Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was just barely noon when Giorno got the news.

Blue eyes darted out the glass window. Outside the sun shone clear, evaporating the last morning dew and flowers bloomed. It was a beautiful day, really, but that wasn’t what Giorno was looking at.

Below there were two people in very recognizable uniforms. Speedwagon Foundation employees, and across from them was a familiar man. With olive skin and chocolate hair, Mista conversed with them.

Giorno could probably expect the trio in this room; his office, in a few minutes. He should probably get ready. Giorno’s eyes swept over the small bit of mess that littered the room.

The office was a strange thing. The walls were half covered in bookshelves, and the remaining space by plants. Flowers, small trees, a Venus fly trap and a few pitcher plants. The center of the room was covered in a scarlet rug, and atop sat a low table with a couch residing beside it.

His desk was also a green tinted olive wood. On it rested a lamp, and far more paperwork than any normal person should have. Trish once told Giorno that from looking at his desk one might think he was addicted to doing boring and dull tasks. He had laughed it off and said perhaps they’d be right. But Trish had only been half joking.

Honestly, it was only his desk that needed a bit of tidying, with papers strewn about, and a cup of half-drunk coffee, it was the one place that looked the least bit lived in.

So, Giorno set about neatening up the papers into straight stacks, all the while contemplating what could’ve lead to this.

When the two SPW Foundation workers had shown up he had been surprised. Giorno did not think he had done anything to earn a visit. Like they asked, Giorno had been staying away from the stone masks, and the friction between Passione being well…the mafia, and the Speedwagon Foundation being just…themselves, had been sorted out a while ago.

The only cause for concern that he could think of was when, a little over two months ago, Passione had destroyed a stone mask without seeking the foundation’s counsel. However, it had been a while since then, and Giorno saw no reason for the Foundation to bring it up this late.

Which brings it back to the original question; why? Why were there two employees right outside his front door?

He supposes he’ll find out soon enough—Mista had been sent to bring the two in, of his own request. Now Giorno just waited.

Sitting down on a cushioned chair, and waiting with only a slight nervousness in his gut. There was just something off; a feeling of unease that was telling Giorno this wasn’t normal.

The door creaked open; slow and steady. Mista was first to enter, quickly strode back to Giorno’s side with far less of his normal casual attitude. To keep up appearances was probably some of it, but Giorno knew there was a bit more.

Mista, in all sincerity, didn’t particularly like the foundation and Giorno knew that, but couldn’t change it.

With Mista by his side, Giorno paints his face over with a gloss of tranquility; eyes are sharpened, lips are curved, brows are unwound—all is done with expert and experienced brushes.

A saccharine smile is on his face when Giorno speaks to the pair. The younger is nervous, his hands clamped tightly around a white wax-sealed letter. Giorno figures he’ll be seeing it soon. The older is stone faced with stiff muscles. Neither is at ease. Giorno figures he should fix that.

“Welcome, please,” he gestures them onto the opposing couch. “take a seat.”

In no time, guided by his honeyed voice—the pair is sitting down and there’s a somewhat awkward silence in the air.

“Right so…” The older one clears his throat, “We came here to tell you something, but…” His eyes wander to Mista. “He can’t be present.”

Giorno’s smile is light, and his eyes are far darker—when he kindly responds: “I apologize if this makes trouble, but Mista is staying.”

“Right, right.” The man responds, a small nervousness in his eyes. “Okay.”

A few more moments pass with no sound to fill them—Giorno speaks again. “So? What’s your business?”

The younger, who hadn’t spoken till then, finally opens his mouth. “This.” There’s a tremble in his tone, a stutter to his words as he hands over the ruby wax sealed letter to Giorno’s outstretched hand.

Sapphire eyes look it over with interest. On the bottom corner, in shaky Italian, it was signed Holly Kujo. For just a second Giorno’s fingers hesitated to break open the wax seal.

Holly, Holly Kujo. The name came up clear from his memory; she was the one his fath-Dio had nearly killed, wasn’t she?

Shortly after Giorno’s rise to the throne of Passione; a man from the Speedwagon foundation had visited him. He wasn’t particularly high ranking—nor did he have a stand. But he had knowledge—and maybe that’s what mattered. He told Giorno of his father Dio, and he told Giorno of the crusade to Egypt. And Giorno never got the full story but he did get the full picture.

In turn—that meant that he knew ….Dio had nearly killed the woman known as Holly Kujo.

(Haruno hesitates.)

Quickly, decisively, Giorno’s fingers peeled off the wax and pulled out a handwritten letter.

Blue eyes moved rapidly.

Blue eyes stopped.

And widened.

For a second Giorno wondered just what he was reading, and if this letter had been meant for someone else. But it clearly, clearly, as clear as day, was meant for him and only him. Or else the words wouldn’t have been so painstakingly written in a foreign language, and it wouldn’t have Giorno’s name plastered all over it.

All at once someone had run their hand over Giorno’s painted face and smeared his smile downward and creased his eyebrows—because by all-the-gods-Giorno-didn’t-believe-in, he was not expecting this. Not at all.

His eyes ran over the last sentence, again. And even as Giorno went deeper into turmoil his mouth went back to its same curve and the crease on his forehead faded out of existence.

--So after quite a bit of contemplation we decided to invite you. You don’t have to come or anything, but you are certainly invited! Gifts definitely are not required by the way. And while, once again, if you aren’t comfortable, coming is not compulsory. Otherwise, I do look forward to seeing you there!

It felt too personal for a formal invitation. As if you could feel the sunny rays of whoever wrote it (‘Holly’, probably, judged by whom it was signed form.) shining through.

And really…why in the name of everything pure and good, had Giorno even gotten this letter in the first place?

Honestly, a family reunion, Giorno had never heard something like that in his life; had never been to one either. It was strange, really strange—for Giorno to get this now. And from the Joestars of all people… A small, nervous, bead of sweat clung to Giorno’s face.

Mista craned his neck to read the letter, and Giorno wordlessly handed it over. (Ignoring the SWF foundation employee’s protests.)

Finally Giorno spoke. The words were heavy, and lay thick on his tongue, the left him slow and paced, like syrup or molasses.

“We’ll….” Steady, steady, pace yourself, this is not the time to be in turmoil. Don’t crack. “Think about it.”

The men nod, and thank him for considering it. Giorno is hardly—sorry—not at all listening to the pleasantries. His mind is occupied. Giorno is working on auto-pilot when he calls out to Fugo in the neighboring room.

Giorno’s brows only furrow when everyone is gone. The two men have left with Fugo to a lavish guest room. Mista is…Mista is there, but he can’t see Giorno’s face, so it’s fine.

“So!” Mista begins, holding up the letter like some strange exotic bird. “What are we doing about this?”

For once, Giorno doesn’t know.

-

Giorno waits to consult them—there’s a whole lot of sitting trying to do work but ultimately only achieving the action of staring at the letter—before he even thinks of asking his companions for help. But when he finally does, the answers are all contradicting.

By his side, Mista is neutral. ‘I dunno, ‘your decision, ‘not really my business either way.’ Giorno finds this entirely unhelpful, but definitely something Mista would say.

Fugo takes, as always, the most logical stance. He is against it; and…Fugo begins with his usual; ‘Please, GioGio it’s only my opinion, I mean, so…’ Giorno cuts off the self-deprecation. ‘too dangerous’, Fugo says. ‘And there are too many risks involved. That kind of position would be a good place for an ambush, or assassination.’ Giorno knows this, yet he’s still conflicted.

(There’s something in Giorno that wants him to go.)

Polnareff is in the affirmative. Go, go, go. Polnareff says Giorno doesn’t have to, but gently adds that: ‘I know these people, Giorno.’ Pol states. ‘Holly is a very kind woman; she wouldn’t ever do something to bring you any harm.’ And, just as Fugo begins to protest— ‘Jotaro and Joseph, I also know. Sure, they aren’t the gentlest people in the world. But they have no reason to incite aggression.’ Giorno trusts Polnareff, he does, yet he has not made a clear decision.

(There’s something in Haruno that does not want him to go.)

Trish is strong. Her mind is strong, her will is strong. Her opinions are strong—so it comes as no surprise that her stance is strong. Trish does not pad her words with the gentle ‘your choice’ and ‘if you want’, that Polnareff and Fugo use. Of course she doesn’t, after all; this is Trish who joined them in Rome.

Emerald eyes stare into Giorno’s blue ones. Her eyes are brimming with exasperation as Trish, for the fourth time in the past hour, talks to Giorno.

“Giorno, if you want to go then just go!”

Giorno’s eyebrows are twitching with irritation when he responds. “I never said I wanted to go.” All Trish gives is a sigh, and a look of near disappointment.

“Right,” Trish breaths. “and that’s why you’ve been glancing at that paper every five minutes, and why you’re coffee is cold, and why you still have those two guys just down the hall waiting for a response.”

Giorno nearly flinches.

Honestly, why was Giorno being like this…this…difficult? It was obvious. And Trish knew exactly why. But that didn’t stop her for being exasperated.

“Trish.” Giorno states.

“Giorno.” Trish responds.

This has been going on for an entire day.

At first Trish didn’t go this far. She respectfully gave her opinion and trusted Giorno to do what he wanted.

To do what he wanted.

The only thing that accomplished was what amounted to practical torture. It was almost painful for Trish to see. Every single fucking time that she visited Giorno he’d have his eyes glued on the letter. Every single time he’d calmly tell her that no, nothing was bothering him.

This was, as she would so eloquently put it, ‘bullshit’.

At this point, Trish is reminded of her days before the mafia—when she was volunteering at a local children’s theater, for her mandatory community service hours that were required for Trish to pass high school.

Trish is reminded of huddling backstage in the dark, where bright stage lights couldn’t reach. She is reminded of children curling next to her, and her having to nudge, encourage, and urge the nervous kids onto the stage. They wanted to do the play; of course they did…they were just nervous to get on stage. They needed a little push.

Who knew that trying to push a full-fledged mafia boss to go to a goddamn family reunion would be so hard?

But Trish would do it, because she was Giorno’s friend. And as Giorno’s friend, Trish knew it fell onto her to prevent a future where all she would see for the next month was Giorno irritably picking at pencil erasers while he stared out the window thinking about all the reasons he should’ve gone. Trish, as Giorno’s friend, did not want to see that.

Of course Trish understood that Giorno had reasons he might prefer not to attend. But Trish also knew that not only would Giorno stress over this for months---she knew that chances are chances.

There’s a chance that Giorno’s fears will come to reality.

There’s also a chance that this will turn into an opportunity Giorno will forever be thankful for. It’s a chance that Giorno will be able to expand his family to encompass more than just four people.

Okay…okay, think. Think, what would convince Giorno to go? Being called out on his bullshit probably wouldn’t do shit, it actually might make it worse. What else?

Trish`s nose scrunches up in distaste when she comes to a conclusion. She had really, really hoped she wouldn’t have to take this angle. But, Trish suspected, this would be the only way to convince him.

“Giorno, this is business.”

For the first time, Giorno seems to actually listen.

-

A large sigh leaves Giorno’s mouth and he flicks his own eyes to the person who has, once again, disturbed him. Bright midday light trickles in from his window as Giorno sits at his desk.

“Trish.” It’s tiring, how she insists so much. Giorno is thinking; he doesn’t need help. Actually, he’s thinking a lot—almost more than usual.

“Yeah?” Trish asks as if she doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

“What have you come to say?” The words are quick, snappy. Giorno dislikes being treated like he can’t decide on his own.

Trish walks over to the velvet couch that Giorno was resting on. She is now towering above him. He does not back down in the slightest, his back is straight and he wears the façade of complete calm like a crown adorning his head.

"Honestly Giorno, I think you should go.”

Giorno closes his eyes. He wonders if he can persuade Trish with logic. “Trish, Fugo is right when he says that is the perfect place for an assassination. I have never even met a single one of that family before.”

(Haruno is scared.)

Giorno provides the logic to back up that creeping and nervous feeling in his gut. That sickly haze that curls and coils and forces p the sludge of past familial encounters.

Trish frowns at him. “Are you really that concerned about assassination?”

No, Giorno has never been afraid of attempts on his life; not at all. He’s concerned about attempts on his friend’s lives—but Giorno won’t even entertain the thought of him allowing Mista to Trish to be hurt in his company. Everything begins with a thought, and Giorno will never allow that outcome.

“No, not really.”

One line of logic has been torn down stone by stone.

“Good.” Trish begins. “It’s good that you aren’t scared for that reason.”

Giorno almost frowns. “That reason? Trish, I’m not scared at all.” Being scared was not a Giorno thing. It was weak, and useless, completely useless. No one has ever accomplished anything by hiding in a closet cowering away from the world.

Being scared was a Haruno thing.

So, Giorno was not scared, not nervous, not even the tiniest bit.

Trish raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. “Uh-huh. Right.” Trish waves the subject away. “So, have you decided yet?”

Giorno pauses. “No.”

Because there was this little part of him that was curious. The Joestars—who were they really? As of now they were blank slates with star-shaped birthmarks, but they must be so much more. Curious.

He wondered if any of them were like his mother.

(Haruno didn’t want to take the risk to find out.)

Maybe they wouldn’t be. Maybe they all had big wide smiles and cooked food at home. Maybe they were kind; better. The small hope glistened in his eyes and skittered in and out of the front of his mind. It would often retire backstage—but was never truly gone.

Giorno thought he rid himself of such silly thoughts a long time ago.

“You sure you aren’t even a bit nervous?”

“Yes, Trish. Not even a bit.” Giorno says, the second half more than a bit strained.

It is at that moment that the door slides open on well-oiled hinges, and Mista enters. He seems a bit on edge, perhaps he head the strain in Giorno’s tone from the other room? Mista’s dark murky eyes quickly survey the room. His shoulders relax. “Are you guys still debating that?”

“…”

“Seriously!?” Mista exclaimed. He let out a quiet ‘whoa…’ Mista sighs, and come over, sitting on the couch and pulling Trish down with him. “I mean,” Mista makes a vague motion with his hand. “I already said I don’t really care either way. I kinda just want you to stop stress’in ‘bout it, Gio.”

“I’m not stressed about it.”

Trish scoffs.

“Um. Right…Well what I just wanna say it that, Giorno,” Mista looks right at him. Giorno feels slightly uncomfortable. “Either way,” Mista makes a large motion with his arms, nearly hitting Giorno in the face. “whether you go or not, nothing will really change right?”

“…What do you mean, Mista?” Giorno questions while having a vague idea of where this was going—but wanted to get straight to the point.

“Well…” Mista looked lost for a second, before he regained his composure and hardened. “Whatever happens you still have Passione. Nothing changes here. And even in the worst case scenario you still have all of us, Trish, Fugo, and I’m sure Pol would stay as well.”

Giorno blinks. Sighs. Smiles. A real smile this time—nothing fake. “That’s…true.” It’s true, but Haruno is scared. And that just says that everything stays the same no matter what, right? “That doesn’t mean anything good will happen if I go.”

He might, might, might want to find out what these new star-marked people are…who they are. He just needs…he needs—some logic—a reason—something more.

“Hey.” Trish starts. “Giorno, this is business.”

And Trish explains how maybe this is business. And it’s a test of how much trust Giorno has for the foundation. And perhaps this is another step for Giorno to overcome in the business world.

Leave it to them—to his…family, to give him the reason he really needs. It has flaws, of course. But Giorno doesn’t mind. Because he doesn’t really care much for business. Not really.

It’s one month later when a small jet marked with a ladybug insignia leaves form Italy to Japan.

Chapter Text

Giorno regrets it.

The sky is stained red, orange, and pastel pink in the fading daylight, the clouds grow golden, and the mansion casts a large shadow. Currently they stand in front of Holly`s manor. Giorno is in the center with Trish by his side. The letter said Giorno was allowed to bring extras so he did. He brought along three extras; Trish, Mista, and Polnareff, the later of whom currently resided within a purse that was flung over Trish’s shoulder.

The letter also said the gifts weren’t required, but as it happened, a few large boxes were resting in Mista and Giorno’s arms; they were gifts. Glass bottles of ruby red wine made a clinking sound as they jostled around. Soft basil bread baked only a few hours prior let off a pleasant aroma that mixed together with the scent of high quality cheese and fresh grown fruits combined into an array of fragrance originating from the boxes and bags.

The Giorno stepped farther into the Kujo`s residence, the more his stomach seemed to think it was a good idea to learn acrobatics.

Dully, he wonders if he has brought enough. Perhaps he should’ve brought jewelry as well—instead? Maybe. But he read that people bring food to…gatherings like these. So he did. But what if the books were wrong? He didn’t know. Fugo said it was fine. Fugo is smart, and has been to a family reunion before. Is Fugo wrong? Ah. Giorno is overthinking this isn’t he? That isn’t good, probably. He shouldn’t dwell in what is already done. That is useless, useless, useless.

(He eyes the bags with a look of doubt anyway.)

His boots hit against the stone slab path at a painfully slow rate.

When Giorno reaches the rice paper door, after finally reaching the end of a dauntingly slow walk through a large Japanese garden, Giorno does not knock. In fact, he doesn’t even move. His hands stay to his sides as if stuck in place by glue.

The house looms over him with its hardwood frames and thatched roof. From beyond the door came the faintest hint of clatters and loud voices. Warm yellow light illuminated the thick rice paper door, and cast pools of gold on the ground.

Giorno’s hands did not move, not even an inch. He could sense Trish`s irritation from next to him. His breathing was ever so slightly off, and the house was not welcoming or warm. It was daunting, looming. Haruno could not move.

Haruno did not want to move. Or maybe he did. He wasn’t sure.

Haruno’s breath seemed slightly abnormal, faster than usual. And will his hands please just move already?

Haruno was acting as he usually did; hiding and flinching away from relatives. His stomach was in loops, as if he was riding a roller coaster.

(No. No. That is wrong. He was not Haruno, definitely not Haruno. He was Giorno. He was not Haruno who cowered away from blood relations. He was not Haruno who never took action.)

Giorno vaguely feels Mista give his hand a comforting squeeze before retreating back to hold his own gifts.

Suddenly an exclamation came from behind, it was spoken in Japanese. Giorno spun around like the wind. The wine bottles lightly jingle from the sudden movement.

It’s an older teen. With ebony hair tinted slightly purple and styled up into a, what Giorno considers, stylish pompadour. His skin is fair, and he has kind pastel blue eyes of a shade that Giorno realizes look a bit similar to his own. The new arrival carries carefully held plastic bags, pink, blue, sunny yellow; Giorno observes the delicate and colorful heads of bouquets of flowers poking out from the baggage.

The teen’s Japanese is a jumble of incoherency; fast-spoken from his lips. Despite having studied Japanese with Fugo for the last month, and doing his best to recall the fragments of the language from his childhood, Giorno can only pick up a few words. It sounds like some kind of greeting.

The Japanese abruptly switches to Italian. “Oh shit, right um, you’re the Italian guy right?”

Giorno is taken aback (from what he can remember of the convoluted family tree, only one or two people can speak Italian, and he doesn’t recall this one being one of them) but he is also relieved, and takes the change in stride.

He smiles, and nods. “Yes, I am. And you are Josuke, correct?” Giorno is glad he took the time to examine a family tree, otherwise he’s sure the names and relations would garble together into an unidentifiable mess.

A startled look crosses Josuke’s face. “Yeah, that’s me.” Giorno hears Josuke mutter in Japanese, something about ‘God I should’ve studied the tree more…Goddd’ the murmur became inaudible after that.

There are a few moments of awkward silence before Josuke speaks again. “So, um, I don’t quite recall your name…”

Giorno’s smile doesn’t falter. “I don’t mind at all. My name is Giorno; it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Giorno’s words are stiff and formal, even more so than usual.

“Oh, right, yeah, it’s good to meet you as well…” Josuke seems almost off put by the formality….that isn’t good. Giorno should probably try and change it. It’s only when Josuke’s eyes flicker to Trish and Mista (who had been uncharacteristically silent) that Giorno, with a startle, realizes he had forgotten to introduce them.

“Ah,” Giorno gestures to Trish, a box still tucked under his arm. “these are Trish and Mista, friends of mine.”

Trish steps slightly forward. “Nice to meet you.” She stretches out a hand, one that Josuke shakes.

“Nice to meet you to.” Josuke awkwardly smiles.

Then Mista swings over and gives one of those easygoing grins that Giorno can never seem to mimic. Shifting his assembly of boxes and bags onto one arm, Mista offers his hand. “Good to meet you, Josuke! ‘Guess we’re all go’in in huh?”

Josuke nods, gives his own easygoing smile. Although, Giorno notices, it doesn’t seem as sincere. “Yeah! Good to meet you as well!” Annoyed? No, there shouldn’t be a reason for that. Hm. Awkward? Yes, that sounds right. “We’re going in.”

Silence permeates the air as no one makes a move. The only sound is crickets from the garden, and the steady ‘tap, tap, tap’ of water dripping off some nearby branch. Josuke scratches the back of his head. “So uh, we’re all going in?” This time it’s more of a question.

With a nod, Giorno confirms. “Yeah.”

“…”

Thus proceeds a minute of awkwardly staring at the door; neither of the boys really being able to open it. Trish sighs, loudly, and mutters something about there being another stubborn child. Mista stands by patiently. Then, much to both Giorno and Josuke’s near heart attack, Trish stomps over to the entrance and knocks on the hardwood doorframe, loudly.

The response is near-immediate. Muffled footsteps approach the door, and a shadow is cast over the thick waxed paper. Then the door slides to the side, and makes way for a homely looking woman.

She has thick blonde hair that is pulled up into a neat bob behind her; it has a brown tint, and gives off a rather earthy kind of feeling. The woman’s eyes are bluish green—also, Giorno notices, a bit like his.

Unlike his, her smile is genuine when she greets them at the door. The woman’s face is like the sun when she beams at them. “Josuke, and…you must be Giorno! Then…” The woman switches to Italian mid-sentence. Her turquoise eyes shift over to Trish. “Who’s this lovely young lady? And this man?”

“’Name’s Mista. Um. Good to meet you.” He looks a little more awkward this time, Giorno notes. Surprising, Mista isn’t usually awkward.

“Trish, my name’s Trish. And you?” Trish politely greets the woman, allowing Giorno and Josuke a break.

“Oh!” The sunny woman brings a hand to her mouth. “How rude of me! You can call me Holly.”

Holly... Holly… With a start, Giorno realizes that she is the woman Dio would have killed. A somewhat sick feeling enters his stomach. However, Giorno has no time to dwell as Holly motions the quartet inside.

First to enter is Josuke, then Trish, and finally Giorno, followed closely by Mista. Inside the house is warm and cozy, with yellow light and the sound of laughter form two rooms over. The room they stepped into is small and lowered from the rest of the house. There are countless pairs of shoes littering the stone floor, and many other coats and jackets hung on the wall. To the side is a large pile of bags and boxes, probably gifts from all the different people who came.

Giorno is glad he didn’t view gifts as optional.

“Giorno,” He’s pulled out of his own musings when Holly calls his name. “I’m sure you’re tired, coming all the way from Italy! Here,” Holly walks over and begins taking the bags and boxes Mista and Giorno are carrying. Holly doesn’t even flinch under the weight. “I’m just gonna place these down over here for now.” Holly gestures to the gift-covered wall. “Is that fine, honey?”

Giorno nods. Nearly frowns at the word ‘honey’ but doesn’t.

“Now then…” Holly spins back to face them with wide smiles and a sparkle in her eyes. Quickly, she’s swept Josuke into a big hug, and given him a pat on the back before turning to Giorno.

Not enough time.

Giorno does not have enough time to move out of the way or sidestep before Holly’s warm arms are wrapped around his back and—Oh. All at once the painstakingly painted picture of Giorno shatters. His face fractures into a million little glass shards. And when he looks into the cluster of small reflective mirrors—all he can see is a messy mop of pitch black hair and bloody red bruises.

A stray cat; Giorno’s reaction is rather like a stray cat straight out of the alley.

It’s constricting, and suffocating. Has someone taken the oxygen out of the air? His pupil’s dilate and his breath stops and his frame stood stock still; more still than a statue. And all that could rent plots in his mind were thoughts of his own mother and a million different ways to politely say ‘Please get your hands off me.’

