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Giorno bit his lip and forced his eyes to focus on the paper on his desk. It was important, he reminded himself. Bureaucracy was a huge part of managing the mafia, and he wasn’t about to slack on his share of the duty. The others probably had already finished theirs… And here he was, lagging behind, dragging the team down.
He wouldn’t be useless. Giorno ignored the fogginess on the edges of his vision and kept on reading, determination renewed.
Then he heard someone on the hallway outside his room. It was to be expected with seven people living together, someone was always moving or roaming around… And it was fine. Normal.
But today every footstep resonated on his brain. Like they pounded his skull. Tap, tap, tap. Slowly fading as the person took the stairs.
Giorno sighed in relief when they went away, the silence soothing his headache.
The worst part wasn’t even the footsteps, but the heartbeats. Giorno pretended he couldn’t hear them when the person passed a bit too close to his door, a thump, thump, thump so rhythmic and full of life.
His mouth watered and Giorno clenched his fists until his nails hurt the palms.
How long had it been now? Giorno signed a file without really reading it and hoped it wasn’t that important.
God, his head hurt. His stomach hurt. He wanted to claw his skin off.
Focus, he pinched his brows and forced his brain to think. A timeline. Chronology.
His hair became blond around the same time he left home for a boarding school. That’s when things started to… Change. Lucky for him, people didn’t get to see his black hair enough to find the change obvious or startling. Most of them thought he was a natural blond, which was good. He stood out less.
Giorno had freaked out a little when he woke up to long, blond hair instead of the usual black that barely covered his neck. But he figured it had something to do with his stand (even if, at the time, he didn’t know what it was called), which was a whole different issue he was still learning to manage then.
In the middle of all this, plus attending classes and trying to keep his taxi gig under the radar, it was easy to overlook some subtler changes until they piled up…
Like how, in some days, the world seemed louder.
Or how his classmates seemed to all use the same cologne suddenly. A weak, alluring scent that mixed with their usual smells.
How he got this dryness in his mouth no matter how much water he drank.
Until, one evening, he snapped.
He felt faint and had a migraine — not much different from how he was now — so he decided to go to bed early. Everything was so loud, even the rustling of the leaves or the distant voices in the classrooms. It all mixed together and his head pounded and he was so thirsty, even though he drank a whole bottle of water not that long ago.
Then he heard it.
“Hey, Giorno,” a girl he barely recognised through his blurry vision greeted him, “you don’t look so good, need to go to the infirmary?”
He aimed for a polite smile, but her voice was grating at his nerves. And her smell was so strong. He could barely make out her frame amidst the headache and all the noise and the blurry world and his dry throat and—
A short-lived shriek.
Giorno came to his senses with something warm soothing his throat, his eyes wide when he saw the girl’s shoulder on his grasp. His mouth was pressed firmly on the space between her shoulder and her arm in a vicious bite.
He forced his tense jaw to relax, every muscle unwilling to let go. Her body fell limp on him and he supported her by reflex. A glance around showed no witnesses, good thing it was still school time. Blood seeped from her shoulder and stained her uniform, a closer inspection showed two perforations on her blouse, reaching her skin.
Giorno instinctively touched his teeth, but felt them blunt as always. He felt sick.
No time for that. In a way, he was lucky that she fainted, he thought as he half-dragged her body to the infirmary and fabricated a snake attack to explain the bite and the scare. She seemed convinced enough, and Giorno wasn’t sure if her memories were foggy or if she just attributed his attack to a weird nightmare and accepted his made up story as a replacement.
To be honest, he still wasn’t convinced it wasn’t just a nightmare. A horrible, horrible nightmare.
He had to make a snake afterwards with Gold Experience, when everybody on campus was mobilized to find it.
Later, he noticed his headache was gone and the world went back to its normal levels of noises and smells.
Fine, Giorno took a deep breath. It — as he had taken to call this incident — had happened about three months before he stole Koichi’s briefcase.
(He still felt a shiver on his spine when he remembered the conversation they had before the boy left. About how his biological father was apparently evil and a vampire. He tried not to show how much this information weighted on him because, oh, it explained everything. But he had bigger things to worry about)
(He still wished it was a nightmare)
Focus. Focus. Three months before Koichi. Then lighter test. Passione. That hellish mission that almost killed all of them but it all only lasted nine days.
So it was about…. He counted the months after Diavolo’s defeat on his fingers, more to have something to focus on than for necessity. Seven fingers. About ten months total since he… Had that incident.
When he started feeling lightheaded and the noises got too loud, he attributed it to a common cold and some over sensibility on his part.
When he smelled that sickening, faint and familiar scent on his teammates, he ignored it and vowed not to get closer than necessary, lest he does something he will regret.
And even now, when he clutched at his growling stomach and rested his forehead on the cold desk, Giorno insisted it was fine.
He could take a bit of pain. It was better than the alternative.
(Giorno tried to use Gold Experience to make a human arm when he first sensed that familiar hunger coming back, ashamed to even try it in the first place. It tasted like cardboard and made his stomach even more uneasy and his throat even drier somehow)
Well, no use dwelling on it, Giorno forced himself to stand on weak legs and decided a glass of water would help him settle for the night.
Giorno tried to make the least noise possible as he went down the stairs. Each creak like needles on his brain, the headache unrelenting. He knew someone was still up watching TV before he even reached the last steps, the noise of the movie mixing with the fog on his mind and the rhythmic thumps of a beating heart slowly overtaking all the rest.
The smell too. That sickening, alluring scent that reached him as soon as he opened his door. His mouth watered and he pinched his side hard to distract himself.
“Hey, Giorno!” Narancia greeted as soon as he stepped on the living room, “Good to see you here! Wanna watch a movie?” He asked with a mouth half-full of popcorn, gesturing to some action scene on the TV.
