Chapter Text
The world explodes into light and sound, steel grinding against steel and the screech of brakes. Diego feels the impact, the crushing weight, but there's no pain. Only triumph.He pays no mind to anything happening around him.
"I, Dio, am the victorious one!" The words tear from his throat,victory tasting sweet on his tongue.
Yet, something's wrong.
The next moment, the train is gone. Valentine’s corpse is gone. The sight of the desert is replaced by endless hills under a sky. Diego looks down at his hands, watching them spirit away, confused.
He flexes his fingers, watching the strange translucent quality ripple across his skin. The rush of victory fades away, replaced by confusion. "What happened?"
"Diego?"
The voice is unexpected,but familiar. Soft, worn thin by years of suffering, but it's unmistakably hers. He turns back slowly, afraid that looking too quickly will shatter whatever cruel dream this is, if it is a dream(he hopes so)
She stands there in a simple dress, no longer the hollow-cheeked woman who he remembered. Her face is full, her eyes are bright. She looks exactly the same as she did in his earliest memories, before all those terrible things happened.
"Mother?" The word slips out before he can stop it. He's surprised by how weak that sounds.
Her face lights up with joy as she takes a step forward. "My sweet boy. My Diego."
She's looking at him with such love, such pride, as if he's still the child who used to bring her flowers. As if he hasn't spent years becoming everything she would have hated.
"How are you here?" he asks, his voice carefully controlled. "You died. I was there, I held your hand when… that happened." Even if it is a dream, he doesn't want to break that illusion.
"I know, my love." She reaches toward him, and he takes a step back. The question that can be observed by her face makes his chest tighten. "Diego, what's wrong?"
Everything, he thinks but doesn't say. "Nothing's wrong. I'm just... surprised. This place, wherever we are…"
"We're safe here," she says gently,interrupting him. "We're together. That's all that matters."
Safe. The word tastes foreign and sounds weird. He'd never been safe, not really. Even when he had money, power and respect, there was always someone to defeat, someone to destroy before they could destroy him first. Safety was a luxury he'd never been able to afford.
"Where's Dario?" The question comes out sharper than he intended.
Something sad crosses her face. "He's not here, Diego."
So that man is still alive. Diego's jaw clenches. "It is quite surprising that I'm here."
She steps closer, and this time he doesn't retreat. Her hand touches his cheek, solid and warm and real. "You're my son. You're exactly where you belong."
You're lying,he wants to accuse her.The thought is painful. If she knew what he'd become, what he'd done... If she knew about his deeds, she wouldn't look at him like that. She wouldn't touch him like he was still as worthy of love as when he was still a child.
"How did you...?" He struggles for words,which is unusual. "How long have you been here?"
"Time works differently," she says simply. "I've been waiting for you."
As if he was worth waiting for. As if he hadn't become exactly what his father was. A cold, calculating bastard willing to step on anyone to get what he wanted.
"I became successful," he lies, the words falling easily from his tongue as he regained his composure. "After you died, I made something of myself"
Her smile is infinitely gentle. "I know, my sweet boy. I know you tried your best."
The phrase twists in his gut like a knife. He'd tried his best to remember her, to flourish the memory of her love under layers of ambition and cruelty. He'd tried his best to become someone who wouldn't forget about her sacrifice, but wouldn't carry her voice in his head through every evil thing he does.
He'd succeeded too well.
"I missed you," he says, and it's the first honest thing he's said since arriving. "Every day, I missed you."
She pulls him into her arms, and for a moment he's seven years old again, small and scared and desperate for someone to tell him everything will be alright. But he's not seven anymore. He's a man who learned to kill with little hesitation, who married for money while his mother's memory grew cold in an unmarked grave he honestly tried to find.
He doesn't deserve this embrace. He doesn't deserve her love.But God help him, he wants it anyway.
"I'm here now," she whispers against his hair. "We're together now. That's all that matters."
Diego closes his eyes and embraces her tightly.He won't tell her. He can't tell her. Let his mother keep believing he was worthy of waiting for.
********
The issue with heaven that it is incredibly boring.