The moment is over in a flash, far shorter than the hug Josuke received. Because Mista has pushed his way over and firmly guided the woman’s hand away. He has pulled Giorno back, and Giorno couldn’t be more grateful.

With a start, Giorno realizes that Holly is not smiling so wide anymore. She probably felt how tense Giorno went—that’s probably bad, definitely bad, showing himself so openly like that. The blonde cannot believe he let himself fracture like that. He should…do better next time.

(He should be less like Haruno.

He shouldn’t be Haruno at all.

He needs to be better.)

“I’m sorry,” Holly’s tone is completely sincere. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Steading his breath, Giorno finally evens his voice enough to speak. “No, no…” Giorno shakes his head. “It was...nothing.”

A deep breath. Compose, compose yourself.

Giorno could vaguely feel Trish put a warm hand on his back.

Smile.

“Say, Mrs. Holly, your Italian is incredibly fluent. Did you live in Italy at one point?” Giorno brings up a completely irrelevant topic. But, it’s a topic. It’s that something to fill empty space.

“No,” Holly shook her head. “I’ve been to Italy a few times, but never lived there.”

“Oh?” Giorno says. “Where’d you learn it then?” He asks, not really curious.

“Mama taught me Italian, she was from Italy herself.” Holly answered her tone rather fond. “Come to think of it…” She mused. “Josuke, where did you learn Italian?”

Now Giorno was a little curious. He had, in all honesty, already known about Holly’s Italian heritage, studying that kind of thing was one of his priorities before coming. (Because, knowing basic things about a person can be a good way to start small talk that will have them actually speaking instead of some sort of awkward silence.) But, from what Giorno knew, Josuke really shouldn’t know Italian, much less be fluent.

“Huh? Oh, that.” Josuke laughs. “Rohan gave it to me, ‘remember when I told you about him?” Meanwhile, Giorno is just feeling confused. Gave?

Trish seems almost to share the same thoughts, because she, with no hesitation, asks the question. “Gave? What do you mean by that?”

“Ah, y’know…” Josuke waves and flails his arms about. “Rohan.” He states, as if it explained anything.

Giorno’s blank stare and small tilt of head seems only to make Josuke more awkward.

Josuke groans and pulls Holly closer, whispering what sounds like a question. Holly nods. Josuke looks at the pair. “Okay so um, ignore me if you don’t know, but you know stands...right?”

Giorno’s head is spinning—yes, he should’ve expected this. Of course, stands run in families after all. I mean, just look at Trish and Diavolo. Giorno nods. He wonders if he is just as much of a family with these sapphire-eyed people as Trish and Diavolo were. He decides that isn’t too far off.

“Right, so there’s this one stand user, his name’s Rohan, real asshole by the way.” Josuke’s face scrunches up at the thought. “Anyway, I can’t really tell you the specifics but he gave me the ability to speak Italian.”

“Oh.” Giorno blinks. He wonders if he should’ve listened to Fugo’s warnings about stand attacks. He wonders if everyone else here has a stand. He wonders if it really matters.

By now they’ve arrived at the main room, a large comfortable room with matted floors and the pleasant aroma of home fried potatoes wafting in from the nearby kitchen. The light is soft and warm. The cushioned chairs and fluffy pillows look comfortable. Giorno doesn’t pay any attention to those things.

All he can see are all these pairs of sparkling sapphire eyes, startlingly similar to his own. Giorno’s shoulder aches in a way he can’t really describe.

In the corner is a rather large man for his age, with ash grey hair and droopy blue eyes—the man is nestled into a cushioned rocking chair. Beside him is a short woman with fading blonde hair. Giorno notices her hand is interlocked with the man’s hand, his flesh one—his other is a metal prosthetic.

Not far off is a tall and broad shouldered man with pitch black hair and ocean blue eyes—Giorno can recognize him in an instant. How could he not? Jotaro Kujo, he looks completely different from the Jotaro Kujo who Giorno observed through foundation pictures. Well, this is the first time the blonde has ever seen Jotaro in person, some change is understandable. ‘Still’—Giorno thinks, ‘this change is a bit drastic.’

Jotaro looks wholly different; he looks at ease, even relaxed. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips when he converses with the grey haired man. The tension is out of his shoulders and it’s really quite different from the tense and bitter looking teen from those photographs. Giorno wonders if this is what family is supposed to do.

There is another woman in the room. She is sitting down by a low table and carefully eating a ginger snap with a slow relaxed pace. She has long silky black hair and sports tinted sunglasses. Giorno, despite all his trying, does not recognize her. He does know, however, that she is the first person to notice the groupe of people when they arrive in the doorway.

Every eye in the room snaps to them once Holly calls out. Giorno feels pinned in place, like someone has glued his feet to the floor. He smiles. His lips curve upward in such a sweet and practiced way that it’s almost sickening.

First was Jotaro whose muscles went tense and expression grim, next was Suzie Q., who didn’t react much at all, not to him anyway. Instead she cast a look Giorno couldn’t really decipher at Josuke, who visibly flinched in response. Last was Joseph who took one look at Giorno and in a brilliant lack of tact, bellowed out a great big: “HOLY SHITTT! He really does look just like him!”

Giorno freezes, but he does not tense, he does not flinch.

(See? He’s doing better already. This is better, much more Giorno-like, far less Haruno-like—better. But he froze; there’s still room for improvement.)

Trish’s hand quickly squeezes Giorno’s, a comfortable and silent message. She steps up, a pace in front of Giorno. Her eyes are hard, and surprisingly cold, yet despite the coldness of her eyes, her glare could burn hellfire. “And? What about it?” It was less of a question and more of an aggression.

Jotaro is next to step in the fire. “Nothing, it was only a comment.”

“Really?” Trish raises an eyebrow, thoroughly unimpressed.

“Obviously.”

Stand energy begins to seep into the room like toxic gas. In a moment’s time number five is camped outside Giorno’s ear and yelling with a tiny voice. The other bullets are busy scampering around Mista’s shoulder and peeking from under the gunman’s hat.

“Hey! Don’t be mean to Giorno!”

“Yeah! Yeah! How could you!”

“We aren’t gonna forgive you y’know!”

Mista doesn’t make much of a move to stop them. Quietly, calmly, he is standing straight up by Giorno’s side and observing the room with near-pitch black eyes. The blonde recognizes this; this is Mista’s battle stature.

The purplish blue outline of an unfathomably powerful stand begins to manifest behind Jotaro. “We don’t need some guards in here.” The man sneers.

“Jotaro!” Holly calls, scandalized.

Trish grits her teeth. “I’ll have you know that I’m no guard, Giorno has a lot of people working for him, but I am not one of them.”

“Call me what you will it makes no difference.” Mista says, his voice low. Giorno is just happy Fugo didn’t come. That would really get out of hand.

With a start, Giorno realizes even this could get out of hand. Clearing his mind of distractions, the blonde tries to quench the uncomfortable tension that is running rampant in the room and devouring everything like flames. He breathes. “Of course,” Giorno takes Trish’s hand and lightly pulls her back. “it was only an observation…no harm done.”

(In all honesty, Giorno can’t find the right words to say. It seems he’s still off put by the comment—he needs to be better.)

Jotaro grumbles, the bullets begrudgingly fade out of existence, the almost suffocating stand energy dissipates, leaving only traces.

(It’s still too suffocating, Haruno thinks.)

There’s still and awkwardness to the air, and no one seems to have the slightest idea how to break it. Josuke is awkwardly letting his eyes wander around the floor. Holly is looking disapprovingly at Jotaro. Trish is still glaring—and Joseph is glaring back. The only one who seems not to mind the situation is the ebony-haired woman at the table. It seems like something is going to break-

-There’s a great big crash from the other room, the kitchen.

It’s the perfect ice breaker, because all of a sudden everyone is paying attention to the cries of children from just a room over. There is so much going on all at once—Joseph yelling, Holly hurrying over, Jotaro jumping up in a moment of uncharacteristic frenzy—that Giorno almost doesn’t notice that the woman at the table has silently disappeared.

In a few seconds flat, the woman is back in the doorframe. This time she has a small child under each arm.

On the left is a girl who looks to be about ten years old. She has black and teal hair that comes together in a strange kind of braid. The girl is clothed in a pair of baby blue shorts and a butterfly-patterned green shirt. And, Giorno notices, she has a star mark and the same sapphire blue eyes that adorn the faces of nearly everyone here.

The butterfly-patterned girl is looking guiltily down and the floor, occasionally glancing at Jotaro, or the other girl.

This one has short pitch black hair that framed her pale face. Judging by the tiny bits of baby fat, and her tiny frame, she’s probably around four years old. She wears plain black shirt with red trousers. Her hands and legs seem to be almost translucent…like a ghost, kind of. Perhaps it’s a trick of the light? Giorno notes that she doesn’t have sapphire eyes, she has chocolaty brown ones, and, her neck is bare. Star-less.

The star-less girl is trying to hold back tears while clutching her arm that seems to be bleeding. Small little droplets of blood are dripping onto the floor from a shard of glass that is embedded in her arm.

Holly rushes over cradles the girl in her arms, while Suzie Q. holds Joseph back from rushing over and making the situation worse. The butterfly girl suddenly bursts into tears and started bubbling up.

“I’m sorry!” She chokes. “Is Shizuka okay?” The girl is speaking English. Good. Giorno knows English.

Nodding kindly, Holly speaks. “Yes, she’ll be just fine in a few moments.” She glances at Josuke. “Jolyne? Will you please tell me what happened?” Holly asks; her voice more gentle than the spring breeze.

Jolyne wipes her eyes and nods. “Me and Shizuka were um…” the girl looks around guiltily. “So um we were looking for the cookies and um…t-then,” Jolyne chokes up again. “I knocked a b-bowl off the top shelf and if –f-fell on S-S-Shizuka! I-I’m really, really s-s-sorry!”

This time it’s the black haired woman who talks, it’s the first time Giorno has heard her speak for all of the minute he’s been here. “Jolyne. Calm down. It’s not the end of the world.” The words sound harsh but they’re said in such a calm, almost gentle tone that it’s hard to see them as anything but kind. The woman carefully lowers Shizuka onto the floor. Stares Josuke straight in the eye. “Come.”

Josuke hurries over. He steps across the room carefully, quickly, not very sure on his feet. Giorno feels a bit like that, but he also knows how to cover it.

When Josuke reaches the black haired girl, he gently crouches down. Carefully, he holds her arm. “C’mon, Shizuka, shh, shh.” The teen gently handles the girl like a china cup. The change is a bit startling; from the big bulky and awkward figure that seemed too large for any space and too unsure on his feet, into this gentle figure. “It’s gonna be alright, okay? Big brother Josuke is here now.”

“U-Uh-huh…” Shizuka sniffles, holding back more tears. But Giorno notices her limbs are becoming more visible. But not quite solid, yet. That’s strange, was it really not a trick of the light? A stand….maybe?

A large outline comes out of Josuke, big bulky, but not too much so. It’s blue and pink, with hearts all over. Shizuka’s eyes widen, and her mouth shapes into an ‘O’ “That’s…Dia!” the girl is almost smiling now. Giorno supposes this can be confirmation that she’s a stand user.

“Yeah.” Josuke nods. “Me and Dia are gonna make you all okay now, okay?” The girl nods.

And suddenly the stand pulls it’s large first back and gives a punch. Then, Shizuka’s tears fade away. And she’s smiling. “Thanks!” She’s completely visible now. There is a chorus of other thank-yous from the rest of the people in the room.

Josuke smiles, brings his hand behind his head, looks away in embarrassment. There is a light pink dusting on his cheeks when he says; “Oh...C’mon guys. That was nothing worth thanking me for…” He looks happy anyway.

The next ten minutes are a heap of careful movement. Mista is no longer so tense but by no means is he relaxed, there is not a moment where he is not beside Giorno. Trish has moved to the other side of the room and seems to be cooling down with Joseph. Most interestingly though, Josuke seems to be skittering along the edges of that bit of space, where Joseph and Suzie Q reside in old rocking chairs.

A few more minutes pass, and Mista excuses himself for the bathroom. Giorno doesn’t mind. He definitely doesn’t mind. Blink. Calm. What should he do now? Since Mista isn’t here to talk, there isn’t much of a logical reason to remain by the sidelines.

(But the notion of walking into this crowd of tall strangers makes Haruno’s stomach twist and churn in a way he can’t quite pin. But he can say it’s a bad, bad feeling.)

Instead, the blonde settles on carefully observing all the moving pieces. Holly was scolding Jotaro, Trish has moved on to being with Jolyne and Shizuka playing who were in the corner, being carefully eyed by the black haired woman. (Giorno still can’t figure out who she is…) Joseph, and Suzie Q seem to be waiting for something. Someone, Giorno realizes as he eyes Josuke circling around them.

Then, Josuke approaches, and all the blonde can pick out is little bits and pieces of Japanese. There’s a tension, until there isn’t. There are forced smiles, until they have evolved into real ones. There is stony silence until laughter erupts from the trio.

Giorno watches, and wonders.

Then.

“AHHHH! W-WHO-!!!” A sudden eruption of noise snapped Giorno’s attention out of his momentary thoughts and back to the present. Josuke had moved on…over to Trish’s purse? What… “W-WHY IS THERE…A-A….!!!”

Giorno nearly, nearly furrows is brows. Were they carrying anything suspicious? He didn’t think so…But maybe? He would be less surprised if it was Mista, but Trish, Trish had a tendency to hate any mafia-related items or dirty objects. The blonde cannot imagine her carrying something like a gun.

He should…right. Giorno should definitely go over and see what the trouble is. With quick and precise steps, the blonde makes his way over. Calmly asks: “Is there a problem?” Tone light.

Josuke turns to him in horror. “Of course there’s a problem!” The teen grits his teeth. “Why…why is there a….turtle!?”

Giorno blinks. Then tilts his head. “Huh?”

“You heard me! Why is this kind of thing here!?” Fear? Anger? Josuke’s expression is tight and almost panicked. A phobia, maybe? Giorno wouldn’t be too surprised, he had seen stranger.

Smiles and “Oh, that. His name is Coco Jumbo.” Giorno carefully picks up the purse, zipping it almost but not quite closed. “He makes a magnificent pet.” The blonde wonders if Polnareff would be offended.

When the turtle is thoroughly tucked away, Josuke seems to calm down. By now most of the attention that had been directed to the pair has dissipated as people figured out the situation. Steadying his breathing, the teen says: “Uh…right.” Another breath. “Yeah, sorry ‘bout that, I just…”

“A phobia?” Giorno offers.

“Yeah...um. That.” Josuke is looking increasingly embarrassed and Giorno decides someone should probably change the subject soon.

“I see, that must be troublesome.” The blonde responds.

“…” Jouke’s eyes flit all over the room in an uncomfortable frenzy. “Uh. Yeah.” Cough. “So this evening has been pretty nice right?”

“Yes. Very nice.” Giorno answers. Glad that the teen has done Giorno’s work for him. “I was very lucky to be invited, I’m sure you feel the same.”

Josuke nods. “yep, I was actually pretty surprised when Jotaro told me I was invited…” He looks momentarily lost. “…I wasn’t really expecting to be. Mean, I had heard about it of course, y’know? But I didn’t expect to be invited.” Josuke shakes his head, waves his hand vaguely. “What about you?”

There is a moment of silence, the only noise being the clumps of voices that trickled in from the other groups of people in the room and eventually joined together into a stream of unidentifiable sounds. Then: “Oh, nothing much. I simply received the letter and decided it would be nice to attend. It was quite the surprise though; I was not expecting an invitation either.”

Giorno leaves out the messy details of the ludicrous amount of time it took to decide. And he leaves out the part where the employees handed him the letter as if they were before a beast. And he certainly left out the mess of how they were even related. He certainly left out the reasons why he was surprised.

“Ah, right.” Josuke nods.

Feeling the atmosphere, Giorno takes the lead once more. “Is there any particular reason you were surprised?” At the teen’s momentary silence, Giorno adds: “Of course, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.”

“No,” the teen says, shaking his head. Josuke’s pastel blue eyes travel right to Giorno’s ocean blue ones. “I just, I mean, see I’m a bit of an illegitimate child.” His pastel blue eyes flit back to Joseph and the situation is immediately made far clearer.

“Oh.” Giorno manages. The blonde had studied the family tree, and he had memorized names and dates and backgrounds. But he didn’t know this. Giorno had memorized everything he could get his hands on, but that wasn’t everything, and what he acquired on Josuke was more than limited. Raised in Japan, late teens, son of Joseph. Not much more.

Josuke let out a nervous chuckle. “Haha, yeah. ‘Cause of that I was a bit hesitant to go, y’know? I never even knew more than my…dad’s name until I was sixteen. Like, only a little bit ago.” He pauses.

“You don’t have to tell me.” The blonde breaths. Giorno feels a strange pang in his heart. Familiar. It’s not the same, but Josuke’s awkward situation is, in a way, familiar.

“No no, really, it’d be stupid to just suddenly bring it up and not finish.” Josuke responds. “He, my dad, just kind of…showed up. And,” Another pause. “I kind of expected him to be an asshole. Because of everything.” There is another long pause as Josuke’s eyes wander back to Joseph. “But he just…wasn’t.”

Josuke almost seems to sigh.

Giorno begins to wonder if maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, this family will also turn out…well.

The blonde’s attention is drawn from his own thought when Josuke bursts: “Anyway!” Josuke starts again, seeming to cast aside his almost melancholy. He grins. “It was pretty awkward at first! But it all turned out good. Did’ja know? Suzie Q says she doesn’t hold it against me at all!” Josuke says, excitedly, but that soft look hasn’t left. “So…it’s been good. Yep. Pretty good.”

Giorno nods. Pretending to understand how families worked. “Of course, you are family after all.” He smiles.

Pretending to understand what Buccellati had told him so long ago. That good families were just like that, that good families of good people forgave each other, and understood.

Giorno wonders, in the back of his mind, if it will be like that with him as well. If he can fit perfectly into this puzzle, to.

“What about you?” Josuke asks. “Are you um, also one of the old man’s flings?”

Freeze. Giorno freezes. Then he doesn’t, because he isn’t Haruno. Smiles. “Not exactly.”

Josuke looks a tad happier at his answer. He begins to speak again, than-

-“Josuke!” Someone calls. And Josuke apologizes, and excuses himself. And Giorno is really only half listening when he says its fine and that they can continue their conversation later.

Because Giorno’s head is all fogged and clouded up with old fairy tales about a black haired boy who never had a family, then found one.

(How stupid. That’s unrealistic. It’s useless for him to be thinking this, useless, useless, useless. He was here for business, remember?)

Chapter Text

The room buzzes with activity—laughs and arguments and playful jibs—a certain blonde is notably not present among this.

Giorno stands quietly by the wall. He has no reason to leave. He has no reason to go and mingle. Instead, he focuses solely on observing. He watches Jolyne play with Trish. He observes as Mista stumbles back and embarrassingly explains that he couldn’t find the bathroom. He mentally notes it when Shizuka gets up and volunteers to show his gunman the way.

Most of all, he finds his eyes lingering on Josuke as the teen dances half-steps around his father. Giorno finds himself straining his ears when Joseph speaks in a quiet voice that somehow sparks with life.

Giorno finds himself dwelling on Josuke’s words for far longer than he really should. He isn’t even really thinking of any particular aspect. ‘It was pretty awkward at first! But it all turned out good.’ he wonders why this keeps on running loops through his head.

(He wonders why he’s so hung up over this. He wonders what ‘this’ is at all. There’s nothing to think about, here.)

The distraction from his thoughts comes in the form of a softly worded inquiry.

“Giorno?” His name is spoken soft and gentle.

The blonde lifts his head and locks eyes with the woman. He tilts his head, imitating curiosity the best he can. “Yes?”

Holly looks worried, though. And Giorno can’t figure out why. “How are you doing?” But it’s less ‘of a how are you doing?’ and more of an ‘are you okay?’.

Giorno nods. “Lovely. You have a very nice household, Holly.”

But she still looks concerned, and with a start, Giorno realizes that he forgot to smile. He had let his features sag and go stoically blank. He might have even let a crease appear between his brows. How horrible. It was a mistake of his own doing. It was careless of him.

The blonde makes quick action to fix his mistake, but even as his face morphs to a smiling angel’s—the damage is done. Holly brings her lips to a thin line and pauses. “Would you like to help me in the kitchen?” She offers.

The blonde blinks. He’s a little bit taken aback. It makes sense though, of course someone as kind as Holly would offer him a leave from the room. She was too kind really. But he’s bothered, because, that must mean he hasn’t been good enough.

(He knows he hasn’t been.)

Giorno doesn’t have time to dwell on this, though. He needs to answer. “I’d love to, thank you.” He can hardly deny the offer, after all.

Holly beams, big and bright. Like the sun, or a daisy. “Okay then!” She rests her hands on her hips. “Let’s go.”

Notably, she doesn’t reach for his hand, but instead grins and gestures for him to follow her. There’s no hesitance in his steps as he carefully follows the woman out of the room. However, once they’re about to enter the walkway that bridges the Kitchen and the room; she stops.

Giorno is thrown off-tune as he turns his eyes to carefully watch Holly’s next move. She appears to be facing the room’s corner—getting ready to say something.

“Jotaro!”

Whatever Giorno was expecting, it wasn’t that. Holly calls a few things in Japanese. Even without him being able to pick up bits and pieces—‘kitchen’, ‘dinner’, ‘help’—he could understand the conversation quite easily.

Jotaro responds something in Japanese, eyes briefly flicking to Giorno. Holly huffs; lightly tapping her foot. Jotaro rolls his eyes, but lifts himself from the chair nonetheless.

Up close, the man is a step above intimidating. He dwarfs Giorno’s small and slender frame. A rising sense of discomfort clogs Giorno’s throat and he has the urge to step back, but doesn’t. Jotaro’s eyes meet with Giorno’s; bright and blue and familiar. The stare isn’t quite aggressive, but it isn’t welcoming, either.

(Haruno wants to break this eye contact; it’s uncomfortable, really uncomfortable.)

Giorno meets the older man’s eyes; gaze steady and unwavering. Honestly, he’s the one that obviously poses the most threat to Giorno. And by extension, the one that Giorno should be most wary of.

He should’ve listened to Fugo.

Holly taps her foot and scowls at the pair. They shift their attention to her. There is clear disapproval written in the woman’s eyes. But before Giorno has the time to figure out what the problem is, she speaks. “Listen, you two.”

Giorno nods, Jotaro remains silent, but he’s listening.

The woman takes a breath and talks. “Look, I understand you two might have your differences, but you’re both underneath my roof.” She tightens her lips. “And that means cooperation.” She trains her eyes on Jotaro, this time. “It’s my…everyone’s duty to ensure that not a single soul feels unwelcome or uncomfortable. Understand?”

Jotaro grunts, Giorno nods.

Holly’s features melt from hard-cut stern lines into soft edges, and you can see the tension leave her eyes and she shines and tells them she’s glad.

(But Haruno doesn’t relax, because Jotaro isn’t safe.)

-

The kitchen is an impressive thing, to Giorno, at least. He supposes that perhaps he isn’t the best to judge a kitchen. He, after all, has really only ever seen the small grubby kitchens of his childhood.

Compared to those rat-dens anything would be better, really.

This one is nice though, well-kept with fully stocked cabinets and an overwhelming abundance of food stored in the fridge. The counters are clear and clean. There’s a shiny sink and ample cutting boards and cooking equipment.

Holly tells them what to do. She practically sits them down with a list of foods they’ll be making. “Ah, and Giorno,” she smiles, “don’t worry, we’re making plenty of Italian food along with the American and Japanese cuisine.”

He shakes his head. “Please, that kind of thing isn’t necessary.”

The woman frowns and draws her brows together. “I must insist, Giorno. It’s no trouble.”

Giorno smiles: polite and sugar-sweet. “Really, you needn’t-”

The boy is cut of quick and blunt by just a few words from Jotaro. “It’s useless, kid. She doesn’t bend on shit like this.”

“Hey! Language, Jotaro!” Holly snaps.

(Snaps? No, it seems a bit more playful than that. But Giorno can’t quite identify what this dynamic is. A mother and son, he knows, but what exactly does that mean? He isn’t sure.)

-

They make Italian despite any protests Giorno has.

