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He didn’t really know what to expect. This visit served one purpose and one purpose only; to find out if Giorno Giovanna was a threat. Other than Koichi’s report—which hadn’t eased his worries, one bit, being painfully vague—there was nothing else to reference what would happen once he finally stood face to face with the golden-haired spawn of the devil.
Should he expect violence? Koichi didn’t detail Giorno’s fighting style; or if he fought, at all. His position as Don of Passione practically ensured that there would be bodyguards present. Or perhaps the blond shared more traits with his father than Jotaro had initially thought, and his pride was far bigger than himself.
Koichi had mentioned Giorno’s calm and collected personality; yet another possible sign of his hubris.
Then again, Jotaro finds it equally probable that it was just his own paranoia and worries rearing its ugly head into his thoughts. Ever since Kira was defeated, he found that situations like this worsened his ability to observe. And he can’t afford to have that happen when he’s in the presence of DIO’s son.
He’s not angry. When he’s angry, it allows him to become attentive, vigilant, or any other word that meant he was aware. Jotaro Kujo is not angry.
He’s afraid.
Vines twisted and curled around the wooden arch, almost like it was the gateway to Hell. Flowers bloomed in the path formed by pebbles and stone. With each step he took, it felt like he was inching closer and closer to his doom. It didn’t help that this kid—Fugo was his name, from what Jotaro had overheard from the gunman—was eyeing him like a hawk surveilling its prey from behind.
He doesn’t want to admit it out loud, because doing so felt like a betrayal of sorts, but this garden was beautiful. Each flower seemed like it was strategically placed with every single factor in mind—its color, height, etc. To that, Jotaro felt himself tense up. If Giorno took something as menial and inconsequential as this so seriously, who’s to say he’s not ten times more strategic in confrontation?
By now, his guard was at an all time high. He made sure to look over his shoulder, in case the blond had decided that he was too good to deal with Jotaro, himself, and sent his second-in-command to assassinate him, instead. He kept a close eye on the bushes, trees, and wherever else someone could hide.
To any ordinary person—or any person lucky enough to have never seen the likes of DIO—this may seem excessive. But Jotaro knew it wasn’t enough. He never should’ve come here alone; should’ve brought Josuke, Koichi, Okuyasu— anyone .
…However, he knew that even if he had thought about it more, beforehand, he wouldn’t have brought anyone else. He wouldn’t have roped the kids into this more than they already had been because of the stupid birthmark on the nape of his family’s necks.
This was his burden to bear, alone. Like it had been in Egypt, on that fateful night.
And if this day would turn out to be another one of those nights, then Jotaro knew had to make it out alive. No matter what.
“Boss,” Fugo addressed the blond; that single word held so much respect it knocked Jotaro out of his train of thought,
This kid, and not just him, but everyone in this goddamn Mafia , was dangerously loyal to Giorno. They were willing to fight, whether it be win, lose, or die, for the blond. And Jotaro is sure of it now. When he looks up, he’ll be staring at the face of his worst enemy once again.
But that expectation is almost immediately shattered once he hears a soft voice reply to Fugo.
“I asked you to not call me that,”
“I’m sorry,”
“It’s alright.”
Jotaro, almost as if he wasn’t in control of his own body, looked up. And to his surprise, Giorno smiled. Not maliciously, nor pridefully, like Dio had. But warm, almost as if sunshine was painted across his face. Jotaro wanted to rub his eyes; to check if what he was seeing was true.
Instead, he blinked. Once, twice, three times—and it remained the exact same, each time.
“Should I…?” Fugo spoke, his gaze switching between Jotaro and Giorno,
The blond nodded, “Yes, please.”
The second-in-command left, and like one unexpected thing after another, Jotaro didn’t feel like he was in danger.
It was awkward, at first. Jotaro barely spoke, merely observing as the blond interacted with the inhabitants of the garden. Butterflies, frogs, ladybugs; Giorno appeared to be particularly fond of wildlife. Eventually, the older of the two finds it in himself to ask:
“What’s your Stand?”
The younger didn’t seem at all surprised by his query, and answered it, almost immediately, “It gives life to things.”
“How so?”
“For example,” The blond took one of his ladybug pins and called upon his Stand, “ Gold Experience ,”
The pin morphs into a real, living ladybug in the palm of his hand. Jotaro stares at it in awe and intrigue. But that doesn’t stop him from asking yet another question.
“Is that all?”