The afterlife operates on wants rather than needs. Want to be alone? A cottage appears on a distant hill, surrounded by fields that stretch beyond the horizon. The sight was exciting the first time, but Diego is now more put off by unnatural idyll of this.
Want to see your mother? She's there, in her own space. He could visit her anytime, but she built a life for herself here and seemed happy with their current interactions. Truth to be told, Diego barely could spend any time with her without feeling immense shame and guilt, so he avoids it.She visits when he can bear it. She never asks difficult questions, never pushes him to explain the man he became. Her presence is a comfort and a torment in equal measure. She loves him unconditionally, which makes it worse somehow. He'll open up to her, eventually.
Want to understand why you're here instead of the alternative? Breaking the pattern, that did not happen.
He's been here weeks now. Maybe months. Time moved strangely when sun sets by your own wishes, there's no competitions to prepare for, and no enemies to outmaneuver. The peace should be comforting. Instead, it feels like wearing clothes that don't fit properly.
The cottage suits him well enough. Stone walls, simple furniture, a view that changes based on his mood. Sometimes it's the English countryside of his childhood. Other times it's any other american town he's visited during the race. Today it's neither. Today it's nothing, just rolling green hills that exist because they're supposed to be pleasant to look at.
He spends most of his time observing the living world through what he's come to think of as windows. He can see places he's been, watch events unfold. The limitation irritates him-he can only observe locations and people he has personal connection to, and even then, his view is restricted.He found that out too late, could not even see what happened after his death. Maybe, it was years ago at this point.
It should sting more than it does. Success and fame were supposed to mean everything to him.They used to.
"Bloody hell," he mutters, turning away from his latest viewing session. Johnny is standing(???) over someone’s corpse, though Diego couldn't tell exactly whose. The image faded when his attention wandered, another reminder of his helplessness.
The hills outside are as peaceful as ever, grass swaying in a breeze that exists purely for aesthetic purposes. Everything here is beautiful and purposeful and utterly devoid of challenge. Diego kicks at a stone, watching it skitter down the slope. Even the physics feel sanitized.
"Magnificent view."
Diego spins around, heart hammering in a way that shouldn't be possible for a dead man. The voice is unmistakable. Theatrical, confident, tinged with that ridiculous Italian accent.
Gyro Zeppeli stands about twenty meters away, hands on his hips, surveying the landscape with the same insufferable swagger he'd carried during the race. He looks exactly as Diego remembers.The only difference is the faint translucent quality all spirits he's observed to this point share between each other.
"Oh, bloody hell." The words escape before Diego can stop them. "Of all the people..."
Gyro's grin falters slightly, though he tries to hide it behind his usual bravado.
“ This is not exactly what I expected either, Dio."
The nickname grates,coming from Gyro. Diego's jaw tightens. "Why are you here?I am afraid to think how you died." Probably something utterly ridiculous, he thinks.
"Says the man who got himself literally cut in half by a train." Gyro's tone is light, but there's genuine surprise in his eyes. "Very dignified, Brando."
The question meant something else-why is he there, in Diego’s space, but that can be explained later.
The memory flashes through Diego's mind.The moment of triumph that lasted exactly as long as it took for him to realize that something went wrong. Heat rises in his chest, familiar and welcome after weeks of numbness.
"Dignified?" Diego steps closer, hands clenching into fists. "I was seconds away from victory. Seconds! That bastard Valentine was finished, and I…"
"Got overconfident," Gyro interrupts, though his usual laugh is absent. "Really, Dio, even for you that was spectacularly stupid."
"Stupid?" The word comes out as a snarl. "Let's hear of your demise, i dare you."
Diego stops. The words hang in the air between them, carrying implications he hadn't intended to voice.
"You didn't kill Valentine."
The words come out matter-of-fact, but there's an edge to Gyro's voice that Diego recognizes.
Diego feels the world tilt. "What do you mean I didn't…"
"Valentine survived," Gyro continues, his voice gaining strength. "Unwounded even. Replaced himself with a copy"
The truth hits Diego like a physical blow. His mother's face flashes through his memory, not the gentle, loving version from their reunion, but the disappointed expression she'd worn whenever people or circumstances around them were not kind. The same expression she'd have if she knew he'd died for nothing.She probably wouldn't, but the uncertainty is still bitter.
