Chapter Text
The glass was about two centimeters thick and perfectly translucent. Only the corners where the edges met refracted the light like matte prisms. Within that rectangular little garden, measuring two and a half meters long and a meter and a half wide, laid the dome of his house, made out of gnarled, natural wood, his little shallow pond of water and a little path lined with orderly patches of exotic evergreen cultivated in the moist, soft soil. His kitchen was a broad ceramic dish, flat and shallow in the shade of the leaves, filled to the brim with fresh, clear water. His view was the greater rectangle of the room, his enclosed garden standing atop a heavy antique wooden table. Under the row of windows across from the main entry double doors stood a long line of ornate chairs whose woodwork details or textiles he could not recall, for they were covered by the same protective cotton sheets most days of the year, and the little sofa and armchair group by the terrarium were the same, their bulky white shapes at odds with the richly detailed interior. The ceiling was high and blue like the sky, painted with robed flying figures and fluffy white clouds and the walls’ ornate paneling and blooming tapestry were like unknown scribbles in the shade, the daylight obscured by the heavy curtains before the tall, towering windows. On the other side of the heavy drapes laid the ocean, the gulf of Naples, and from outside the bustle from Riviera di Chiaia could be heard all hours of the day, as ceaseless as the waves which hugged the shore.
The four story house had been built around 1770 and was a relatively early example of neoclassicism. It had been renovated and modernized around the turn of the 20th century, but two world wars and another hundred years of wear and tear had left their traces. Most of the damage had been restored over time, at least in terms of the exterior. In the basement there were cracks left in the plaster of the walls and in the kitchen where his meals were prepared, some of the antiquated kitchen appliances and old gas pipes still remained, obsolete in their damaged state.
The house had come into the organization's hands many years prior and now, he had become yet another resident in a long line of many, though surely the accommodations were unprecedented.
As he spent most of his days isolated and alone with the creaks and cracks of the old house, he'd learned them all. In the summer the floorboards would crackle and snap at eight o’clock in the evening, one hour after sundown. In the winter when it rained and when the wind from the ocean was at its strongest, the windows would rattle inside their swelling frames and the vent on the wall far above his terrarium would howl. Moreover, whenever people passed in the old corridor beyond the double doors, he could not only tell from the steps alone who it was, he could also discern their mood without fail. Oh, and on the cloudy summer days when the doors stood open and the sound of voices would echo from the inner garden and excitable, hurried steps could be heard throughout the building, he'd remember his childhood in the French countryside and the sound of his sister’s footsteps on the creaking floors in their old family home.
In Naples, the wind was colder when it blew in from the sea and the sun was hotter when the skies were clear, but when he laid in the cool moist earth and simply listened on a cloudy summer day, it made no difference. And such was Polnareff on such a day, resting in the earth and thinking of the past, when at once the illusion was complete with the sound of familiar footsteps down the corridor outside.
The lady who usually fed him—a woman employed as kitchen staff—was about his age, and he always tried not to look too hard at her face, lest she somehow realize he wasn't an ordinary tortoise. She was a woman of shorter stature, with well kept hair and nails, the cuffs of her uniform always rolled up on her wrists and she always cut and arranged his greens and fruits in an orderly fashion. She was quick on her feet, quick in and out of his room, especially when her lunch break happened to follow his feeding, and thus he knew that the light, meandering footwork that could be heard through the closed doors was not hers. While light, the paces were even, decidedly so. They stopped before the door and the handle rattled and through the doorframe light poured into the room. Like a vision plucked directly from his mind and projected onto reality, Giorno stood there in the light in the dark room with his golden head and the sharp lines of his silhouette crisp with naught a shadow. He closed the door behind him without a sound. His wooden heels clicked gently against the floor, then they were silenced on the carpet and with a single step past its hem he reached for the string to part the curtains.