Giorno shook his head, “No, it’s a little more complicated than that.”
“I expected as much.”
“What about you? What’s your Stand like?”
Jotaro doesn’t hesitate, and just a few minutes ago he would’ve mentally cursed at himself for it, but he doesn’t, “Its name is Star Platinum. It can stop time.”
“Fascinating…” Giorno mutters, “For how long?”
“Around one to two seconds, at most.”
“That doesn’t seem that long.”
“It’s not. But it’s all the time I need.”
Giorno smiles again. Or maybe he never stopped. Jotaro didn’t really want to look at him the entire time. It felt strange. His mind couldn’t detach Giorno from his father. But why did he even want to? He didn’t.
“...Aren’t you forgetting something?”
The blond gave him a confused look, “...I don’t think so?”
Jotaro sighed.
He didn’t want to have to be the one to remind Giorno of the question he should’ve asked the moment they locked eyes with each other. But it seemed to have slipped the younger’s mind, somehow. Or perhaps he, like Jotaro, wanted to avoid the subject as much as he could; even though it was near impossible.
“‘Why did you kill my father’? That’s your line.”
“Is it?”
What kind of question is that? Jotaro thought to himself—not the right one, that’s for sure.
“It is.” Jotaro answered, simply, “That should’ve been the first thing that popped into your head.”
Giorno chuckled, softly, “I would be lying if I said that it wasn’t.”
Then why didn’t you say anything? The older man restrained himself from shouting. He wasn’t angry. Nor was he scared. It was this settling feeling of confusion that felt unfamiliar to him.
Giorno was not a threat. He had already figured this out a while ago. His sudden rise to power, his actions, were strategic because they had to be. Because it was the opposite for Giorno. When he’s afraid, he’s aware. When one plants flowers, they fear that it’ll wilt.
Giorno Giovanna is not a threat. But Jotaro is.
“I didn’t ask because, frankly, it doesn’t matter.”
“ What? ”
Jotaro’s shock is evident in his expression; once unwavering and cold, now gaping and perplexed.
“I–I killed him.” He says, more so to himself than the blond,
“I know.”
“I thought of killing you,” He admits, and hearing out loud makes him sick to the stomach—only now did he realize that he was thinking of ending the life of a fifteen-year-old boy. So young, and yet, it would have been the oldest he’d ever get to be, if Jotaro had thought differently; if he happened to be just a little more afraid. Not even old enough to experience the horrors that came with the mark on his shoulder.
We’re cursed, Jotaro recalled his Gramps saying, and neither he nor Josuke had the heart to deny it.
Because it’s true.
“I expected you to.”
Somehow, hearing that made the guilt heavier. Like a real, physical weight, even.
Jotaro was no stranger to threats of death. It came with every enemy, every hit. He might go as far as to say that he and death were something of acquaintances; something about its familiar embrace—it makes one want to both pull away and hug back.
When the fight gets too tiresome, when it gets hopeless, sometimes, it feels best to let it end the easier way. But it wasn’t about being easy.
Jotaro was an adult, now. He hadn’t been back in Egypt. Though, that didn’t seem to matter to his enemies. Hell, not even his allies. It didn’t really matter to him, either.
The thought takes him back to Morioh. There was a murderer there, and a Stand User, no less. And at first, he thought it wouldn’t be a problem. He thought could handle it.
Then Shigechi died. And the events that unfolded got exceedingly worse and worse. It didn’t take long for Jotaro to realize who’s fault it was.
“I’m sorry,” He chokes out, and he knows it’s not enough—it's never enough.
“Don’t be,” Giorno replies, and Jotaro wonders how he can be so calm in front of someone who, just a ten minutes ago, wouldn’t have hesitated to kill him where he stood, “I should be sorry. For making you feel unsafe.”
“But you didn’t –”
And maybe that was the worst part. Even after he’d concluded that Giorno wasn’t a danger to him, to his friends, to his family—a small, but loud, and vengeful part of him still screamed at him to ‘finish the job.’
“I’m sorry.” He said, again,
And he’ll say it a million times more, even when he knew, it wouldn’t have undone what was already done. Even when he knew that forgiveness was for more than he could ever deserve.
When he’d first found the picture, it was in his mother’s dresser. He was no older than ten at the time. His mother and step-father were out that day—or so he thought.
His step-father barged in, beer bottle in hand, as always. His eyes had widened, brows furrowed in anger, the sound of glass shattering and falling to the floor alerted his mother. She probably assumed that a robber had broken in; as if they had anything of value to take.