Giorno placed a hand discreetly on the wall behind him for support. He felt himself swaying a bit too much, and didn’t really trust his legs to keep him upright for long.
“Actually, I’m going to sleep already. Just came here for a glass of water,” He kept his tone even despite the scratchiness on his throat and tried to force an apologetic smile on his face.
“Aw, okay…” Narancia pouted, “Maybe tomorrow then? You can even choose the film!” He offered, “It’s been a while since we did anything together.”
It was almost enough to make Giorno reconsider and sit beside the boy for a while, feigning to watch the movie. Just to reassure him everything was fine. But the insistent thump, thump, thump of Narancia’s heart reminded him exactly why it was a bad idea.
“Yes, tomorrow,” He had the impression it wasn’t the first time he made this promise. Narancia’s doubtful gaze confirmed his suspicion, but the boy still perked up at his words.
“Well, good night then, Gio,” He turned his attention back to the film and Giorno walked on measured steps to the kitchen.
When he was sure he was out of Narancia’s field of vision, he rested his head on the cold tiles and took a deep breath. The sound of running water as he filled the glass somewhat calmed his nerves, even if the water itself did nothing for his dry throat.
Giorno fully intended to go straight to bed and deal with it tomorrow.
He still had to finish his reports, the thought piled up on the list of things he had to address. Well, at least he would have something to do while he locked himself in the room. Good thing they hadn’t had many mission lately.
He was brought back to reality when he bumped on someone on his way up.
“Giorno?” He forced his eyes up and saw Trish’s concerned expression. He instinctively stood straighter and bit back the grimace when the sudden motion made his head spin, “Are you alright? You look kinda pale.”
Did everybody decide to roam around on this specific night? Giorno scolded himself for not noticing Trish on the stairs, too caught up on his thoughts and all the overwhelming stimuli around him.
“Yes, I’m fine,” The words sounded hollow to his own ears, “What about you? It’s late.”
“Oh, I’m good, just got peckish,” Her eyes studied him, “So I was going for a midnight snack… You sure you’re okay?” She got a step closer to him and Giorno tensed up.
She was too close. Almost as close as his classmate ten months ago. His thoughts were blurry and he got more aware of her scent. He had to go. Now.
Giorno ignored her question and tried to sprint for his door, planning on locking it and making up an excuse the next morning.
He was vaguely aware of his legs giving out and the loud blam as his body clashed on the floor, barely out the last stair step, in the middle of the hall. He wasn’t even sure if he stumbled on something or if his body simply gave up, but it didn’t matter. He had to stand up and get to his door.
Trish crouched to his side and he could hear Narancia running up the stairs, as well as some doors opening and too many footsteps approaching. He made too much noise. He drew attention. It was bad. Trish was calling his name and he heard some confused ‘what’s up?’ and ‘is Giorno okay?’ and ‘what’s all this noise so late?’
It was all too much. Too much noise, too many people, so much thirst, Giorno bit his lip until he tasted blood, jaw clenched, and tried to force himself to stand. His arms barely bothered to try, as much as his brain screamed for them to, and soon the voices calling his name were engulfed by the darkness spreading on his vision.
Giorno opened his eyes to something cold pressed on his face and a pair of concerned eyes fixated on his face. Bucciarati held a wet piece of cloth on his forehead and a glance around showed he was on his bed. He blinked hard to clear the black dots on his vision and noticed Abbacchio and Mista standing by his door, arms crossed, and Narancia, Trish and Fugo peeking from outside, on the hall.
“Giorno?” Bucciarati called softly and the teen focused back on him, “You passed out a few minutes ago. Do you remember?”
Right. That happened. Giorno didn’t trust his voice, so he just nodded.
He shouldn’t have gone for that water glass after all… Too little, too late.
“Are you feeling sick?” Bucciarati pressed on. Giorno had been… Off lately. Withdrawn. A bit distracted, like he wasn’t really there. Which was concerning for him. And on the rare occasions they got to see him for more than a minute, he looked a little pale and unsteady on his feet.
Giorno would mutter something about having work to do or a headache whenever someone pressed enough. Bucciarati wished he had been more insistent.
What kind of leader he was if he let Giorno get to the point of fainting?
Giorno noticed his jaw was still clenched tight, kept shut by sheer determination even while he was unconscious. His muscles hurt when he allowed them to relax.
“I’m fine,” he sent Bucciarati his most convincing stare and glanced to the other too. I’m fine, he wanted to convey, so you can leave.
Please, leave.
Bucciarati didn’t seem convinced though. His eyes widened for a fraction of second and he passed the wet cloth on Giorno’s chin, wiping a trail of blood that escaped when the boy opened his mouth.
Giorno vaguely remembered biting his own lips shut before passing out.
“What are you feeling?” He ignored the obviously fake claim. For now. Bruno mentally listed everything they had in the cabinet, painkillers, fever medicine, some antibiotics, gauze, bandages… But he’d better assess Giorno’s situation before getting any of them.
Giorno kept quiet, Bucciarati supressed a frustrated sigh. The blond absentmindedly pulled at his hair and Bruno remembered all his claims of having a headache. He could work with that.
“I’ll fetch a thermometer and some painkillers, sound good?” He moved to wipe the cloth one last time on the boy’s forehead.
Giorno batted his hand away.
“No,” He said through gritted teeth. Bucciarati heard Mista stepping forward and gestured for him to stop. They were all worried, but it was better not to overwhelm him. It was hard enough to convince them to stay at the door and not by Giorno’s bedside.
“Giorno—“
“Go away!” He said more frantic than intended. Bucciarati was too close. Too close, too close, Giorno tugged at his hair, that familiar scent assaulting his senses. Too many people on the room. Why didn’t he ignore his thirst and lock the door and sleep?
Suddenly, there was a hand over his own, coaxing his fingers away from his hair. Bucciarati had leaned on him, arm outstretched and dangerously close to his mouth.
