Archive of Our Own

Giorno notices it late at night. 

It breaks through his sleep. The feeling of a soft, velvet touch against his cheek with a motion akin to falling rain. He shifts in his bed, closed eyelids fluttering, and his hands unconsciously grip the sheets tighter around himself as if to burrow into their warmth when a certain coldness seeps into his bones. Slowly, the flashes of his dream that he was barely aware of begin to slip away from him, taking the cold with it.

The faint, phantom scent of the damp mold that would always fill the old apartment, with the taps of the leaky faucet along with the low hum of a radiator that would always fall silent and never properly work in the winter. The visions of his mother and the man she married. Their voices and the words they would yell, the items they would throw. At each other. At him. Images of a blood–soaked belt, cracked from repeated use. 

He always felt the pain when he awoke. Though he had grown used to it. Perhaps finding himself becoming desensitised in a horrifying way a teenager shouldn’t. 

Something tickles his nose. 

Groggily, he blinks awake. Eyes heavy. 

He didn’t know what had woken him up at first. His eyes opened to a dark room with only moonlight cutting through the sheer curtains. The house was silent around him. Same as any night. Trish’s radio from down the hall, the night birds croaking, and the insects chirping. It’s tempting to fall back into the pull of sleep, but the feeling comes back. 

From above, small pink petals fall against the silk sheets he lies against. A light floral smell like powdered vanilla fills the room. Mixed together with the green scent of spring despite the late summer weather.

The Cherry Blossoms are supposed to enhance relaxation, Giorno has read. A traditional motif in Japanese art and literature. A symbol of a cycle. Of hope and renewal. Yet, instead; he feels a sense of dread grow between his ribs at the sight of them. For that’s not the reason they appear.

He sits up in bed, more falling down to his lap from where they had rested in his hair. Some still remain in his curls.

It’s not the first time. A reminder of home. A reminder of…

Giorno reaches to gather some in the palm of his hand. The texture is smooth. A beautiful blend of pink and white. Staring down, the reason for their appearance; Gold Experience buzzes from beneath his skin. 

He doesn’t move for a long moment. His palm closes around them, crumpling them. Tight enough that his long nails tear easily into the delicate nature of the petals. Threatening the flesh of his own hand with the tiny pinpricks of crescent moon shapes through the silky touch. The marks are superficial. Crushing them won’t get rid of them that easily, even if the sight feels as if it burns. 

He lets them fall to the floor, brushing them off his bed. Out of sight. He ignores the sharp jolt of Gold Experience, desperate to retrieve them. He ignores the lingering smell.

He’s not Haruno anymore.

Cherry Blossoms. Meadowsweet. Red Columbine. Henbane. They all symbolize Haruno. 

“What do you think?” 

Giorno shifts in the leather seat in the back of the car. His eyes staring out at the people passing by. Children running down the pavement as school lets out, a woman carefully carrying her wedding dress she picked up to her car, the two nonnas conversing on the bench that they usually greet when passing by. He turns away from the scenery. 

Bucciarati tilts the papers towards him. Files scattered across his lap. Another finishing meeting with the capos. Changes and additions to the organization discussed, and everything in between. It’s now starting to settle. No longer in the shadow of what Diavolo had built.

The older runs through the files. His pen dragging against the papers in a soft scratch of scribbles as he makes his own marks over what to follow–up on in another meeting. 

Giorno glances over, reading through the small text. He gives a nod with a small hum. Everything looks perfect. Though he never doubted when it came to Bucciarati. The two share a mind when it comes to Passione. Both ambitious and hopeful through the reform. Bucciarati waits, but nothing more comes. Usually the boy would have a proper response. Yet where there should be an in–depth opinion, there’s only silence. 

He turns back towards the window, watching a bird pecking crumbs on the ground. A man walks by with a bundle of flowers in his arms.

Hyacinths. Mute flowers in terms of scent. He finds it humorous. If only to avoid the stem of the Meadowsweet digging in his pocket for not giving Bucciarati what he wanted.

The gift of receiving flowers has been the same since ancient times. Plentiful from the Garden of Eden before man’s fall from grace. Their growth acts as the first sign of spring. A fresh breath of renewal and the symbol of new beginnings. Their uses have always spanned wide; rituals, ceremonies, festivals. All the rites of passage in any way possible.

The use of Floriography had made it grow.

A custom that had started through the Victorian era. Assigning specific meanings and messages through different flowers and arrangements. Differing between various colours of the same flower, and even the amount of flowers whether singular or bouquets. Through positive and negative, there was a flower for everything.

Coded messages, when at a time; social etiquette had been strict. Expressing proper emotions was difficult with the risk of coming across as too forward. It’s more or less the same in today’s era. 

Flowers carry meaning.

Aster. Daffodils. Holly. Lily of the Valley. Iris. Daisies. Rose.

They symbolize a person in many different ways. Through the months they were born, to the thoughts they draw towards themselves. Their worth and what they mean to those around them.

The garden they have on their own is abundant. Full of many trees with fresh fruit. Multiple rows of flower beds spanning down the length of the backyard. All meticulously cared for.

Bruno sits in the garden each morning. Long before the others are up. Watching how they sway in the wind or how vibrant their colours become beneath the rising sun. They ease something in him. Make the near constant rush of his busy mind quiet for just a moment as he takes a long, deep breath. The floral scent settled in his lungs. 