"That's impossible," Diego says, but the words sound hollow even to him. "I had him. I was so close…"
"You got distracted by your own pride," Gyro says, and there's no malice in it, just statement of fact. "Happens to the best of us."
The casual dismissal is worse than mockery would have been. Diego's hands shake with rage, or perhaps something deeper than rage. He'd built his entire existence around the concept of victory, around the belief that he could overcome any obstacle through sheer determination and ruthless calculation. The idea that he'd failed, that his death had been meaningless…
"Why should I believe you?" Diego's voice is barely controlled. "You died too. If Valentine was so easy to handle, why didn't you finish the job?"
Gyro's theatrical mask slips further, revealing something raw underneath. "Because i got particularly unlucky. " He pauses, jaw working like he's chewing on words he doesn't want to say.
The statement is unexpected and disarming. Diego had been prepared for boasting, for theatrical declarations of noble sacrifice. Not this quiet admission of failure.
"Then we're both fools," Diego says finally.
"Magnificent fools," Gyro agrees, and there's something almost fond in his voice.
The shared absurdity of it should be funny. Instead, it feels like a weight settling on Diego's chest. All that effort, all that sacrifice, all those people he'd used and discarded in pursuit of power… and for what? To die alone on railroad tracks while his enemy lived to see another day?
How long? Diego thinks,but does not ask. How long did he survive after...?
Diego turns away, staring out at those perfect, meaningless hills. The cottage feels far away now, though he knows he could reach it in moments if he chose. Everything here responds to will, to desire.
"I should go," he says without turning around.
"Should you?"
The question stops him. Diego expects to find mockery when he looks back, but Gyro's expression is serious, almost curious.
"We both know how this ends," Diego says. "You'll make some insufferable joke about my failure, I'll remind you that you failed just as badly, and we'll part ways pretending we never had this conversation."
"That does sound like us," Gyro admits. "Very predictable."
"Exactly."
"Boring, even."
Diego pauses. "Boring?"
"Terribly boring." Gyro rocks back on his heels, studying Diego with that same intensity he'd once reserved for his enemies.Not much has changed. "Almost as boring as spending eternity avoiding difficult conversations."
The implication hangs between them. Diego could walk away right now, return to his cottage and his observations of the living world. He could pretend this encounter never happened.
He could spend forever wondering what might have been different if he'd stayed.And this also feels like a not-a-very subtle provocation. But once again, what does he lose if he accepts it?
"I don't like you," Diego says finally.
"The feeling is mutual," Gyro replies cheerfully. "Absolutely mutual."
"And I don't trust you."
"A wise policy.One of your rare good choices"
"And if you think I'm going to stand here and listen to you gloat about…"
"About what?" Gyro interrupts. "About dying three hours after you did, for the same stupid reasons, with the same stupid pride? About failing just as spectacularly, except I had the disadvantage of knowing it was probably impossible?"
Diego stares at him. "You knew?"
"I suspected." Gyro's smile is rueful. "But I was bleeding, and angry, and tired of watching other people struggle. So I decided to try anyway."
"That's..." Diego struggles for words. "That's completely idiotic."
"Absolutely idiotic," Gyro agrees. "Want to hear about it?"
The question catches Diego off guard. He'd expected many things from this conversation. Anger, mockery, philosophical platitudes about accepting death. He hadn't expected an invitation to hear the story from the man himself.Against his better judgment, Diego finds himself curious about the answer.
"This is a terrible idea," Diego says.
"Probably."
"We'll end up arguing."
"Almost certainly."
"And I still think you're an insufferable show-off."
"Noted"
"Why would you tell me that?"
Gyro shrugs, but there's something careful in the gesture, like he's trying to appear casual about something that isn't casual at all.
"Because you're the only person here who'll understand why I did it."
Diego's eyes narrow. "Understand what, exactly?"
"The desperation.The absolute simgle-minded refusal to accept that sometimes the right choice is also the stupid one."