Anything remotely near his face was too close to his mouth.
Giorno pushed him away hard.
Bucciarati stumbled backward, sheer surprise written on his face, and Mista moved to catch him. Giorno felt all eyes on him and heard rushed, heavy footsteps approaching the bed.
He barely had the time to compel his body upright before Abbacchio had him by his collar, pulling him so their faces were close.
“What the hell, brat?!” He all but shouted, “Who do you think you are? Bucciarati is trying to help y—”
Abbacchio cut himself short when he felt a steel grip on his arm and a weird, piercing sensation on his forearm. His brain took a while to process that Giorno was biting him. He heard a few gasps and footsteps getting closer, Mista cocking his gun and Narancia calling out Giorno’s name.
Then Giorno started to suck and he snapped back to the situation at hand. He pulled his arm, but the boy’s grip was unrelenting and his jaw wouldn’t let go. He noticed Giorno’s eyes were unfocused and had this odd glint to them, like they reflected the room’s artificial light.
Then Giorno blinked hard, his irises were the normal green of always and his eyes were wide as he glanced at Abbacchio, jaw slacking slightly.
He took this opportunity to yank his arm back, not caring if he ripped his skin on fangs (?) in the process. Not caring about the blood dripping down his arm or how he could see the same blood — his blood — staining Giorno’s lips.
Before anyone had the time to so much as open their mouths, Giorno jumped out of bed and sprinted to the window, basically throwing himself on it and turning the glass into vines mid-movement.
Mista was the first to react and ran to the window just in time to see the vines withering away as Giorno reached the ground. The others approached in time to see him running away from the house and disappearing into the dark night.
They glanced at each other with confusion written on their faces.
“What in hell just happened?” Fugo was the first one to find his voice, “Did we—? Did Giorno—? Argh, you all saw that too, right?”
A curt nod was all he got. Bucciarati’s eyes fell on Abbacchio’s bleeding arm and he beckoned the man to the bathroom, getting the first aid kit out.
His brows furrowed when he cleaned the blood just to find the skin torn open, a cut more fit for a knife than for human teeth. He could discern two punctures from where the cut stemmed when Abbacchio pulled his arm.
He could see the others peeking as he worked on disinfecting and bandaging. Mista and Narancia paced back and forth, obviously agitated.
“We should go after Giorno!” Narancia said finally as he secured the last bandage in place, “What are we waiting for?”
“Yeah!” Mista agreed. Bucciarati shut them up with a glare.
“We have to know what happened first,” he used his serious tone, the one no one dared question.
He was worried too. He wanted to go after Giorno, find him, bring him back home. But he also had to think about the safety of the whole team, and Giorno just attacked Abbacchio.
“Maybe it was a stand effect?” Trish offered, the idea weak to her own ears, “A long-ranged one?”
“I don’t think so,” Fugo rebutted, “We never met a stand with a range wide enough to affect someone from so far, and we would’ve noticed anyone sneaking near the house… Besides, Giorno’s been weird for weeks. And it affected only him, I don’t think a user could be so precise without being near the target.”
“What about an automatic stand?” Narancia chipped in; Abbacchio shook his head.
“We would have noticed it. Automatic stands aren’t very subtle, nor chase a target for so long as far as I’m aware.”
“Yeah, and Giorno would have told us if he thought a stand was after him,” Mista said, “Wouldn’t he?”
His question was met by silence.
“Maybe he’s a vampire!” Narancia exclaimed, eyes wide like he just cracked an enigma.
Fugo elbowed him hard on the side.
“Don’t be ridiculous, you know vampires don’t exist!” He scorned, “Be serious, Narancia. We need plausible ideas.”
“What, you saw him too!” He whined, rubbing at his side, “His eyes got all weird and he bit Abbacchio and now there’s fang marks on his arm!”
Well, it did sound like a good reasoning, given the evidences. But Fugo refused to even consider something so preposterous. He strained to think of the closest logical explanation.
“Some conditions can cause a compulsion to drink blood,” Not even him believed his own words, but it was the better he could do, “And the eyes could have been a trick of the light,” A trick that absolutely everybody saw from different angles.
Ok, maybe his hypothesis wasn’t that much better than Narancia’s. He needed intel, the researcher on him seething for more data. With enough references, he surely could guess what really happened.
“I’m going to the library,” He turned to Bucciarati, waiting for some kind of approval.
“It’s one in the morning.”
“I know one that’s open 24/7,” Then, as an addendum, “It’s not that far, I should be back soon.”
Bucciarati nodded. Just as Fugo was about to leave, Narancia stuck to his side.
“I’m going too!” He informed rather than asked, “I want to get books on vampires.”
Fugo closed his eyes for a second. Now of all times Narancia decided he wanted to go to a library when Fugo had to all but drag him there before. And to get books on vampires of all things.
Well, no time for that now. He didn’t see any harm in taking him too, at least he’d read something for a change…
“Fine, let’s go.”
Abbacchio was the next to stand and walk to the door, flexing his fingers and analysing the bandages. It didn’t really hurt that much, more of a scratch really. A deep one, sure, but a scratch.
“I’ll go after the brat,” He sent Bucciarati a glare that made clear he wouldn’t take no for an answer, “My stand is the best for it.”
“I’ll go with you,” Mista declared, but Abbacchio shook his head.
“You, Bucciarati and Trish stay here, in case he comes back,” It was unlikely, if the way Giorno fled from them was anything to go by, but Mista seemed to accept it, “I’ll go alone. He can’t be that far.”
And, if for some reason he decides to attack, it’d be easier for Abbacchio if he was the only available target. Giorno was already on thin ice, the goth scowled, but if he injured anyone else Abbacchio would deliver that beating he promised back in Pompeii.
“Call if anything happens,” Bucciarati warned. Fair enough, “And take a jacket, it’s cold outside.”
“So we’ll just stay here and do nothing?!” He heard Mista complaining from the hallway.
