never responds. Fugo said Trish is coming tonight.
He knows he will have to leave at some point. His food stash is almost gone and he hasn't brought out Requiem since the incident. He just wants to know if there's anything inside him that wants to live anymore.
Until then he drowns out the outside chatter and sleeps.