"I didn't make the wrong choice," Diego snaps. "I was winning. I had him... "
"Had who? Valentine?" Gyro's voice takes on an edge. "You got close, I'll give you that. Closer than anyone else managed. But close doesn't count for much when you're dead."
"And what exactly did you accomplish in this time?" Diego's voice is dangerously quiet. "Besides proving that you could die just as stupidly as I did?"
"I got Lucy away from him." The words come out matter-of-fact, but there's steel underneath. "I broke his Stand's defense. "Diego stares at him, processing this with cold calculation. "Lucy Steel?"
"Someone had to get her out of there.""Someone." Diego's voice carries a particular venom. "And naturally, that someone had to be you. The great Gyro Zeppeli, riding in to save the day."
"And what you're trying to imply?" Diego steps closer, his eyes glittering with malice. "Tell me, Gyro, when you made that choice, when you decided to throw your life away for a girl you barely knew, did it feel good? Did it feel righteous?"
"It felt necessary.And i did not do it for her, you are pusposefully misunderstaing my words. " Gyro's hands clench at his sides.
"Necessary." Diego tastes the word like poison. "How convenient. The moral choice just happened to be the one that let you play the noble martyr."
"That's not... "
"Oh, but I think it is." Diego's smile is sharp and humorless. "You couldn't stand the thought of walking away, could you? Couldn't bear the idea that someone else might call you a coward."
"I did what needed to be done."
"You did what made you feel better about yourself.Just like you always did. Every grand gesture, every dramatic flourish, all of it designed to prove how much better you were than the rest of us."
"Stop it."
"Even dying, you couldn't resist the urge to make it meaningful. To make it matter more than everyone else's death.Well, congratulations, Gyro. I'm sure Lucy Steel will remember your sacrifice fondly while she goes on living the life you threw away."
"That's enough." Gyro's voice cracks slightly.
"Is it, though?" Diego tilts his head, predatory and cold. "Because I think we're just getting to the heart of it. You need to believe your death was noble, meaningful, better than mine. You need that validation even here, even now."
"I don't need anything from you."
"You need to be right. You need to be the hero of this story, even if the story ended with both of us dead and Valentine walking away. Even if your grand sacrifice accomplished exactly as much as my simple ambition."Gyro stares at him, something desperate flickering across his face. "Dio, that's not what I meant"
"Of course it isn't." Diego turns away, shoulders rigid with barely contained fury. "You never mean to sound superior, do you? It just comes naturally when you're talking to people like me."
"And where are you going?"
"Away from you." Diego doesn't look back. "I may be stuck in this perfect little paradise with nothing but time, but I'll be damned if I'm going to spend it listening to lectures about moral choices from someone who died just as uselessly as I did.”
Gyro watches Diego's retreating form and the silence that follows feels unexpectedly uncomfortable. The perfect afternoon light doesn't change, but something in the air feels different. Colder, maybe. Or maybe that's just him.
"Well, that went magnificently," he mutters to himself, his voice lacking its usual theatrical flair. The words echo strangely in the endless space, reminding him that he's talking to no one.
He'd meant to be clever. Meant to ease into the conversation, maybe even get a laugh out of Diego before the inevitable argument. Instead, he'd gone straight for the throat like always, showing off his knowledge without considering that the man might not want to hear about it immediately after learning he'd failed his objective.
The grass beneath his feet responds to his mood, growing slightly longer, swaying in a breeze that carries the faint scent of olive groves.He doesn't question it-Diego seemed to control the environment around him as well. That feels like home. Or what used to be home, before the race, before everything went sideways. He pushes the thought away, because that's not a path he wants to walk down right now.
Instead, he finds himself thinking about Diego. The way all that british arrogance had cracked for a moment. The same expression Gyro had probably worn in his own final moments.
"We both failed," he says to the empty air, testing how the words feel. They taste bitter, but honest. More honest than he'd wanted to be with himself.
Marco is probably dead too. Probably executed within days of Gyro's departure, if not hours. All those noble intentions, all that talk about justice and saving an innocent boy, completely meaningless. The Zeppeli family honor hadn't saved anyone. His father's disappointment hadn't motivated anything except reckless behavior. Even Johnny...