Specifically, Jotaro hangs on one side, molding rice and mashing red beans. Holly sorts through the mountains of produce, picking out stocks of all the things they’ll need. She selects cookware for future use and hands them to Giorno.

Meanwhile: the blonde stares at the whole process with wide and somewhat puzzled eyes.

You see, Giorno “GioGio” Giovanna, had not the slightest idea on how to cook. He wasn’t taught in childhood, he isn’t even sure if he had even seen his mother properly cook. And when he moved out, the boy had no time to learn the skills of cooking. He had fed himself off bread, plain produce, and the occasional treat of eating out. And the boy most-certainly hadn’t cooked himself any meals once he became the don Passione.

Honestly, the only thing he could properly make on his own was coffee.

Or, to put it simply—Giorno didn’t know what to do.

“Ah, Giorno will you wash this?” Holly sets some stocks of celery and leaves of cabbage aside.

He nods; a dull and mechanic action. “Of course.” It’s simple, he thinks, right? Maybe. Washing should be easy, but he’s going real slow. He uses cold water, too hot and the vegetables will be damaged, wilt. Err…that’s what he thinks, at least. Does that only apply to thin leafy greens like lettuce and spinach?

He clears his mind, the cold water rushing over his going-numb fingers. It doesn’t matter much, does it? The cold water won’t do much harm. He’s distracted from his mulling when Holly peers over. “Oh, Giorno!”

He looks up, questioning. “Yes?”

“You don’t need to get every speck off!” Holly gestured to his hands.

Ah, of course. Giorno had been obsessively cleaning through each and every ridge; it was that fact which slowed down the washing process so much. Giorno nods. “…Right.”

The woman laughs. “Don’t worry about it so much.” Her eyes sparkle. “When Jotaro was younger I needed to teach him not to rinse each and every fork individually.”

Jotaro grunts a quiet ‘I was cleaning them thoroughly’ from the counter behind them. Holly chuckles a soft ‘I know’ back.

And Giorno suddenly feels like he’s intruding. All at once, the realization that these people have a history together comes. He knew this before, of course. But the sense is amplified by Holly’s soft eyes and Jotaro’s implied smile. They have a whole story, to them, one he doesn’t fit into.

When Giorno still went to school, his teachers had touched on English sayings and terms. All of a sudden the term ‘black sheep’ pops up. It’s a good description, for this, he thinks.

(Haruno feels a little smaller than usual.)

“Hmm, Giorno? Is there something wrong?” Holly’s concerned tone breaks through his reverie. “You seemed to be staring off there.”

The boy shakes his thoughts. They’re unnecessary—“No, no, I’m perfectly fine. Thank you.”—useless. He knew all of this already. He knew there’d be no way to bride such a large gap before he even took a single step in the manor.

Smiles.

He wonders if Holly can see right through him.

He hopes not.

“If you say so…” She pauses. “But Giorno, if you ever feel uncomfortable, please tell me.”

“Of course.” Giorno doesn’t lie all-to-often, but he supposes that this’ll be one of his exceptions.

Holly joins him at the sink, showing him how to wash the various vegetables and greens. It turns out he was right in his decision to use cold water. Hot would’ve wilted and damaged the produce. In this case, however, it didn’t matter all the much. “We’re making soup, after all. It’s okay to use a bit of warm water!”

Giorno isn’t sure how he feels about how Holly so causally says ‘we’.

Eventually, Holly seems to come to the conclusion that Giorno has learned what he needs to know. So she turns the knob on the sink off, and gestures him towards the fridge. He follows a pace behind, and watches as she pulls out a package of what looks to be…cow? Yes, by the color of the meat it appears to be beef.

Holly brings it out easily.

She places the meat on a nearby cutting board and closes the fridge behind her. Giorno follows the movements, watching. The woman turns to him. “Would you slice this into strips, Giorno? Then we’ll go and brown it to thicken the broth.”

The boy doesn’t answer.

“Giorno?”

Now Jotaro has also taken a break from his work to watch the scene. Giorno feels uneasy.

You see, Giorno is perfectly fine with handling the produce, but in all honesty, he’d really rather not deal with meat. He had recently made it a goal to cut his consumption of meat. So this was…

Rather awkward, he supposed.

“Ah.” He finally acknowledges the question. “One moment, please.”

Giorno isn’t one to bend when he’s made up his mind on something. He isn’t one to change his morality or accommodate an opposing will. This, he’d count as an opposing will. However, he wasn’t dealing with a greedy politician. And he wasn’t debating a climate bill.

This was Holly Kujo in the matter of dinner.

It should be easy, really. But he’s trying to be polite, and he’s trying to be nice, and it’d simply seem a little awkward to decline—especially after he’d already offered his help.

Holly pins her eyes to him, and Giorno can’t help but feel that the woman is far smarter than she lets on.

“Do you have an issue with preparing meat?” Her tone is gentle, and soft, and really quite kind. Relaxing really—she seems…safe. Yeah, that’s the right word. She’s safe.

And before Giorno can even fully realize, his muscles are relaxed and he’s explaining. “I apologize, Holly, but I, I’m, I recently decides to cut on meat. So unfortunately I’m unable to fully accept this kind of responsibility.” He takes a deep breath. “Once again, I sincerely apologize for any inconvenience this might cause.” He finishes, stiff and formal and in the most apologetic tone he can muster.

Holly looks sad, and once again, Giorno can’t figure out why. But she smiles, small and kind. “Of course, Giorno. That’s perfectly fine. There’s no need to apologize.” She starts; soft eyes and kind smile—Giorno still can’t figure out why she seems so sad.

(Had he done something?)

Holly shakes her head, closes her eyes, and when she opens them, there’s a big smile on her lips. “Okay then!” She sweeps the meat into her hands and into the fridge, the door closing behind her. “C’mon, Giorno! We’ll be changing the recipe to Ribollita.”

Ribollita: an entirely vegetable soup that was a staple food back in Italy. The blonde’s eyes widened, and all of a sudden, he feels overwhelmed. It’s too much. He shouldn’t…he shouldn’t intrude so much. “Please, you don’t need to go that far.”

Holly frowns at him. “You’re family, there is no ‘too far’.”

The air hitches in Giorno’s throat. Family? Did this woman really consider them…family? “Ah,” he shakes his head, “I honestly would rather not trouble you.”

“It’s no trouble.”

For once, Giorno finds himself at a loss of words. “…I see.” He breathes. “Okay, right.” Another breath. “But-”

And it’s at about that moment that all tension breaks when a certain pink-haired teen bursts in.

Trish enters as a flash flood.

She flats herself against the door, slamming it behind her, tightly clutching something that looks suspiciously like Mista’s hat in her hands. She’s breathing hard, red in the face. But she still has it in her to scan the situation in the room, read the atmosphere.

She snorts, opens her mouth, then closes it as a pair of loud footsteps thunder past the door and she holds a finger to her lips. Once the footsteps fade into oblivion, she lets out a breath, and turns back to them.

Giorno speaks first. “Trish what are you….is that Mista’s hat?”

“He started it.” Trish defends herself against Giorno’s look of clear disapproval. She huffs.

Giorno frowns. “You shouldn’t be raising trouble in this household.”

Trish rolls her eyes. “Oh yeah right. I don’t take orders from you, besides; you speak as if you aren’t.” Giorno raises and eyebrow, purses his lips. She continues. “I mean seriously! What was with the atmosphere when I came in!”

Giorno waits for her to elaborate.

The pinkette taps her foot impatiently, waiting for Giorno to speak. When he doesn’t, she sighs. Rolls her eyes, again, and continues. “Christ, okay. Let me guess, Giorno did something.”

To which Giorno promptly scowled. “Trish.”

Jotaro shrugs.

“Oh my God!” Trish throws a look at Giorno. “And let me guess again—he’s being stupidly stubborn about whatever it is and the whole thing is fucking stupid because he isn’t doing what’s best for him?”

Giorno fixes his features, but his glare doesn’t disappear.

Holly coughs. “That’s a bit harsh language, isn’t it?”

Trish brings her hands to her hips, staring at all of them in disappointment. “Is it inaccurate?”

“Very inaccurate.” Giorno affirms.

“Shut up Giorno, your opinion—!?!” The door flings open from behind Trish, making her stumble a few steps before bumping into the fridge. The teen promptly glares at the door and yells a high pitched; “What kind of clumsy asshole!?”

Mista arrives—hat-less—from the carnage. “There you were! I goddamn knew it!” The gunslinger exclaims. He wildly gestures towards Trish. “Now you hand back my hat!”

Trish giggles, but it doesn’t sound very light-hearted…more taunting. “Oooh? You want it?”

“Yes dammit! Give—!”

Trish brings out spice girl and softens the door frame enough so that she can easily slip by Mista’s daunting frame. On the way out, just as she speed sup to take down the walkway, she yells a loud: “Remember not to listen to a single word Giorno says!”

Trish is out like a hurricane.

A very hat-less Mista blinks stupidly, before he seems to finally register the room in full. “Oh! Giorno! So you were here!”

Giorno nods. “….Indeed.”

Mista cock his head questioningly, trains his pitch-black eyes on Jotaro, and speaks. “Hey Giorno, you ‘gonna be fine?”

The question has a thousand implications. But the answer is simple. Holly has a soft edged smile, she’s safe, Giorno thinks. Jotaro had straight shoulders and hard-cut edges but he’s not aggressive, right now, Giorno thinks. And he feels fine. It should be fine. He should be fine. “I’ll be fine, thank you, Mista.”

Mista grins. “Mkay! Sorry ‘bout the commotion by the way…I ‘gotta fly!”

And Mista is out like a sudden storm.

Holly blinks, and then chuckles. “Well, you certainly have some energetic friends.”

Giorno thinks this is a gross under-estimation of the trouble that Trish and Mista bring—but he doesn’t comment. “You could say so.”

Holly grins and claps her hands together. “Well then! You heard the girl! We’re making Ribollita!”

Giorno protests, but this has the equivalent effect as trying to persuade a brick wall. As it turns; Miss. Kujo is an extremely stubborn lady when she wants to be.

To end it all, Jotaro tips down his hat and mumbles a quiet: “Good grief.”

-

They make Ribollita.

Giorno is being set with slicing the vegetables as Holly handles the soup itself. Somehow, Giorno finds himself working in somewhat close proximity to Jotaro. In reality, they’re not too close, there’s a good deal of room between the area in which Jotaro rolls out rice, and the area where Giorno slices vegetables—but it feels smaller than it is.

Giorno works hard to maintain a polite distance between him and the two others.

Somehow, it feels too close and too far.

Absentmindedly, Giorno sweeps the now diced onion into a glazed bowl and walks it across the kitchen over to Holly. She smiles, and thanks him. He gives an automatic ‘it’s nothing’, and makes his way back to the cutting board.

He kind of wishes that there was space over with Holly, but unfortunately there wasn’t.

You see, Holly is safe, and Jotaro isn’t.

Or, that’s what Giorno has concluded thus far.

Now that the onion is done, Giorno moves on to slicing the kale into ribbons. It’s difficult, though. The kale is fibrous, and tough, and hard to cut cleanly. Giorno nearly frowns as he moves his fingers closer and holds the leaves tightly in place.

This proves to be a bit of a better strategy. He can firmly keep the leaves from sliding around and wriggling, therefore making the cuts more efficient.

Giorno feels a little proud of himself.

And it’s at about that time when Giorno feels a tap on his shoulder. He spins around in a flash, eyes wide, warning signs bursting alarm bells in his head. It’s Jotaro, tall and towering, and he isn’t safe. Gold Experience tingles hot and burning beneath his skin.

(Despite everything, Haruno still lives)

Giorno forced his muscles to relax, and smiles. “Is something the matter?”

Jotaro looks at him, expressionless and unreadable. “The knife.” he says.

The blonde throws him a confused look. “Excuse me?”

With a sigh, Jotaro pushes past, easily sliding the equipment out of Giorno’s hand. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Now Giorno thinks that the idea that he would hurt himself with a knife is absolute bullshit, but he doesn’t say this. Instead, he tries to read the older man. As always, it’s a task that proves near-impossible for him. This, he thinks, is the reason he feels so uneasy around Jotaro. So he nearly frowns, but instead waits for Jotaro to elaborate.

Jotaro doesn’t elaborate.

“…What exactly do you mean?”

Jotaro carefully places the sharp knife back on the counter. “Your fingers.” He says, as if it explained anything.

“Yes? What about them?” The blonde presses.

Jotaro pauses a moment, before picking the knife back up. Giorno has the sudden urge to step back, but he doesn’t. Instead, he observes. “Like this.” Jotaro brings his own hands to the cutting board and presses his fingers out and over the kale, holding it down. “This is what you’re doing.”

Giorno has the sudden urge to sarcastically agree, but he knows that’s rude, and he knows that’s unwarranted. So instead he nods. “Is there something wrong with that?”

Jotaro looks at him for a moment, before speaking. “Yes. There is.” He doesn’t elaborate; instead, he moves his fingers, again. This time, his fingertips are pointed down, toward the cutting board, and the pad of his fingers face inward. His nails face a straight wall outward. “Like this,” he states, “the other way you can slice off the tips of your fingers.”

“...” Giorno is silent for a second. “I see.”

The older man looks like he’s about to speak, then pauses. And finally: “Do it like this.”

Giorno begins to feel like he’s missing something, again.

“Ah,” he lightly shakes his head. “It’s fine; if I get cut I can always heal it later.”

He could’ve sworn he saw Jotaro frown. The man places the knife down again, and gives Giorno a strange look. He can’t identify just what it means. And finally; the man speaks. “Suite yourself.”

And that was that.

He goes back to cutting the kale into ribbons, but this time he’s careful. And this time his fingertips point down and his nails face outward. It’s not very much harder, just something to get used to.

Giorno still feels like he’s missed something.

-

As it turns, this isn’t a single odd incident.

Giorno is continuously left in a surprised and confused daze.

When he’s peeling potatoes, he cuts himself. The knife slides through the potato too fast and with too much force, barreling right into the pad of Giorno’s finger. The wound immediately bleeds, and Gold Experience instantly comes out to heal it.

Jotaro slides a potato peeler over.

And when Giorno needs to cut a few carrots, Jotaro hands him a smaller, more appropriate, knife.

And when Giorno needs to figure out which tomatoes are okay to use, Jotaro shows him.

And when Giorno doesn’t know which salt is which, Jotaro points them out one-by-one.

Giorno never asks for assistance, but Jotaro comes anyway. Giorno still has the odd feeling that there’s a point to this, that there’s a reason for this, but he can’t figure it out no matter how hard he tries.

But he does figure it out, eventually.

The realization comes when he’s chopping leeks. He’s somehow drifted closer to Jotaro. He isn’t very sure when it happened, but over the course of time, they’ve grown closer. There’s now only a small strip of counter separating the pair.

Maybe it’s because of the close proximity, but when Jotaro suddenly—out of the blue—asks: “Do you eat fish?” It’s rather startling.

Giorno snaps his eyes up. He isn’t prepared for the question—but Jotaro gives him time. “I’ve been trying to eat less,” he pauses “because of over-fishing and all that.” It was a bit hard, actually. “A small shame, really, since octopus salad is one of my favorites.”

“Hmm.”

“Why do you ask?” Giorno questions; curious.

But Jotaro doesn’t answer. Instead, he addresses Holly. “Mom.”

Holly spins around, big beaming smile and doe-eyes. “Yes?”

“Do we have another platter?” Jotaro asks, curt and blunt.

“Hmm…” Holly hums. “Ah!” She grins. “Yes we do, just on that shelf, yeah, see it?” She points to a high cabinet. Jotaro grunts. “Why?”

Jotaro pauses, then; “We’re making a separate batch of vegetable sushi.”

If he were eating anything, Giorno would’ve choked. As it stands; Giorno drops his knife. “I apologize for the sudden interruption, but do you mind explaining?”

The older man glances at the blonde. Eyes cold, face hard-edged and clear-cut. He doesn’t answer, for a moment. “For you.” He explains, and leaves it at that.

Giorno freezes, and—once again—can’t seem to shake the feeling that he’s missing something. “You…” For some reason his voice is weaker than it is should be, smaller, quieter. “You don’t have to do that kind of thing for me.”

Jotaro doesn’t answer, but Holly does. “What kind of nonsense is that!?” Giorno knows Holly is safe, but he needs to hold back from flinching nonetheless. “You’re under this roof, and not as guest! You’re family!” Holly softens her tone. “You understand?”

Giorno doesn’t answer.

Jotaro stays silent, and he doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t disagree, either—and Giorno realizes two very important things in that moment.

It was—is an apology. Jotaro has been apologizing, for the scene at the beginning, or maybe more. But it’s been an apology. And Giorno knows the difference between a sincere apology, and one that mimics that sincerity. And Giorno knows that everyone has a different way of apologizing, Fugo, he know, will beg for forgiveness, and Mista will mumble and stumble around, and Trish will huff and blush.

Giorno thinks this must just be how Jotaro apologizes.

The next thing Giorno realizes is that Jotaro is safe.

They make a separate platter of vegetable sushi, despite any protests Giorno voices.

(Haruno doesn’t feel too much like himself, right now. Does this make him Giorno? He isn’t too sure. Does it matter?)

Chapter Text

Initially, Giorno tries to balance carrying an entire three dishes out to the dinner table, but Jotaro was having none of it. Giorno only has the time to process the emergence of stand energy, before Star Platinum has scooped the fresh-out-of-the-oven lasagna ('I promised Jolyne we'd make some...') off its resting place—an unstable perch atop a bread platter that balanced atop the pot of soup Giorno was also balancing.

"Hey!" Giorno frowns.

"Stop being a dumbass." Jotaro responds, deadpan, as he sets the lasagna on the counter.

"I could have handled it." Giorno huffs, and the movement makes the platter of bread slide off its post.

Gold Experience makes a dive to catch the platter, but Star Platinum is faster, as it easily snatches the dish and carefully places it on the counter, before fading back into the hard edges of Jotaro's frame. "See?" Jotaro says. "I told you."

Giorno feels like he'll burn up of embarrassment. He manages a quick 'I'm...going to go serve this...' and leaves the kitchen as fast as he can, having to resist the urge the slam the door behind him. While on the walkway, Giorno pauses, and tries to cool down his racing heartbeat. It was only a small thing, nothing to worry about.

He thinks he'll try to avoid Jotaro for as long as possible.

Giorno snaps out of his thoughts when he feels a tap on his shoulder, he jerks his head around, momentary panic. But his muscles immediately relax at the gentle face. It's Holly.

"Yes?"

Holly studies him. Frowns. "You don't have to worry about Jotaro judging you, y'know."

He forces a smile. "I'm not quite sure what you mean?"

However, the moment is interrupted when a large figure, Jotaro, approaches the pair. "It's a biological function." He says—deadpan—a statement that feels like it was taken far out of context. It takes Giorno a few seconds of confused staring before he can even begin to attempt figuring out what Jotaro had meant.

Don't...worry about being embarrassed, it's natural...? Err...It's natural to make a mistake? Perhaps? Admittedly, Giorno can't quite figure out exactly what Jotaro means, and even if he were to ask, (but he won't, because Giorno knows everything, should know everything), Jotaro was already long-gone; bringing the food he was carrying to the common room.

Giorno doesn't ask, but Holly notices. She chuckles. "Don't worry about him, he's never been the best with words." A pause. "He means not to worry so much...even if his phrasing is a little confusing."

The blonde opens his mouth, and he means to say; how do you know? But he doesn't ask. Because it seems like something he should know, even if he doesn't.

(There's something extremely wrong in the mere suggestion that Giorno Giovanna, who's supposed to know, doesn't know.)

The woman smiles, gentle. "It's because we're family."

Holly answers his unasked question, and somehow, Giorno is left with more questions than he had before. Because, the thing is, the blonde isn't exactly sure what family is. But he doesn't ask these questions, either, and Holly doesn't answer, this time.

The question doesn't leave, but it fades. They bring the food into the common room. The low coffee table was already mostly taken up, though. And they had a problem.

Holly frets over eating in a place other than the dining room, but Joseph yells a loud 'you won't make these old bones move!', and suddenly Mista is volunteering to help Josuke carry a big, heavy, table into the already cramped common room, and Jotaro is telling them 'no'. And it's so much, too much, for Giorno to follow. All of a sudden, everyone is talking at once, and conversation bounces around fast and confusing. He can vaguely hear Mista boasting that with him by Josuke's side; they don't need anyone else to carry the table, which Josuke seems only half-okay with.

Jotaro, Josuke, and Mista will bring a table, Holly and Giorno will bring in the rest of the food. The first time they come back, a pot of Ribollita in one's arms, a tray of Sashimi in the other's—they come back to see the very broken remains of a table in the common room, and the wide—deer-in-headlight—eyes of Josuke.

He stutters an excuse, garbled and Japanese. Before putting his hands up and ending on a; "Uh, watch!" The room fills with stand energy, and Giorno watches wide eyes as, from a single punch, the table reassembles itself. Ever little splinter settles back into its rightful place, the legs plop back together and stand up tall, the table is repaired in an instant. Josuke throws them an unsure grin. "See! No harm done..."

Holly raises an eyebrow. Looks at them, uncharacteristically deadpan, before speaking a bemused: "Don't....don't do that again."

Josuke grins, nervousness still showing proud and blatant on his face. "Y-yeah! I, um, won't!" And the matter seems to settle.

The third time they come back, mashed potatoes, sushi, and some kind of Turkish carrot-yogurt salad—Turkish? Giorno expected American, Italian, Japanese, and European cuisine, but he can't, for the life of him, figure out whom here would be eating Turkish. It puzzles him, but he sets the thought aside.

The table is being set; Holly and Giorno gently leave the dishes in the middle.

Bringing food the common room is relatively uneventful, except for the table, and except for the last time. On the last trip, they come back—bread and dips and a jar of pickled garlic—and walk right into a very obvious crime scene.

Giorno blankly watches, jars heavy in his hands, as he witnesses his own body guard, his own subject, partaking in such dirty thievery. Which is to say; Mista was joining in with Josuke and Jolyne as their thieving fingers not-so-subtly snitched food from the table.

"Mista." Giorno says, disappointment—because he knows that's worse for Mista. And maybe he's being mean but he did help cook that food and seeing it so clearly disrespected...so maybe he's being petty. But it has the desired effect.

"Giorno!" Mista jerks around, smiles uneasily, slinks back in the face of Giorno's disappointed look. "Uh."

The blonde sighs. "Don't do it again."

Mista nods.

Josuke and Jolyne are a whole other story. The teen glances around uneasily, that same deer-caught-in-headlight look. "Um." And he apologizes so much that even Giorno wouldn't be able to find the heart to reprimand him. Jolyne, on the complete opposite hand, grabs as much of the sushi as she can, giggles, and tries to make a mad dash for the exit. This attempt, however is very promptly stopped by Jotaro as he picks her up and swiftly delivers her right in front of the young girl's grandmother.

Giorno watches the way little Jolyne's face momentarily looks delighted when Jotaro picks her up, and promptly falls the instant she's dropped in the care of someone else. He isn't sure what this means, but he observes. The other spectators also watch with varying degrees of interest, Trish, who had been talking to the black-haired woman (Giorno still hasn't figured out who she is), falls silent.

"Why'd you do that?" Holly frowns, an expression that doesn't suit her.

The girl waits, for a moment. "Shizuka did it first." And chaos erupts.

A piece of completely empty space lets out a betrayed: "Jolyneeee!" And now that he focuses there, that empty space has a very suspicious steady stream of faint breath. The girl slowly becomes more apparent, black hair and star-less shoulder. Shizuka, the invisible one.

The black-haired woman chuckles from her stand at the edge of the room. "You didn't think you'd get away scot free, did you, Shizuka?"

Shizuka sticks her tongue out. "Dad would have let me."

The woman raises an eyebrow. "Ooh. Too bad Joseph isn't the only one here, then."

To that, the child had no response.

Matters continue, and the table gets set. When Giorno asks to help, Holly waves him off. 'Go socialize!'. So he does. He doesn't really want to, though. So he ends up on the edge of the room, watching, again. For half a moment, he thinks of talking to Jotaro, they have some common interests, in biology. But Giorno hesitates, and soon enough, Jotaro is talking to Josuke. He also thinks of talking to Josuke, but the older teen flits from one person to another like some kind of butterfly. Clearly nervous, but not just that. Clearly everything else, too. Every hint of anger—burst of delight shows clear on the teen's face.