Sometimes, in the afternoons and on free days, he watches the way Giorno cares for them. Watering, laying down the fertilization, proper dead-heading, and weeding. Measuring sunlight and soil of each new bed he makes. There’s a difference in his posture. His shoulders are not as tense.

Sunflowers. Venice Sumach. Coral Honeysuckle. Autumn Joy Sedum. Common in their garden, and flowers he finds he associates with Giorno.

Bruno has always been observant. 

He has to be. As a leader, he had held no choice in the matter. It’s not as if he ever means to pry, or appear overbearing, but there are very few secrets his men keep from him. Even without any words exchanged between them. Silent glances and knowing looks can be all there is to it. He lets them come to him while maintaining a certain sense of openness.

He would say that it’s solely in the job description, but Bruno feels as if the better explanation of how he learned to read a wide range of emotions stems from his childhood. When his parents had their own problems. He began to understand what certain facial features, down to even a twitch of their eyebrow, meant. The way their eyes would silently converse. Bruno was young. They tried so hard to keep it from him. To put on the show of being okay all in an attempt of normalcy, but he knew.

The divorce wasn’t quite out of nowhere. It was there long before he eavesdropped, or overheard whispers of small–town gossipers.

The searching eyes and watchful features were an aspect he couldn’t easily shake. They were perfect for the mafia.

He learned to tell the signs of danger from the businessmen he met, even by a slight shift of their eyes. When someone was ready to strike. He expected all to come from his observant behavior to be violence. Yet, he found a kinder approach to use it.

His team is a group of people who have been through a lot throughout their lives. Different from his own, but all finding themselves in the same place. He watched at first. When it was his parents, it was all he could do. They would never accept comfort from him when he was their child. The one who was meant to be taken care of, not the other way around.

It started with Fugo. 

Watching the boy hurt, he found himself taking action instead of remaining the bystander. Now, he has been through it all. He sat by their sides. Talked or held them through it, and never once thought anything ill of them. He would give them anything.

They looked at him as if he was a saint for it when it was only the standard motion of being human. Something he barely felt he was some days. They give back to him plenty. When he burned himself out too much. Where he felt overwhelmed and needed a distraction; they were there.

It wouldn’t change when Trish and Giorno joined. His being there would apply to them all the same. 

Yet, Giorno was different.

It always took time for the others to open up. They would be weary at first, nearly suspicious of him, but eventually there would be steps. No matter how small.

All of them, but Giorno. Even in the month of August as four months pass from when they had met.

He remains closed off. The words are surface level, usually only pertaining to Passione. Bruno didn’t mind. Trust comes with time was always the mental reminder he gave himself, but there was something specific he found himself noticing. 

“Are you alright?” Bruno can’t help but press when the silence goes on.

Giorno tenses against his seat, glancing over with a blink that makes the previous heavy weight in his eyes disappear in an instance. All that’s left is a blank slate Bruno knows all too well. Yet, he sees his Adam’s apple bob slightly. His mouth opens, but for a few long seconds, no sound comes out. 

Finally,

“I’m fine, Bucciarati.” He croaks. It sounds painful. Small in volume and gravelly like he swallowed rocks. Despite his face being the picture of perfection. Smooth and calm.

Bruno observes him. Something feels off. Though when Giorno doesn’t look at him, he reluctantly allows himself to drop it for the time–being. Pushing someone such as him is not a logical option when he knows it will only close him off further. So, he nods, looking back at the files.

Between the papers, a flower blooms. Small clusters of white with a honey smell. Just as quick as it appears, it wilts until it’s indistinguishable. Giorno still doesn’t look.

It’s that he notices.

Bruno doesn’t know how the flowers found their way from the garden to the inside. Outside of the vase on their breakfast table.

They grow within the cracks of the wall. Hiding themselves in small places. Between the pages of books, coming from the cabinets, around the banister of the staircase, curling around the legs of tables and desks, even growing through the speakers of the kitchen radio. 

It takes Bruno aback. They always appear so suddenly. Yet, within a blink of an eye, they’re wilted and gone. The petals turn to dust, the stems shrivel, before they disappear completely.

He didn’t have to guess where exactly they came from. Or who was behind them. There’s only one person who turns cars to frogs, refused to let Trish kill a spider, and started the very garden he sits in come morning within their new home. His passion for animals and nature were the most noticeable aspect of himself. Practically the only thing they truly knew about him.

At first, it was the flowers that made him look closer.

He watched their strange, sudden growth in random places. New ones each day. The pencil holder on his desk. Around the light fixtures above his bathroom mirror. Even around the wooden spoons in the kitchen resting in the holder on the counter. It was only him who saw them. 

Meadowsweet. Henbane. Heath. Crocus. What do they mean?

He watched the way they disappeared. Gone when Mista had knocked on his office door, when Leone followed after him to their shared bathroom, or when Narancia’s loud voice traveled down the hall to the kitchen, calling out for him. When he looked around the room, none of the others had noticed the new flowers and the spots they found.

When his eyes fell on Giorno, the other didn’t acknowledge his own doings as he kept his eyes downcast. It was odd.

The flowers went hand in hand with the silence.

It wasn’t a one–off of Giorno falling silent in the backseat of the car. The silence stretches on. The flowers continue to grow. Giorno had always been quiet, yet this silence was different. As if it wasn’t entirely by choice. He feels far away. Practically out of reach.

Bruno watches, taking in specific moments. Within Passione, he performs perfectly. Professionally. With a straight posture and fancy words that make him appear much older than he is. It all fades once the lights of the meeting room click shut, and the mission is cleared up. His face remains still in its features, but his words are few and far in between.