“Waiting and doing nothing are two different things,” Trish remarked, and Abbacchio wondered when she got wiser.
Well, enough stalling, he summoned Moody Blues and rewound to the moment Giorno jumped through the window. Then watched as the copy slid on a vine that wasn’t there anymore and sprinted to a seemingly random direction.
He ran after the copy, surprised with how fast it was. But it was good, he thought, there was no way Giorno kept that rhythm for long.
As it turns out, Giorno could keep that rhythm for long.
Longer than him, at least. Abbacchio paused Moody Blues to catch his breath, puffing and gasping for air. Giorno not only ran, but he ran in a winding, zigzag pattern without so much as slowing down.
Really, it made it seem the kid was slacking off in all the missions they had to run before.
That path was weird too. Giorno obviously kept away from the streets, but there was not really a clear direction. It’s like he was just running randomly, no destination in mind. People tended to look for familiar places when they ran way — not even a conscious decision, just the brain looking for familiarity or something — but Giorno was headed nowhere.
Then again, even if he were headed somewhere familiar, would he even know where to look for? Abbacchio pursed his lips, he had no idea where Giorno came from or what places made his feel at ease. The kid never talked about home or school or anything. It seemed wrong now, thinking about it.
“Fast-forward,” He commanded Moody Blues, breath renewed and determined to find the kid sooner rather than later. A cold breeze passed through him and he fastened his jacket, suddenly wondering if Giorno’s clothes were warm enough on this weather.
…Damn. Bucciarati’s doting side was rubbing on him, wasn’t it?
Abbacchio ignored the thought and picked up the pace.
When Moody Blues finally slowed the pace, it didn’t look like Giorno was tired. Rather than that, the copy froze out of nowhere and its head snapped to the side like it heard something. Abbacchio narrowed his eyes at the tall trees, since Giorno apparently ran all the way to the most secluded part of an old park.
Then Giorno’s copy pounced on something and Abbacchio assumed a fighting instance out of reflex.
“Pause,” Moody Blues stopped crouched on the grass, hands holding something invisible at arm’s length. Probably an animal, the man thought, and one that can claw or bite back if Giorno bothered to keep it away from his body.
The hands were too far apart for it to be a rat. Had to be something bigger. Abbacchio urged his brain to think, not unlike he did in investigations as a cop. Squirrels don’t wander around at night, and it was on the ground, not on a tree.
Maybe a raccoon or a possum. Would make sense.
Abbacchio dreaded what he was about to see, but commanded Moody Blues to resume the replay.
He watched as another set of canines — sharper, longer, fang-like — sprouted from the teen’s gums and covered his regular teeth. Then he bit down on what looked just like thin air to Abbacchio, but was probably a squirming, terrified animal back then.
Copy-Giorno’s eyes got that odd glint, almost like it reflected the moon’s light, and his face contorted in something akin to disgust. Still, the blond kept on sucking, even as his hands trembled and he hung his head. If he looked pale before, now his face had a sick, greenish hue.
Abbacchio could only watch as copy-Giorno tried to run again only to stop a few meters ahead, clutching his stomach and bending over in pain.
The retching noise made it clear what happened, and the man was briefly glad the replay didn’t really show the vomit.
“Fast-forward,” He said, hoping to skip this part and go back to the chasing already.
Even on fast-forward, Giorno stood a long time there, retching and gagging.
When he finally resumed the running, it was at a slower pace. Good, probably meant he didn’t go that far from the park. Also, Abbacchio appreciated the chance to catch his breath. Spending the night running across the city really wasn’t on his plans.
He followed Moody Blues for narrow paths, zigzagged trees and forced his way through alleyways so hidden he wasn’t even sure in which part of town he was. Every passing second made him more uneasy. Then copy-Giorno crouched down on the dirty alley’s floor and clutched his own face, or that was what Abbacchio thought at first.
Upon closer inspection, copy-Giorno was biting its own wrist and sucking hard at it.
“Pause,” The words left Abbacchio’s mouth before he could even think.
Giorno’s frozen expression wasn’t animalistic as Abbacchio half-expected. It was just… Hungry. Ashamed. And desperate, if he was willing to bite himself.
The goth huffed and accelerated the replay once again. This chase had been going on for far too long already. He wasn’t about to seek Giorno until sunrise.
Moody Blues took another sharp turn and sprinted to yet another desolate part of town. Abbacchio followed.
He could see the blond silhouette sat on the ground near an old building as soon as he stepped in the abandoned alley. Giorno was hugging his knees and had his head low, some hair escaped his braid amidst the utter madness this run was and was now obscuring his face.
The boy glanced at him when he dismissed Moody Blues, but didn’t say a word. Abbacchio noticed he had something moving on his hand.
“Giorno,” He greeted, risking a slow step forward. Despite spending a good part of the night after the teen, Abbacchio didn’t really think of what to do when he found him besides the generic bring him back.
“Abbacchio,” Giorno kept his gaze locked on the pavement.
Another step closer and Abbacchio noticed the thing on the blond’s grasp was a rat. It was struggling futilely against firm fingers, but had enough room to wiggle, so probably not squished to death.
Abbacchio cleared his throat, thinking about what to say, but Giorno beat him to it:
“You don’t have to come closer,” His voice was unnaturally calm, like he was forcing it not to waver, “You don’t want to.”
Despite the situation, Abbacchio had it in him to roll his eyes.
“Don’t tell me what I want or don’t, brat,” He strode forward in heavy steps out of spite.
“I can hear your heartbeat,” The admission was low, spoken so softly Abbacchio would have missed it if not for the silent alley, “It’s fast. You’re afraid.”
Okay, so maybe facing the brat who bit him and ran away was a bit unsettling, so what? Didn’t mean he was scared. Frankly, seeing Giorno vomiting on a random park and chomping on his own arm was scarier than whatever was happening here.