Once she saw the photo in his hand, she tried to take it away. But his step-father stopped her, taking hold of her wrist, his grip so tight that it hurt. This might’ve been the first time his mother faced his step-father’s fury, but for Haruno, it wouldn’t be his last.
Both he and his mother were left bruised that night. The latter sobbed as she gripped the picture; she had been drunk, too. By the time she’d dozed off, Haruno carefully took the photo back and hid it.
It wasn’t long before he pieced two and two together and realized that the man in the picture was his father. His real father. And for the first time in a long time, Haruno felt hope.
Hope that the man, whoever he was, would someday come looking for him. On some nights, after he’s left bleeding, cold, and alone, he fantasizes of a world in which his father carried him away to somewhere—anywhere—else.
But, like most childhood fantasies, they’re shattered once you reach a certain age of understanding. In Haruno’s case, it was when he was twelve.
“He’s not coming back for us, Haruno,” His mother had told him,
Us. He wouldn’t. Of course he wouldn’t. He would be here for him. And only him. That’s what Haruno had chosen to believe.
But sometimes, beliefs are just another word for fantasies.
Giorno was fifteen when he found out the truth. From Polnareff, since no one else could tell the tale. And he told him everything. When he was finished, the Frenchman stared at him with concern. He had been so still, almost like a statue made from stone. He tried to be.
Giorno doesn’t remember the last time he cried before this. It felt unnatural to do so. The only thing he could do was pretend that he was nothing more than a rock. Cold and unmoving. But he trembled, anyway. He failed to hide the shaky breaths and the way his eyes began to water.
He doesn’t remember the last time someone had hugged him, either. But he recalls hoping that it would be him.
Now, however, he wishes it’s anyone but him.
There’s a stone bench in the garden. In front of it, a pond. There’s many different types of fish in it, all varying amounts; the smaller fish were, of course, bigger in numbers. There were only two koi fish. They represent something, but Jotaro can’t be bothered to remember what.
Neither of them said anything for a while. The whisper of his own apologies still echoed through Jotaro’s mind. He didn’t even realize that he’d stopped until Giorno had guided him to the bench, resting a gentle and patient hand against his back.
If he didn’t want to look at the blond then, he definitely didn’t want to now. Although, this time, it was out of shame, rather than minor resentment.
But he knew they couldn’t just stay like this, forever. No matter how comforting the silence may be.
Jotaro turned to look at Giorno, hesitantly. He opened his mouth to say something—anything.
But before he could utter a word, the teen was quick to interrupt.
“If you’re going to apologize again, I ask of you not to,” He says,
“I…wasn’t.” Jotaro lied,
And Giorno could see right through it. He’s perceptive, more so than any normal teenager. ( Because he isn’t one, he reminded himself. Because he’s one of us.)
Even so, Giorno nodded, not acknowledging it.
“Like I said, you shouldn’t be apologizing.”
“Neither should you.”
Giorno sighed, “Well…maybe you’re right. This isn’t really either of our faults.”
“Yeah.”
And soon, they fell into silence once again.
Though, not for long.
“You seemed upset at the fact that I didn’t question what you had done out loud.”
“...I guess you could say that.”
And Jotaro looked away, again. (Like a coward, he thought.)
“...If it helps, I’ll bite; why did you kill my father ?”
It was the question he’d been waiting for since he stepped foot in this garden—no, since he’d received Koichi’s report. It was what he thought to be an inevitable; inescapable. And yet, he was unprepared.
“. . .”
“Take your time,” Giorno said, “This isn’t a play. It may be our lines, but nothing is really set in stone. Think of it as improv, or something of the sort.”
Now that his mind wasn’t clouded with worry, he realized that he hadn’t given himself enough room to really think until now. So he thought about it.
What was the one recurring theme of all his adventures?
“I did it to protect my family.”
A pause.
“It was self-serving. I didn’t do it to right the wrongs he’d done; frankly, it wasn’t my job to…But it was—is my job to protect my family. And I hope you can understand that.” He adjusted his hat, as he always did,
Giorno’s eyes seemed to shine with something resembling hope and admiration; his smile as bright as ever.
“I respect you, Doctor Kujo.”
“...That so?”
And whatever remaining tension there seemed to be swept away by the wind.
Their goodbye was a memorable one.
“Please, just call me Jotaro.”
‘We’re family, after all.’ Was left unsaid. But not unknown.