(Somehow, the flat, neutral expression of Giorno Giovanna that Haruno wears feels strangely inadequate. Out of place.)

Josuke said he was afraid, and Giorno just can't stop thinking about it. Because the older had attended; and he came alone; wearing his heart on his sleeve. Josuke flits around like a butterfly, nervous, far from carefree, but happy. He scrunches his face up in distaste, and laughs loud and unruly. And there's something in that way that Josuke talks and forges bonds that Giorno just can't stop thinking about.

When Josuke eventually, unavoidably, comes to Giorno—the blonde just can't stop his question from popping off his tongue. "How do you do it?" He asks, because he just can't.

(There's no way he could ever be like that; not when he stands in a shadow rather than being to one to cast such a thing. Not when the afterimages of bloody bruises that never seem to fade still dot his arms. Blonde hair or not.)

"What?" Josuke tilts his head, confusion showing clearly on every scrunched line of his face. And he's doing it again.

"That." Giorno blurts, half-thinking. And then he starts thinking, and tries to push back the embarrassment that floods his cheeks when he realizes how vague his wording had been—when he realizes that he asked at all. "I mean," he pauses, and he would say 'um', but that's not something he can do, "how are you just...talking and getting along." Another pause. "or, how did you come all on your own and..." It's not the best phrasing, and Giorno feels an ashamed heat begin to rise.

Somehow, though, Josuke seems to understand. "Ohhh!" He realizes. "That!"

"Yes." Giorno nods, as if he hadn't just committed a butchery of language. "That."

"Hmm..." Josuke frowns, eyebrows furrowing in concentration. "You just...do?" He shakes his head. Giorno feels a flash of confusion cross his face, and Josuke notices immediately. "Uh, sorry that wasn't very helpful, um, I mean." He takes in a deep, ragged, embarrassed breath.

Giorno blinks. "No it's okay." He still doesn't understand, sure, but he'd rather drop the subject as soon as possible.

The older of the pair shakes his head. "No, no. You asked me a question...I should at least give a proper answer." He laughs in embarrassment.

(He doesn't think he'd be able to laugh under shame.)

"You don't have to." Giorno states, as a courtesy.

"Nah, nah, it's fine." Josuke pauses, again, that same expression of furious concentration "I guess...It's all about taking chances. Like, um." He shrugs. "There's not a lot to lose, right? Err...there's a big chance to have something nice, right? So. Uh." He waves his hands around. "Y'know?"

"Ah." Giorno says. "I see." He states, only half-seeing. But he is half-seeing. And he figures that's better than not seeing at all. Giorno, on some level, understands, but it's strange. He takes chances; he takes them all the time, sometimes big, sometimes small. But he just can't...

(He can't take a chance on what he doesn't understand.)

"Ah, gosh." Josuke wilts. "Sorry...I didn't explain it very well, huh."

Giorno shakes his head. "No! It's very fine. I understand. Please don't trouble yourself."

It's at about that moment that Holly's voice rings over everything. "Hey! Dinner is served!"

The announcement provides a perfect diversion. Giorno walks over after giving Josuke a vague smile and nod and a 'thank you'. When he reaches the dinner table, Giorno hardly knows what to do. There's fresh dinnerware and plates, but he hardly knows what to do with them. Is it impolite to serve himself? Surely at least one of the Joestars is religious. Should he wait for....grace? He's heard of it, but never actually seen the whole thing. The closest he's got is the prayers Mista will say before eating his fill of dinner.

But apparently his worries are needless, because Holly is quick to step in and ask him what he'd like. "It's okay," Giorno says, "I wouldn't want to trouble you. I can serve myself."

"It's no trouble." And because Giorno seems to be at a point in which he feels some kind of pain in his chest when he sees Holly frowning, he gives.

The Ribollita is a given, they fill him a well-sized bowl, but aside from the obvious, he also takes a share of the vegetable sushi, he eyes the mashed potatoes, too. He's contemplating on whether he should ask for a small serving, when he feels a light tug on his clothing. Somewhat startled, Giorno twists down to look.

"You are...Jolyne?"

The girl nods, opens her mouth. "Yeah!" She says, big grin. "And you're...uh," her big eyes sparkle up at him and she scrunches her face up in concentration, 'J-or-no...?"

Now, Giorno isn't exactly sure how to respond to this complete butchering of Italian sounds by a small child. Small American child. He could correct her, but somehow, that seems offensive.

He doesn't really have to respond, though, because Jolyne shakes her head. "No! That isn't it! It's..." She trails off. "J-orrrrrrr-no?" She says, grossly over-trilling the 'r'. At this point, Giorno feels a small pain in his chest. "Or! Um. Maybe it's, G-shh-r-no?"Somehow, the strange placement of sounds is worse than the first two.

The blonde blinks, closes his eyes, and tries to figure out how to deal with this situation. He opens them, places down his food, and crouches. Smiles. "Don't worry about it; just go with whatever pronunciation is easiest for you."

Her face brightens. "Okay!" Her eyes sparkle, blue and moss green. "Then, J-or-no!"

Giorno nods. "Yes? Is there something you needed?"

"Oh! Yeah!" Jolyne nods to herself, and somehow it's one of the most adorable things Giorno has ever seen. "Well," she puts her hands on her hips, emulating authority, "I'm here to tell you to eat some lasagna." She says; doing her best to look strong....despite her being heads below Giorno's height. In this situation it kind of worked though, since he was crouching down and near eye-level with her.

That aside, it was an unexpected request. "I...see. Is there any reason for this request..?" Giorno questions.

"Uh." Jolyne says. "Yes. It's good. Duh."

The blonde consults his internal dictionary of English words, and cannot find 'duh' for the life of him. He doesn't ask what it means, though. Just files the question away to ask someone else, later. "I see." He nods. "I'll make sure to have some, then." He says, very seriously.

"Good." The child says, nodding approvingly at the person several years her senior. And then she leaves.

Giorno blinks in confusion, wondering what happened. Sighs, and serves himself a small bit of mashed potatoes to accompany his lasagna.

Next, he looks for a place to sit. This proves a difficulty in itself, though. The couch is all taken up, Josuke and Mista and Trish all shoved onto it, Jotaro occupied the big plush chair, and while Suzie and Joseph remained in their rocking chairs. Jolyne and Shizuka both seemed to just be going every which way, and the only real seat seemed to be with the black-haired woman at the low, wooden...table? Giorno had called it a table earlier, yes, but it wasn't exactly. It was as though someone had built a blanket into the table....he'd heard of this from Fugo, he's sure.

It was essentially the height of a normal coffee table, however: a blanket seemed to be wedged between the legs of the table and the tabletop. It flowed out and concealed the center. What was it called...? Right ! A kotatsu!

Giorno wonders if he can join. Maybe, but maybe not. Because from what he's heard; a Kotatsu is a rather personal thing. You only sit at them with friends, or family, that kind of thing. And Giorno doesn't even know this woman's name. It seems offensive to even ask.

The woman flicks her eyes to him. Giorno notices the sunglasses that lay discarded on the table. She points at him, and then, elegantly, points to the kotatsu. He blinks. The faintest hint of a smile crosses her face. "Don't be confused." She states. "Come on, now. You were looking for a seat."

"Ah." He clears his throat. "Yes." He pauses, half-steps forward. "Thank you very much.

The woman waves her hands. "Just sit."

And so he does.

Giorno begins kneeling down, studying the woman from the corner of his eye. Until now, he had pegged her somewhere in her mid to late thirties, but upon closer inspection: the woman appeared to be developing small wrinkles in the corners of her eyes, and he can make of stray grey hairs. Forties, then? Perhaps edging on fifty.

He's jolted from those thoughts the instant he puts a foot under the blanket, though. It's really, really hot. Not the normal 'under a blanket' hot....It was as if a heater had been built in, too. Right, of course, it had. What was Giorno thinking? Somewhat reluctantly, Giorno slides his legs and sits, placing his food atop the usual table.

Giorno has never really liked temperatures that were too-hot or too-cold. He preferred that nice, unremarkable, zone in between. He imagines temperatures like this might be fine in winter, but the house isn't extremely cold. It's better than just sitting on some random piece of floor, anyway.

So he smiles at the woman. Briefly attempts some small talk, but she doesn't seem all-too interested. So the table goes into a comfortable silence. He thinks of starting to eat, but that seems rude considering she didn't even have her food yet. Giorno tries to ignore how stupidly hot it was under the blanket. It felt like he was melting. The silence doesn't last long.

"You're uncomfortable?" the woman questions; more of an observation. He doesn't answer. It'd be rude to say yes, after all. "I see." She nods to herself. "Let's fix that." And she flips the blanket open on one side.

Even though Giorno had only been there for a minute or two—the cool air is such a relief. It sweeps in like a cold breeze, the first signs of autumn. A startling wave that washes away plenty of the heat. It's good.

"Ah..." Giorno says. "Oh." He blinks in surprise and his brain struggles to catch up. "...Thank you very much."

"Don't mind it." The woman says. "I'm not particularly attached to that high temperature in the first place."

"Thank you, regardless." Giorno says—thinking that he needs to hide any traces of discomfort better.

She shrugs. The blonde doesn't know how to continue the conversation, but, luckily, Holly comes at just the right moment. She steps in, a large bowl of the Turkish salad in hand, and places it in front of the woman.

"How are you two doing?" She asks.

"Good, thank you." Giorno answers.

(Still uncomfortable to some degree. The kitchen was safe; this room of too-many people is different.)

"Just fine." The other responds, looking at Holly. "The salad looks good."

Holly grins. "I'm glad! It was made just for you, after all!" She hums. "I'm going to of over there, okay? Enjoy yourselves!" She pauses. "I know how hard it was to come all the way here, for you specifically." She gestures to the black-haired woman. "Papa kept saying 'nah! No way Lisa Lisa will be able to come! J-Just don't invite her!' and other such nonsense." Holly chuckles. "he just didn't want you to see him like this."

The woman sighs, bring a palm to her face. Shaking her head. "Sounds just like him." She takes a moment. "Tell him I knew this was coming the moment he stopped practicing Hamon like a fool."

Holly laughs. "I'm sure his heart would be broken! Anyhow, do enjoy your stay, regardless!" She points to another chair that has been brought in. "I'll go over there, but if you need anything, just holler!"

And Holly was off.

Lisa Lisa, Giorno shifts his eyes to the woman. The name sends him deeper into confusion. There's nothing resembling such a name on the family tree. Not at all. Yet she's definitely treated as family. Yet for some reason the name rings a bell. Somehow.

The woman only gets more confusing, honestly.

"So," he gestures at the carrot salad. "You're Turkish?"

Lisa Lisa shrugs. "Something like that."

"I see." Giorno nods and it's stupidly awkward.

But the awkwardness fades, it does. They settle into a comfortable silence, and Giorno finally begins to eat his food. And, once again, Giorno feels like he'll melt. The kotatsu is warm, not hot, just warm; cozy. The Ribollita is delicious, perhaps even more so when he knows every little ingredient that's gone is. The sushi is a delight, nothing like the vague memories of cold cry convenience store sushi his mother had gotten for him while he was younger. The lasagna, too, it wasn't perfect by any means, but it was a dish that only Jotaro had made. So that made sense, the lasagna had its imperfections, but it felt like it was made with so much heart.

Giorno melts, and this time it isn't from pure heat.

"Hey, Giorno!" Someone yells from across the room. The blonde in question snaps his head around. "You helped with the Ribollita!? It's stupidly good!" Mista continues.

The blonde goes red in the face. "Oh." He shakes his head. " No, no. Miss Holly did most of the cooking, please compliment her instead..."

From her chair, Holly frowns. "No, Giorno, you did plenty! I couldn't have done it without you. Besides," she frowns, "you even did most of everything in making the soup."

Josuke perks up. "Oh, you helped make all this, oh man, it's all great by the way! I especially like this, uh," Josuke squints at his bowl, "Italian thing."

"Ribollita." Giorno says, automatically.

"Yeah." Josuke agrees. "That."

"I like it too!" Jolyne yells, randomly, before going back to whatever she and Shizuka were doing.

"Mm." Joseph nods. "It's some of the best I've had."

And the same is said by the others, too. Everyone but Shizuka who seems to be occupied with something else. It's all too much for him.

Giorno blinks. He feels his ears heart up, his cheeks, too. He might've curled into himself and quivered a small 'stop that...' but, as it is; he just does the best to hide his face and doesn't speak.

(He's never liked attention, but somehow, this doesn't seem too bad.)

"Aww!" Trish coos. "Look! He's embarrassed!"

"I'm not." Giorno snaps, too-fast.

"Mhmm." Trish gives him a dry look, raising her eyebrows. "I see." She says: mock-belief. Giorno, metaphorically, wants to die.

(Yeah he might've, might've, liked it before. But not this, not weakness like this. He won't be judged like this.)

Seeming to read him, Trish sighs, and throws him a bone. She elbows Mista in the ribs. "'Least he isn't as embarrassed as you were when you volunteered to carry that table, then ended up completely useless!" Trish rubs against Mista, who sat in the center of the couch, between her and Josuke.

"Hey!" The man cries. "I knew I shouldn't have sat next to you! That'll bruise y'know! Also! That was an unexpected event!"

"Pshhh, aren't you the tough guy. I hardly touched you." Trish retorts. "And unexpected occurrence? Please enlighten me, since when has you being useless been unexpected?"

"It hurt dammit! If it bruises you 'gotta give me a hundred thousand lira!" Mista huffs. "It's unexpected because it's not like I knew their way of moving that table would be smashing it, bringing the pieces to the main room, then re-assembling it! How am I supposed to know that!?"

"Pfft. First," Trish wags a finger, "who still uses Lira? Italy traded that out for the Euro two years ago." Mista starts to protest, the pinkette hushes him. "Forget that, that's only a mere 50 Euros, I'll pay that and name an album after you if it actually bruises!" She throws out another finger. "Next! There was no way for you to know but I'm ragging on you anyway."

Hey!" Mista cries, swinging his head to Giorno. "Gio, this isn't fair! She's being unreasonable! You have to stop this!

Now, the blonde had been watching the event with a level of comfortable amusement, finally lets it burst. He laughs. "I'm sure you can handle it, Mista."

Mista sends him a look of betrayal, Giorno only chuckles. There's something comforting in this familiar kind of exchange. Then, Josuke—whom had been watching the interaction with muted horror, finally steps in. "Um. Uh, don't fight...That's um...my fault? And don't swear in front of the children!"

"Oh shit." Mista says, realizing Shizuka and Jolyne are right next to them. "Uh. Don't worry about it, that table trick was actually pretty cool. Uh," he glances at the children, "sorry about that, damn."

Shizuka whispers something to Jolyne, probably translation, but they speak too low for Giorno to hear.

"Don't worry," Jolyne perks, "you haven't said anything I don't already know. See," she stretches, "fuck, damn, bitch, crap, shithead. Also!" she gives them a look, "I don't speak Italian anyway."

Shizuka glances up, and then translates what Jolyne said into shaky Italian, before speaking her own thoughts. "Whatever," Giorno notices the girl peeking at him, and then she raises her volume, "it's fine. You're the mafia anyway. So swearing is normal."

The other conversations that had been happening immediately silence.

Giorno is one of the two that choke. I mean, of course they knew, but Giorno still...he hadn't wanted to draw any attention to it.

The other person that chokes is Josuke. He spits out his food and wipes away his mouth. "The mafia!?"

Ah, he hadn't known.

Giorno stiffens, turns his expression neutral.

(Haruno braces himself for the rejection that will undoubtedly follow.)

"Yes." Giorno nods. "I apologize if that makes you uncomfortable, I understand some people have moral objections to such things." Especially in Japan, where the mafia was demonized to no end and it was highly unlikely anyone would ever meet a member—Giorno wouldn't be surprised if Josuke completely refused to associate himself anymore.

"Ah...no, um," Josuke hesitates, "no you're a good guy...just...how'd you end up in the mafia?" he isn't meeting Giorno's eyes, and looks too-small for the place he occupies; awkward. Or maybe the blonde is just self-projecting.

"I'm not just 'in the mafia', Josuke." Giorno states, calmly, because he needs to be straight with this. "I am the mafia, the Don."

That's when Josuke chokes for a second time, this time, on air. It takes him several seconds of coughing, but eventually Josuke regains his breath. "What!?"

Giorno feels a painful squeeze in his chest, and thinks he should have prepared himself better—shouldn't have cared in the first place.

(Right this was what he was expecting, it shouldn't hurt.)

Josuke looks at him, eyebrows furrowed. "You're like, fifteen."

Giorno shakes his head. "No, I'm sixteen, now."

The older teen is looking at him strangely. "Aren't you, like, too young for that shit?"

The blonde feels as though his very clothes are being pulled tighter—suffocating. He shakes his head, neutral, porcelain mannequin mask. "No, I can assure you I am plenty capable of the job."

Josuke's frown only deepens. "But isn't that...I mean I don't know much about Italy but isn't the mafia there...isn't there a big drug problem...?"

"Indeed." Giorno nodded his head solemnly. "I can assure you, though, that in the eight months since I have taken this position, we have been making our best efforts to fight the unfortunately high drug rates and have made significant progress on the issue." Stiff, formal, it seems more natural.

Its seems more natural, comes like second nature—is second nature—but the words feel like thick oil in Giorno's mouth.

"Oh." Josuke blinks. "God." He breathes. "Doesn't that position have a high mortality rate...how did you even...!"

Giorno nods. "It does, however, I am confident in my ability to fight off attacks." He hesitates. "...I fought a number of battles to reach this position...I won't be killed very easily."

The look Josuke sends him is something he doesn't quite understand. It looks pained, in a way. Not disapproving, but pained. He can see the expression elsewhere, too. Holly wears it; Jotaro is blank, as is Lisa Lisa. It's unnerving; he can't stand this feeling of scrutiny.

"You're sixteen." Josuke looks sick, and Giorno knows that he should've steered the conversation elsewhere. "Did you even complete your first year of high school?"

Giorno hesitates. "No...but I'm studying in my free hours." He doesn't mention how few those are.

"God." And finally, Giorno figures out the expression.

It's worry.

Oh.

Right.

(He relaxes, and then freezes up in a whole other way.)

It's unexpected, and Giorno isn't sure how to deal with that. He just doesn't know this unnerving worry that makes him shrink in his boots and be left disoriented.

"Please don't concern yourself." Giorno says, and it feels weak. "I'm doing well."

Josuke doesn't look so sure. "But!" He responds, bites his lips. "That's just wrong."

Giorno stares. "I'm fine, I'm not the youngest, anyway." He says, like that makes it better. (Josuke doesn't stop looking so pained.)

And it's at about this point of complete uncertainty and discomfort, that Jolyne—like a wrecking ball—breaks the tension. "W-Wait! You're in the mafia..." Her eyes sparkle as she runs up to Giorno in total delight, Shizuka must have translated for her. "That's.....so cool!" She bounces up and down. "Do you do the whole Godfather thing!? Or, like, with all the fancy suits and cars!?"

She stares at him with big gleaming doe-eyes, and Giorno is bewildered in a whole new way.

"Uh." He pauses. "...Yes?"

"Oh my God!"

Joseph laughs so hard it sound like a bellow. Then and Trish join in, and Josuke is also laughing, and Giorno feels himself smiling, and it's all so much better than before. All the tension is gone and Josuke didn't...

(Josuke didn't stone him.)

"Well!" Joseph laughs, wiping away a tear. "Don't worry; we're all strange, here!" He announces in loud English, and Giorno wonders just how a man so old, with a foot in the grave, seems so full of life. The elder flamboyantly gestures to Lisa Lisa, and says: "I'm sure you can confirm!"

Lisa Lisa nods. "Indeed, I never could've imagined a man of whom could not notice a brain clinging to his backside would exist." Giorno, at first, think sit must've been a joke. But Lisa Lisa is straight-faced; deadpan.

Joseph coughs. "That couldn't be helped..."

The woman raises an eyebrow. "I'm sure."

Giorno carefully observes to interaction, there's something between them that he just can't identify.

It's achingly unfamiliar in a familiar way.

"Don't forget, forgetting to tell everyone we were gonna get married, then showing up to your own funeral!" Suzie pokes, from her rocking chair, quieter, but lively. There's a sparkle in her blue eyes. Out of the corner of his eyes, Giorno can see Josuke grinning, wide, almost relaxed.

Joseph chuckles, nervously. "Ahaha! My memory has never been the best..."

"Voicing your objections to my wedding by glitter bombing!" Holly says, pouting-look on her face.

"That was a reasonable way!" Joseph protests. He flies a hand up, points a finger at Lisa Lisa. "And next you will say: It was a good enough way, less boring than a simple objection!!!"

The woman in question raises an eyebrow, finishes chewing her bite of carrot salad. Lowly chuckles—meets Joseph's eyes. "It was a good enough way, less boring than a simple objection." She says, somewhat dryly.

Almost immediately, there are large bouts of laughter. An inside joke? Probably. Giorno has to hold back the urge to shift uncomfortably in his place. He'd only just settled into the dynamic of his own company. Never mind this.

(He's reminded, again, that he just doesn't fit here.)

Lisa Lisa wags a finger, effectively near-silencing the commotion. "That was only somewhat-acceptable, though, you simply cannot forget the other incidents."

Josuke half-laughs. "Yeah, like sneaking off to Japan and having an affair!" He says, rocky English, his tone isn't hostile.

"Uhhhhhhhhhh." Joseph groans, tips of his ears coloring pink. He glances. "It uhm, ended up well though, with you, y'know!"

He's embarrassed, but smiling, relaxed. Giorno doesn't understand how you can be relaxed when people are shaming you. It's a foreign concept, one Giorno doesn't understand. So he watches, puzzled—wondering how the elder doesn't look to be consumed by his own instinct.

The teen snorts. "Valid."

"Then you took in some random baby in the same town and gave Mama a near-heart attack." Shizuka adds in, form the floor, looking up at the rest of them. (What were her and Jolyne even doing? How could they find so much entertainment on the floor? Perhaps Children just have a way of finding fun, Giorno wouldn't know.) Her expression was confusing, though. Giorno couldn't figure out what she was thinking at all.

"Ahaha!" Joseph laughs. "I suppose there's that, too! Another happy accident with the best possible results!"

Prior to the comment, the toddler's expression had been some mix of hope and expectancy, the expression falls once she hears Joseph's response. Giorno needs to take care to check if he's furrowing his brows as he tries to figure out her behavior. The signs are all small, and confusing, but they're there.

But he has to mentally file this information away as a question is directed his way. "So," The old man's eyes sparkle as they direct toward him, "what about you? I'm sure you must've had some unique experiences!"

"Ah, me?" Giorno says, trying to organize his thoughts, stalling for time—because there's really not much that he hates more than questions about himself. He waves a hand. "Nothing much, really. I suppose it depends on what you're talking about."

Trish snorts from her seat on the couch, and Giorno end up sending her a glare.

"Hmm..." Joseph says, scratching his head. "What's the word, again?" He slides his gaze to Jotaro, and Giorno wonders how the elder manages to so strangely walk the line between old and young, frail and strong. "Y'know, a journey but, exciting!"

"Adventure." Jotaro supplies, speaking his first words in a long while.

"Yes!" Joseph snaps his fingers. "That!" He nods towards Giorno. "You must've had some pretty funky adventures, yeah! I mean," he laughs, "you did become a mob boss, after all!"

Ah.

Right.

Giorno supposes he really should've taken the fact that this would most certainly come up at some point into account. He had, of course, juggled the possibility, briefly, but he never particularly worked out the details of what he'd say. His mind was, after all, very occupied by worrying about the other details of everything else.

"Funky adventures." Giorno echoes. "Of what kind?"

Joseph shrugs; a movement that comes out strangely on his rounded, shrunk frame. "Whatever you think is important."

"Ahaha." Giorno laughs a laugh that happens to be missing everything it would have were it genuine; it was, needless to say, not very genuine. A plastic laugh.

"How you ascended to your position, for example." Jotaro suggests.

(Haruno needs to remind himself that it isn't a threat.)

"If you're comfortable with that, of course." Holly adds.

