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Giorno is sixteen when he’s told that his father was a vampire.
He keeps this fact to himself. It’s not a good look, after all, and a good look is precisely what he needs to maintain his foothold as the new Don. Thus, the knowledge of his parentage remains between himself, Polnareff and Jotaro Kujo of the Speedwagon Foundation. None of them are particularly impressed by this information. Giorno had long since given up on his biological father materialising on his doorstep, but he used to think about him sometimes, used to wonder what kind of man he was—and now he knows, and now he almost wishes he didn’t know. It explains some things about Polnareff, too. There’s a certain look in his eye sometimes when he talks to Giorno, and occasionally his gaze lingers a little longer than it has to. He’s wary of me, realises Giorno. It only makes sense. And he’s loyal to me, but he’s loyal to Jotaro, too; they’re watching me, keeping an eye on me, just to make sure I don’t turn into my father…
It irritates him a little. There’s nothing he can do about it, though, so he just forges on and tries to ignore Jotaro’s questions and the undercurrents of suspicion in Polnareff’s words. At least they’re the only ones who know. Giorno hates to imagine what he’ll have to deal with if Mista, Trish or Fugo find out—especially Mista, whom Giorno has a burgeoning crush on. Yet another thing I’ll have to keep hidden, then. He isn’t very open about himself; it’s a holdover from his childhood, when he’d learned that in order to retain friends, he has to be interesting, not weird. Interesting means being his own person. Interesting means having his own distinct interests, though they must still fit within a certain realm of normalcy.
And interesting means shedding all those strange and freakish and messy parts of himself—leaving them in the privacy of his home, and closing the door quietly behind him.
Giorno is nineteen when he accidentally tells Mista that his father was a vampire.
It slips out after dinner one night. They’re sitting in Giorno’s house, sipping glasses of red wine as the night wears on; the more Giorno drinks, the more tipsy he becomes. Mista is telling a funny story about something that happened the other day as Giorno takes another drink of wine—suddenly, he flashes him a grin, and Giorno’s heart skips a beat so violently that his hand jolts and wine dribbles down his chin.
Mista chuckles. “Damn,” he says, as Giorno’s face warms and he starts hunting around for tissue paper. “That’s quite an effect. You look like a vampire that just fed.”
“Well, that does make sense,” replies Giorno thoughtlessly. He places the glass on the table and draws out a piece of tissue paper from the box that was lying forgotten behind a vase. “My father was a vampire, after all.”
He’s dabbing at his chin when he’s abruptly hit by what he’d just said.
Well, fuck.
Slowly, hesitantly, Giorno meets Mista’s eyes, only to find that Mista is staring at him with a blank look on his face. A few moments pass; then he laughs hysterically, slaps the table, and exclaims, “You—your dad is a vampire?” He laughs harder, wiping a tear from his eyes. “Holy shit, that’s amazing, GioGio. Brilliant. What, did he really hate garlic or something?”
Silence. Giorno looks at Mista, plastering an impassive expression on his face, his heart racing as he scrambles to decide if he should lie. One second passes; two seconds; three. The silence is decidedly awkward now. Mista tilts his head, raises his eyebrows and clears his throat. “So, uh…” He chuckles nervously. “You were…joking, right? You just have a weird dad? Dislikes running water…hates mirrors…likes to stay up late?”
Giorno opens his mouth, but the lie won’t leave his lips.
Instead, he sighs and looks away. “I’m not joking.” Great, now Mista will think I’m a weirdo. “Vampires exist. Apparently there’s a race of ancient gods that had vampiric powers, and they passed down a relic called the Stone Mask, which has the power to turn people into vampires.” He feels Mista’s gaze burning the side of his face. “My father used that mask to turn himself into a vampire, and became a mass murderer. He was killed by Jotaro Kujo. That’s how I found out.”
Giorno’s words hang in the air like cigarette smoke. He wrings his hands under the table, sucks in a breath and forces himself to look at Mista. I should at least try to do some damage control. “So—”
He blinks, the words dying on his tongue.
Mista is staring at him, wide-eyed, but the expression on his face isn’t one of disgust. He doesn’t seem horrified, either, or sceptical, or even confused; rather, his eyes are filled with wonder as he slowly says, “Holy shit.”
Giorno swallows. “You…” He frowns; his breath catches in his throat for a moment as he dares to hope that maybe… “You…aren’t disgusted? You believe me?”
Mista snorts. “Dude, I always thought vampires were cool as fuck. Not that him being a mass murderer is cool, but, well, vampires themselves are, as a concept, y’know? I mean, I guess it’s different now that they’re real…” He shudders. “But, whatever, I can think about that later. And, I mean—stands exist, so why not vampires? It makes total sense.” He shrugs. “Plus, you’re not the type to lie about these kinds of things. And I’ve known you long enough to tell that you’re serious about this.”