Johnny. The thought stops Gyro cold.
He'd thrown himself at Valentine with the desperate hope that somehow, his sacrifice would give Johnny the edge he needed. That his death would mean something, even if he couldn't live to see the outcome. But what if it hadn't? What if Johnny had died too, moments or hours after Gyro's grand gesture?
The possibility makes his translucent hands shake. He'd been so focused on the gesture itself, the dramatic final act, the heroic sacrifice, that he hadn't really considered what came after. After that, he feels bad for making the possible death of his closest friend about himself.
"Merda" he whispers, the Italian curse feeling more natural than any English phrase. Here in the afterlife, there's no one to impress with his linguistic skills. No need to maintain the persona that had carried him through the race.
He could find out, theoretically. The windows work for him too, though he's barely used them since arriving. The idea of watching the living world, of seeing all the ways life had continued without him, felt too much like salt in an open wound. But now...
Now he needs to know.
The window forms easily when he concentrates, showing him a dusty street that looks like it could be anywhere in America. For a moment, there's nothing, just empty buildings and the suggestion of heat waves rising from the ground. Then movement, a figure on horseback, moving slowly but purposefully down the main street.
Johnny. Alive. Moving under his own power, though Gyro can see the careful way he holds himself, the deliberate nature of each movement. Injured, probably, but alive and functional. As Gyro watches, Johnny dismounts and walks(actually walks, though with obvious effort) towards a building that might be a hotel or boarding house.
The relief is so intense it makes Gyro's knees weak. He sinks onto the grass, still watching as Johnny disappears inside the building. Alive. Johnny is alive.
But the window won't show him more. It flickers and fades when he tries to follow Johnny inside, leaving Gyro with more questions than answers. Is Johnny happy? Has he found peace with whatever happened after the race? Does he even remember Gyro, or has he moved on to more important concerns?
The not-knowing gnaws at him. During the race, he'd always been able to talk to Johnny, to gauge his mood and offer advice or encouragement. Now there's just silence and uncertainty, stretching across the divide between life and death.
"At least one of us made it," he says, but the words don't bring the comfort he'd hoped for. Johnny had been his partner, his student, his... friend. The first real friend Gyro had made in years, maybe ever. And now Johnny is out there alone, dealing with whatever consequences came from their choices.
The guilt settles over him like a familiar coat. He'd abandoned Johnny, just like he'd abandoned Marco, just like he'd abandoned his family.
His family doesn't even know he's dead. His father, his siblings, everyone who'd expected him to return home with stories of victory and justice served. They're probably still waiting for letters that will never come, wondering why Gyro stopped writing from America. Oh, sure, he'd died heroically, but when it came down to it, he'd still left the people who mattered most to deal with the aftermath alone.
And then there was Diego.
Gyro had recognized something in Diego's expression, something that went beyond wounded pride or professional rivalry. It was the same desperate need for meaning that had driven Gyro to throw himself at an impossible fight. Hell, to sign up for the Steel Ball Run in the first place.
Diego understood, in a way that Johnny never quite had. Johnny had been motivated by personal healing, by the need to find purpose after his accident. Noble goals, certainly, but different from the kind of ambition that had driven Gyro and Diego, though Johnny certainly had more determination than both of them.
And Gyro had thrown that understanding back in Diego's face like it was a weapon.
"Idiot" he mutters, using one of his father's favorite words. Gregorio Zeppeli had never been shy about pointing out his son's mistakes, and right now, Gyro can practically hear the old man's voice echoing across the afterlife. You had a chance to connect with someone who truly understands your situation, and you chose cruelty instead. Magnificently stupid, even for you, Gyro.
The imagined criticism stings, partly because his father would never actually say that. Partly because it sounds too much like something Diego himself might say.
But Diego isn't here. Diego is probably back at whatever space he's claimed for himself, nursing his wounded pride and swearing off any further contact with Gyro Zeppeli. Which means Gyro has successfully managed to alienate the one person in all of eternity who actually has a grasp on what latest stages of the race turned into, though HP is also out there, but that man is even less approachable.