Polnareff hurried out from his little house—one half of a split, hollow tree trunk resting on its side—and onto the mushy damp earth with his little feet, eager to greet him. The stripe of light pierced the room halfway, laying across the persian carpet in a slanted line, brightening its reds and whites into bleeding shapes. With his curls set loosely above his face, Giorno wore a sky blue and high-waisted two piece suit with a matte, fuzzy finish, the plush linings on his collar and pockets in a darker, navy shade. The neckline was low and rounded, as were the shapes of the lapel. Large and opaque glass beads in solid navy were embroidered onto the front, running down the edge of the shoulder to the high waist in a broad stripe and then across his body, forming a shape like a dully glimmering shadow of a cupped, cropped top cast on his body. He emerged yet again past the light and the silver detail on the two rows of buttons went from light to dark in the room. With his head held high he looked down at Polnareff, his large face appearing past the edge of the glass. “Good day Mr Polnareff,” he said in greeting, his voice airy. “I've brought you lunch.”
“Hello Giorno, hello,” Polnareff scampered towards the glass. "What gives, huh? What brings you here?" He asked with a jolly curiosity.
“Oh, nothing much,” Giorno lowered his face. “Just a change of pace I suppose,” he said, raising the plate he'd brought. It had green lettuce, cucumber and a few green apple slices.
“You brought the good stuff today, huh!”
“Oh, I hope you find it palatable…” Giorno reached inside the terrarium, the underside of the dish appearing like a white moon sinking down to the earth, flattening into a plate through the guidance of his large and gentle hands.
Polnareff's clawed little feet reached inside the dish, bringing with them wet specs of sand. He bit into the crispy green lettuce closest within reach and it crunched in his beak. He chewed happily. “I assume you have something to discuss?”
Giorno had already turned his head away, only the straight line of his shoulders visible above the glass. “Oh. No. Not especially.”
It had been a day since they'd spoken business. “Any news on our prime suspect?”
“If there were, I'd let you know.”
“So, you just came down to see me?” Polnareff teased him happily and Giorno moved only his head to look at him with tired, dismissive eyes.
“Well. I suppose.”
Polnareff finished his string of lettuce, biting it off with his beak. "What? What is it?" Giorno's eyes were fatigued with resignation before he cared to look away and Polnareff thought that he was like any other boy, in the end. "Is something the matter?" He asked, rephrasing his question with a kinder tone, for though Giorno would usually have an untouchable air to him and with a record to show for it, Polnareff was always quick to be sweet to him and project on him his own memories of the emotional youth he'd once been.
“It's trivial,” Giorno said, admitting that there was indeed something. He stepped away from the terrarium, each step slow like a tentative, fluctuating state. “Truly. Trivial.”
“What is it, then?” Polnareff asked, slowly turning his round body with little steps, rotating in place. “This trivial little thing.”
Giorno turned around and lifted one foot off the floor, the three centimeter high wooden heel and silver buckle on his mauve loafer visible in a blur through the glass as he sat down in the armchair facing the terrarium, letting his raised leg land over the other. With his legs crossed he leaned on the covered armrest with his elbow, laid his other hand on his knee and tilting his head he averted his gaze, staring at the dark corner beyond the terrarium. “Well, the truth is, Mr Polnareff,” he said lightly. “I’m afraid it’s not something you could do anything about.”
In that moment, a shiver seized the dome of Polnareff’s shell as he saw the first sign of a great unease, appearing like a large undefined shape moving under the surface of the ocean. Giorno watched the shadows with his wispy, wavy hair still above his head, his eyes unmoving. Whenever Polnareff spoke of his father, Giorno would make that face; his forehead perfectly smooth, his lips thinning and his eyes distant. Then, he would speak in a detached manner and after he left, Polnareff would not see him for at least a few days, lest it was strictly business. If he could sweat, he would, and if his cheeks could flush, they might have, too. There were some advantages to this form, after all. “Well,” Polnareff said kindly, hoping Giorno wouldn't think less of him for what he was about to say, “I could always listen. You know?”
Giorno's face became a profile against the wallpaper. “I suppose,” he said yet again, and Polnareff came to wonder how well he truly knew him. Despite their countless long talks over the past few years Giorno's trust was like a matchstick flame. If you got too close, your breath would be enough to put it out.
“Well, I'm listening.”
Giorno's hand moved to touch the underside of his chin. “It's about Mista.”
“Oh? What? Did he do something?” Polnareff tried to dampen his noticeable surprise. This was the last thing he would have guessed. “You didn't have a fight or anything, did you?”
“No. We've not had any disagreements, thankfully,” Giorno said simply, speaking in a slow, articulated tone. “Nor has he done anything—nothing to cause any trouble.”