"Oh." Giorno says, without thinking, shake his disoriented head. "Yes, of course." He glances at Jolyne. "Could we please hold the conversation in Italian?" He fluently switches to Italian. "Although I will keep it tame, I do not believe Jotaro would be comfortable with his daughter hearing this." Giorno tilts his head. "Am I right?"

Jotaro grunts, and it's enough of a yes.

"Of course you can." Holly smiles. The others nod.

Err...everyone bar Jolyne, who has words to say on that arrangement. "Hey! No! Don't exclude me from a conversation!" She pleads. "I want to hear, too!"

Giorno sends her an apologetic expression, and hopes that's enough.

"Well," the blonde begins; pausing to make sure everyone's attention was on him, even though he didn't even want the attention, "I suppose it all started with my dream."

"Oh God. May I go to the bathroom? I do not need this monologue again." Trish stresses mock-panic in her voice. Green eyes already teasing him.

Giorno sends her a look. "Trish." He shakes his head. "Will you please not interrupt like that?" he looks up, and somehow the eyes don't feel so burning hot. "And yes, you may go to the bathroom, please do."

Trish sticks her tongue out. "On second thought, I don't think I'll go to the bathroom."

Giorno has to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. "I see," he strains a smile, "feel free to leave if you so wish, though." The blonde coughs. "Ahem. Anyhow, as I was saying." He raises his eyes and—as if second-nature—slips on a mask, this one has burning eyes and is molded of confidence, has been dripped in gold-leaf. "I, Giorno Giovanna, have a dream." He pauses, for dramatic effect.

(It's all a stage play. Golden hair and golden gaze.)

"Only months ago, you could walk through Italy, and just beneath all its beauty, would be a horrific mess of sex trafficking, slavery, drugs—it had gotten to the point where even children as young as ten would be picking up substances." He pauses, makes sure everyone has soaked in that information. "Opium, cocaine, LSD, you name it and it was distributed." He shakes his head, recites his lines. "My dream was—is—to take such things off the streets, to make Italy a truly beautiful, prosperous place, not just gold-leaf rot."

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Josuke nodding.

"Hey!" Jolyne interrupts. "We're going to go because some people, some absolutely stupid illogical meanies won't let us listen."

Jotaro waves his hand. "Then go"

Jolyne sticks her tongue out, and Shizuka can hardly wave before they're out the door.

Giorno pauses, unsure of how to proceed. "Anyhow...I ended up meeting a man by the name of Bruno Buccellati—the leader of a local branch that maintained order in Naples." He almost falters, but doesn't. He leaves out Luca, and leaves out the battle—because he isn't telling them the full story—not really.

It's all glamour. He'll leave out the most gruesome details; he'll pain himself a pretty little character. They nod along.

"During my initiation, I unfortunately ended up in a battle with a long-range stand, this stand ended up killing a civilian, I simply could not forgive the Capo, Polpo, for this, and on out next meeting I ended up removing him." He doesn't say killed. Because on some level, Giorno just doesn't want to let them know that about him—see that about him.

(Imagine what they'd do.)

He's doing a good job, painting himself a moral saint—a pillar of perfection. He's doing good, not mentioning how many times he bled, he looked out and—on some level—felt lost.

"This kick started a hunt for that Capo's hidden fortune, we ended up recovering it." He doesn't mention how he nearly died, how they all nearly died in such a short span of time.

"Hey!" Mista complains. "You just left out my super-awesome super-cool battle!"

Giorno wants to snap: 'yes, that's the point' but holds off. He can't do that right now. "I'm sure they'd love to hear about your battles, later, Mista."

Mista shrugs.

The blonde continues on, despite the annoying comments from Mista and Trish. Who knew trying to tell this story with their commenting would be so troublesome. Perhaps it's that tiny bit of pettiness that lurks within him acting up, but when they get to Trish—he makes sure to add.

"Trish was acting extremely rude, and of course that was to be expected of someone in her position, but she went above and beyond." He fakes an exasperated expression. "She even demanded that one of our companions strip his shirt off, just so she could use it as a towel!" He says, fake amazement in his voice.

Josuke exclaims an; "Oh!" as he looks at Trish strangely.

Holly smiles uneasily and says... "Ahaha, she was in a stressful situation, after all!"

The pinkette in question flushes bright red and stutters. "T-t-t-that was!!"

Giorno watches her embarrassed state with some kind of petty sadism. It's beautiful payback. And no, no, it's not like he's extremely annoyed at Trish for consistently outing him, and getting him into strange situations. Not at all.

Haha.

"Ahem." And Giorno spins their attention around his finger. He mentions La Squadra mostly in passing. 'After that, we got into another stand fight, with another of the assassin team.'

He never mentions how he sent a snake to inject poison into his very own veins, he never mentions writhing on the scalding stones under the burning sun after having exposed his very self to Purple Haze's very own virus. He never mentioned how Fugo had looked at him with such panicked, horrified eyes.

And if Giorno, for a split second, thinks he might want to share—it's only because it'll spin his tale to include overcoming painful odds.

(He just can't share.)

When they reach the train ride, the sex pistols randomly pop out and start clamoring on about how hard they fought and how they almost thought everyone would die. Giorno gestures number five over and end up having to whisper: "Hey, number five, will you do me a favor?" Number fives nods from inside Giorno's hair and the blonde quietly murmurs instructions. "I don't particularly want everyone to know the details like that, so would you please tell the other pistols to quiet down?" The answer is, of course, yes. And Giorno breathes a mental sigh of relief as he watches the sex pistols fade back into silhouettes that melt away like ice in the desert.

When they reach the part in which they need to steal a car; Mista suddenly jumps in. "Oh! You guys won't believe what Giorno's idea was!"

Josuke is the first to react. "What?"

"Gosh!" Mista says. "It was such a what-the-fuck kinda clever!"

"What was it!?" Josuke says, already very invested in this story.

"Dudeee." Mista drawls. "His solution was to turn a hundred cars into frogs, so no one would know which car we stole!"

Giorno feels his eyebrow twitch.

"Oh my God." Josuke says, wide-eyed. "He didn't."

"He did, though!" Mista cries, delighted. "That was exactly my reaction!"

An ever-growing pool of irritation seems to be seeping through Giorno's mind, because he did like Mista and Trish, he really did, but he didn't like their interjections. He just...He wants these people (not his family—never his family) to see him as a clean record—as clean as it can get when he runs the mob.

Giorno finds himself respectfully coughing, a lot. "Anyhow, while to the side, I unexpectedly got dragged into a stand fight, another of the assassin team, but fortunately I was able to quickly win that battle and figure out more utilization of my stand, Gold Experience. I figured out that, to some degree, it can heal."

He doesn't mention that he only figured that out has his throat bled rivers on the ground, as his own blood pooled so thick in the grass that the ground couldn't absorb it all and puddles of crimson spotted the ground. He doesn't mention the panic that coursed through his system as he seemed to be falling apart, bloody chunk by bloody chunk.

If Giorno, for even a moment, ever thinks that perhaps he wants to tell them—it's only so that he can provide better explanation for his stand abilities.

Josuke perks up. "Heal? Like, how my Crazy Diamond can heal?" He looks some kind of excited. "'Cause if so, we're like Stand buddies!"

He shakes his head. "Not exactly, though. Healing is just something my stand has the ability to do through a twist of its rules. It's not perfect by far."

Josuke "Stand buddies."

Across the Kotatsu, Lisa Lisa lets out a muffled chuckle.

Giorno blinks. "Yeah....Stand buddies. Sure."

"Anyhow," he continues, "By the time we were nearly to our destination, Mista and I encountered another stand fight, but that resolved rather quickly with no major loss or wounds—"

"What!" Mista bursts. "I got like, sixteen bullets! And Gold Experience's healing hurts like a bitch!" He cries. "My nerves were a casualty!"

Holly chokes, and then starts coughing, and Giorno looks at her, worried. Eventually, after a few moments, she recovers enough to speak. "Sixteen...bullets..." She says, looking faint and ghostly pale.

"Don't worry!" Mista says. "We've all endured worse." He brags. And Holly only goes paler.

Giorno tries his best to hold back his irritation, and resolves to speak to Mista at his first opportunity. The blonde clears his throat. "I'll admit, that fight did pose a little trouble, however we got over it relatively easily."

Mista snorts. Giorno glares. "Hey, hey, man." He waves a hand, casually. "I ain't questioning your authority, Gio." He says, but he doesn't say boss.

Giorno coughs, again. "After that, a rather large incident happened once we reached the San Giorgio Maggiore." He pauses. "The former boss called for one of us to escort Trish inside and...in the end, we found out the boss's goal was to..." Giorno pauses, glances to Trish. She nods, waves her hand casually, doesn't meet his eyes. He swallows, tries to swallow down lingering nausea. "He wanted to kill her. He was going to kill her." It feels a disservice, to glamour this.

Holly sucks in a breath, Josuke looks sick to his stomach. Joseph is angry, clenched fist and furrowed brow. Jotaro and the rest remain largely unreadable.

Trish's fingertips are trembling—Giorno doesn't want to talk about it any longer. "After that information was revealed to us, we all formally decided to betray the boss, only one of us, Fugo, decided not to come." He says, skipping over how Narancia nearly stayed and how Fugo stood, trembling, by the water's edge.

He doesn't mention Buccellati.

"We figured out that if we could use one of our..." he bites his lip, "former companion's stand ability, we could figure out the boss's appearance, by rewinding the events of time in Sardinia."

Mista grimaces.

"We got there with minimal difficulty."

Trish snorts.

Giorno ignores it and pushes on. "While we were able to recover that information..." He takes a breath, it's okay. "We suffered our first casualty." Second casualty.

"Oh...Giorno." Holly breathes.

And if, for even a half-second, he wants to tell her the crushing despair he felt upon arriving too late to a bleeding corpse—it's only because that'll make him a more sympathetic character in this gold-leafed story.

So he goes through it all mechanically, vaguely retelling events, telling nothing of blood or gore or anything besides glamour. Because he just doesn't—can't—reveal a weakness like that. He doesn't want them to hear about how brutally he killed that doctor. He just doesn't want them to.

(To reject him.)

And when he reaches the coliseum, he doesn't tell them about how Narancia was skewered, spread like some kind of demented display in a modern art museum. He doesn't mention how unforgivingly empty Giorno's body became. He doesn't mention how his heart clenched.

And if Giorno is tempted, for even the smallest space of time, to tell them—it's only because Narancia deserved the recognition.

Giorno glosses over Polnareff, doesn't mention how they found his body bleeding out. He doesn't detail requiem, and leaves Buccellati at 'his body had died, his soul had nowhere to return' and brings no more attention to Diavolo than 'My Requiem stand resolved the situation and brought the former boss to a place he will never return from.' He doesn't even name the devil.

Form the edge of the room, something sounds like it's jostling. Giorno dismisses the noise as his imagination.

And if Giorno is tempted to share the way his entire frame trembled and froze in horror when Mista and Trish happily made their way back to the coliseum, if he's at all tempted to talk about how utterly lost he felt—it's only because it would add a touch of 'and this is what we lost for the future' to his story.

(Some part of him longs for understanding, for the weight of his shoulder, but he just can't trust them with that, with his weaknesses. He just can't, even if he wants to.)

"Oh." Josuke shakes off his dazed look. "Wow."

Giorno forces a chuckle. "It's certainly a lot."

"Yeah..." Josuke says. "Are you, um, alright? That was a lot." The teen says; that same worried expression. "Is a lot, I mean."

Giorno nods. "Of course."

Trish's purse falls over, loudly spilling an assortment of makeup, snacks, and coins all over the floor. Giorno thinks: 'Oh. I didn't imagine it.' Now, what exactly is the cause of this disturbance? Right, A certain turtle.

They forgot Polnareff in the bag.

The blonde would've wondered how they even managed to accomplish such a thing, if he weren't already busy marveling at the fact that they did.

"Oh!" Trish realizes. "We forgot him!" She says, wide-eyed as she slides off the couch and towards her purse (and the turtle, currently trying to escape it.)

"Who?" Joseph asks. "Did I forget someone...?"

The teen carefully steps through the assortment of other bags, and there are some muffled noises, and some wrestling things out of her purse, but when Trish turns around, she has the turtle in her arms.

Josuke eyes it, suspiciously. "Why'd you have to bring that," he wrinkles his nose, "thing out."

Trish shrugs. "Suppose I didn't have to, but I doubt Polnareff likes being stuffed in a bag the whole time."

There's a universal moment of silence. Even the turtle himself is uncharacteristically quiet.

Then, Jotaro speaks. "....Polnareff?"

Trish cocks her head. "Uh...yeah?"

"The tortoise." Jotaro repeats. "Polnareff."

Trish nods. "Yes. He told you, right?"

It's a bit delayed, but Jotaro—blank-faced—drops his cup. It shatters. "No, no he didn't."

"Ah." Trish says.

Polnareff's voice suddenly rings from the turtle, as his ghost-like form flickers into existence, hovering above the jewel on Coco Jumbo's back. He waves a hand, awkwardly. "Hi. Uhm. Nice to see you all after such a long time!"

Even Lisa Lisa looks to be somewhat surprised by this development; her deadpan face donning wide eyes.

Giorno feels pained from the second-hand embarrassment.

Josuke freaks. "Holy shi—what the heck!? The turtle...is that a ghost!?"

"Ahaha." Polnareff manages. "You could say that!"

"HOLY SHITTTTT!!!" Joseph exclaims, sound filling the room. "OH MY GOD! YOU BECAME A TURTLE!!!"

"Haha." Polnareff says. "Yes. Yes I did. Long story."

"Tortoise." Jotaro corrects. "He became a tortoise."

"Like it makes any difference." Joseph grumbles.

"It does." Jotaro says. "It means he can't swim. So he could do nothing if I threw him in a pond, right now." It sounds like a threat.

Polnareff laughs, nervously. He'd doing that a lot. "Oh c'mon! You wouldn't do that to your own dear best friend!"

The man says nothing.

"How did you..." Holly begins. "How did you turn into," she looks lost, "a...tortoise."

"Hmm." Polnareff says. "Well. Basically, I died and my soul got tethered here to this...tortoise of whom is a stand user. It's comfortable enough."

Holly looks faint. "You died."

Jotaro looks tired. "And you didn't tell us till now." Tone-less.

"Uh." Polnareff nods. "yeah, honestly I was half-debating whether to come out at all but...the food just smells too good!"

The transition is clunky, and awkward, but smooth, too. Jotaro looks tired, haggled, pressed down under the weight that Polnareff is dead. But he recovers—tiredness still clings to his frame, but there's a vibrancy that enters him, too.

Jolyne and Shizuka re-enter the room. Jolyne initially glares, and sticks out her tongue, but the instant she sees Polnareff, her kiddish mind is infatuated and casts everything that isn't cool ghost stuff out the window. 'It's a ghost! Dad, do you see!? It's a GHOST!!' Jolyne volunteers to carry Polnareff around, but then Frenchman, understandably, has a few issues with being carried by a girl who can't stop poking and prodding him. Eventually, he ends up sittings atop the kotatsu, and retells his own version of the coliseum. Still vague, but detailing the fight in more detail.

Giorno is relieved when Polnareff doesn't touch on how everyone felt, at all. He supposes Polnareff must've been held back by a sense of morality—not revealing what others wanted to hide, like that. He wishes he could say the say for Trish.

Polnareff's retelling ends when he goes off and says something Giorno didn't want him to say. "Man!" Polnareff says. "Y'know, after going through all that, it's kind of amazing how nervous he was before coming here!" Polnareff says, English.

Giorno feels something in himself just die. He spoke too soon. Bullshit with Trish being the only obnoxious person that speaks too much about Giorno.

"What!?" Jolyne exclaims. "Giorno was nervous!? He looks so cool and calm! There's no way!"

The blonde nods. "Yes, Jolyne. You're right. Polnareff is just speaking nonsense."

"W-what!? Giorno, don't slander me in front of what might as well be my niece!" Out of the corner of his eye, Giorno sees Jotaro smile. "You were definitely nervous out of your mind, anxious really."

"I wasn't." The undertone reads like a warning.

Trish snorts; he shoots her a yellow-rimmed glare. She holds her hands up, eyebrows raised.

Polnareff continues on, though, either oblivious-to or ignoring the warning signs. "Honestly! He studied the whole family tree, started catching up on English and Japanese classes, he was completely obsessive with the scheduling!" Polnareff exclaims.

"Omg." Jolyne says, wide-eyed.

In the back of his mind, Giorno also wonders what 'omg' means. He mentally files that word away, too. He'll need to figure out the meaning later. At the moment, he has a lot to do. "Stop."

"Yes, that's right, Jolyne! I'd find him up late so many nights just staring at the invitation!" Polnareff says, delighted to talk to his metaphorical niece.

"Polnareff, that's enough."

He's feeling antsy, irritated, he's feeling something that drops his stomach and garbles the thoughts in his head. At some level, Giorno knows this is illogical. There's nothing much at stake, really. But there's a lot. It's so little but it's a lot. The knowledge that maybe it's a little silly doesn't quell the rising heat or the horrible itch.

The small, ghost, Polnareff waves his hands around, delighted. "And! Gosh, you should've seen him on the plane!" Some ugly, terrible, coiling beast starts to build in Giorno. That's his. It's his information. He told Polnareff to stop. "He doesn't get motion sick or anything, but he was so nauseous he couldn't even eat any of the food we brought!"

The ugly thing coils, spreads its roots like black walnut.

Jolyne opens her mouth in amazement. "Wow! There isn't even anything scary!" (Out of the corner of his eyes, Giorno can see as expression that very much looks like disapproval cross Jotaro's face, but he gives this detail no mind.)

The defensive edges that clung to Giorno's frame morph into something like direction-less aggression.

"Yes!! Gosh you would really have no idea looking at him now! He also—!" Polnareff is swiftly cut off. Giorno is no longer having any of it.

The ugly little thing called fear snaps.

"Polnareff." He says; icy cold words that are lined with a smoldering edge. It seems like the very air has gone still under the weight of his words. "I told you, didn't I?" He swings his glare down to the holographic figure. "Shut up."

Polnareff shuts up.

Immediately, a pacifying wave of relief washes over the blonde. Polnareff stopped; Giorno doesn't have to worry anymore.

The relief only lasts a second, though.

Giorno realizes what he did in an instant. And he, so very unlike him, thinks; 'shit.' He wasn't supposed to show that side of himself. The blonde goes stony-faced, all-to-familiar neutral expression on his face. He wasn't supposed to show them any kind of glance of that brutal, almost Dio-like side of him.

And for the second time in his entire life—first being when Mista and Trish happily greeted Bruno's dead corpse—Giorno can't bring himself to study the people around him. He doesn't want to know, doesn't want to see.

(He's afraid to see what he's always seen.)

He wonders if Jotaro will be frozen—seeing the afterimage of a long-gone man. He wonders if Josuke will change his mind on Giorno's fundamental nature. He wonders if Holly will begin to see him as a threat. He wonders if Joseph will remember dying.

He's never used that tone with Polnareff—saved it for the double-crossed politicians, the former drug-smugglers. He saved it for those who were supposed to fear him.

Giorno wonders if Polnareff—

—Polnareff raises an eyebrow. "And since when have I answered wholeheartedly to you?"

Giorno wonders if it's a threat. Somehow it doesn't seem like one.

"You do work for me." The blonde answers.

With a hum, Polnareff nods. "Yes, I do. But that hardly matters."

Giorno stares. Wants to say: 'I could kill you, do anything to you, really', but doesn't. The words hover on the tip of his tongue; an unspoken question. Why stick around?

The man reads right through him. "You could kill Trish, too. But you never even touched her." He says.

"Ah." Giorno says, tilts his head. "Then, you aren't..." (Afraid? Disgusted? Horrified?)

"I'm not." Polnareff nods, confirming. "And no one else is, either." He says, Giorno only half-believes it. "Go look for yourself."

Giorno sucks in a breath, murmurs something so low only Polnareff can hear—'fine'—and lifts his eyes. Josuke is put-off, but not in the worst way, in more of an unsure, worried kind of way. Holly pities him. It's obvious in every wrinkle of or face, furrow of her brow. Jotaro is blank faced; no different form normal. And the story stays the same through everyone—only changing at Shizuka, of whom has somehow slipped from his vision, and Jolyne—of whom only seems to be sparkling brighter than before.

"You did a mafia boss thing!" She shrieks, delighted. "Do it again, do it again!" She pleads.

And Joseph laughs. Big, bellowing laughter that sweeps aide all the previous tension. "Well!" He says. "Will you look at that!" He says, grinning at everyone, focusing in on Josuke. "I reckon she'll be disappointed if she goes and visit Giorno on her own, later, and finds that the only thing he gives her is milk and cookies!"

Giorno feels himself begin to relax.

Josuke laughs, too. "I reckon so!" He stands up, makes an exaggerated movement. "I, Jolyne, say for you to show me the cool mafia stuff!"

Joseph straightens his back the most he can, tries to put on the neutral expression Giorno always wears. "I, Giorno Giovanna, will show you to the cookie table! Behold the," Joseph can't keep a straight face anymore, the next words are spoken between loud cackles, "behold the wealth of the mafia! See how many snacks we can order!!"

Giorno cracks a grin.

The pair plays it out like an improvised stage play. And it's great, hilarious, a kind of set-up plan than serves as a drain for all the lingering tension. The noise jumps up, and conversations drift around, again—Giorno's outburst forgotten.

Giorno doesn't quite forget, though. Between bouts of conversation, he feels shame creep up his neck, curl on his jugular. It was just unsightly for him to snap like that. Jotaro doesn't talk, at all, really. But out of the corner of his eye; Giorno always catches him watching.

It isn't aggressive, isn't accusatory. Giorno isn't some lab rat under his gaze. But it's something.

When Giorno finally slips himself out from under the Kotatsu, and subtly approaches, too curious—Jotaro ends up doing something Giorno never would've expected. The man stares, deep-ocean blue eyes studying him. And then: "It's alright." He states.

Naturally, Giorno tilts his head in confusion. "Excuse me?"

"It's alright." Jotaro repeats. Pauses. "You can be afraid, you know."

Giorno blinks, and doesn't quite agree. Jotaro is wrong, the blonde just can't be afraid. Can't be shamed.

(For heaven's sake, he's Giorno Giovanna, not Haruno Shiobana!)

So he smiles, politely, and excuses himself. Forced smile, forced acceptance, the words run loops in his head.

He half wonders if they're true.

Chapter Text

Among the Joestars, in this gathering, there's a distinct kind of feeling that envelops Giorno's being. The feeling curls itself around him, coils in his heart so that it skips beat and feels painfully tight, and the feeling wraps around his mind, too. Here, in this room, with sounds of laughter and the feeling of belonging—Giorno feels his thoughts race along; thinking frantically about just what to do in this unfamiliar scene, while simultaneously slowing to a languid pace...feeling almost safe.

There are a lot of feelings, but he thinks the one that he's feeling is the sensation of acceptance.

Acceptance is a concept that seems strange and unfamiliar; incomprehensible in a way that's hard to explain. Acceptance, it rings bells, of course. It rings notions of large overpowering rooms in which he, in all his plated gold, would rise to a stand and offer his hand and the old rulers would be on their knees and they'd accept him as their monarch.

But that's not really him, Giorno thinks. Italy had accepted an image—an idolized statue, a marble David—they'd never...he doesn't think they ever accepted him.

(But that is him, isn't it? Giorno Giovanna is forged of flawless gold.)

At the thought, a kind of unease builds up from his core—the idea that he isn't perfect, isn't an unshakable David—he doesn't want to think about it. All that matters now is that there's something different between the Giorno that Italy had accepted and the Giorno that this family seems to have accepted.

And there's something in the way he's been accepted here and now that makes Giorno feel like he's flying, it's something exhilarating, something that grows all kinds of light and bursting feelings up in him.

But there's something wrong.

Looking over the room, he sees a family. He sees a family, and somewhere in him, he knows that he's been accepted into this small, tightly knit, complicated group. But Giorno's never had anything like this, it's all...new, and unfamiliar, and he feels like every step he takes into this scene with leave burns and dig up buried scars. He feels like an intruder in a home that isn't his.

There's so much here that he just doesn't know, has never been able to know, and—

(Haruno is terrified of messing it all up,)

—and there are so many dynamics that he feels worlds away from understanding. Giorno won't call it fear, but he feels his stomach churn at the thought of trying to navigate waters like these—dipping a toe in would disturb some kind of delicate web that he simply can't read.