While the others converse, he stays silent. Listening with nods and hums that the others don’t blink at because that’s just their Giorno. Yet, Bruno sees the strain. The almost wanting. The way his mouth parts slightly, as if to add, only to close it just as fast with a harsh swallow. Keeping his silence, and when he can’t his voice sounds pained. 

“I’m fine, Bucciarati.” He says each time, but Bruno’s not dull.

There are specific moments he sees Giorno be aware of the flowers. His eyes always widen slightly as he takes notice. He brushes them into his palm. His hand closed tight around them, nails tearing into the petals. Bruno never sees the petals fall.

He believes they go with his mood, he can’t help but think one night.

Bruno stares down at the flower in his coffee cup. His office is empty. It’s like the flowers follow after him. 

“What do you mean?” He murmurs to himself, plucking the coffee–soaked flower. 

Of course, there’s no answer. Only the sound of wind chimes blowing from the backyard. The music light. He expects the flowers to wilt instantly. It doesn’t. It stays.

With a small sigh, Bruno places it down gently. As if it’s made of glass. He rubs at his eyes as he shuts the laptop screen. It’s late, he knows, and Leone is probably waiting up for him in their bedroom. The chair creaks when he stands, bones popping from the amount of time he’s held the same position. 

Briefly, his gaze falls on the window. A figure in the moonlight makes his shoulders tense. Sticky Fingers buzzes beneath his skin at the thought of danger, but the jump in his heart eases when he sees the familiar blonde curls.

Giorno sits on the stone bench of the garden. His face is more open than Bruno has seen before. Haunted.

Something comes to mind in Bruno’s mind as he observes. Faint within the previous days, but it’s there that the more the flowers grow, the more his decision is solidified. He fears of prying into someone such as Giorno, risking the possibility of pushing him away farther and breaking the tentative trust they have found between each other, but he sets out to learn.

In the morning, long before the others are awake; he takes the flower still sitting on his desk and heads to a bookstore.

The flowers stay for longer. Hiding themselves in his office.

He lines them up against the wood of his desk, staring them down. They vary in colour and size, vibrant with a sweet scent all the same. They’re repeated ones he sees bloom around Giorno. A book dedicated to the language of flowers sits next to him.

It doesn’t take long for pencil marks to take up the page as he connects illustrations to the symbolizations.

He doesn’t make anything known. He plays pretend and barely looks at the flowers enough in an attempt to still give Giorno privacy. Despite the clear way the flowers protest when they try to bloom within his vision and get closer. Becoming sloppy in their attempt to stay hidden when they seem to preen at the fact that he now notices. So, like Mista to the Sex Pistols, they try hard to win his attention each time. Bruno still notices certain messages. 

When a capo has the nerve to go against Giorno in a meeting, and he sees a Whin flower bloom against the leg of his chair in the meeting hall. Anger. Yet, Giorno looks calm on the outside.

He finds himself stifling a smile when a Wood Sorrel grows. Joy. He notices it in their quiet moments, when Giorno’s in the garden, and the flower grows between the chains of the porch swing Bruno sits on. Or during dinner when they’re all together and Bruno finds the Wood Sorrel waiting in his pocket. 

Admittedly, his smile goes strained when Virginian Spiderwort follows in those moments, replacing the Wood Sorrel. Momentary happiness. Unsure of what he's allowed to feel.

Gladiolus sticks out from the cracks of the walls of warehouses and shipping ports for certain missions. Victory, and he watches Giorno brush off the dust and straighten his posture with a silent sense of pride.

The Meadowsweet breaks his heart the most. Bloomed in moments where Giorno sits there alone in his garden with that haunted expression. 

Bruno wonders why Gold Experience leaves these flowers for him.

It all comes to its head following a mission.

Bruno stumbles to his feet, hissing as he clutches the gash in his legs. He grits his teeth as he places more pressure against the wound when blood seeps through his fingers. Scattered around him are bodies of the men who had orchestrated the coup against them. Idiots. Too prideful with their own Stands that ego was more of their downfall than any of his zippers.

He goes to zip the wound shut himself, but Gold Experience comes to his side. The gash mends itself. Albeit rather slowly from the hits the Stand took.

Bruno glances over to Giorno when his footsteps approach. 

“Are you alright?” Bruno breathes, feeling relief when the pain eases from him. He gives Giorno a once–over; just like his Stand, he had borne witness to the hits the user took alongside them. Small cuts with bruises already forming on fair skin.

Giorno nods. Too fast. 

Perhaps he’s overprotective, but he finds himself drawing suspicious. Some of the hits were hard. It’s another thing he notices…that Giorno hides countless injuries he sustains during missions. He pretends well. They only notice within the days that follow, and no matter the amount of lectures he receives, nothing seems to click.

Giorno reaches a hand to steady him. Likewise, glancing him over for any additional wounds. With another satisfied nod, he turns away just as Narancia comes back over to them. Bruno stays silent.

Even when he notices the pinched expression on their way back to the car. The slight limp up the stairs as Giorno goes to his room. 

For now.

Because on the way to his own room, Bruno can't help but come to a pause in the doorway of the other. A mistake of not closing it fully as he catches through the crack as Giorno stands in front of the mirror with a tight expression reflected. Pursed lips and a clenched jaw, all with furrowed eyebrows. Watching as a part of his jacket is lifted for only himself to see the skin underneath. His fingertips twitch softly against the material.