He needs to fix this. Not because he particularly likes Diego, the man is still an arrogant, calculating bastard with a superiority complex. But because they're both stuck here forever, both dealing with the same fundamental question of what their deaths had actually accomplished. Because loneliness in paradise is still loneliness, and Gyro has spent enough time isolated by his own pride.
Besides, there's something else. Something he hasn't quite admitted to himself, but which becomes clearer as he sits in the shifting landscape of his own making.
During the race, he'd been... aware of Diego. More aware than he'd been of any other competitor, including Johnny. It hadn't been just professional rivalry, though he'd told himself that's all it was. There had been something else. Something in the way Diego moved, the way he handled his horse, the sharp intelligence behind those calculating eyes.
Attraction might be too strong a word. Interest, maybe. The kind of interest that went beyond wanting to defeat an opponent and moved into wanting to ...He has not thought that far yet.
He'd never acted on it, of course. They'd been enemies, rivals, competitors for initially 50 million,and then the Holy Corpse. But the awareness had been there, at least one-sided.
And now they're both dead, both removed from the constraints and expectations that had defined their living selves. Now there's time, all the time in existence, to explore questions that had been impossible before.
If he doesn't completely ruin it first.
Right, he thinks, getting to his feet with renewed determination. Time to stop being a coward.
The landscape shifts again as he starts walking, becoming more neutral, less tied to specific memories. He's not sure exactly where Diego has gone, but in a place like this, finding someone is more about intention than geography. He wants to find Diego, wants to have the conversation they should have had from the beginning, so the path beneath his feet will lead him there eventually.
The walk gives him time to think about what he actually wants to say. Apologies aren't really his style, too much like admitting weakness. But maybe acknowledgment? Recognition that they're in the same situation, dealing with the same fundamental problems?
Or maybe he should just be honest. About the failure, about the loneliness, about the strange interest that had always complicated his feelings toward Diego Brando. Heaven is supposed to be a place for truth, after all.
The path crests a hill, and there it is: a stone cottage that looks like it could have been transplanted from somewhere near London or any other remarkable city in England. Smoke rises from the chimney, which is utterly unnecessary, but probably comforting. The whole scene has a deliberately peaceful quality.
He approaches the door and raises his hand to knock, then pauses. This is either going to go very well or very badly, with little middle ground between the two outcomes.
But he's confident. He's never backed down from a challenge, even when the smart thing to do would be to walk away.
He knocks the door.
The knock comes just as Diego is contemplating whether the afterlife has any decent tea. He's been experimenting with willing things into existence - the cottage appeared easily enough, and he's managed basic furniture - but beverages seem to require more specific intent than he possesses.
"Go away," he calls without moving from his chair by the window. He's been watching the living world again, though the images are frustratingly limited. Johnny, apparently recovered enough to walk normally. Some woman in a fancy dress he doesn't recognize. A ship and a coffin.
The knocking continues, more insistent now.
"I said go away." Diego doesn't bother raising his voice.
"Diego? It's Gyro.Is that a proper way to treat a guest?"
Of course it is Zeppeli. Diego closes his eyes and counts to ten in three different languages. It doesn't help.
"The door is unlocked," he says finally, because ignoring Gyro Zeppeli has never worked particularly well in the past.
Gyro enters without ceremony, looking around the cottage with obvious curiosity. "Nice place. Very... English.You look like a villain brooding in his lair"
"Thank you for that astute observation." Diego doesn't turn around. "What do you want?"
"To apologize."
That gets Diego's attention. He swivels in his chair, eyebrow raised. "Apologize? You?"
"I was unnecessarily harsh earlier. That was... poor timing on my part."
Diego studies him,searching for the catch.It isn't there. It's disturbing.
"Poor timing," Diego repeats. "Yes, you could say so"
The silence stretches between them. Diego finds himself actually looking at Gyro . There's something else now.
Uncertainty.
"So,let's go over this for the last time. " Diego says eventually. "You died trying to fight Valentine."
"I did."
