Chapter Text
"That boy has a really handsome face."
That is the first thing that comes to mind when one sees Giorno for the first time.
Because yes, Giorno really does have a beautiful face, a feminine yet strong form, that jaw free of hair, that little nose with the tip just barely upwards. Giorno had something to boast about just because of the ethereal beauty of that angel face.
And those sapphires set in the cornea completed that idyll. His eyes were clear and pure, the immensity of the ocean with its placid ardour in perfect contrast to its owner's actions. A boast he loved to show off, especially when he realised how people were staring at him, raising an eyebrow and flicking those long, manicured eyelashes, often covered in a layer of mascara. And when it was Doppio who was watching those eyes, Giorno played with him, leaning his forehead against that of the man who had been able to spiritually enrapture him; his eyelashes covered those gems for whole moments, not fleeting ones of when he played with his opposites. And when the light took possession of his irises again, Giorno could rejoice in that moment; because Doppio would open his soft, rosy lips like peach blossoms and all his attention would end there, trapped in a vortex with no escape, and if words were slipping out of that sweet mouth, they would vanish, carried away by the zephyr, sucked in by that giggle that Giorno couldn't help but scoff every time.
Doppio loves those eyes. He loves being the only person allowed to observe those pools so closely, loves being able to watch how the black pearl set in the centre shrinks in the astonishment of a kiss stolen from under his nose, loves being able to watch how it widens when lost in the fog of carnal pleasure. He loves it when, like dewdrops, it pours pain in salty waterfalls down his pained cheeks, hidden from all but him.
Yet, despite all the admiration Doppio feels for those cerulean eyes, there is still something he cannot tolerate: apathy.
Doppio is aware of the perpetual, dull emptiness that dwells within Giorno. Doppio is aware of how his spirit, trapped deep inside, desperately tries to make its desperate cry heard. And with Giorno refusing to give voice to it, only those irises can mirror the torment of its possessor; and when those moments of mute despair surface, the ocean turns into a massive, eternal expanse of impenetrable ice. And from there, the whole ethereal face is moulded.
The rosy, soft cheeks perfumed with fine ointments that Doppio so jokingly loves to pull on to make him pucker, that he struggles to resist kissing when no prying eyes intrude on their intimacy, and that he loses himself in caressing with the back of his hand when, plump and sweaty after making love, Giorno lies next to him, lose that lovely, natural colour, paling. And the lips, one day covered with precious golden lipstick, another illuminated by fruity lipgloss, sometimes tumid from their kisses, others scratched by their bites; those petals become thin, ungainly, pulled into a thin, unpleasant line, harsh in their austere, authoritarian expression.
And the whole face took on expressions unworthy of its magnificence.
All his grace was disfigured; violently seized and thrown to the nettles; and every time, however slight, such disgrace left behind him in marks so imperceptible to the eyes of those less worthy to admire him closely, but not to him, who could hold him in his arms and make him forget that he was a God.
A faint caress, the attention turned away from the Evil, the sapphires regaining their lustre as they meet the amber of Doppio's irises, a new indelible mark marking his precious face.
Beauty fades; the art of admiration is ephemeral.
Just as ephemeral is whoever thinks that Giorno Giovanna needs to be admired by someone other than Doppio.