It’s the flower that catches Bruno’s attention and makes his gaze draw downwards.

A singular Sweetbriar has come to wrap around his pointer finger. It peaks out slightly, nearly blending with the pink of his suit. It would be easily dismissible at first glance, but Bruno sees it all the same. He recognizes the silent message even if Giorno only means it for himself. Though Gold Experience gives him an opening.

‘I am wounded.”

Bruno enters.

“Giorno.” 

The reaction is immediate. A held back flinch as the boy stiffens. He turns around, trying to conceal wide eyes. The jacket slips from his hold as Bruno watches as that mask of perfection tries to pull itself back together. He doesn’t buy it.

“Where does it hurt?” He asks, coming closer.

Giorno blinks. That loose hand turns protective from where it had lingered close to the fabric. Bruno tracks the motion before his eyes purposefully draw towards what will act as the explanation of him knowing. 

He follows his gaze with his face becoming pale as he becomes aware of the flower tangled to him. He looks back towards Bruno. Lips partially parted and there’s a bout of panic that flashes through his eyes at the realization.

He goes to speak, but the elder is quicker.

“We don’t have to talk about it.” He says quietly. Voice calm, and eyes locked with the Sweetbriar. One row of petals. Only five in total, with a white base, all in a classic open rose shape. It’s small. Barely taking up any room, yet it makes Giorno’s world crumble. “Just know that I know, but right now, I just want to help. If there’s an injury, I need to know in any way that you can tell me, even if it’s not through words.” 

For a long moment, Giorno just stands still. His chest barely even moves as he realizes that Bruno does not only know the meaning of the flowers, but everything. His mouth opens once again. Just second nature of always having to force himself, but when there’s tentatively another option he finds himself closing it shut. Bruno waits. He always does. Giorno deflates. 

Slowly, more flowers bloom. The same Sweetbriar comes to wrap around his shoulder and stops there. He looks at him with piercing green eyes. Bruno understands as he gives a small nod. 

He leads Giorno to the connected bathroom, pulling the stool from the boy’s vanity in with him. Bruno directs for him to sit down. Within the wall, he makes a zipper to pull a first aid kit from its place downstairs. Giorno listens, sitting down rigidly. Face blank, but eyes showing that apprehension. Months ago, Bruno wouldn’t have been able to notice. Now he has gotten better at reading Giorno.

He can tell that scares the other.

He doesn’t focus on it. Just as he said, they don’t have to talk about it right now. He places the kit on the counter before coming to stand behind Giorno. His hands hover, but his face remains patient.

“Allow me to see your shoulder?” He asks.

Giorno hesitates, but slowly nods. He unzips the jacket himself, carefully shrugging it off. Bruno reaches to ease it from his left shoulder. It’s there he takes in the sight of the blood. His concern was correct, and he braces himself for what Giorno hides. The jacket comes down.

There’s a large gash spanning across his shoulder. It nearly appears to run down towards his ribs, but the skin tried to mend itself together through Gold Experience. Though the exhaustion and the hits the Stand had taken made the process slow.

“Disengage your Stand.” Bruno orders softly.

There’s another slight bit of hesitation, though Giorno listens. The wound grows by a fragment. Giorno tries not to screw up his face with a wince. 

Bruno cleans the wound site, careful with the antiseptic, knowing the burn that comes with it. As he waits for it to dry, he threads the nylon through the needle for the stitches. They don’t talk.

At first, Bruno hadn’t noticed the scars across his back. Until he notices the slight shake of Giorno’s figure, and feels the texture underneath his fingertips. It’s more than Bruno can count. Faded and old, but harsh–looking all the same. Bruno doesn’t say anything over them, though his breath trembles, imagining how they could have appeared and who did them. 

For a brief second when he looks up after snipping the nylon, Giorno meets his eyes. It’s quick to break, but Bruno knows.

“I don’t think any differently of you, GioGio.” He murmurs. The nickname is affectionate as he smooths over the gauze. “You’ve always been strong.” 

Giorno freezes. A slight hitch of his breath. Bruno only continues taping the gauze before reaching for the bandages to stabilize it with a wrap of his shoulder.

“You wouldn’t believe it when I say this, but those moments where you feel weak or underwater as if you’re drowning? Those make you strong. There’s no shame in admitting when you need help. You have people around you who are willing to carry the weight you’ve placed upon yourself.” 

When he feels a slight shake, he doesn’t say anything more.

He’s not trying to overwhelm Giorno. Only trying to let him know that he cares. They all do. He spoke nothing but the truth and meant each word. Giorno has always been strong, but no matter the amount of strength a person holds, it always has moments where it wavers. Where someone needs another to fall back on. Bruno will be that person for him, just as he was that person for the others.

Giorno stares at him through the mirror. He tracks each movement of his hands. Gentle, but he’s waiting for that harshness that’s always there when it comes to him.

He’s waiting for Bruno to take back each of his words. To scold him for even entertaining the thought of believing. That it was a test, as ridiculous as it sounds. Giorno thought he would have left after seeing the scars. Recoil and deem him ineffective, or worse tell him that it serves him right the way his mother did when she saw the injuries of beatings reflected on her son.

Giorno was never good enough. Even now despite his high-standing in the mafia. The top of the ladder with Bucciarati. He tears himself down for each slight he finds in himself. He can’t be anything less than perfect.

Bruno snips away the bandages.