Jotaro's words rustle at the back of his memory; 'You can be afraid, you know', and Giorno ends up stewing on them for longer than he thinks he should have, but eventually they get pushed aside—(they never fully disappear)—by the tide of attempting to keep up with every conversation in the room; a task that's practically impossible. Not only has everyone formed their own, constantly changing, groups (of which Giorno almost seems to be the center of), but many people seem to be juggling a conversation or two at once. It's overwhelming.

It's overwhelming, but not in the kind of way that Diavolo was overwhelming—not in a bad way. No, it's overwhelming in some other way that Giorno's still trying to figure out. It's overwhelming in a way that makes the blonde feel like he's floating, or melting.

The whole scene is overwhelming in a way that makes Giorno almost forget he was nervous in the first place.

But Giorno is still on edge—hesitant to leave that familiar edge. He's still dimes-to-daggers, on autopilot to flip that switch on the slightest sign of perceived danger. And that perceived danger comes, it isn't big, but it's big enough. By all means, it's nothing big at all. But everything here has been so completely and unexpectedly good, that something that he had originally expected morphs into something startling.

Shizuka, the small girl, wrinkles her nose and shakes her head at the Ribollita he had made. "It tastes bad," she says, "I don't like it!"

For a long, drawn out second, no one responds, and Giorno can feel his mind stutter and skitter—caught off-guard by the announcement. The floor Giorno is sitting on feels uncomfortably hard and Giorno feels the sudden urge to shift his position, or thumb the hem of his shirt.

Suzie frowns, old, wrinkled face morphing into a frown. The rock of her rocking chair abruptly comes to a halt. "But you love Ribollita."

The girl shakes her head. "I don't like this one."

Unease pools in Giorno's gut, and he can't help but wonder if he'd done something wrong in the making of it. Or maybe the girl was just picky, or maybe she was simply one of those children who change their taste on a whim. However, something feels distinctly wrong with both those possibilities, something feels distinctly off.

"Ehh??" Josuke exclaims, surprised, as he tunes into the conversation from the couch. "But this is delicious!"

For a second, Giorno toys with the possibly that perhaps everyone was just faking their like. It wouldn't be too implausible. Except for maybe Mista, the blonde knows Mista—he knows the older man wouldn't lie. Then again, Mista is himself...and the man has never quite been known for his exquisite taste.

At Josuke's words, for a second, a glimmer of something appears in Shizuka's eyes, before she shakes her head, and insists, "No!" And she says it with such a childish insistency, that Giorno feels some of his doubts shrivel away and others bloom right in their place.

"What!" Mista, also, joins. "No way man, that kid's weird," he says, nudging Josuke, and pointing at Shizuka. Giorno really, really wishes Mista could learn a shred of diplomacy. "I mean," Mista continues, "this is some of the best Ribollita I've ever had, and I'm Italian!"

However, Giorno, always the observer, notices that Josuke has grown uncomfortable at 'that kid's weird', and realizes he needs to do something. These people are family, and the blonde knows that families are supposed to dislike it whenever anyone insults one of their own. Giorno wants to cause the least turmoil possible, forcing anyone to pick a side, or hover awkwardly between, doesn't fit anywhere in that agenda.

(Haruno is so, so afraid of sewing more discord. His mother once told him that every problem in their family was because of his birth. He never quite shook the notion.)

Thus, he speaks, "Please," the blonde starts, beginning his attempt to soothe the situation, "don't worry yourselves," he pauses, just for the extra effect. Then, he continues, addressing Shizuka this time, "I makes perfect sense that you don't like it, I was never taught to cook."

Shizuka frowns, brows furrowing, lips forming to an expression of frustrated concentration. Giorno only has a small moment to wonder why she was making such an expression before the girl starts speaking. "No," she says, slowly, carefully, "don't apologize, it's fine...that makes sense." Then, previous expression is completely cast aside—so fast seemed almost unnatural—the toddler dons a bright and cheerful smile. "But why weren't you taught?" She asks, tilting her head, "didn't your family teach you?" A pause, Giorno feels the beginning of dread claw at his stomach. Then, it comes, "Don't you have a family?"

"Ah," Giorno says, as a way to buy himself a little time to script his words. This—it was too sudden, he— "They...never had the time to teach me that kind of thing. There were more important things to do."

Atop the Kotatsu, Polnareff winches, eyes tightening in sympathy that always makes Giorno feel disgusting; it's as if someone has wrapped his skin in oil and caked his face with salt. He doesn't need that, he doesn't want that, it's over now—he's fine, it's gone, little more than a tiny bit of unpleasant history that no longer touches him.

(That experience is something Giorno cast aside a long time ago)

It's at this point, that Jolyne also becomes interested—she asks Shizuka what's going on and the toddler explains and now with so many people in this piece of conversation, the others also get dragged in. Giorno can feel the stares of nearly everyone clear on his skin. His face itches and his stomach might as well have fallen out underneath him.

If there's one thing he hates, he hates talking about his mother and that man; hates even remembering them. But if there's one thing he hates even above that, it's other people knowing about them. He'd never told Trish, never told Mista, but by now he's sure they must have some kind of vague idea. Personally, the blonde would rather they have no idea at all, but he supposes vague speculations are better than anything solid or concrete.

"Like what?" Shizuka presses, raising herself to her tip-toes, as I that'll somehow make her be able to get answers easier. Even if a person making themselves larger did make it easier for them to get answers...Shizuka hardly reaches his waist; it's useless.

Useless, he says, but in reality; it's the tiniest bit effective.

Giorno feels himself pressed down by the weight of those expectant eyes, and he tries, he really does, but in the end he speaks more than he planned to—speaks less eloquently than he wanted to. Gesturing, almost uncertainly, Giorno has the instinct to take a step backward, but he denies this reaction. Instead; he speaks, "Oh, the normal, out or drinking."

It takes maybe half a beat for Giorno to evaluate the room and realize his mistake.

He notices the way conversation has stopped, and how Holly looks to be in pain, and Jotaro's knuckles are just the tiniest bit white—and he thinks, 'ah, I shouldn't have said that.' He shouldn't have mentioned drinking, that was a dead giveaway—not something that speaks the full story, but enough to raise concerns.

"What were they out doing?" Jolyne asks, because she hasn't caught on and has wide, curious eyes.

From the couch, Giorno can hear Trish suck in a breath, and Mista mutter a low; "Jesus Christ, thank God Fugo isn't here..." And, for just a second, Giorno devotes a bit of his mind towards agreeing with Mista. If Fugo were here, he'd surely explode with the sheer degree of which these questions were violating Giorno's unspoken boundaries.

"..." It takes a few precious seconds for Giorno to formulate an appropriate response. But, he does, "Working," the blonde answers, gold-leafed smile, "they were working a lot, so I didn't see them much."

A lie, nobody ever worked in his household—least you count his Mother's prostitution. Regardless, the reason she was not present wasn't work. Perhaps, if it was, then he could forgive her. And that man was always home, 'working' indeed.

Then, if only for a split second, Giorno wonders why he isn't telling them—why he's never told anybody.

He supposes; it's because he has no reason to ever think of it again, ever acknowledge it existed in the first place. What's the use in bring up the past? Giorno and Haruno are fundamentally different; there's no use drawing connections between them. Giorno isn't weak and he isn't scared and he certainly isn't even brushed against by fear, or nervousness.

So Giorno doesn't talk about it, because it never happened to him. And there's no reason for anyone to ever think it did.

Jolyne scrunches up her nose. "Oh," she says, understanding, dislike apparent in her voice. Giorno could swear he saw her glance at Jotaro, if only for a moment. "That make sense I guess, parents can't be there if they're working," the girl says, something like pity and something like pained sympathy in her voice.

That should've been Giorno's first warning, but the blonde was too wrapped up in his own mind, and phantom memories, that he didn't properly evaluate the observation. He simply, dully, almost mechanically, notes it and shuffles the information to some forgotten chest of other observations.

"Don't worry about it, Jolyne," Giorno reassures, "it never really bothered me." Or so he says, but he's unable to completely bleed the note of disgust out of his voice.

"That's good," Jolyne nods, "but are you sure?" If the way she throws him suspicious glances and furrows her brows is anything to go by, he'd say the girl is far from convinced.

Nodding, Giorno tries to keep himself from curling his lip. With another gold-leaf smile, the blonde speaks, "Very, very sure," he answers, "so sure I could never express it with words."

But Jolyne continues to frown. "But..." and her lip trembles, "that seems really hard, both your parents being out." And there's something in her voice that makes it sound like she knows more than she should about this.

It's at this point that Giorno begins to feel a small, unidentifiable instinct that perhaps he's touched on a subject he shouldn't have. He isn't sure which subject, exactly—but there's some kind of delicate dynamic he's brushed against. He wishes he had time to figure out what it was but... Jolyne still looks worried and uneasy and uncomfortable and that's Giorno's first priority.

He needs to comfort her; Giorno doesn't want to give the girl any worry if he can't help it. Besides, he needs to dispel any worry from her mind. So he works his mind, and finds what seems like a great way to improve the situation.

"Please don't worry about it," Giorno starts, "while I might not have had parents that were around very much...you have all been very kind to me." He doesn't say 'I believe I've found a family here,' because it isn't true. He just can't believe something like that, not at all. Holly tells him he's family, but he'll never accept the label. "So," he adds, for safe measure, "don't worry about anything, I'm completely fine...there's nothing for you to be concerned about."

For a second, Jolyne pauses, looking lost, before her face contorts into some kind of intense concentration. Giorno watches, curiously, as all the tension flows out of the girl and, face determined, Jolyne announces; "I don't believe you!"

On the couch, Trish looks momentarily stunned, before she breaks into a great large grin and yells a delighted; "Tell it to him, Jolyne!" And Mista looks pretty confused, until Trish translates it for him and he chokes on air, and starts coughing.

The girl grins, turning around and nodding to Trish. "I will, I will!" Then she whirls back around to face Giorno and rephrases herself. She takes a moment to puff out her chest, and draw in a deep breath, and then, she speaks. "I'm sure you can't be okay! Because you said you have shitty parents that were always away! And that must've hurt a lot! So you can't say not to worry! That's unreasonable!"

The blonde wants to curl in on himself. He wants to leave the room and regain his breath; he wants to be sure that if he tried to stand up, he wouldn't be shaky on his feet. No one had ever...even Trish had never tried to touch on the subject—consideration and all.

Something in Giorno's chest squeezes painfully and he wonders if there's a word for the combination of complete mortification, terror, and what he thinks must be a hint of starved happiness. (No one had ever told him that...nobody had ever told him it was okay to be hurt by that—not that he thinks it's okay himself, but...)

"Um," he ends up saying.

Lisa Lisa looks at him from across the kotatsu with what feels like scrutiny, while Josuke and Holly (of whom had been silently growing more and more pale-looking—God, they're both too smart and too kind for the blonde to deal with) just painfully watch the exchange. The elders, for the most part, neither look particularly troubled, nor actively comfortable—just observing, thinking—and Jotaro, unexpectedly, looks troubled. Out of it all, Giorno is the most surprised with Jotaro's reaction.

See, it doesn't even appear like he's pained about Giorno. It almost looks like he's looking at Jolyne.

But, the blonde can't focus on that. He needs to deal with Jolyne. "Why don't you believe me?" He says, carefully, "I'm being sincere."

The girl shakes her head, stubbornly. "No you aren't!"

Confronted with this, Giorno feels a pooling sense of unease. He isn't used to having his authority taken from him like this; even Trish is easier to deal with.

(Haruno must drift, again, in the lack of control)

But, Giorno can't be halted like this, can't let the moment linger, so he speaks, "I am, really," he says, pausing for effect, "you've all made me feel so welcome, I don't know anyone, yet everyone has been so kind," he states, watching his words carefully, tone soft and voice quiet. "As an example," he shifts his eyes, "Jotaro helped me a lot in the kitchen, he made sure I was safe and doing everything correctly, it meant a lot."

He holds his breath, hoping this works, because God, he doesn't want to talk about his childhood.

All eyes are on Jolyne, a moment passes—and if there's one thing Giorno expected, it wasn't this.

Immediately, he freezes at the sight. Jolyne looks angry. Her little face starts twisting into something, red, and frustrated, her little hands balling up in fists as she whirls around to face Jotaro. The blonde feels that he's done something completely and distinctly wrong.

No, he doesn't just feel he's done something wrong, he knows it. Giorno can tell he's done something terribly, terribly wrong. He's dabbled into what he should never have touched. He's stirred a dynamic he's never had any experience with.

(It's terrifying; Haruno is terrified of the mistake he made—or maybe it's the consequences of such a mistake that make his blood run so thoroughly cold.)

"You had a nice time cooking with this guy and not me!?" Jolyne shouts, enraged, pointing an accusatory finger at her father, "You don't even really know him!" A pause, her lips tremble, "Even though...you promised to bake with me and you never did it..."

Ah, so he misspoke. The teen feels his blood run cold and icy in his veins. What has he done..? Obviously he's completely messed up. The room, previously warm and inviting, comfortable, starts to feel heavy with tension; building and building and building. It's like the air has been sparked with electricity—and Giorno was the one to flip the switch.

The man in question stays silent, face impassive to the average observer. Giorno is not an average observer; he can see the slightest signs of weariness. The blonde can see it in the way Jotaro no longer looks relaxed—his tight muscles (just barely visible underneath the thick fabric of his black turtleneck sweater), his stony expression. Giorno doesn't know Jotaro well, but he's seen enough to make the most basic judgments on the man's mood.

Jotaro's response is visibly nonexistent, and Giorno has to internally cringe at the damage this fact causes.

The girl balls her fists and glares, her expression intense and getting progressively angrier. She grits her teeth, her very being rippling with explosive energy. "Answer me! You..." and, for a second, she seems lost, "this isn't fair! None of it is fair at all!"

Giorno watches anxiously as Jotaro tightens his lips, before finally speaking. "I did what I thought I should've done," the man says, and even Giorno knows that was a terrible answer in this kind of situation.

The effect is immediate.

All of a sudden, Jolyne looks more upset than angry. Quicker than Giorno has follow the situation, her blue-green eyes brim up with big salty tears and the girl's lip is trembling. Before a tear can fall, though, Jolyne yells a great loud: "Fine! 'You fucking prick!"

Jolyne dashes towards the door and throws it open. The delicate thick-paper panel door slams into place with a too-loud thunk. So, the girl runs; loud stomping footsteps fading into silence as Jolyne leaves a room of chaos behind her.

As the bitingly cold air from outside filters in, the room is cracked glass. All at once, everyone starts talking and shouting over each other, and it's all too much for Giorno. Jotaro has reclined into his seat, all energy seeping out, it would not be a surprise if the man were to fall asleep for how tired he looks. Josuke is angrily criticizing Jotaro and Shizuka is begging to follow Jolyne and Holly is trying to calm it all down and Giorno can't keep up with any of it.

All the blonde can think about is how this is almost exactly what he feared. He said something and he messed everything up. He was trying his best, you know? He didn't know this would happen, but now that it has, Giorno feels entirely responsible.

He feels a terrible kind of feeling—similar to when you accidentally touch a precious bowl and it falls down and breaks on the floor—he feels that terrible kind of startled terror. There's a horrible kind of freezing pit in his stomach, Giorno wonders if he's shaking, he hopes not.

(It's always been his fault—Haruno has always ended up cowering in the face of everything he knows he's caused.)

Giorno has touched something he wasn't supposed to, and accidentally broken it. He's sure of that. He doesn't really understand families very much, they're complicated and delicate things; a whole web he doesn't understand. He shouldn't have... He knew trying to insert himself into a family dynamic would end horribly, like stepping into a fire, yet he did it despite the risk and...

He needs to fix the damage.

Under all the chaos and under all the noise so loud that it makes Giorno want to curl into a shell—the blonde exchanges a looks with Jotaro. Upon eye contact, Giorno fluidly slips from his seat, his movement only noticed by Lisa Lisa's watchful eye, and Mista's curious stare. The blonde momentarily locks eyes with Mista, he offers a small smile, and a comforting wave—Mista acknowledges the interaction with a nod, and relaxes. The small interaction is a moment of relief before the teen must talk to Jotaro.

Steeling himself, Giorno stands in front of Jotaro. "May I...?" He asks, only loud enough to be heard. The blonde is aware that Jotaro loves his daughter; he's sure of it. And despite everything, Giorno still doesn't consider himself as someone the older man trusts. "I want to fix this," he adds, for safe measure.

And for a second, Jotaro just stares, blank—Giorno can't notice any visible changes in the man's stature and it's terrifying for him. The blonde has an urge to shift on his feet, but instead he just stares back. It's blue on blue and Giorno wonders if Jotaro thinks he's being accusatory.

Giorno doesn't think so. He...he isn't satisfied with how Jotaro reacted, he isn't, he thinks it's probably a problem, probably, but he's seen so much worse. Judging by how strongly Josuke reacted—it's Josuke who seems to be the one who sees it as more of a problem (Giorno wonders if Josuke and Jotaro have been through this before,)...Giorno...Giorno isn't sure. It's a parent-child thing, he doesn't know those things. In the blonde's mind; he was responsible for this.

Then, finally, there's a movement.

Jotaro lets a long, painfully lingering sigh. And he looks to the side and gestures Giorno ahead. "Yeah, sure," Jotaro says, painfully tired-sounding, "go."

It's a momentary startle; that Jotaro would trust him that much. But Giorno accepts it—only missing a beat—and smiles and murmurs a quiet 'thank you' that Jotaro waves off with silence.

Nevertheless, Giorno feels warmer than he thought he would when he finally steps outside the door, gently closing it behind him. The cold outside air feels simultaneously biting and refreshing as he closes his eyes and utilizes Gold Experience to map the life in the area. His senses spark when he observes what must be Jolyne in the central garden.

As he thought, he finds her there.

Stepping off the outside walkway, and onto fresh grass, Giorno hesitates. He can hear the sound of muffled crying—big hiccuping sobs that the girl is failing to entirely hide. With a sudden pang of hesitation, Giorno doubts if he should've come at all....he doesn't...he's never...he doesn't know how to comfort people.

(Haruno is scared of messing this up, too.)

So, for a little bit, Giorno kind of just awkwardly stands there, behind a few hedges and just out of view—if she hadn't broken his spell, he mightn't have moved for a while longer. But, the girl did. At some point, the sobs momentarily stop, and all of a sudden, just out of Giorno's view, Jolyne's voice call's: "I k-k-k-know-w," it falters, and there's a sound like she's trying to muffle another cry, "y-you're there..." The girl's voice varies greatly, cracking and sounding scratchy and strained, "So g-get out, fu—" a choking hiccup, "—fucking coward!"

Slowly, carefully, Giorno emerges from his places, sidestepping the hedge and advancing. A few steps and, finally, he can see Jolyne. She's facing him, feet dug into the grass beneath her, hand balls. She's standing next to a pond; small lily pads dot the surface. The girl's eyes are red and puffy, as though stung by bees.

"Oops, looks like you caught me," Giorno says, monotone, because he can't think of anything else.

The girl puffs, wiping at her eyes again. "I'm n-not a child, stop speaking like that to me! You messed up the delivery anyway! You're supposed to say it t-teasingly!" She says, wiping at her face and puffing out her chest, as if it'll hide her distress.

"Oh," Giorno nods, all of a sudden feeling very awkward, "I'm sorry."

Her face scrunches up in distaste. "Jeez..." she mutters, eyes wandering to the direction of Jotaro and the others. Her lips tremble, "You aren't the person I wanted to come at all."

It takes a second for Giorno to figure out Jolyne is thinking of Jotaro, and even when he does; he wonders why. He doesn't understand; Jolyne is upset at her father, wasn't she? The blonde had never wanted to see his own stepfather when he was unusually upset at the man. Then again, his stepfather was far from Jotaro, and Giorno supposes he probably shouldn't draw parallels between his own home life and this family—it doesn't seem fair.

Mouth feeling heavy, tongue feeling thick, sinking feeling in his gut, Giorno says: "Ah, I'm very sorry, I just...I was the one to come, I can't change that. But I hope it doesn't distress you too heavily."

The girl scowls at him, eyebrows furrowed, big frown, eyes squinted. "Shut up!" She orders him, hands on her hips, big green eyes flashing with anger. "You're not allowed to apologize for something that isn't your fault anyway!"

For a moment, Giorno pauses, and then: "Ah, I'm sorry if that's bothering you."

Jolyne gives the biggest eye roll. She gives a loud, exaggerated sigh, throwing him a dry expression. "That was just on purpose," a small pause, and then, for good measure, "and it wasn't very funny."

Giorno smiles, mildly. "I think it was."

"Then you have a terrible sense of humor!" Jolyne tells him, even though she herself was slightly smiling. Giorno internally congratulates himself on his success.

He crouches down, as to meet her level. "Are you okay?" He asks, wondering if he should hold her hand, or... "Can you tell me what's wrong? I want to fix things."

Immediately, the girl's green-tinted sapphire eyes well up with tears. "Nothing's wrong a-and..." the girls chokes on a sob, again, and Giorno instantly regrets his words. "And y-y-you couldn't fix them a-anyway!"

Giorno tightens his lips and resolves to fix it, whatever it was. Giorno has his problems right now, he's regretting his words and regretting his actions—but he also recognizes he needs to shove those feelings aside, for now. At the moment, he needs to help Jolyne; of that he is sure. The blonde, however, is not good at comforting people...but he'll try. He's going to try.

Outstretching a hesitant hand, Giorno offers his support to the girl. She leans into it, before immediately startling back and wiping at her tear stained face—an action that's ultimately useless as a new tide replaces the old. She bites her lips and chokes back a sound and lets out a garbled 'It's nothing!' and Giorno realizes he needs to be the one to take initiative.

Recalling what he can from books and the movies Mista has roped him into watching, Giorno continues. The blonde places a steady—(even though he doesn't feel steady himself)—hand on Jolyne's back and lets her lean onto it and he utters a soft: "Would you like to sit down?"

The girl nods, sniffling and puffy-eyed, tears still overflowing down her face, and she answers with a scratchy, sand-like, "S-s-sure..." She lets herself be guided to a soft-looking patch of grass by the pond, and Giorno gives her what he thinks is a proper hug—he wouldn't know—and sits her down. The blonde pulls a wrap of tissues out of his pocket and offers one to her. The girl takes a moment to blow her nose with a great indignant loud kind of noise, and when she's done she's still sniffling and trying to wipe at tears but she's not crying quite as hard—and Giorno thinks that must be a good thing.

When she's just sniffling and wiping at stray tears, but no longer sobbing, she starts shivering. Giorno supposes this makes sense. It's cold and chilly out, not winter, but cold nonetheless, and Jolyne is far from dressed for it. She's wearing shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. "Hey," he says, softly, tenderly, "would you like me to go get you a coat?"

The girl shakes her head, not looking him in the eyes, just staring at the ground underneath her huddled form—knees brought up to her chest as she buries her head in them. "No..." she murmurs, small-sounding, "stay. Please."

"Yeah," Giorno responds, "sure." He isn't quite sure what to say after that.

For a while, he doesn't say anything.

But the seconds creep into minutes and Giorno has never really liked long awkward silence, even if this one felt a little more comfortable—he isn't sure what to do. So he feels Jolyne leaning into his side, perhaps for the warmth, and tries to cast aside his own discomfort. He looks at the stars (twilight had long-since faded,) and he observes the surrounds, thinking of anything to help break the thick silence.

Eventually, though, it ends up being Jolyne who speaks first. "I'm...fine now," she says, even though she's sniffling and shivering and looking distinctly not-okay. "You can...ask me whatever, I...I won't cry this time."

"Ah," Giorno ends up responding, "thank you...I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"No," Jolyne shakes her head, finally looking at him, "It's okay, don't thank me, um," she blushes, "I think I just overreacted."

Then it's Giorno's turn to shake his head. "I don't think you did...I mean," he hesitates, "I don't really...understand the situation but it seems..." a pause, "...complicated..."

The girl snorts. "It isn't complicated at all!" She says, distaste clear on her face, her hands balled into tight fists. "Not even in the slightest...I..." She falters, then, a bit quieter: "I don't get why dad doesn't get it."