“I just ran across the whole damn city,” He scoffed, “Of course my heart is beating fast. Don’t get so full of yourself.”
Abbacchio covered the remaining steps and plopped down on the ground besides Giorno. He sat close enough to see the rat wiggling on Giorno’s hands, startled with the goth’s sudden presence; but distant enough not to touch the teen, a false sense of security for them both.
“You have a lot of explaining to do.”
Giorno nodded, but didn’t acknowledge the question otherwise. His eyes were fixated on the squirming rat and he looked so tired.
Another gust of cold wind hit them and Abbacchio glanced at Giorno’s thin clothes.
“Here, it’s pretty chilly,” He threw his jacket on the teen, “It was a bit too warm for me anyway after all the running,” If the kid wouldn’t speak, he could at least not freeze to death on this unholy hour out on the street.
The silence between them stretched, the only sound was the occasional squeaking and whistling from the rat. Abbacchio wondered if he should call Bucciarati now, let him know he found Giorno and where they were.
Then Giorno’s stomach growled and he hunched forward in pain. Despite it, his face remained stoic and he bit his lip not to utter a sound.
Such a prideful brat, Abbacchio almost called him out on it.
Well, now the rat on his grasp made a lot more sense. The man watched as Giorno stared down at the critter, hands hesitating to bring it closer to his mouth and face getting that greenish hue from before. He looked nauseated just by thinking about it.
Abbacchio wasn’t about to see that retching scene unfold again.
“Let it go,” Giorno tensed up at his words, “We both know you can’t eat it.”
“I—“ He averted his gaze, suddenly very preoccupied with a random graffiti on a wall, “I don’t—“
His stomach rumbled again and Giorno hissed. His mouth still tasted of bile and acid and Abbacchio’s presence (that delicious, sickening, forbidden scent and the sound of life pulsating on his veins) made the rat look even less appetizing.
Drinking animal blood was like gulping down sewage.
With a sigh, Giorno let the rat go and watched as it scampered to the nearest hole and disappeared.
Before he could process it, Abbacchio extended an arm right in front of his face.
“Suit yourself,” His voice was devoid of judgement, weirdly enough, and Giorno kept looking at the wall, lest he succumbs to his desire and accepts the offer.
“No.”
He heard Abbacchio’s annoyed huff clearly.
“I’m not asking, brat,” The goth let his unbandaged arm fall on the boy’s hands, “If I was a good enough snack a couple hours ago, I’m a good enough snack now.”
Giorno’s hands held his arm weakly, contemplative fingers dancing on it. Abbacchio just wished Giorno would bite him already and end this tense atmosphere. He was offering, damn it.
He could not know why Giorno needed blood, but he saw enough to realise how desperate he was for it.
“What if… I don’t stop?” Abbacchio strained to hear the words, but understanding dawned on him when he did. So that was the issue.
“If you don’t, I’ll punch you so hard you’ll fly to this wall you keep staring,” He promised. And, really, for all his made-up scenarios he threatened Giorno, none compared to this bizarre situation now.
“Just bite already,” He prompted, “I’ll tell you when to stop.”
Giorno’s gaze fell on the arm on his hands, fingers tracing patterns on the exposed skin. His eyes fluttered briefly to Abbacchio and the man gave him a curt nod, impatience written on his face.
Giorno took a deep breath and felt the pinprick of fangs sprouting from his gums. It was so foreign allowing them to appear rather than losing control and having them force their way. It felt wrong, guiding Abbacchio’s arm to his mouth and biting on it willingly. But it was better to do it lucid, Giorno tried to convince himself. Better than losing consciousness and waking up feeling like a wild animal.
Abbacchio noticed Giorno’s irises changing from green to iridescent, but the teen kept his movements slow and deliberate. The puncture of teeth not unlike needles and no desperate sucking either. It was different from back in the room, more calculated, more restrained. Abbacchio rested his head on the cold wall behind him and just… Waited. Let his blood flow to Giorno’s mouth. It wasn’t at all that different from donating blood. Just sit back and relax.
He closed his eyes and focused on alert signals: weakness, light-headedness, nausea, anything that indicated he lost too much blood. All he had to do was assess himself and it would be fine.
“That’s enough, brat,” He warned when the first bout of dizziness came.
Giorno kept drinking, not even acknowledging him.
“Giorno, enough,” He tried again, voice firm, and flicked his forehead to try and startle him out of whatever daze he was.
Giorno blinked hard once, twice, and his eyes flickered to Abbacchio. His jaw went slack and he carefully rose his head, summoning Gold Experience to close the two small puncture holes on the man’s forearm.
Abbacchio got a peek of his bloody fangs before they retreated to his gums.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Abbacchio scoffed, “You did good. I didn’t even have to clock you,” It was meant to lighten the humour, “So… Feeling better?”
Giorno looked better. His cheeks finally had a healthy colour again after weeks of paleness and he had the presence of mind to fasten Abbacchio’s jacket all the way up and pull the loose strands of hair behind his ear.
A shy nod and Giorno’s eyes fell on his bandaged arm.
“I can fix it up to you too, if you want,” He offered, guilt flashing briefly on his expression.
Abbacchio just offered his other arm wordlessly and prepared for that burning, painful feeling that came with Giorno’s healing. He wouldn’t mind waiting for it to heal on its own, it was already treated after all, but maybe it’d make the brat feel better about his attack earlier.
As Giorno undid the bandages and he hissed with the stinging of mending flesh, Abbacchio caught a quiet comment:
“My father was a vampire.”
Giorno let go of the healed arm and waited, studying Abbacchio’s face for a reaction. The man pondered his words for a second.
“Should I be worried about becoming a vampire too?” It was not the reaction Giorno expected.
“I don’t think so, no,” His mind went back to his classmate months ago. She seemed completely fine afterwards, “You should be fine.”