"And failed."
"Spectacularly."
"How long after me?"
Gyro shifts uncomfortably. "Three hours. Maybe four.I don't know"
Diego absorbs this.
"Why?" he asks.
"Why what?"
"Why try? You must have known it was hopeless."
Gyro is quiet for a long moment. "Because someone had to."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have." Gyro meets his eyes. "I couldn't just... leave it. Leave him to do whatever he wanted with the Corpse."
Diego nods slowly. He understands that, at least. The need to act, even when action is futile. Especially then.
"I assume you've been watching the living world," Diego says. "Through the windows."
"Some. Johnny's alive."
"Yes, I saw that too." Diego turns back to the window, though it's currently showing nothing but his own landscape. "Walking normally, even. Remarkable recovery."
"He won, didn't he." It's not really a question.
"I would assume so. Though I can't see much beyond brief glimpses." Diego's tone is carefully neutral. "Frustrating, really. One would think death might come with better observation privileges."
Gyro snorts. "The afterlife has terrible customer service."
Despite himself, Diego's mouth twitches. "Quite. I've been trying to summon decent tea for weeks. The best I can manage is something that tastes vaguely like leaves."
"I've been having the same problem with wine. It exists, but it's..." Gyro gestures vaguely. "Generic."
"Disappointing."
"Deeply."
They fall into silence again, but it's less tense now. Diego finds himself oddly indifferent.
"This place is boring," Diego says finally.
"Incredibly boring." Gyro settles into the chair across from him without invitation. "Everyone else seems perfectly content with it. Peaceful meditation, gentle conversations about forgiveness, that sort of thing."
"Nauseating."
"Completely."
Diego glances at him. "You've been talking to other people?"
"A few. They're all very... zen about everything. Very accepting of their circumstances." Gyro's voice carries a note of disdain. "It's like they've forgotten they were ever alive."
It's interesting whether Gyro did talk with his family members or not, but that would be too invasive for now.
"Perhaps that's the point." Diego considers this. "Perhaps we're meant to let go of earthly concerns and embrace eternal peace."
"Sounds dreadful."
"Absolutely dreadful."
Another pause. Diego realizes he's almost enjoying this conversation, which is disturbing on multiple levels. He shouldn't be comfortable with Gyro Zeppeli. They'd been enemies, rivals, competitors for the same prize. But there's something to be said for talking to someone who doesn't immediately start spouting wisdom about acceptance and moving on.
"I've been wondering," Gyro says carefully, "about the others."
"Others?"
"From the race. Hot Pants must be here somewhere. Maybe some of the earlier casualties."
Diego's jaw tightens slightly. "I haven't seen Hot Pants."
"But you've looked."
It's not a question. Diego doesn't answer directly. "The windows are limited. They only show places and people we had significant connection to in life."
"And you had a connection to Hot Pants."
"We worked together. Briefly." Diego's tone suggests the topic is closed.
Gyro seems to take the hint. "What about the others? Magenta, maybe?You seemed to be working with Soundman"
"I wouldn't know. I haven't been socializing.Doubt any of them want to see me again"
"No, I can see that. This place screams 'hermit's retreat.'" Gyro looks around the sparse cottage again. "Don't you get lonely?"
The question is too direct, too personal. Diego deflects with sarcasm. "I prefer my own company. It's consistently superior."
"Right." Gyro doesn't look convinced. "Well, I've been going mad with boredom"
"Unbearable, I imagine."
"Exactly. And the worst part is, everyone else seems to think this is paradise. They're all so satisfied with everything."
Diego finds himself leaning forward slightly. "Really?"
"They look at me like I'm some sort of curiosity when I mention wanting to do something more than exist peacefully for eternity."
"How exhausting."
"Incredibly exhausting." Gyro pauses. "You're the first person I've met who seems to understand that this perfect peace is actually quite terrible."
Diego considers this. It's true - the few other souls he's encountered have all radiated the same serene contentment that makes him incredibly irritated. But Gyro is different. Gyro is still restless, still driven by something beyond mere existence.
"What are you proposing?" Diego asks.