“...What's the issue then?” Polnareff asked, having become genuinely quizzical.
The air was still in the room and the fabric of Giorno’s suit pants rustled as he drew his leg higher up on his thigh. His hand went from his chin and down, his fingers hooking around the silver buckle on his thin navy velvet choker. “Any task I assign him, he carries out without issue. He has yet to disappoint me even once. Truth to be told, it's quite the opposite. He keeps exceeding my expectations,” Giorno said matter of factly with a dry undertone. “I've always had faith in his ability. Overall, I knew he was very capable. Keen to act, but still, observant. Not to mention very… optimistic,” Giorno's voice ebbed, ending with an enunciated wryness and Polnareff was fatigued. “Frankly, though,” Giorno laid his head down on his shoulder, his voice returning with a strange lightness, “I didn't expect him to grow so much, nor so quickly. Furthermore, he's easy… to work with. He's receptive and responds well to feedback. He knows when to make his own decisions, and though his approach may be unconventional, his judgments are sound. He doesn’t turn to me for every single little decision, nor does he require me to… motivate him,” he finished the sentence airily. “He has his shortcomings, but when needed, he always overcomes, in the end,” Giorno set his hand in his lap, his fingers joints bending as his fingernails scraped against the plush texture of his pants. “And outside of work, on a personal level, we get along,” his voice grew thinner on the extended exhale. “He is easy to talk to. He doesn't grovel around me like the others. If we share a meal or travel together, we can talk of worldly matters like equals.”
“That's great, though. Isn't it?” Polnareff said, watching as Giorno's plain expression remained frozen, his half-lidded eyes distant. “What is it that you're upset about?”
Raising his leg up on the seat, Giorno set his heel on the edge of the cushion and wrapped his arms around it. “The thing is, Mr Polnareff,” his voice was dulled with an even, flat tone. “I fear that, at this rate, I am going to fall in love with him.”
The strip across the carpet flickered, the light softened by a passing cloud. Polnareff closed his beak with silent resignation. Giorno sat unmoving with his words in silence and Polnareff held back a sigh, withholding his true emotions. Giorno’s inclinations had been an open secret in the inner circle for a time, but Polnareff still hadn’t been able to predict this. Not quite. “...I understand,” he said, though he was quite stumped, frankly. “Well… it’s not always easy, falling for a friend. But try to not be so hasty about jumping to conclusions…”
Giorno's brow betrayed him instantly. Even through the glass in the dim light, Polnareff saw it twitch over his eye. “...Please don't act silly with me, Mr Polnareff,” his quiet voice was underlined with fatigued disapproval.
Polnareff knew he would have to choose his next words carefully. In an argument, Giorno would always have the upper hand, because he was like his father, gifted in the act of persuasion; a combination of the innate ability to sense people's weaknesses and a learned understanding of how to manipulate the narrative of a conversation. “It's troubling you. I understand that. But troubling things can still, you know… you can gain things from them.”
“Do you not think I face enough trials?” Giorno turned his face and centering his head on his shoulders he stared into Polnareff's eyes. “I’ll bear them all. It's no matter,” he said, calmly with a coursing undercurrent that Polnareff could not name, not that he was eager to. Giorno narrowed his eyes. “But I find your perspective quite curious.”
“Don't twist my words now,” Polnareff said calmly, minding his tone. “It's not a trial. I just meant,” the words came out before he could stop himself while Giorno stared him down from his seat. “You shouldn't make assumptions about where life might take you.”
Giorno was unimpressed, his expression unchanging. “Believe me, I haven't,” he said firmly. “I don’t assume, nor do I take anything for granted,” his forehead creased and the faint tremble in his voice sounded to Polnareff like regret. Polnareff was wise to him now, after their many long talks. Polnareff could tell when he suffered, or when he was uncomfortable or upset. It was more instinctive than anything. Giorno knew this, too, and right now he surely suffered all the more because of it. “I'm so unfair to him,” he said quietly. “I only ever reward him with more work. I only ever entrench him deeper,” there was a hazy shadow under his eye in the dim room. He tipped his head downward and it engulfed him, only the whites of his eyes shining with a weak gloss. “It is what it is. He knows what he signed up for. But he never asked for me to be quite so selfish,” Giorno tipped his head to the side, resting it against the armrest, and though he had spoken of things as if they were on the horizon, it was all schematics. It was instantly clear to Polnareff that he lived it, now, in this moment. "Nor did he ever consent to partake in some vile little social game just to stroke my ego."