“Oh.” Giorno’s voice is small. “Oh, okay. I see.” Slowly, hesitantly, his lips curve in a smile. “I’m glad that you understand.” It’s like a scene out of his wildest dreams—Mista sitting there opposite him, seeing him, truly seeing him—and Giorno can scarcely believe it to be true. “Thanks.” His heart flutters in his chest. “I really appreciate it.”
“Damn.” Mista leans forward, his gaze intent. “Now I’m really curious.” He brings his glass to his lips, gulps down the remainder of his wine, and lets out a satisfied sigh. “So, your dad. Your vampire dad.” He tilts his head. “I’m guessing you didn’t know the dude well?”
The topic makes Giorno’s elation dissolve into ash. He folds his arms, ignoring the knot that forms in his stomach. “I didn’t,” he says stiffly. “I don’t think he knew I existed, actually.”
“Huh.” Mista plays with his glass, turning it to and fro. “So you were raised by a single mom?”
Giorno’s jaw tightens. “Yes,” he says.
They both go quiet for a moment.
And then they suddenly speak at the same time. “She—” begins Giorno as Mista says, “It’s—”
Mista smiles. He places his glass on the table and gestures at Giorno, his expression warm. “You first, GioGio.”
“Okay.” Giorno laces his fingers together. “She’s Japanese. I think I told you that before.” He glances at the wall behind Mista for a second before looking back. “We moved here when I was four, so she could get married to her Italian husband. I last saw her when I was fifteen. My family and I…” His voice is tight. “Well, let’s just say we never saw eye to eye.”
He doesn’t know why he’s telling Mista this. Over the years, he hasn’t made a habit of talking about his parents; there’s no love lost between them, so he has no fond memories to speak of. “And, well…” Now that he’s explained the most painful things, some of the tension in his body drains away. “I have two biological fathers, actually.”
Mista’s jaw drops. “You have what?”
He’s oddly cute like that, sitting there with his mouth hanging open; Giorno’s lips twitch, and he says, “Yes. You see, my vampire father killed my human father and stole his body. In that form, as a vampiric head piloting a human body, he existed for over a hundred years. I was conceived at the tail end of his life, and received the genetic material of both of them.” The story brings him no joy, for he doesn’t particularly enjoy dwelling on the fact that the father he’d longed for is pure evil; but as he speaks, as he lets these words take form for the first time in his life, a strange calm settles over his body. “My human father, Jonathan Joestar, is an ancestor of Jotaro Kujo’s. We are thus distantly related; I am a part of the Joestar bloodline, though they keep me at a distance.”
“Wow.” Mista blinks once; twice; thrice. “That’s…damn. I didn’t think you could top the vampire dad thing.”
“Well, my parentage is rather strange.” Giorno is startled by the ease with which the words fall from his lips. It’s Mista. It must be because of him. “I’m sorry for keeping this from you.”
Mista snorts. “Nah, I get it. Can’t be easy to explain this, huh?” He grins. “I mean…jeez! If I didn’t know you so well, I’d definitely think you were pulling my leg.”
Giorno’s chest warms. “Well, I’m glad that you understand,” he says, smiling. “So…well, I’d appreciate if you’d keep this to yourself. I’ll tell Trish and Fugo eventually, I suppose, but not yet. Oh, right, and I forgot to tell you; Trish says that she—”
“Wait!” Mista holds up a hand. “There’s something I need to know.”
“Oh.” Giorno takes in the gleam in Mista’s eye, and reluctantly resigns himself to more questioning. Well, I suppose I did just tell him something very unusual. “Yes?”
“If your dad was a vampire, and your mom was human…” Mista speaks slowly, moving a pointed finger in the air to punctuate his words. “Doesn’t that make you half vampire?”
The question doesn’t surprise Giorno. “Vampirism isn’t hereditary,” he says. “I asked Jotaro the same thing when he told me.” He takes a sip of his wine. “So, you don’t have anything to worry about. I’m not about to suck your blood anytime soon.”
Mista squints at Giorno. “Huh.” His eyes dart about Giorno’s face, and Giorno feels his stomach tighten a little under the attention. “Okay, but what if you half inherited some vampire stuff?”
“Half inherited?”
“Like…maybe you could drink blood if you really wanted? And that could explain why you’re so fair-skinned…oh! I know!” Mista leaps to his feet, his eyes bright with excitement. “Your teeth!”
Giorno looks blankly at Mista for a few moments, struggling to keep up with his leaps in logic.
Then he realises what Mista means; annoyed, he pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t have fangs, Mista,” he says tiredly.
“Yeah, I know,” replies Mista, circling the table to stand before Giorno, “but maybe your canines are longer or sharper than normal.” He rests his hands on his hips and leans down, casually entering Giorno’s personal space; swallowing hard, Giorno meets his eyes and refuses to move his body away. “Gimme a look?”
Giorno immediately wishes the earth would open up beneath him. My lower teeth are a little crooked, he thinks. It isn’t bad enough to be noticeable when I speak, but if I let him examine my mouth… “No,” he says.
Mista scrunches up his face. “Oh, c’mon. It’s for science.”