He was talking out of experience. Abbacchio made a mental note to ask him later, no sense in overwhelming him with questions all at once.
“Good,” He said instead.
“…That’s it?” Giorno frowned at him, “You’ll just… Accept it?” Giorno himself didn’t believe Koichi at first. It all sounded so surreal and fake.
“Kid, I’m a stand user,” Abbacchio shrugged, “I live with another six stand users. We lived with a ghost inside a turtle for about a month. And almost died for a boss who had the weirdest split personality case ever. Your father being a vampire isn’t going to faze me.”
Another gust of wind hit them and Abbacchio decided he had enough of this cold, empty street. No sensible person would be out at this hour and on this weather.
“We should go home,” It was not a suggestion, as much as it was phrased like one.
Giorno just nodded, a bit stunned by the word home. That it came from Abbacchio of all people. That Abbacchio still thought he had a home with them.
(It had been so long since he felt at home anywhere)
Just as he was about to stand up, Abbacchio stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder.
“I’m not walking all the way back,” It had been bad enough to run across the whole damn city, “I’ll call Bucciarati and he’ll pick us up. You wait here while I find out the street name or something.”
Abbacchio stood up slowly, just in case he got dizzy from the blood loss, and got his phone out. A glance at the hour showed it was way later than he thought, and he had several unread messages from Bucciarati (damn silent mode).
Bruno picked the call up on the first ring.
Abbacchio was fully prepared to spend the next several minutes in an awkward silence. He wasn’t the most talkative person, Giorno much less, and despite their relationship somewhat mellowing out on the past months, the brat still got on his nerves more often than not.
So it was surprising when Giorno decided to talk:
“Thank you,” He said, no further elaboration. Thank you for coming after me. Thank you for feeding me. Thank you for putting up with this absolute nonsense with no questions. Abbacchio wasn’t sure which of these he was being thanked for, so decided to consider it all of them.
“You can thank me by not jumping out of windows in the future,” He admonished, “I have better things to do at night than chase runaways. Like sleeping.”
“Understood,” And, despite the bizarre night they had, there was a hint of a smile on Giorno’s lips.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward after all.
Not even twenty minutes later, they heard tires screeching and Bucciarati’s car appeared on the street. Abbacchio was sure the man just broke every single traffic law on the country.
Trish and Mista were on the back seats, which wasn’t surprising (he’d be surprised if Bruno managed to make they stay home tonight), and Bucciarati tapped the steering wheel in a quick, anxious rhythm.
“Take the front seat,” Abbacchio nudged Giorno forward when he hesitated, “It’s less crowded.”
If Bucciarati ignored every single speed limit before, now he sure respected them. The way home seemed to drag for an eternity, a silence filled with uncertainty and questions and the rhythmic tap tap tap of Bruno’s fingers on the wheel.
Abbacchio side-eyed as Trish opened and closed her mouth several times, constantly rethinking her words and deciding to just keep quiet in the end. Mista sent furtive glances to Giorno every so often, whilst the blond kept his gaze locked on the buildings and street lights passing on the window.
The goth had half a mind to kick Giorno’s seat and see if it got him to talk (their team deserved an explanation, and it wasn’t his place to tell), but in the end he didn’t have to:
“I apologise,” Giorno’s eyes were still fixated on the starry night, on the landscape, on anything that wasn’t the people inside the car, “For scaring you. And running away.”
“We can talk about it later,” Bucciarati sounded tired — they all were — and his eyes didn’t leave the vacant road, “I’m glad you’re back,” Here. Safe. With us.
Before the silence could settle again, Mista opened his mouth.
“What was all that about anyway?” Trish elbowed him and sent a glance that said read a room for the love of God.
Giorno pondered the question for a second.
“My father was a vampire,” And it sounded as ridiculous now as it did when he told Abbacchio.
Again, the admission was met with nothing but nods and unspoken acceptance. Maybe he underestimated his team’s ability to deal with utter absurdity, Giorno thought.
When Bucciarati pulled over, they could see the kitchen lights on, the brightness contrasting with the otherwise dark house. A bunch of books were scattered on the table and Fugo somehow read three of them at once, eyes darting between the pages. Meanwhile, Narancia was trying very hard to read one, tongue stuck out and eyes almost burning a hole on the page.
Their eyes darted to the front door as Bucciarati unlocked it and they held their breath when Giorno walked in with the rest of the team.
For a while, they just exchanged glances. No one uttered a word.
Then Mista decided to be the one to break the silence:
“Giorno’s father was a vampire,” He pointed casually to Giorno with his thumb, strolling in the house.
Trish sent him a dirty look and Abbacchio smacked his neck and muttered something about not being so nonchalant about it. Giorno stood there awkwardly and waited for a reaction.
Narancia guffawed and pointed a finger at Fugo.
“Take that, Fugo! I was right! You were wrong!” He seemed overjoyed, and everybody wondered if he even processed what it meant, “you owe me twenty bucks!”
Fugo not immediately punching him in the face showed how taken aback he was. His eyes went from Narancia’s gloating to Giorno to the books on the table (more than half of them useless with this new information) and his brain tried to make sense that vampires existed and Giorno’s father was one.
Bucciarati cleared his throat and all eyes were on him. Fugo was happy for the distraction.
“We had a… Busy night,” Understatement of the century, “We’re all here, all fine, all safe. Let’s just head to bed and deal with things tomorrow, ok?” It was meant to reassure himself as much as the others.
Everybody nodded, the dread and exhaustion finally settling in after this long, long night. Some rest sounded amazing.
Fugo discreetly took one of Narancia’s books (one he had specifically called ridiculous and full of stupid folklore stories) with him, just in case his restless mind didn’t let him get much sleep.
For the first time in months, Giorno got a restful, fulfilling sleep night (even if technically it was almost sunrise when they all went to sleep). No hunger pangs waking him up, no delirious half-dreams full of forbidden smells and maddening sounds, no migraine or dizziness. Just rest. A nice, dreamless sleep.