"I'm not proposing anything. I'm just... observing. That we seem to be the only two people in paradise who find paradise irritating."
"A dubious distinction."
"Perhaps. But it's something."
Gyro's sitting forward in his chair, hands gesturing as he talks, that familiar intensity burning in his eyes. He's still fundamentally the same person he was in life, still driven by the same need to act, to matter, to leave some kind of mark on the world.
It's strangely reassuring.
"I suppose," Diego says slowly, "that if we're both going to be bored and irritated for eternity, we might as well be bored and irritated together."
Gyro's grin is sharp and familiar. "Exactly what I was thinking."
"This doesn't make us friends," Diego clarifies quickly.
"Of course no. So," Gyro says, settling back in his chair like he's planning to stay. "What have you been doing with yourself besides brooding and staring out windows?"
"I do not brood."He should have clarified this earlier.
"You absolutely brood. You were brooding when I arrived."
"I was contemplating."
"Brooding."
"There's a difference."
"Is there?"
Diego glares at him, but there's no real heat behind it. "I've been observing the living world. Trying to understand the limitations of our... viewing privileges."
"And?"
"And they're considerable. I can only see places I've been, people I've known. And even then, only for brief periods before the image fades."
Gyro nods thoughtfully. "Same here. I managed to see Johnny, but only for a few minutes. And I couldn't see what he was doing, just that he was alive and walking."
"It's like being given a book but only being allowed to read every tenth page."
"Exactly. Frustrating doesn't begin to cover it."
They sit in comfortable silence for a moment, both lost in their own thoughts. Diego realizes that this is the longest conversation he's had since arriving in the afterlife. His mother's visits are gentle but brief, and he's avoided everyone else entirely. But talking to Gyro feels normal.
"I have a question," Gyro says suddenly.
"Of course you do."
"Why did you do it? The race, I mean. Really."
Diego stiffens. "Money. Fame. Power. The usual motivations."
"No, I mean really. You had money already. You'd married that widow, you had connections. You could have lived comfortably without ever risking your neck in a cross-country race."
The question hits too close to home. Diego's first instinct is to deflect, to give another glib answer about ambition and victory. But something in Gyro's expression stops him. There's genuine curiosity there, not mockery or judgment.
"I wanted to prove something," he says finally.
"What?"
"That I could win. That I deserved to win." Diego's voice is quiet. "That I wasn't just lucky, or connected, or riding on someone else's coat-tails."
Gyro nods slowly. "Recognition."
"Yes."
"I understand that."
"Do you?"
"I entered the race to save a boy from execution. Marco. He was sentenced to death for a crime he didn't commit, and I thought..." Gyro trails off, laughing bitterly. "I thought I could single-handedly fix an injustice"
"And now?"
"Now Marco's probably dead anyway, and I've proven nothing except that I'm just as capable of spectacular failure as anyone else."
Diego looks at him. "At least you tried to save someone."
"At least you were honest about your motivations."
They both fall silent again.This is becoming a pattern. Diego realizes that they've just shared more truth with each other than either of them probably intended. It should be uncomfortable, but somehow it isn't.
"So," Diego says eventually. "What do we do now?"
"Now?" Gyro's grin returns, sharp and challenging. "Now we figure out how to make eternity less boring."
"And how do you propose we do that?"
"I have no idea. But I'm sure we'll think of something."
Diego finds himself almost looking forward to finding out what that something might be. Which is disturbing, but not entirely unpleasant.
"Very well," he says. "But I'm not sharing my tea. When I finally manage to create decent tea, it's mine."
"Fair enough. I'll work on the wine situation."
"Agreed."
Gyro stands, stretching. "I should probably go. Let you get back to your... contemplation."
"Brooding."
"I knew you'd admit it eventually."
Diego doesn't dignify that with a response, but he also doesn't object when Gyro moves toward the door. They've established something here - not friendship, exactly, but an understanding. A recognition that they're both stuck in similar situations.
It's more than Diego had yesterday or last week.
"See you around, Dio."
"Unfortunately, yes. You probably will."
It's not much. But it's something and he is looking forward to find out what that something might be.