Polnareff's heart ached. Over the course of many months, Giorno had told him of his childhood, piece by piece. Giorno had never known his father, and thought he'd known his mother, he hadn’t known her love. His step-father, who's name he'd taken, had given him little else but bruises and the stubborn habit of walking quietly. And during his most youthful and malleable years, his peers had only drawn barriers between them, their racist abuse enduring for many long years. Polnareff had now, finally, acquired the final piece. Giorno hugged both his legs to his body, his hands gripping his forearms tight and Polnareff understood that though his heart was now that of a young man with many achievements already behind him, the little boy he had once been still lived on. He was the shadow on the wall, the whisper in the silence. Giorno still believed what had been etched into body during his boyhood. He believed he was scum; unlovable and unsightly. He believed the words said about men and boys like him in hushed voices on the streets and loudly in the houses of God.
Giorno sighed and it was like a mirage. He spoke quietly, as if his voice was not meant to be heard. “We spend… too much time together, he and I. If it's work, I know he understands. But outside of that… he must be growing quite sick of me.”
“Listen, I know it's not easy,” Polnareff said, his voice riddled with contemplation like the insides of his little head. “I understand. But you really shouldn't say that. Obviously, I don't know what he's thinking, but… he adores you. Just as much as everyone else does. And, it's… it's awkward, sure but… don't be so hard on yourself.”
“I don't know that he adores me. He appreciates me. He respects me… but he is the sociable type. He can easily make friends with anyone,” Giorno's voice was calm but Polnareff knew to recognize the cold undercurrent in it. “Even people he doesn't necessarily like. And I always admired that,” his voice wavered in an attempt to not sound so cynical. “So I would rather not take advantage of it. Lest he come to… actually detest me,” Giorno turned his head away and loosening his grip, he let his feet slide towards the edge of the seat, the heels of his shoes rippling against the cotton sheet. The house was silent this time of day and Polnareff's head had become silent, too. Giorno was full of self-awareness for someone so young. His externally exuded confidence was not mirrored on the inside when it came to matters of the heart. Such was the emotional reality he lived in, and in truth, reality could be just that harsh. They lived in a hard, cruel world. Polnareff knew that he had to acknowledge that.
“Allow me to say that well, I'm upset,” he said, suppressing a sigh. “For I always thought it was lucky that the two of you seemed to get along so well.” Giorno's eyes narrowed in the gray shadow and Polnareff suspected he might twist it to serve his narrative. Instead, he said nothing. How concerning. “But if you'll let me say just one piece of advice, as your senior…” Giorno's head rested on the armrest, only his eyes moving in the shadow as he stared back at Polnareff. “Life is short. In our business, it's even shorter—” Giorno let go off his bundled up legs and they slid down against the rippling fabric, his heels hitting the wooden floor with a clack.
“Mr Polnareff, please,” he said, his face tipped down and his low voice hard with building anger.
“...Let me finish,” Polnareff argued gently, ready to embrace the high possibility that Giorno would think him naive and foolish. Giorno tipped his head to the side, his brow creasing with irritation over his shut eyes. “When the time comes, you don't want the things unsaid to be a burden or a distraction.”
"Do you really think I haven't—”
“Nor do you want to spend the rest of your life thinking about those maybes or what ifs,” Polnareff spoke words that he had rehearsed many times in his mind. He had learned these truths the hard way. “Once the people we love are gone, we'd do anything just to have a few more moments with them. A few more memories. Another chance to tell them how we feel on the inside.”
Giorno stood from the chair at once, rising before the glass. He turned curtly in place, showing only his back. “Mr Polnareff, I do appreciate your input,” he said in a detached manner. “However, I must make one thing very clear. I have not come here seeking your advice on how to tell him anything. I mean this, truly and sincerely; he must never know how I feel. We have a professional relationship. I need it to stay that way.”