“I’ll be back.” He says quietly, stepping out. 

When the door clicks shut, Giorno deflates in his seat.

He knows. The flowers. Their meanings. The only way Giorno knew how to speak, even if wasn’t exactly willing or conscious. Gold Experience would just grow them. Matching it to his thoughts and emotions. He never knew Bucciarati was being fed them. He tried to hide them, but the man saw them all the same…and he had learned their meanings.

Giorno doesn’t understand. The thought of it truly scares him more than he can make known.

There’s a quiet, courtesy knock as Bruno reenters, fresh clothes in hand. His silk pajamas. He places them on the counter before holding out the shirt for Giorno to slip into. A button–up so he won’t have to lift his arms. With that, he moves back towards the door.

“Take it easy for the rest of the night.” He says. “Come get me if you notice anything off about the wound. I cleaned and stitched it with no shrapnel found, but I still want you to pay attention to it.”

Giorno nods.

“I’m serious.” Bruno’s voice grows stern. “There’s no good that comes with hiding an injury. As a mafioso, you know the danger you sign up for, but that doesn’t mean that you neglect yourself. You only make it easy for your enemies to have an advantage over you.”

There’s more within it, but Giorno’s already overwhelmed enough. Bruno leaves it at that.

“Rest. I’ll handle the reports.”

He leaves with a soft smile.

Giorno still feels as if he can’t breathe.

When the door clicks shut, there’s a burst of nature that comes around him with the swell of emotions. He feels as if he could choke on the mixing fragrance of perfume like sweetness. They’re everywhere. Around the doorframe. The basin of the sink. Wrapping around the rod of the shower curtain. They trace the frame of the mirror, and partially cover the lights. Reflecting patterns of stems and an abundance of flower petal shapes against the wall. Funnel. Cup. Bell. Trumpet. Single. Semi–double. Fully bloomed. His chest heaves without him knowing. 

Dragonswort. Horror. Moschatel. Weakness. Flos Adonis. Painful recollection. Dahlia. Instability. Meadowsweet. Uselessness. Then the Cherry Blossoms rain down. 

He stands from the vanity stool. His palm is held out as they fall into one hand. He shakes.

Giorno stopped crying when was 2–years–old. When he learned that no one would come the way they were supposed to. There was no reason for him to talk when there was no one there. His voice never mattered, and he knew it.

He freezes at the thought. It’s not his voice. It’s Haruno’s. Giorno is always listened to. A whole organization bows at his feet with open ears as he commands it alongside Bucciarati. No one has ever ignored him. Haruno was different because Haruno was broken. That’s not Giorno. Perhaps it’s the words of a narcissist, but he portrays himself as perfect. Everything his mother said she wanted. Just like his father, with a cool voice that demands a room. 

Yet, he still falls silent. Like Haruno's small hands cover his mouth. It makes him sick.

He’s not Haruno. Hasn’t been for a long time.

Giorno lets the petals drift to the ground, stomping them underneath a socked foot, knowing it won’t bring the damage he wants. Despite the ache in his shoulder, he surges forward with raised arms, tearing the flowers away from the mirror. The doors. The walls. Stems twisted in his grip, and flower heads ripped from the force of his hands. He lets them drop onto the rest of the growing mess on the floor.

He breathes heavily when he’s done. Fleeing the room like a child when the pink of the Cherry Blossoms burn in his vision, and he can hear the voice of his mother talking about the disgust Haruno brought her. 

Giorno finds him the next morning. 

His steps are quiet, but Bruno knows that he’s standing in the doorway as he sits at the kitchen table nursing a cup of coffee and typing on his laptop. He waits while the other lingers.

“How did you know?” Finally comes the quiet voice.

Bruno pauses. He looks up, quiet for a moment. “It’s part of the job for a leader to know his men.” He starts simply. 

With a glint in his eye, he motions towards the chair beside him. Giorno listens. His eyes are kept down in a rare moment of shown vulnerability. Bruno continues.

“I noticed the silence. The flowers. Technically they came to me. I decided to learn.”

Giorno sits there still. Eyebrows furrowed like he doesn’t understand. Bruno believes a good part of him doesn’t. That the concept of Bruno taking his time and devoting himself is foreign. It kills a small part of himself to watch.

He’s grown used to behaviors like Mista and Narancia, who are bold and loud. Unashamed of it. Even Fugo has a bright personality. Yet, Giorno…his is more subdued and Bruno can make guesses as to why. 

“I’m sorry for overstepping.” He adds. “I thought it would be better for you to not have to force yourself to speak. This was a way.” 

Giorno only looks more confused. With his face fighting between twisting and smoothing its crafted mask. 

“Why?” He seeks to clarify. His voice is soft and breathy. As if it will go out like a flame.

Bruno smiles gently. “I don’t like to see you in pain.” 

It’s simple, but Giorno feels like the world he knows crumbles. He shakes his head. 

“You wasted your time.” He says. Voice falling monotone, but strained. He can’t understand how anyone could dedicate their time to something so useless. Bucciarati has better things to do than to cater to him for something so ridiculous. “You didn’t need to do that.” 

“I know. I wanted to.” He picks up his coffee, reopening his laptop. He sounds nothing but sincere. Bruno means it, even if Giorno is unwilling to believe it right now. “Each of you are different, but I adapt for every one of you. Trust me when I say I do not mind.”