He woke up to knocking on his door, a glance to the window showed he slept in. The sun peeking through the curtains far too bright to be anything less than 10 a.m.
Before he could even get up to open the door, Narancia barged in without a care in the world.
“Good morning, Gio!” He was enthusiastic as ever, “Breakfast’s ready, we’re all having a late one today,” He sat on Giorno’s bed uninvited.
“Okay, thank you for waking me up,” Giorno started to disentangle his hair, intending to braid it before going down, “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Narancia didn’t leave his bed, fingers fiddling the hem of his shirt.
“Anything else?”
“Uh… I wanted to ask if you, uh…” Narancia extended his arm, “Maybe want some blood? You know, before breakfast,” He averted his gaze, “I was going to bring a knife and a glass too, but Fugo said blood would ‘coagulate’ real quick in a glass, which is just a fancy word for clot by the way, and get all disgusting and it sounded gross. Did you know they put things in blood bags so the blood doesn’t clot?”
Narancia tended to ramble when he was nervous, and this awkward situation reminded Giorno that yes, they were going to talk about it; and no, he was not getting out of this one.
“No need,” He said, “I… Had enough yesterday. Thanks for the offer.”
Instead of looking relieved, Narancia just stared at him with disbelief clear on his face.
“You sure? You can tell me, you know. I can take it,” He didn’t retreat his arm, “Just don’t want you passing out on us again,” His eyes were serious and, oh, that little fainting episode must have scared him more than he thought, Giorno supposed.
To be honest, most memories of last night were so foggy and rushed that he almost forgot this detail.
“I’m good, I promise,” His tone matched Narancia’s uncharacteristic seriousness, “I will let you know if it changes, ok?” That seemed to satisfy the boy.
Then Narancia got up the bed with a quick bounce and grabbed Giorno’s hairbrush on the bedside table.
“Fine, then can I braid your hair? It’s been a while,” Despite yesterday’s madness and still having to digest the new information that Giorno was at least half-vampire, Narancia was kind of happy for it.
At least now he could go back to spending time in Giorno’s room, for starters, or just hang out with him. He missed it when Giorno started to isolate himself.
“Sure,” A smile tugged at Giorno’s lips and he realised he missed it too. Spending time with someone without heartbeats throbbing on his head or the smell of blood and life assaulting his senses.
Narancia started to work happily on his hair and blabber about anything and everything that came to mind — this time out of excitement rather than awkwardness.
“—And Fugo only gave me ten bucks because, apparently, when just one of your parents is a vampire you’re a ‘dhampir’, not a full vampire. He’s so petty! And a sore loser. We wouldn’t even have those books if it wasn’t for me,“ He yammered, Giorno just hummed in acknowledgment. Soon enough, Narancia went from that to describing today’s breakfast and half-recounting a weird dream he had, no real connection between the subjects.
“Aaaand it’s all done,” He looked proud of his work, “I’ll wait for you downstairs, don’t take too long or the food will get cold!”
Giorno analysed Narancia’s handiwork on the mirror. A bit sloppy here and there, but overall decent. He sure did his best, considering his attention span. Giorno liked it.
He took a deep, grounding breath and prepared to meet the others.
Getting to the kitchen was… Anticlimactic, if Giorno was being honest. His plate awaited him on his usual seat and some “good mornings” were lazily thrown his direction. No different from any other breakfast on an idle weekend.
Fugo had his face in a book between bites and usually Bucciarati would chide him for it, but he seemed more tolerant today. Giorno spread some jam on a still warm toast and enjoyed the fullness in his stomach. How easily it went down his throat. There was a small serving of chocolate pudding near his plate. His favourite. A bit odd for breakfast, but the teen considered it Bucciarati’s way of reaching out.
Mista, as usual, was feeding the Pistols, who danced happily on his plate and occasionally tried to steal food from the nearby plates (to varying degrees of success). He sent Giorno a curious gaze from time to time, but didn’t say anything.
…For about ten whole minutes. A new personal record.
“Oi, Giorno,” All eyes were on him, some not very approving, “You don’t have to answer, of course, but… Like, can you sense things better than normal? Like, super hearing or smell,” He absolutely wanted to get somewhere with it.
“Uh… Kind of? But not all the time,” Thank God for that, “They get sharper when I’m…” Starving, his brain provided, in pain, “Thirsty,” He said instead, unwilling to admit just how awful that felt.
Mista nodded.
“So… Could you smell it when Trish was on her period?”
Fugo yelled a “that’s the first thing you think of?”, Abbacchio filled his wine glass to the brim wordlessly and Bucciarati pinched the bridge of his nose. Trish kicked him so hard beneath the table that it shook.
“Don’t ask him these things!” She threw her spoon at him for good measure, “Of course he couldn’t!” Then, wide-eyed, “You couldn’t, right, Giorno?”
The awkward silence was enough of an answer. Trish’s face got as pink as her hair, Giorno’s gaze fell to the floor and Narancia burst into laughter until Fugo punched him.
They finished breakfast with no further questions. Giorno washed his plate on the sink and was about to make his way back to his room when Bucciarati stopped him.
“I was hoping we could talk in private for a bit, if that’s fine by you,” Despite the phrasing, Giorno knew there was no way to deny the request, “You can go to your room, I’ll be there in a minute.”
There was nothing harsh or accusing on his tone nor his posture. Still, Giorno felt like a little kid caught red-handed and about to get in trouble.
It was one of the longest minutes of his life, Giorno paced back and forth on his room. Half of his brain screamed that Bucciarati would expel him from the team, just like he tried to avoid from the beginning, because he was dangerous and unstable and drank human blood. The other half reasoned that, if they were going to get rid of him, they wouldn’t have bothered to bring him back in the first place.
Probably.