All of a sudden, Giorno feels rather stupid. He doesn't understand in the slightest. "Does he..." the blonde pauses, gathering his thoughts, "Does he neglect you...? Or..." Giorno trails off.

To him, it was the only thing that made any plausible sense, kind of. He doesn't really think Jotaro would do that...but he can't stop drawing on his only family experience and... He remembers that when he was young and weak and stupid he had craved his mother's attention—he sees a bit of that in Jolyne.

"No!" Jolyne immediately denies, before her face screws up and she mutters a small: "I mean...not really."

The blonde feels his heart stutter at the thought of anything similar happening to Jolyne as happened to him, and he needs to rationally remind himself that he knows Jotaro just...isn't like that. He's almost sure he knows. For a second, he wants to voice this. Instead he asks: "...What do you mean?"

"I mean..." The girl's face tightens in concentration and frustration and she bites her lip before finally answering, sounding quite unsure of everything. "I mean," a pause, "don't get the wrong idea! It's not like the kind of thing you see on TV or anything...not that kind of thing..."

Giorno feels a bit of relief wash over him. "Ah, that's definitely good. Then..."

"It's just...ugh!" Jolyne says; face contorting in frustration, fist hitting the dirt with a dull thump. "Just...I mean, I see him sometimes but...he never...he never!"

The blonde stays silent, waiting, watching, observing; trying to understand.

Jolyne continues, "He never pays much attention to me you know! He's never home and whenever he is, he's on some business call or he's about to leave or he's sleeping or...and he promises me things, you know!?"

"Uh-huh," Giorno acknowledges, trying to read the situation.

The girl's lips tremble. "You know...he once was looking at my report card, and then halfway through he just had to go, you know? And it was so fun..." Jolyne swallows, looking pained, "and he promised me we'd go for ice cream the following day and we never did that...he promised me, y'know!? He fucking promised me!" She says, volume steadily rising until she was practically shouting, voice quivering.

"Yeah," Giorno says, not really understanding, but thinking it must hurt to have a promise broken. Giorno can't stand people who break their promises. "You must resent him for that."

"Uh-huh," Jolyne agrees, "I do," a pause, "a lot...but..."

'But?' Giorno wants to ask, 'what's so different? Why is a disagreement with family and different than one with a stranger? What makes it so special?' Instead, he prompts: "Yes?"

"Well..." she says, twiddling with her hair, looking small and upset and frustrated, "I just...I keep...I keep hoping and...", Jolyne tears away and fumbles over her words, "I mean, almost half a year ago, he promised we'd make chocolate chip cookies together, y'know? We even bought ingredients for it. And we haven't done it at all but..." tears brim in her eyes, again, "I still have the bags y'know, of chocolate chips, the ones we bought to make the cookies, I even brought them here, and they're in my backpack." She bites her trembling lip and stares at the ground.

Giorno's feeling lost. And he's thinking, he's wondering if he'd do this, too. He's wondering if he'd cause this much pain in his close friends by prioritizing his work over them...he wonders if he already has. "I'm sure...it'll be okay...Jotaro, your father, he...he is a busy man."

"I know that!" Jolyne tells him, frowning. "I, but...some of my classmates also have busy parents you know! And they...their parents make time!"

"Ah," Giorno says, rather awkwardly, because he just isn't good at this kind of thing. "I'm...I'm sure things can get better. Maybe you can ask your mom to tell Jotaro to be around more...?"

The girl scowls, sourly. "Already did."

"Err..." Giorno trails off, "maybe you could try telling him, straight up?"

She gives him a dry expression. "He never seems to get it through his thick skull." Implying she already had, many times.

"I...see," he nods, "maybe you could just try following him..? Make him take you on a work trip." Which was, a pretty unlikely-to-work plan, but Giorno had done worse when he was ten.

"The flight attendant who found me wasn't very happy, and dad sent me right back home, mom was really angry," Jolyne responds, without missing a beat.

To which Giorno promptly chokes on his own breath. Sputtering to regain his dignity, he says: "What!?" He takes moment to fully regain his breath, "I mean...you...what exactly did you do?"

The girl giggles, grinning for the first time in a while; grass-green sea-blue eyes filling up with delighted mischief. "I snuck on the plane," she boasts, proudly, "they didn't notice me until we were already in Japan!"

"I..." the blonde blinks, "o...kay."

"Hehe," Jolyne says; cat-that-ate-the-canary kind of grin.

Smiling weakly, Giorno makes an attempt to get back on track. "So um...but, even if that didn't work, perhaps you could just...do your bets to make him keep his promises...bring them up all the time...or something..."

"I do that," Jolyne says, frustrated. "In fact," she chokes, "he said he'd make the cookies with me earlier today! He said so on the plane ride!" The girl bursts, "I just..." and suddenly there are tears back in her eyes, "I've done all of this!"

The blonde wants to bite his tongue. He doesn't know about this kind of thing, all he can do is use his limited knowledge of the situation to try and navigate the matter. He does his best, tries to soothe her, rubs circles on the small of her back, the same way he'd seen Trish do for Mista shortly after Rome. It's not much but it seems to help.

After that, there's too much silence, it grows so quiet—(bar Jolyne's sniffling)—that they can just-barely hear the trickles of sounds from the common room which seems so far away. It feels oppressing, laying heavily over his shoulders. Giorno usually likes silence, when he's alone and there's nothing to break, but this is different. In this case, silence means a lack of readability. It means he doesn't know if he's done this wonderfully right or terribly wrong.

(Haruno would vouch for the latter.)

It's only when the silence weighs so thick and heavy—like concrete or molasses—that Giorno finally finds a way to break the silence. After a few moments of hesitation, Giorno tries to bring his softest steadiest voice out. Bracing himself to step into rocky territory again, he carefully whispers; "Jolyne?"

A beat, and: "Yeah?" The girl answers, glancing at him, her black-teal hair catching the moonlight, and even in the dark he can clearly see how red her eyes are.

"Well..." Giorno begins, curing himself for not scripting what he was going to say better, "I just wanted to tell you that I know your father cares about you...he loves you." A pause, "I'm sure of it."

Jolyne send him a quizzical look. "How would you know?" She says, rather bitterly. "He doesn't even say 'I love you too' if I tell him I love him."

There's a pause. Giorno knows why he thinks so, mostly, but finds that he hasn't planned his words this far. The blonde glances at the sky, feels the warmth of Jolyne's body beside him, and wonders if he can trust her. He wonders if he really can tell her the reasoning—the differences between Jotaro and his own parents.

Perhaps, maybe he could. But he doesn't really want to...he...But this isn't about him, is it.

Jolyne looks at him with big, wet eyes, and Giorno feels something in his heart tug and the beginnings of a nervousness pulse in his fingertips—an electric kind of rapid-movement charge that makes him want to straighten his clothes or fix his hair—and Giorno makes his mind.

A frog croaks in the pond, and there's a small splash as it jumps in the water, and Giorno is suddenly much more aware of his surroundings, on-edge, more so than usually. Despite this, He opens his lips, voice soft and quiet and little more than a whisper—"Jolyne, can you keep a secret?"

She looks at him curiously, brows furrowing, "Of course I can...uh...why?"

"I want to tell you a secret," Giorno answers, already feeling his unease climb with every word—regret for saying anything in the first place.

"Oh," Jolyne says, "yeah, uhm, sure. That's out of nowhere."

"I promise it's relevant," the blonde assures, wishing he had decided to not mention it at all.

"Uh-huh..." The girl trails and at his silence, she raises an eyebrow. "Well? Talk."

Sucking in a breath of air, Giorno braces himself, hesitates for a split-second, and speaks. "When I was younger," a break as Giorno hesitates again on his words....but he's resolved to do this, he will, "my mother didn't love me, neither did my stepfather."

The girls' eyes widen, caught off guard, not really expecting that. "What...?"

The teen closes his eyes, opens them, "I'm sorry, I lied earlier. The reason my mother was never home wasn't because she was working, it was because she was partying...she had no time for me."

"Oh," Jolyne breathes, starting to catch on.

"Yeah," Giorno says, bitter kind of reflective smile, "I know they didn't love me. My stepfather beat me...my mother let it happen. She never cared in the slightest," and he tries to keep the quiver out of his voice. "When I got hurt, she'd tell me to go deal with it, and if I ever wanted something she'd laugh."

Jolyne looks very suddenly awkward. "Oh," she says, again, "I'm sorry..." A pause, and Giorno hears the unsaid; 'I feel rather petty now.'

"Don't be," Giorno shakes his head. "I'm glad you never had to go through that...Perhaps my parents didn't love me...but that doesn't invalidate your struggle. By the time I was your age, I didn't love my mother. I can't imagine the pain that loving her while she paid me seemingly no attention would bring."

"...Okay," Jolyne eventually mutters. "But...how is that important. I mean--!" She startles, "It is important but, um, right now I mean."

The blonde smiles, it's still somewhat bitter but less-so, "I was wondering when you'd ask." He closes his eyes, tries to formulate his thoughts and ignore how his nerves are buzzing and how stupidly exposed he feels now, "I mean to say...It's because of this that I know your father loves you."

Jolyne tilts her head, silver light catching on her teal eyes, reflecting in her blue-green eyes. "...How? I mean...he...I know he doesn't hate me, I think, but..."

There's a moment in which Giorno doesn't respond, instead, he gathers his messy thoughts and crafts his words. He takes a breath and—"Jotaro worries about you, all the time, I can see it.....you know, when I first asked if I could follow you...I thought he wouldn't let me, I thought he wouldn't trust me enough."

The girl looks surprised. "But...you're really trustworthy?"

The blonde smiles, lightly. "I try to be...but Jotaro has high standards, he wants you to be safe, away from harm."

Jolyne frowns, brows furrowed, "But!"

"You want proof?" Giorno offers, finishing the sentence. She looks vaguely dissatisfied, but nods. "Well," he says, "if you want proof, you already have it."

Looking confused Jolyne immediately raises an eyebrow, "Um, eh?"

A kind of satisfied feeling bubbles up in Giorno—she'd fallen into his word trap. "Well," he starts, slowly, "when you get hurt, what does your father do?"

She pauses, takes a moment to recall. "He..." she pauses, "well he doesn't speak very much, he never says 'I'm sorry' or gives me a hug...he," another pause, she's biting her lip, "he asks where it hurts and he runs it over water or puts ice on it and bandages it."

From the way her voice is quivering—not unhappily—and her eyes have gone a bit wide, Giorno thinks she must finally be realizing.

"You see now?" Giorno asks, rhetorically, before continuing. "Your father loves you, he cares, he doesn't want you to be hurt...he just isn't good at expressing himself with words." A pause, he lets Jolyne take in the information.

Eventually, she nods, hesitates, looks to the side, looks at the ground. "But it still..." she manages, sounding sad and sounding like she's on the edge of another tipping point. "Even if he does...if he does care about me, it still hurts!"

And that's about where Giorno's planning stopped. He...somehow he has imagined this like one of his perfect scenarios. She'd accept that there was a mutual caring and, somehow, it'd all be alright. She'd... But this isn't a perfect scenario. It's real life and...Giorno isn't very sure how to proceed from now.

"Oh..." The blonde breathes, feeling Jolyne's warmth beside him and feeling her grip onto his shirt. "I..." he doesn't know what he's saying, "I'm sure things aren't perfect now, but, and correct me if I'm wrong," he looks at her face, looks away when he sees the beginnings of more tears, "but...there's a foundation for something good, isn't there?"

Beside him, she sniffles. "What does that even mean?"

"I, uhm, I mean," Giorno answers, stumbling over his words, "I mean, even though it's obviously not perfect...you both care about each other, a lot, and you're—" he really doesn't know what he's saying, but it sounds right, "—family. So...it can become better, right?"

Never; he's never included his own questions in his speeches before—if you even count this as a speech. Giorno...he...this is all new to him. Stupidly new; the language of a family is still little more than a vague idea to him, and he doesn't understand it (that's what got him in this mess in the first place!), but...somehow this sounded right. It sounded true.

Jolyne shivers, lip trembling, eyes glaring at the ground. "I...guess. Maybe," she says, sounding small and nearly as unsure as Giorno feels.

"Am I wrong?" Giorno asks, only half rhetorical.

A few beats and—"...No, I...I don't think so," Jolyne answers, shaking her head. "But it just...it hurts, but I don't want to lose hope," she looks at him, "y'know?"

He thinks he does. There was a time where he also hoped; hoped for his mother's love, hoped she'd start caring, hoped she'd make time for him. That hope had been in vain, of course, but that's only because his mother never had and never would care. On the other hand, this was a completely different situation.

Perhaps Jolyne's hurt is just a little similar; he'd loved his mother, once. And he remembers how alone and how starved and how utterly and completely insulated he felt, he... He shakes away the memory. There was never any hope in that, but there's hope in this.

"Yeah," Giorno nods, "I know." Jolyne is still gripping his shirt and, almost hesitantly, Giorno clasps his cold hand around her freezing numb one. "But," he continues, finally feeling resolved, "you don't need to lose hope, I think."

Jolyne's hand doesn't move from his grasp, instead, she clutches onto it. The girl twists her head to look at him, still with her moonlit red eyes, "You're shit at comforting people, y'know," but she's smiling weakly and leaning into him like a pillow.

"I think you're right," the blonde answers, simply.

The body beside him shifts uncomfortably. "I uhm...this time you did well, though." She says, shifting her eyes, light flush on her cheeks. Giorno can't tell if it's form the cold or from the embarrassment of having to amend her words. Either way, Giorno can't bring himself to decipher which one it is.

See, he's hung up on 'you did well'. Giorno...he doesn't think so. He was new and he stumbled over his words and in his opinion, it was terrible. There was even a whole thing about his mother and maybe it was needed—or maybe it wasn't—but either way, the fact that he talked about it still makes him uncomfortable and...But, then again, Jolyne isn't crying, and maybe that's what matters.

The girl scowls at him—him and his decidedly not blank face, when had he dropped his expression? "Hey," she whispers, aggressively, "stop thinking that."

"Nn," he responds, hardly an answer.

"Hmph," Jolyne says in return.

There's warmth beside him, and a hand in his, and she isn't crying and she isn't hiccuping—and he seems to have mended what he's coming to understand he didn't cause. Giorno reasons it out that the situation was similar to someone leaving a delicate cup on the edge of a high counter; it was going to fall eventually...he's coming to understand that he had only lightly brushed against the issue, he hadn't caused it.

It's a strange concept to him, this whole web of dynamics, but he thinks he's beginning to understand it a bit more. And that's good, he thinks.

But she's still shivering, and Giorno easily notices this fact. "Hey," he whispers, "would you like to go back inside now?"

The girl immediately shakes her head. "Not really."

The blonde blinks, "Why not?"

Jolyne shifts, uncomfortably, for some reason other than the cold. "I don't wanna see Dad."

Giorno tries to keep his expression from morphing into that of confusion. "But I thought you wanted to see him much more...?"

"Of course I do!" Jolyne bursts, "Don't you understand?"

"Uh," the blonde says, more than confused. "Then why...?"

The girl sends him a look of exasperation. "Because," she says, slowly, like she's speaking to a child—Giorno does not like it—"it'll be awkward!"

"But..." the blonde says, drawing on his small archive of familial knowledge, "I thought families can't be awkward?"

She rolls her eyes, "and who told you that?"

This causes him to pause...he can't actually remember very well. He doesn't remember if he picked it up from a book or a person or some other place. For all he knows, it could've been from a joke he overheard and took too seriously in the past.

"Uh," he ends up saying. "Okay. You got me...then, what's awkward about it?"

Now she's the one that looks rather awkward. "I...well when I left I was yelling at him some kinda insult right? What if he's mad, or like, something else? I dunno, don't you know what I mean?"

Giorno blinks, "No, not really."

"Ugh," she says, "it's just awkward, okay? Like, I'll need to apologize and take back my words and even then I still don't know if that'll help, y'know?"

He pauses a second to think. Maybe, perhaps, Giorno also hates taking back his words—not that he has to do that often. The blonde imagines that if he had said something that greatly soured relations between him and someone he is close to...he imagines it would be hard to face them again. It would be especially bad if he hadn't meant what he said.

"Oh," Giorno nods, "maybe, I think I understand now."

Jolyne nods, frantically, "Right! It's like, y'know!?"

"Yeah," the blonde answers, vaguely wondering what any of this is.

As much as Giorno thinks he understands, though, he also knows they do need to go inside. He thinks he understands that Jolyne needs to face Jotaro eventually, and reach some kind of conclusion, if only for tonight, and he knows that much longer out here and the ill-dressed Jolyne may catch a cold. He also knows that as much as he dreads going back in there himself—(so many people, so many things he doesn't understand, so many feelings that belong to Haruno rather than himself,)—he must maintain relations with the family.

And so, Giorno thinks, he must find a way for Jolyne to face Jotaro.

What would Giorno do in a situation like this...?

"Jolyne, let's make a plan," he says, almost a question, too light to be a command.

She nods, and then cracks a grin, "sounds like a plan."

"..." he blinks, "that was terrible."

"I know," the girl says, smug grin on her face, "so, anyway, what are we doing?"

The blonde almost grins—instead he cracks a small smile, "Well," he starts, "we needs flowers, and a speech."

At first, Jolyne tells him that his plan seems a little overboard, but she also doesn't have any alternative plan, so he ends up convincing her fairly easy. 'We need to make it so nothing can possibly go wrong,' he explains, and Jolyne agrees. The girl does, however, bring up a few good points; 'but we don't have any flowers, and I can't write a,' her face twists in disgust, 'speech.'

'I will help you with the speech,' the blonde tells her, 'as for flowers...' At this, Giorno has a decision to make. He could easily grow some with Gold Experience....but he also knows that Jotaro would prefer Jolyne not be involved in any of the supernatural and dangerous world. Although, he ends up reasoning, Jolyne had already seen a ghost in a turtle, what difference would a few flowers make?

So, Giorno starts with telling her all the things to say. He even gives her some examples. He tells her to remember to make it sound heartfelt 'include random details,' he tells her, 'like how you immediately felt bad about what you said, things like that. As long it's somewhat true.' At first, Jolyne seems rather confused by all this, but eventually she starts to get it, 'So I need to time giving the flowers to when I only have one more thing to say, during the 'I'm glad I have you' part?' Feeling proud; Giorno nods and smiles and pats her on the head.

It's only when they're done with the scripting that Giorno brings a finger to his lips and whispers, "This is a big secret, alright? You can't tell this to anyone."

And Jolyne nods, eyes wide and big and curious, dry but still looking red, "Of course I won't," she whispers, then, more demanding; "now tell me."

Giorno lightly chuckles, "Watch this."

Although Jolyne can't see it, Gold experience glows proudly in the dark. For a second, there's nothing, and then; "E-eh!?" Jolyne's eyes widen, mouth falling open.

Little blooms—whatever was on Giorno's mind, really, burst from the ground. By Gold Experience's feet honeysuckle flowers bloom from a small sapling that had burst from the round, the petals of a rose smoothly sliding into place, the stuttering movements as the little blue forget-me-nots open.

"It's like...in the documentaries, the ones where they have the time-lapses!" Jolyne exclaims, wide-eyed, staring at the flowers. She swings her head towards Giorno. "How did hell did you do that!?"

"That's a secret I unfortunately can't tell you for now...but I can grow you anything you'd like," Giorno explains as much as he possibly can, "we can make a bouquet like this." Then, as an afterthought, "You seem to be taking this rather well."

"Yeah," Jolyne nods, "I...I mean, there's always been pretty weird stuff y'know? Sometimes Shizuka looks like she's see-through, like a ghost, but she's obviously not a ghost so y'know? I already had some suspicions, and whenever Josuke is around, things will magically fix..." she looks a kind of distant, "Anyway!" she changes topic, excitedly, "Any plant I want? Really?"

The blonde nods, feeling a kind of unknown warmth for the girl—his family—"Anything you'd like."

Her eyes light up. "Then you can make sunflowers? And keep the forget-me-nots please. And what's a butterfly's favorite flower?" A pause, "Because butterflies are my favorite animal," she explains, for safe measure.

The blonde cringes, "...Butterflies aren't really...an animal, they also don't have a favorite flower, but they like iris. Do you like iris?"

"Fine," she says, sourly, "insect, butterflies are my favorite insect. But yeah, I like iris!"

Jolyne watches in utter fascination as Giorno turns some stray twigs into bright yellow sunflowers and royal purple iris stem up from the ground. It's actually rather cute. Really cute, actually, Giorno compares her to a bunny, or a chipmunk.

So they assemble the bouquet, and they go over the speech one more time—and it all goes well but Jolyne still seems to have something holing her back. Giorno doesn't know what, has he missed something? He hopes not. But it seems like he has.

Eventually, when they're about to leave the garden and walk back to the common room by way of the engawa—(right, that was the name! Giorno had completely forgotten before! He had been mentally referring to them as 'outside walkways'!)—it's only then that Giorno finally asks the question that's been bothering him. "Is something wrong? You don't look satisfied."

The girl nods, then shakes her head, then nods again, and finally; "Uh," she says, sounding awkward and hesitant, "I mean, so, and this'll sound stupid but, um."

There's a pause and Giorno urges; "Yes? Go on."

"Well uh," until she finally closes her eyes and bursts; "well you did some weird magic thing or whatever right? So like. Can you. Can you make these flowers blue? I mean the forget-me-nots are already blue but what about the iris and the sunflower? There's no such thing as a blue sunflower but like, you used weird magic right?"

"Oh," Giorno blinks, taken aback, "yeah, yeah, I can do that, no problem."

-

When Giorno slides open the door, and steps inside, Jolyne in tow, there's complete silence. The air feels so thick and heavy with invisible pressure that, on instinct, Giorno must struggle to get enough oxygen. He imagines it's far worse for Jolyne, his heart tugs in sympathy.

Meekly, the girl looks down at the floor, appearing small under the spotlight.

"Jolyne," Holly finally breaks the silence, "are you... alright?"

"U-uh, yeah..." Jolyne answers, one hand holding the bouquet behind her, the other clutching tightly to the fabric of Giorno's shirt. "Uh," she says again. The girl steps half a foot forward, towards Jotaro, hesitates. "I'm scared, what if dad is angry?" she murmurs, just quiet enough for only Giorno to hear.

Trying to ignore the stares, Giorno leans down and whispers; "Go on, you can do it, you're fine, be brave."

There's a pause. Then, sudden as a clap of lightning, Jolyne snaps her hand away and walks towards where Jotaro was seated.

Then, he hits a mental wall. 'Brave', he'd said she was brave. But that made no sense. She was scared—she is scared. But she's also being brave, he's sure of it. Brave? Brave is a positive thing, he's sure, whereas, being scared is not. Being scared is a terrible Haruno thing. Being brave is a good thing, a thing Giorno has mastered, and Haruno could never be. They don't...being brave and being scared don't mix. They just don't.

But, she's brave. Jolyne is brave, he's sure—

However, Giorno is quickly distracted from his thoughts—(or purposely pulls himself away from them)—when Jolyne finally stands before Jotaro.

The blonde moves so her can see it better and watches from the side of the room as she tightens her lips and says; "Father, I deeply apologize—"

Giorno feels strangely proud as he watches Jolyne speak according to the script she crafted. It all seems to be going perfectly well, it's about when she's halfway through that thing begin to go astray, though.

Jolyne's speech hitches, stutters into the ground as she sputters a long breath of random swears, "I can't fucking do this, can't you at least say something, Dad!"

Plans are vulnerable after all—maybe this one was doomed to fail from the start. Whatever semblance of a plan there was, it's gone now—broken off its hook and shattered all over the floor.

Jolyne's moss-green deep-water blue eyes tear up, again, but this time she stands her ground. This time, Jolyne doesn't storm out, leaving a wreck in her wake, and her tears don't rain down. The girl simply puffs up, waiting for a response.

"..." At first, Jotaro doesn't respond, he simply sits there watching. But eventually he speaks. "Calm down," he says.

Jolyne puffs up even larger.

The man sighs, it sounds less exasperated than tired. "Don't worry," he tries, again.

This is more on track, but not quite there yet. The girl 'hmph's and stays there. Then, with a big huff; "How could I not!? You...you...I, I didn't mean what I said, really, kinda, I still think you're acting like a fucking asshole but...I mean, God," she chokes, stumbling over her words, stopping trying to hide the flowers behind her back. With teary eyes she forces a hard "I love you, y'know!?"