Giorno sits there. Then;

“You’re lying.” He seethes lowly. Giorno knows how this goes. Perhaps Bucciarati will be understanding in the beginning, but once it continues and Giorno displays weakness, those snappy remarks similar to his parents will come back. His face will be bruised again with the harsh slap for not speaking correctly. Lashes on his back for not being a proper man. He refuses to believe that it will ever be any different. 

Still, Bruno remains the picture of patience. 

“I’m not.” He promises.

He turns back to type the report he’s started, but Whin flowers come to cover his keyboard. Sainfoin with it. Anger and agitation. Giorno huffs when he notices them begin to crawl all across the table. Cypress leaves join. Despair. The inner fight with himself is put on display. Yet, the Crocus is the most damning.

They both feel their breaths hitch at the small purple flowers similar to an Iris. Abuse not.

“Giorno,” Bruno murmurs. 

He’s provided an escape when Fugo enters. The flowers shrivel to dust. With his eyes pinned to his phone, he doesn’t notice the tension that comes with the silence. Giorno doesn’t let him. He stands, ignoring Bucciarati’s trailing gaze. Just as Fugo lifts his head to greet them both, Giorno stalks past him.

Bruno watches. 

For the next few days, Giorno avoids him.

They don’t speak. Giorno barely leaves his office or room, and Bruno resides himself in wait. He doesn’t mind. He doesn’t need words, or flowers to paint a picture of Giorno’s life before they had met. The way he had to have grown up. While as a whole Selective Mutism may not be considered solely a trauma response, there are cases where it is a contributing factor. As such, Bruno allows him to take his time.

He traces the cover of the book as he sits at the desk in his office. Pages marked by bookmarks, highlights, and pencil marks to prove his dedication. He gazes down at the fabric cover with a faded flower in the middle. The spine of the book withered. The corners bent.

The strict learning of being observant felt like a curse sometimes.

Bruno had learned to recognize those emotions. The hollowness in his father, through a clenched jaw as he tried. The desperation in his mother with a twitch in her eyebrow as she wanted more than the feeling of being tied down. He’s seen it all. 

It was all the same when the thin ice finally snapped, and his mother had left. When he chose to stay with his father. Her lips trembled even as she smiled. At 7–years–old, Bruno should have been able to take it at face value, but he saw the crushed feeling reflected. Yet, it was alongside silent pride as she kissed his cheek goodbye. 

So, he stayed. Watched as his father kept them both afloat. Bruno still read through him. He learned to tell when that week’s paycheck would be bad by the way his father entered the house.

There’s a thump that sounds in the room. He glances up just as a bright beam of gold comes to shine in front of him. 

Gold Experience hovers. Blank eyes piercing. Bruno smiles. 

“Hello, Gold.” He greets.

The Stands' eyes fall on the book. His face turns knowing in a way that makes Bruno sigh.

“I guess your user is mad at the both of us, huh?” His smile turns sad.

Gold Experience nods. They look away. Shoulders drooping, and body drawing in on themselves at the reminder. 

“He’ll come around.” Bruno murmurs. “Especially for you.” 

When there’s no visible reaction. Bruno decides to press it further.

“For years, Giorno only had you. He trusts you more than anything.” Hesitantly the Stand meets his eyes. “We both did what we thought was best. He’s…fearful. You took a step for him, and I pushed. Of course he will freeze. Flight or fight response. It’s natural. If we keep reminding him that this is a safe environment, he’ll take a step for himself.” 

Eight flowers bloom. Starwort. Tremella Nestoc. Ursinia. Baneberry. Bearded Crepis. Osmunda. Rosemary. Nemesia. Bruno stares at them confused. Their meanings all contradict each other, but he notices the specific line they’re in. 

S–T–U–B–B–O–R–N. 

Yet, they symbolize Giorno. His life and its treatment. Starwort; Afterthought. What it was full of. Tremella Nestoc; Resistance, Baneberry; Caution, Osmunda; Dreams. The way Gold Experience feels about him. Ursinia; Innocent love, Nemesia; Friendship. All they have done for him. Bearded Crepis; Protection, Rosemary; Fidelity.

He chuckles, feeling that misty burn in his eyes at the purity. “Yes, he appears stubborn.” What teenage boy isn’t? “He’ll come around. Promise. For now, let’s place a pause on the flowers. Give him a chance to breathe.” 

Gold Experience pauses, but ultimately nods. They take the flowers with them as they leave.

Giorno forces himself to speak through the following days, ignoring the strain of the way his vocal cords feel as if they tear. All to make a statement to Bruno.

He doesn’t say anything. Even as the others glance between them, sensing the tension.

Time passes by within a couple of weeks. Bruno once more sits in his office when there’s a knock on his door. Timid, and small, as if it’s someone hoping to not be heard.

“Enter.” He calls out nonetheless.

So, Giorno does. Face passively blank, but Bruno sees the way his hands shake before he clasps them tightly behind his back. Bruno turns to him. Slowly, he reaches for what has been left on his desk the last few days.

It’s wilted. A little dry, but still clear. A Purple Hyacinth has followed him around the house. Not just from Gold Experience. In his coffee cup, between files, even wrapping around his wrist when he tries to sleep.

He knows what it means.

“A desire for forgiveness.” He says calmly. 

Giorno nods. Confirming it’s what he meant. He'd done it himself.

Bruno places the flower down with a small sigh. “There’s nothing you need to apologize for. I overstepped–” 

A flower blooms that makes him pause.