Polnareff felt truly downtrodden. Giorno had all the charisma his father had, but he had many things his father had never possessed. Where his father had been endlessly entitled, Giorno was humble. Where his father had been ceaselessly hedonistic and quick to engage in all of life's indulgences, Giorno was disciplined and quick to recognize and punish himself for his transgressions. “He thinks of you as more than just his boss, you know,” Polnareff insisted quietly.
“Perhaps. He and I… we are friends,” Giorno said lightly, dismissively. “And that friendship means a lot to me, too.”
“Of course it does,” Polnareff thought that surely, that was where the real issue laid. “And I get why you’d want to keep it all on the inside. Sometimes, though, it's better to set things free—"
“Mr Polnareff,” Giorno spoke with an alarming calmness to his voice. “I did not come here seeking advice. Not on matters of the heart or otherwise. This is but… a silly thing. Do you understand?”
Sometimes, we spoke just to have someone listen. Polnareff was not unfamiliar with the concept. He and Giorno had mutually exercised it in the past. Perhaps, Giorno hadn't realized it might be different this time, though Polnareff had to wonder. Surely, Giorno hadn’t actually expected him to just stay silent, had he? “I wouldn't call it silly,” Polnareff made his rebuttal quietly, not wanting to give up just yet.
“You know how I feel about repeating myself,” Giorno's words were cold and flatly noncommittal and Polnareff saw all of which he'd feared materialize as Giorno stood before him like a tall, unscalable wall. “So, please. Don't make me.”
The clock ticked on the wall in the silence formed in the absence of their words and Polnareff thought of his youth. “I won't, then,” Polnareff relayed mercifully and unwillingly, for he couldn't have Giorno stop coming to him to speak of his troubles. In addition, he had to admit that there was a limit to what he could offer. Kind words would not solve anything, especially not when Giorno was unreceptive to them.
The line of his shoulders straight and his hands clasped behind his back, Giorno was unforthcoming. “—And though I'm sure it goes without saying, I'd like to remind you that the things we discuss are between you and I exclusively.”
“Of course,” Polnareff insisted uneasily. “You can trust me.”
“...Thank you,” Giorno tipped his head forward. “Forgive me… for bothering you during your meal.”
“Oh, it's not an issue… I like talking,” Polnareff said, trying to find some footing. He was far from over the things that had been said, and there was much more on his mind, but as Giorno stood with his back to him it was clear the conversation was coming to an end. Giorno had laid this burden on him and he would be forced to share it in silence. Such was their relationship. If he wanted to be something akin to a mentor or confidant, Polnareff knew he could only accept the circumstances, even when they pained him.
“I'll leave you to it now,” Giorno said as he always would, all of the contempt and sadness evaporated from his voice. "We'll speak more tonight. Hopefully I'll know more about the information leak then."
“Oh, yeah. Let me know…” Polnareff played along. “Knowing you, you'll have it under control in no time.”
“I wish the law would be more cooperative but, well. I suppose I might need to give some back. Or, at the least, have them believe I might…” Giorno said, his voice growing distant with an almost wistful quality. While Polnareff often worried that he worked too hard, perhaps just this once, it was good that he had something to tire himself out with. Until Giorno was ready to talk more about his feelings, Polnareff thought he should have plenty of time to think of what to say.
“Good afternoon, then. I shan't keep you,” Polnareff said. “And you know, you can come talk to me whenever you want. I do get a bit lonely, you know…”
“Oh. I'll be back,” Giorno replied with a distracted tone, his mind still elsewhere as he slowly turned around to meet Polnareff’s gaze one last time, his expression washed clean of creases or tension. “I'll see you soon.”
“Take care.”
Giorno nodded. Then, he walked across the carpet, out onto the floor. The silence engulfed the room before he touched the handle on the tall, narrow door and Polnareff heard his sad and strained voice between the walls all over again. The hinges on the old door creaked as it opened. It fell shut with a slam. Giorno, who had arrived with meandering, almost hesitant steps, walked rapidly away down the hallway with an, for him, unusually hasty stride. Polnareff turned to his feeding dish, but he appeared to have lost his appetite. He would think of the conversation they'd had without end and with nothing but a nauseating unease in his little stomach. Giorno was a smart boy, but he'd never had a chance to learn much about love.