A cold breeze hit him and Giorno walked to the window, pausing mid-movement because there was no glass pane to close it anymore.
Oh, right, he made it into a vine. Seems like today the consequences were catching up with him.
Bucciarati walked in before he could think himself in circles, which was probably for the best. He sat on the chair by Giorno’s desk and motioned for the teen to sit on the bed.
“So, about your father,” He started, eyes never leaving Giorno, “I’m going to need a bit more information.”
Bruno pursed his lips at Giorno’s tense shoulders. He had no intentions to make it an interrogatory, hence the open-ended question, and yet the boy’s stance reminded him of their first encounter, back in the railway where they fought.
“I never met him,” Giorno kept his voice even, “He left before I was born. My mother hadn’t a lot to say about him either,” He remembered her half-coherent retellings of a dreamy man when she came back home drunk. One of the few moments she bothered to talk to him.
Bucciarati nodded and waited, letting Giorno gather his thoughts.
“I just found out he was a vampire around the same time I passed Polpo’s test,” He admitted. Seemed like a fair point to share, “It… Explained some things. Some changes I’d noticed a few months prior. I thought they had something to do with Gold Experience before that,” Sounded a bit silly now, saying it out loud, “But I had other things in mind to worry about,” Like betraying my new boss and not dying.
Oh, so it was pretty recent, Bruno realised. Less than a year. It explained why Giorno was so reluctant to talk about it. He was still processing it himself.
Must have been hard, dealing with it on his own.
Giorno kept quiet after that, having said all he was willing to, so Bucciarati took it as his cue to bring up the next question.
“How often do you need blood?” Bruno gauged Giorno’s face for a bad reaction. He noticed the boy didn’t like acknowledging it, but ignoring the issue would do no good either.
No matter how much Giorno tried to play it down, he’d starved and fainted. And Bucciarati wasn’t going to allow it anymore.
Giorno averted his gaze in shame and clenched his fists.
“I should be fine having it about… Once every ten months.”
Bruno pressed his hands together and took a deep breath, summoning his most patient tone:
“Giorno,” He hoped the teen would at least look at him, “I’m not asking how long it takes you to get sick and pass out. I want to know how often you need it.”
“I shouldn’t even need it in the first place!” Giorno hated it. His team was trying to be supportive and pretend it was okay, but it wasn’t. And he hated himself for it. For drinking blood. For being a burden. For being less-than-human (just like his stepfather would say in-between beatings).
“Well, you do,” Bucciarati could be a patient man in many areas, denial and self-loathing weren’t in the list, “And we can provide for you, it’s not a problem.”
That seemed to get Giorno’s attention. Good. Bruno wanted to be sure to get his point across.
“Frankly, I see it as little more than a food allergy,” This earned him a skeptic look. Still better than the self-hatred on the boy's eyes before, “Don’t forget we’re mafia. Even if you needed a whole person every day, we would find a way,” Giorno recoiled at the idea, disgust clear on his face if you knew where to look.
Bucciarati backtracked. He was good at thinking on his feet and adapting to whatever the situation demanded.
“You don't have to kill anyone or drink directly from strangers either, we can work with that too,” That seemed to calm Giorno a bit, “Fugo said the anticoagulants on blood bags shouldn’t be toxic, even if they’re not edible, so it’s an option. We could test some and, if you can drink it, it’ll be easy to stock up on them.”
“And if I can’t?” Giorno was hesitant, but at least he was talking. Considering it. That was all Bucciarati wanted, a smile played on the corner of his lips.
“Well, everyone in this house is willing to give you blood,” Before Giorno could protest, he added, “We’re offering. But we’ll still need to know how often you need it.”
“…I’m not sure,” The admission was quiet. Giorno never bothered to count how many days until the first overwhelming noises or grumbling stomach. He just ignored it all alongside the pains, cramps and dry throat.
“It doesn’t have to be precise,” Bruno assured, “Just think about how long it takes until you feel…” Hungry, he wanted to say, but decided to stick to words he knew Giorno was comfortable with, “Thirsty.”
A pause. The blond considered the question carefully.
“Maybe once a month,” He conceded, “…Maybe twice,” He added quietly.
“Twice a month,” Bucciarati repeated, a sense of finality on his voice, “Sounds good,” Better than eating once every ten months. A good compromise.
That was the urgent part, Bruno supposed as silence settled between them again. They could work the details out later. Still, he had that pesky feeling he was missing out on something important.
His eyes fell on the open window.
“I’ll have the glass pane replaced by tomorrow,” He rose from the chair and Giorno assumed he’d leave, “Do you mind if I sit on the bed with you?”
…Or maybe not. Giorno just shook his head and moved a bit to the side, unsure of what to expect.
Bucciarati sat next to him without a word, eyes calculating like he was considering something. Then he slung and arm around the boy and leaned his head towards him on an awkward half-embrace.
“We’re happy to have you here,” On this house, on this team, with us, he hoped the words could convey it all at once, “So, please, just keep in mind you can talk to us, okay?”
Bucciarati wasn’t usually so… Physical. But Giorno found he didn’t mind. He put an arm on the man’s shoulder and reciprocated the half-hug.
“I’ll try,” He promised. Despite the awkward topic he still hated and the certainty that things would change, Giorno felt better. Maybe changing wasn’t so bad if you weren’t alone, “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” Bucciarati gave him a last squeeze before letting go of the embrace, “Now, Narancia mentioned something about you promising to watch a movie today. So I thought we could all take the day off and watch some, if you want to join.”
“Can I still choose the film?” A smile tugged at Giorno lips.
“Of course,” Bruno smiled back, “Now let’s go. Everybody’s waiting for us downstairs.”
As he sat on the sofa with his team — his friends — and watched Fugo fumbling with the TV remote, Abbacchio offering him some popcorn and Mista, Trish and Narancia bickering about who’d choose the next one, Giorno felt at home.