Agrimonia. A tall wildflower with compound leaves and yellow seeded flowers. Bruno blinks.

“Thankfulness?” He questions. Voice quiet. As if unsure. 

Yet, Giorno nods once again. 

Mourning Bride and Deadly Nightshade. ‘Unfortunate attachment to the silence.’ It was all he knew. It was hard to admit to it. Then there’s a Bud of a White Rose. ‘Heart ignorant to love.’ He assumed no one would willingly put up with it. Yet, Bruno had done the work. Was devoted to understanding him. The way he treated him after knowing...

Bruno takes in the meanings with kind eyes. “I don’t want you to have to feel that way anymore.” 

For once, Giorno smiles. 

The flowers come back. Not the same way as they were before; they don’t stay hidden or as frantic as they once were. Desperately following him in what he now knows was a cry for help from Gold Experience. 

They bring a change. Giorno looks lighter. A communication solely between them. 

Giorno lies on his bed. On his chest is an Acacia. It had bloomed hesitantly. His hand gently cradles it. Friendship. Towards Bucciarati, and the others. Something he never expected when he kept himself an arm's length away, and decided that being mere team members was the best he would expect and reasonably accept. 

It’s all changed, and some days his head spins. 

Turning to his side, he gently places the flower down on the bedside table. Staring at the bright yellow ball–like flower as his eyelids flutter.

While the flowers were a start with connecting a line of communication between them, they both know that it’s not the easiest way long–term.

Meanings vary in so many different ways, and the flowers can only use one word or a few. You can bloom more in a bouquet, but parsing through it takes time and can become heavily jumbled. There are moments where Giorno grows frustrated, and Bruno feels tired. He doesn’t give up, however. There’s a plan in mind, but he's unsure of how to bring it up. 

The early fall morning is pleasantly warm. Bruno wanted to take advantage of it before the coolness would come. The rainy weather is soon approaching within the season. Giorno just happened to follow him out, settling near him on the porch swing as he read a book and Bruno watched the birds with a cup of tea. Occasionally murmuring facts towards Giorno. He’s sure he already knew them all, but he couldn’t help it. Giorno would give little hums to show that he was listening.

It was nice. A peaceful moment between the two.

Then Fugo storms out. 

He collapses onto the bench with him on Bruno’s other side. Arms crossed and eyes clenched together with pursed lips. Bruno doesn’t say anything. He just watches the birds and how the flowers sway in the wind.

“I hear that nectar attracts Hummingbirds.” He says instead in the moment of silence.

Giorno nods. Trumpet Honeysuckle grows within the chain of the swing. Attractive for Hummingbirds. 

Bruno takes a long sip of his tea before he places it down on the small table in front of them. He turns to Fugo. Red eyes meet his immediately. 

“How are you?” He signs. Pointing to Fugo before both hands curl into fists in an up or down motion.

“Bad–” He wavers for a second, hands balling into fists for a split second. “–night.” Both of his hands make an ‘L’ shape before closing against his thumbs. 

The conversation goes from there. Fast pace motions that Giorno can’t keep up with when he happens to glance up. He watches in silence. It looks so smooth and easy the way they communicate with one another. Straight–forward in meaning, and more expressive than the flowers he uses.

They can only show basic emotions. Sometimes, that’s all they need, but he knows it won’t be that way every time.

He forces his eyes to fall back on his book. 

Slowly, the overwhelmed tension in Fugo’s shoulders eases. They pause. Both of them look back at the cared for garden glowing golden in the sunlight. The time passes between the three of them. Eventually, Fugo stands. 

 He taps four of his fingers to his chin before drawing it outward. Mouthing the word with him.

“Thank you.”

Bruno bids him a nod as he walks back in.

Giorno tries to pretend he wasn’t watching, but Bruno knows everything it seems when he looks back at him with a thoughtful expression and a smile to match. 

“I taught Fugo sign language when he was 14.” He explains. When he was angry, overwhelmed, or just plain scared he would shut down. Leone was the one who brought the books home. “He wasn’t a fan in the beginning, but I only pushed when I knew it would help. He’s come far.” His smile goes wistful. “I can teach you.”

Giorno tries not to tense his shoulders. The Red Columbine nullifies that notion. Anxious.

Bruno nods. Slipping a small tease to ease his shoulders. “I taught Narancia, I have no doubt in how fast you will learn.” It's get a small roll of the eyes. “I know that this will only be at your speed. It's hard to admit, but when you’re ready, I am here to help.”

Giorno wonders how he does it. How he can carry each of their problems for them. It has to be tiring, yet Bruno barely blinks.

He doesn’t understand. 

Giorno doesn’t give his answer that day. Or not even the next. He muses over the words, watching intently on the days where Fugo signs. Battling his own thoughts. Is it weak? To watch Fugo, the one with a high IQ and one of the top men in the mafia, partake in this, practically rely on it the first year he learned? What does that have to say for his emotional maturity? 

Giorno feels bad about that thought. He knows it’s not right, but he hears his step–father’s cutting voice mocking Fugo and calling him an abundance of names all testifying to him being weak.

Fugo catches him watching one day. It wasn’t even for himself. Another day where every noise feels too much for Narancia. For all his loudness, there are some moments where his head feels heavy and each voice feels as if it’s from underneath water. 

He had laid on the couch next to Fugo, headphones on with no sound playing, but merely to dull the outside world all the same. Fugo kept quiet for him. It was just the three of them home when Giorno had come into the living room to retrieve a book. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fugo sign something to Narancia. 