“No.”
“Hey, aren’t you curious? Don’t you wanna know, too?” Mista smiles at him; at this distance, Giorno can see the way his lips tighten, can see the way the corners of his eyes crease, can count the number of lashes on his eyelids…
“I’ll owe you, okay? …GioGio?”
There’s a certain way Mista says his nickname sometimes. There’s a deliberateness to it—his lips will pout a little to form the ‘G’, pucker further to shape the throaty ‘ee-oh’ sound—and he will do it twice, slowly, with a playful tentativeness that makes it seem like he’s trying out the nickname GioGio for the first time, even though it’s fallen from his mouth again and again as the years have passed. There’s a warmth to it, too. When Mista does this, he says GioGio with a richness, with a sweetness that’s almost too much to bear; it’s as if the nickname is honey on his tongue, delicious, beloved…
And, just like that, Giorno crumbles.
He sighs, and bares his teeth. “A little more,” prompts Mista, grinning, and Giorno curses his own weakness and acquiesces, opening his mouth slightly. God. What kind of Don am I? If anyone else knew…
Mista hums as he examines Giorno’s teeth. He moves his head a few times, changing his angle of attack. The seconds tick by, and Giorno is glad that no comment referencing his crooked teeth has been made; at length, Mista frowns and says, “I mean, I guess they look normal from here…”
And Giorno is about to roll his eyes and tell Mista how silly he’s being when a finger suddenly enters his mouth.
He freezes. Mista’s finger traces the ridge of his left canine tooth—he feels the pressure of its movement, even, steady, and his mouth opens further to accommodate it. His face is burning. He’s looking right into Mista’s eyes, though Mista is completely focused on his teeth; the room is warm, too warm, and Giorno’s breaths quicken as Mista continues to intrude, his finger slipping over a few more of Giorno’s teeth as he moves to the right canine. “Huh. Seems normal to me.” Mista’s voice is light and casual, an almost cruel contrast to the effect his roaming finger is having on Giorno. It doesn’t make sense. Giorno should be shoving him away, should be irritably telling him off; yet a hot thrill races through his body, and his spine stiffens, and his hands fist in his pants…
Then Mista’s eyes suddenly meet Giorno’s, and a startled look falls over his face, and he freezes as well.
They stare at each other, flustered, for a few painful seconds. Giorno watches as Mista’s face begins to redden; first his ears, then his cheeks, and little by little the flush begins to creep down the sliver of neck that’s been left exposed, disappearing down his collar. It’s a beautiful sight—Mista standing there, coming undone with every shallow intake of breath, wide-eyed and red-faced—and Giorno takes a sharp breath himself in response. This seems to snap Mista out of his stupor. He yanks the finger out of Giorno’s mouth and stumbles back, blinking rapidly. “Uh…” He looks at the finger, which must be slightly wet with Giorno’s spit, and wipes it hurriedly on his pants. “That was, uh…”
Giorno swallows, hard.
Then he gets to his feet and crosses the distance between them and raises his hand to cup Mista’s cheek. “I want this,” he says in a rush. “I’ve wanted this for years.” Mista’s eyes get even wider; Giorno runs his fingers down Mista’s jawline and grips his chin lightly. “I really, really like you, Mista. And you like me too, don’t you? The way you looked at me just now…”
“I—yeah.” It’s like the words are startled out of Mista. But he opens his mouth once more, and continues with more confidence: “Yeah. Yeah, I like you.” A sudden laugh bursts from his throat; he gently holds Giorno’s wrist and throws his head back, laughing harder. “Jesus, did we finally get together just ‘cause I decided to stick my finger in your mouth? Which I meant one hundred percent innocently, by the way?”
Giorno’s laughing too, breathlessly. “You clearly weren’t thinking at all,” he says. “But I’m glad for it. I’m glad that now I can finally…”
And his fingers find Mista’s chin once more, and he tilts his head up, closes his eyes, and leans in.
The kiss is tentative, gentle. Giorno has never kissed anyone before. But he learns with every press of Mista’s lips against his, with every little movement, every slight opening and closing; and as he learns he pushes further, silently asks for more, takes what he wants. After a while they pull away, breathing heavily, and Giorno looks at Mista’s wide grin and his heart swells with so much love that it hurts. “I was really touched,” he says, a little out of breath, “when you weren’t turned off by my parentage. When you didn’t recoil from me. You accepted me as I was, and I…”
He smiles.
“Thank you.”
Tenderly, Mista places a hand on his face. His cheek fits perfectly in Mista’s palm, and Giorno melts into its warmth. “I like all of you, GioGio,” says Mista brightly. “All of you. Every single part. So, you don’t need to hide anything from me. You don’t need to hold back.”
“Oh?” A mischievous look slips over Giorno’s face. “I don’t need to hold back?”
Mista blinks.
And then Giorno is kissing him again, cheerfully, passionately, with all the happiness in the world—giving all of him, all his messiness and imperfection, freely to the man he loves.
fin.