He pointed to him, before tapping his pointer finger against his cheek, and twirling it. Motions slow for Narancia to understand. There was a moment, then a pause, Narancia nodded.

Fugo would have gone back to his own book if he didn’t feel the stare. Over Narancia’s head, he met Giorno’s eyes. Just as quick, the younger tore them away, snatching the book and abruptly leaving more gracefully than he felt.

Still, Fugo found him that night.

“It helps.” He says simply. Giorno’s about to say he thinks nothing bad of it when Fugo continues. “I know…you’re similar to me. For a different reason. There’s no shame. Useful during missions.” He smiles at that, aware it would spark Giorno’s interest by framing it as mafia related.

He goes to leave, throwing over his shoulder something that reminds them both of Narancia. 

“You only live once, why torture yourself through it?” 

Within a few days, Giorno comes back to Bruno with an answer.

The sessions are private, out of sight from the others. Bruno runs through the basics. Giorno doesn’t find himself as fearful as he was.

Until Bruno pries into the one aspect Giorno was hopeful he wouldn’t notice.

“What does that one mean?” Bruno gestures to the Cherry Blossoms next to them as they sit in the garden. Another bad night for Giorno unbeknownst to him. He had noticed it before, but the meaning of them had never gone with the situation. 

Giorno barely looks up. “Haruno.” He answers. Too tired to hide anymore.

Bruno falls confused. Who? Giorno notices.

“Haruno was…my birth name in simple terms. Though we’re not the same. Not anymore.”

Bruno lets the words over the disconnection process. “Why do you say that?” 

Giorno pauses, trying to place his focus on the flowers. “Being Haruno means being useless.” He says easily. The sky is blue. The grass is green. Narancia's favorite colour is orange. Haruno means nothing more. “I’m not him anymore.” 

There’s a heavy silence that falls around them. Giorno slowly turns back to digging up weeds. 

“You are.” 

Breaks through. Giorno tenses. 

“A name change doesn't negate that, Giorno.”

He feels that in a way he was proven correct; that the patience and kindness Bruno showed wouldn’t stay. A Yellow Carnation blooms between them. Rejection. Bruno gently takes it, fluffing out the petals with such care.

“Running from your past doesn’t do any good. Neither of you are useless. Haruno is you, and you are Haruno.” 

The boy shakes his head. “Haruno was weak.” 

“He wasn’t. Haruno was trying to survive. He was looking for someone who would treat him with kindness. That should be you. Don’t show him the same cruelty others have.”

He can’t. The Cherry Blossoms, Meadowsweet, the Red Columbine, and Henbane. They all symbolize Haruno. A useless, trembling, imperfect child. 

Yet, Bruno doesn’t see it that way. He speaks for him in protection against the hateful words Giorno says. No one, but his hero was ever that way to him before, and when he disappeared; Haruno fell through the gaps once more. 

He doesn’t notice the water brimming in his eyes until a drop hits his hand. He hears Bruno make a small noise from beside him. Once Giorno starts, he can’t find it in himself to stop as the more tears fall and he trembles. Sometimes, even the shortest works can make you break.

He doesn’t notice Bruno scoot closer until gentle arms wrap around him, and tug him into his chest. Giorno takes it as an opportunity to hide his face, clutching one of Bruno’s arms to shield himself further. It’s slight, but Bruno curls around him just a little. Keeping him held steady.

The tears don’t last for long. They never do. Nor is it proper sobbing. Just a small stream of water before his eyes forcefully dry from the years of muscle memory of having to do so.

Yet, he lingers in the embrace even when they stop. The warmth is nice. Bruno waits for him to pull away before he speaks again.

“Why Cherry Blossoms?” 

Giorno wipes at his face, taking a steady breath. Bruno wants to hear more of Haruno. Wants to learn about him.

“I was born in Japan.” He says quietly. Voice raw from the tears. “Gold Experience didn’t form fully until shortly before we met, but they were always there. When I–...When Haruno was scared, or hurt, Gold Experience would leave Cherry Blossom petals for him. To comfort him.”

“And they still bloom.” 

Giorno nods.

“This time it’s for you. Gold Experience comforts you both.”

“Yes.” Giorno breathes. He shakes once more. “They mean renewal. It was both a comfort and a reminder. Gold Experience wanted to be there for us both.”

Bruno hums. Gently, he lifts Giorno’s chin, wiping his tears away with a swipe of his thumbs. “Then let them care for you both.”

Slowly, Giorno nods in the palm of his hands. “I’ll try.” He promises, and Bruno knows he will.

Change won’t be immediate. This is a boy who was taught his voice meant nothing. A boy who was overlooked and hurt for every mere breath he took. Bruno can’t undo years of neglect, abandonment, and abuse within a blink of an eye and snap of his fingers. No matter how much he wants to. 

So, he will wait. As he always does. He can't rid him of the silence, but he finds there's nothing wrong with it. He will learn every flower he can. Teach him every sign. It’s easy for the ones you love. Giorno had given him a sense of purpose in a dark moment when Bruno felt that he was losing himself to this organization. He feels as if he owes him all for this golden part of his life he’s created. 

Bruno pulls him into another hug, the two of them both taking comfort in the weight of the other in their arms. 

Giorno feels a part of himself truly ease with this new chapter of his life.

“I love both you and Haruno the same.” Bruno whispers against the crown of his head. “Nothing will ever change that.”

Giorno can believe it.