There's a thick silence that stretches out too far, so far that Giorno begins to feel that if it stretched another second he might break it himself—but, like a drop of water in a pond—or a wave crashing dangerously on the shore—Jotaro finally speaks.

"Yeah," he says, too steady to be brittle, too small to be anything other than brittle, "I know you do."

The girl bars her teeth, "Yeah? And I wish I could say the same about you!"

Another pause that runs too long and too slow, and then—

The words are spoken too quiet and too small, but as the only sound in the room, they dominate the space. "I'm sorry..." And it's a voice just barely over a whisper.

Jolyne almost looks angry, if she wasn't almost-crying. "That's not what I want now, dammit! Just," She chokes, "can't you just say you love me!?"

"...Of course I do," Jotaro breaths, looking pained and looking cracked, "I...did you think I didn't?"

Jolyne's crying now, again, "W-well I wouldn't know right!?" She says, choking, "I mean you...you don't act like it."

"I don't?" Jotaro asks; face looking blank and body looking tense.

"Of course you f-fucking don't! You..." Jolyne swallows down a wail, "you haven't even given me a hug! Y'know, all the other kids get hugs from their Dads, all the time!"

Jotaro blinks and Giorno watches as, wordless, his impossibly large frame unfolds itself from the chair and he kneels down and his big arms wrap around his daughter, pulling her into his chest. "I'm sorry," he whispers, again, so quiet that Giorno can only just-barely make it out.

Jolyne doesn't respond, just buries herself deeper into his chest and he sweeps the girl up and cradles her in his arms, sitting back down in his chair. Eventually, Jolyne lifts her head, and sits straight in his lap, she shoves the battered, messy bouquet in his face and rather in-eloquently says; "Here, I'm sorry too."

And that's that.

The minutes continue, and jokes are made, and conversation drawls on. Jolyne remains by Jotaro's side, he thinks they ended up reading a book together, but he isn't sure because at some point he gets swept into the tide of other conversation.

Trish tells Giorno that he shouldn't be telling children to script speeches—she doesn't need two of him in the house, apparently. The blonde quips back that there's no such thing as too many of himself, and Mista laughs beside them, agreeing with the blonde.

The night continues on, and, out of the corner of his eye, Giorno spots Shizuka sneaking off with some of the Ribollita she had previously said she disliked. Understandably, Giorno is rather confused and asks her if her opinion has changed—to which the toddler immediately goes red and invisible and stutters what sounds like an excuse, before her footsteps fade into the clutter of noise.

The blonde blinks, and wonders what that was about. But he doesn't worry too much, because the whole room has a float-y kind of feeling—or maybe that's just him—and no one's crying and it all seems good, for now.

Chapter Text

Giorno feels warm.

His veins thrum with it, he’s overheating—he’s done little more than sample every dish and yet he feels stuffed. Perhaps his standards are low. He’s never had nearly this much to eat in the past. Back when his hair was black and messy and his arms were too thin, he’d never been allowed to eat much at all. And since his ascension to Don-hood, he’s never given himself the chance to indulge.

Positions have shifted. Trish had led him across the room, before drifting somewhere else and Giorno hardly finds himself having much of the heart to move. The blonde finds himself leaning against the wall, quiet in his observations. A safe distance away sits Joseph and his wife—the only two that Giorno realizes he’s hardly interacted much with at all. Yes, there had been some passed lines between Joseph and the blonde, but nothing much—nothing one-on-one. Giorno is glad for that.

Joseph is…well, Giorno isn’t actually sure. He’s small, he’s large—his being is melded into the very threads of this familial quilt. He’s the embodiment of something Giorno doesn’t understand. Of course he’s heard plenty on the man—heard of his vigor and strength and pride in his star. It’s not hard to hear about how much Joseph had utterly and completely despised Dio. The man had been completely and absolutely determined to bleach out the parasite on his family’s lineage.

It is for this reason that Giorno wonders; ‘Is the son of a parasite, in his eyes, also nothing more than filth?’

(The thought scares Haruno. It doesn’t faze Giorno.)

Perhaps Joseph doesn’t hate him—but cloaked disgust—annoyance—discomfort isn’t hate.

“’Getting full?” a voice asks, old and rich; like ancient oak and ringed pine. There’s no malice in it.

Giorno stills his fingers, tilts his head, takes a half step. “Yeah,” he says, measured, “The food has been very good. Your daughter is an amazing chef.”

Joseph laughs, open and genuine. “She is, isn’t she! She’s Suzie’s daughter after all. I don’t know how they do it!”

In the rocking chair beside him, Suzie snorts—a frail kind of breathless sound. It reminds Giorno of the last breaths of an old, long-living tree—its branches sagging under the weight of the life it’s lived and the shade it’s provided. “You’re just not patient enough! You’re no fool. If you set your mind to it it’d be easy.”

“Fair enough, fair enough!” The man’s eyes crinkle in mirth. Giorno feels like a third wheel. He shifts uncomfortably, wonders if he should leave, wonders if that’d be rude. As though sensing his discomfort, Joseph turns back, looks like he’s going to say something.

A pause, Joseph stares. Giorno holds himself in perfect position. There’s the sound of conversation and the crack of old heating and the sound of Giorno’s heart crawling up his throat.

The elder speaks first. “You…remind me of Josuke,” he says, eventually. The blonde can’t decipher the tone of his voice.

“Oh,” he responds after a moment, it sounds painfully awkward. “I see…? I’m sorry, but I don’t completely understand what you mean...”

Not only does Giorno not understand; he also dislikes the implications of such a statement. He likes Josuke, sure, but… Josuke is awkward and afraid and when Giorno looks he sees the mirror of someone less competent and less strong and less like the sun. The blonde likes Josuke, but he doesn’t want to reflect the inherent awkwardness, unsure-ness, hesitation, anxiety that he sees in the older teen.

He won’t say it terrifies him and he won’t critique Josuke for it, but he doesn’t want to be that. Weakness should be purged.

Joseph chuckles, “Well, It’s been strange to accept both of you…strange but…not unwelcome. It’s good to have you here.”

‘Oh,’ Giorno thinks, feeling the breath catch in his throat. Oh. And he would tell himself Joseph is simply lying by that’d feel like an insult to the pure and complete sincerity the older seems to display. “Is there anything more to it than that?” Giorno asks, suspenseful.

“Yes,” Joseph sighs. “It’s in the shake of your shoulders.”

‘Oh,’ he thinks, for a whole different reason. Oh. Giorno bites his tongue, almost snaps. Instead, calmly; “I’m not trembling.”

“Metaphorically,” the elder says, eyes twinkling.

Giorno struggles to claw words from the turmoil of his mind. “Don’t,” he ends up saying. Ineloquent—unacceptable.

“Don’t worry about it,” the man chuckles. Giorno nearly twitches in annoyance. It seems unreasonable for someone to so casually and blatantly brush past the borders of Giorno’s entire philosophy. “I’m glad,” he continues, seemingly oblivious to the beehive he had just poked, “it makes me…proud.”

The blonde cocks his head. “Proud?”

“Of course,” Joseph says, looking fond. “It’s brave of him, after all. He’s my son, why wouldn’t I be?”

“That’s…” the boy shakes his head, uneasy. “I mean, is he…is that really bravery? He’s scared, terrified, it’s easy for anyone to tell.”

Joseph gives him a strange look. “That’s the very definition of bravery!”

Giorno bites the inside of his cheek; he has scars there from the number of times he does this. “To each their own,” he says, eventually. It’s a strange phrase to use in the face of anything objective. The response feels inadequate.

The elder frowns, rough on his old wrinkled face. “Well,” he says, shrugging, “I was also wrong when I was your age.”

“Joseph!” Suzie exclaims, halfway to scandalized.

“What!?” the old man protests, “It’s not like I’m wrong!”

Giorno blinks, feels the thoughts in his head slow down—or speed into a frenzy. He isn’t sure. But he knows that was an insult and he knows Joseph is wrong and he knows he really can’t flame the fire. It’d be a terrible move to get into an argument with Joseph.

And, somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wonders if he would even be able to find the words to sustain his own argument. Of course, Giorno ignores this—because what is he without his iron-clad beliefs? Fear is a weakness and weakness has no place in strength. And what is strength without bravery?

Giorno is startled by Joseph’s laugh. The elder is leaning back in his chair, shoulder’s shaking; full of mirth. Previous matters almost seem to be forgotten. Of course, they aren’t. Giorno doesn’t forget, and there’s a sharpness in the rounded edges of Joseph’s eyes that communicate an uncanny understanding.

“Regardless,” Joseph says, “I’m glad everything has gone so well.”

The blonde pauses; it’s a change of pace, but a welcome one. “Were you worried it wouldn’t?”

“A little,” the elder admits, small smile. “But it’s turned out well,” he gestures to the room, lively and full and overpowering in its warmth, “like this.” The man sighs, sinks into the cushions of his rocking chair. “My family is happy and…” he looks to Giorno, soft in his disposition. “You really aren’t too bad either. I had been a little bit worried but you’re…good.”

“Oh,” the boy says, awkwardly. He shifts the weight on his feet. “Was there…anything else you were worried about?” He doesn’t know what else to say.

“Plenty,” Joseph tells him, relaxed. “This is both Shizuka and Josuke’s first reunion, and Shizuka has never been good with crowds…I suppose it’s okay this time since she knows near everyone, though.”

“Shizuka, she’s your…daughter, am I wrong?” The question is more of a courtesy than anything else. Giorno is fairly confident in his knowledge.

“Adopted,” the man says, making a distinction. Then adds: “Of course, I love her as much as my own daughter!”

Giorno pauses, and, despite himself, asks; “Is she not?”

Joseph stares, blinks. “No…” Looks a little lost. “She is, she is.”

The boy wants to continue, ask why Joseph had made a distinction in the first place—ask if there’s a difference. Should there be one, he wants to ask what the difference is. He doesn’t, though. He’d hate to look stupid. Holly starts calling for volunteers and that’s Giorno’s signal to dismiss himself.

The blonde readies himself to speak, but before he can get a single word out, Joseph says this; “And next you’ll say; ‘while I would love to continue this conversation, I can’t let Holly work alone. It’s been lovely to talk to you, but I must excuse myself.’” Joseph’s eyes are twinkling, there’s smile curled on his lips.

Giorno stares, blinks—stops himself from saying those exact words. He hates that. He hates that so much. Giorno’s mind is and always has been his sanctuary, and words are but a product of the mind. Someone knowing what he’ll say—a stranger knowing his exact words brings him infinite unease.

Joseph softens, in a way. “Don’t worry too much about it,” he says, sounding gentle. “It’s not a crime to open up.”

“Uh,” Giorno says, eventually.

The man chuckles, “C’mon, go! It’s better you don’t spend time with your poor old nephew anyway! Go socialize.”

It takes Giorno a moment to connect the dots that yes, he in Joseph’s uncle. “Right...right. Of course. Thank you. I’ll take my leave.”

Giorno leaves Joseph behind, but the man’s words cling to him like burdock. They’re all tangled into his mind and as much as Giorno tries to scrub them away and throw out the notion of bravery being in intertwined with fear—they stick. The blonde tries not to focus on it. Not Joseph’s words, nor the memories they ring of Jotaro saying much the same.

Unfortunately, Giorno’s services are rejected. Holly tells him that he already helped so much with dinner, and he’s a guest! She couldn’t possibly let him work more than he already has. The boy tries to persuade her but Holly is persistent and stubborn and in the end it’s useless.

There are two options, the engawa, or the common room. Giorno wants some peace—he goes outside. It’s cold, but refreshing. He breathes deep, sighs, lets his expression slide right off his face. What’s left is something more genuine—more tired, more nervous, more authentic in its hints of happiness.

He doesn’t let himself breathe a long and shaky breath, though. And he’s glad he doesn’t, because he isn’t as alone as he had thought.

“Lisa Lisa,” Giorno says, blinking. “Why are you out here? It’s cold.”

The woman raises an eyebrow. “I could say the same to you.” There’s a moment, Lisa Lisa stares; Giorno feels ants on his skin. “You forgot your face,” She says, eventually.

Oh. There’s still a furrow between his eyebrows, still a frown curled onto his lips. A blink and it’s gone. The action is a little too late, though.

“What’s bothering you?” She asks, carefully.

Giorno pauses. He doesn’t say: ‘I’m worrying about there perhaps being flaws in the philosophy that governs my very being.’ Instead, he blurts; “You and Joseph…you two accepted me extremely easily,” (everyone did,) “I don’t know very much about you, Lisa Lisa, but from what I had heard of Joseph…he shouldn’t have accepted me so readily.”

Lisa Lisa cocks her head, settles into the open space beside Giorno. The moonlight illuminates the streaks of grey and while adorning her otherwise obsidian hair. “That’s been bothering you?”

“To some degree, yes,” It’s not quite the full truth. It’s not what Giorno had been thinking about at that moment—but it’s not untrue. It has been bothering him. “If I didn’t have better sense, I’d file it under fraudulent behavior.”

The woman softens; sighs. “Then it’s a good thing you have your sense about you.” A moment. “I understand what you mean, though. This would be startling for anybody.” Especially you, She doesn’t say, but Giorno hears it nonetheless. He doesn’t like the implication of vulnerability.

“Uh-huh…” Giorno says. “Then…there is a reason, or?”

Lisa Lisa chuckles. “Our branch of the family is used to accepting long lost relatives… Josuke is the most obvious but even before that, when Joseph was in his teens, he was dealing with sudden family.”

Lisa Lisa speaks of it as though she were there. There’s a weight to her words. Giorno hesitates, holds up a hand, falters. “My apologies, this may sound strange, but I’m...not exactly sure where you lie in the family tree. May I inquire?”

“Oh!” The woman says, almost surprised. “I had forgotten…right. I’m your sister-in-law.”

“Uh,” Giorno says.

“Elizabeth Joestar, Joseph’s mother. I would prefer Lisa Lisa, though,” The woman tells him.

The gears in Giorno’s mind turn, clanking against each other in a mad frenzy to organize the information. If Lisa Lisa is really Elizabeth Joestar—the same one of whom the blonde had seen written into the Joestar family tree—then that would place her at over a century in age. Lisa Lisa is certainly not nearly that old! It’d be impossible for Giorno’s age estimation to be off by that much. But she doesn’t look like she’s lying, and if, somehow, it were true, it would answer the question of Lisa Lisa’s identity.

“How?” The question is more curious than accusatory. Then; “A stand…?”

“No,” Lisa Lisa shakes her head, “Hamon.” Giorno sends her a questioning look. She pauses. “It’s a power different from stands…a little bit complicated, too.”

The blonde is reeling. There was an entire supernatural branch of abilities that he had never heard of? Perhaps it is natural that he hadn’t heard of it previous to the mafia—but now he’s the Don Passione. It’s his job to know enormous thing like this; his responsibility. He bites his lip. “A short summery, please…may I inquire more at a later date?”

“Of course,” Lisa Lisa hums. “It’s far from common knowledge, but not exactly a large secret.” She taps the wall behind her, thinking. “A summery huh…” She pauses, the wind blows, Giorno waits in anticipation. “Magical essence of the sun martial arts that make you into a human sunbeam laser,” she says, straight faced. Then adds: “It also slows your aging.”

“Um,” Giorno says.

Lisa Lisa chuckles. “It’s unique.”

“I see…” The boy trails off. “So…how many people know about this practice..?”

She frowns, sighs. “Probably only a couple dozen by now…Joseph used to practice it, but he stopped years ago. I taught him myself.”

“Oh,” he blinks, “When?” A pause. “When did he stop, I mean.”

“In his late twenties,” The woman sighs, again. “I taught him when he still a teenager. He was really good at it, you know. He tried to take a lot of short cuts, but in the end, he did work hard.” She pauses, glances away, looks down. Suddenly, to Giorno, she looked a little more her age. A little tired, a little wise; having seen the tidings of a long life. “I was proud of him…I never actually…” Lisa Lisa trails off.

Giorno waits a few seconds before prompting her to continue. Carefully, he asks; “Yes?”

The woman pauses, closes her eyes, opens them. “I never actually…raised Joseph. I left him with his grandmother. I only really, well, met him when he was eighteen and I was teaching him Hamon.” Lisa Lisa pauses. “He didn’t even know I was his mother at the time.”

“Ah,” Giorno says, somewhat startled, somewhat awkward. “That must have been hard. I’m glad you two seem to have made up…?” Perhaps he shouldn’t have said that. He isn’t sure of their status at all.

She chuckles, “Yes, I’m glad, too.” Her eyes are twinkling. “It wasn’t easy. I only told him I was his mother after I thought he died…I’m not sure if I even thought of him as my son back then…” She pauses, “Not at first, at least. I think I only really, completely thought of him as my son after a number of months…years. I imagine it was the same for him—he was angry at me when I first told him. I think it…” The woman falters. Giorno doesn’t dare to speak. “It…off-put him.”

“I…see,” Giorno says, eventually. He doesn’t see, not really. He doesn’t know why Lisa Lisa took a few months (years?) to accept Joseph as a son. Is that how it usually is? It can’t be; he’s seen women beg at his feet the cancel their debt—‘for my baby!’ they’d say. Obviously those women consider their newborns family, so how come it would take time for Joseph and Lisa Lisa..? Perhaps it has to do with the factor of time and distance?

…How does that relate to his situation?

(Haruno has never liked houses. He disliked his first, hated his second, been okay with his third, is still trying to ease into his fourth, and his fifth is confusing.)

The woman looks at him; a smile curls on her lips. “That seems to have gotten rather heavy, it wasn’t my intention.” She pauses, chuckles. “What I mean to say is that we’re rather used to accepting people. Hell, Joseph is more experienced than I am with everything surrounding his son! Anyhow…really, you don’t have anything to worry about.”

Giorno stares; wide eyed and still confused. “But,” he ends up managing, “I’m not your son? I’m not your grandson—I’m not the direct descendant of anyone here, and obviously I’m not married in. You don’t,” he falters, “need me. It’s useless, all of it. I can’t claim your culture and I can hardly claim your blood.”

Lisa Lisa smiles, fond. Steady and stable, like a pillar or a support. It’s a little comforting, but not nearly enough to ease Giorno’s turbulent mind. “No,” she says, “you’re not.” She pauses, thinking, “That, however, doesn’t invalidate your place at our table.”

Giorno grits his teeth. He hates this feeling. He’s powerless and confused and it’s all wrong. He’s never had much difficulty with math but he imagines that this must be the way many of his peers had felt when they struggled over equations. Giorno snaps. “Then why am I here!?”

The wind blows frost across Giorno’s skin and ruffles his hair. The moon shines big and bright and brilliant. The stars glitter around it, warm and scattered. Cold numbs its way into Giorno’s fingers. The star on his shoulder aches. Lisa Lisa’s gaze burns holes through his skin.

He clenches his fists, where no one can see the blood on his palms. It happens sudden and shocking; nothing more than a mere split second after his words bite the air. He’s broken character. He’s broken Giorno. He did what a child would do. He doesn’t need to rely on the whims of others to answer his own questions. He isn’t helpless. He isn’t a child.

(He isn’t Haruno.)

“Excuse me,” the boy says, “I didn’t mean to come off so strong…” His hair gleams gold and silver in the moonlight; his smile plastic and manufactured.

Lisa Lisa sighs, waves her hand. “Come on, no need for that.”

Giorno smiles.

Another sigh, the woman looks up at the night sky, looks back at him. “It’s alright; your reaction is perfectly natural.” She shakes her head, smiles bitterly. “It wasn’t easy getting you here, you know. And I’m not just talking about logistics—Jotaro and Joseph rejected the idea very strongly at first, you see.”

The blonde nods—finally, something that fits within logic. “Yes,” he says, slowly, “that makes sense.”

Lisa Lisa nods, breathes deep. “They were really concerned, even Joseph, despite his old age and growing senility. Jotaro nearly fought Holly over it,” she says, amusement coating her words.

The breath catches in Giorno’s lungs. “Oh,” he says, sounding lost. “How’d that work out? I’m here, I mean. Of course you know I’m here. I mean—” he’s rambling. Rambling is useless. “I’m glad the situation seems to have worked out peacefully, I mean.”

The woman laughs, eyes crinkling. He can see age in the wrinkles creeping onto her face. “Relatively, it was a large argument…but in the end Holly won and Joseph conceded. Jotaro said he’d make up his mind when he saw you.” She sighs, closes her eyes. “It wasn’t easy.”

The wind blows and the stars glitter and the birthmark on Giorno’s shoulder burns. “Then,” his voice is little more than a whisper, “as I keep asking, why am I here? What could Holly have possibly said?”

Lisa Lisa pauses, thinking. She purses her lips. “This isn’t exactly what she said, but it comes down to responsibility.” The woman tilts her head, meeting Giorno’s gaze. It’s blue on blue. “You’re a loose end, Giorno. It’s our duty to resolve our part.”

The blonde in question stares back; like a student looking at a teacher in utter confusion. Eventually, he asks; “Responsibility?”

“Yes,” says Lisa Lisa, “responsibility, familial responsibility.” When Giorno is still confused, she quirks her eyebrow and says; “You…do understand what I’m talking about, right?”

“Sure,” responds Giorno. In reality, he doesn’t, not really.

Lisa Lisa looks at him for a long moment. Giorno can feel his skin prick uncomfortably. Phantom ants are crawling inside his veins. He should know the answer to this question.

(Haruno reads a lot of books; he still doesn’t know the answer to his mother’s question.)

Another pause; the wind blows, the moon shines gold and silver through his hair, the star on Giorno’s shoulder burns. Eventually, slowly, carefully, Lisa Lisa asks; “What do you know of the role of the parent?”

Giorno blinks. And, not untruthfully, says; “I’ve never particularly thought of it before.” But his answer is more of avoidance than an answer. He doesn’t know. How could he? Perhaps there is a role, but it’s not obvious to him. It’s obscured by black fog and more barriers than he can count.

“I…see.” She nods. “That’s fine. Family…” she trails off, “You’re not a burden, don’t get me wrong, please.”

“Right,” breathes Giorno.

Lisa Lisa offers him a faint smile. “Giorno,” she says, too kindly, “a family is like a web. It’s a support. If the entire world tries to tear you down, it is the role of your web to have given you a strong enough foundation to hold. And if you are torn and fall, it is the role of family to build you back up…do you understand a little bit more?”

Giorno pauses. Yes, no, not really, maybe, perhaps. He thinks so. Maybe just a tiny bit. Then again, his mother was none of those. “Yeah,” he says. But, is it only biological family that can do that? Giorno doesn’t think so. That man, the gangster, had never been related to him—yet he had served more of that role than anyone else.

Lisa Lisa smiles, “I’m glad.” She pauses, “Anyhow…as a child’s first social circle, and as a product of their family, it’s the family’s responsibility to care for the child…” Another pause, the wind blows the star on Giorno’s shoulder burns. Something in the woman’s expression changes, “…We were never there to provide. It’s obvious your mother didn’t.” Her face looks tight. Giorno doesn’t know what that means. “We’re late, but late is better than never at all, I suppose.”

Giorno blinks; trying his very best to absorb the information. It feels like something is missing. He understands more now, he thinks. But it feels more complicated than that. Jolyne had been crying—her relationship with Jotaro had felt more complicated than a simple provided for and provider situation. It feels like there should be more to family than that.

But then again, what would Giorno know?

(He wouldn’t know. And with not knowing the answer, comes anxiety. Haruno’s pale fingers tremble.)

He keeps his thoughts to himself. They stew in his mind, like a thorn to his thoughts. But he could be wrong, and he doesn’t want to look stupid. They’ll think badly of him. So he bites his tongue and takes special care to his expression and eventually, after too much silence, resolves to continue the conversation. Perhaps, if he can’t put it bluntly…he can ask his question in a roundabout, implied way? Of course.

“Then,” he asks, carefully, “what do you consider me?”

The woman hesitates, looks at him for a long moment, purses her lips. The question seems to trouble her. Dully, Giorno wonders why there can’t ever be simple answer to anything. “Well,” she begins, her brows slightly furrowed, “in what way?”

“Familial,” Giorno answers, tone measured—watching her nonverbal signals like a hawk.

She pauses, the wind chills Giorno’s skin. His star still burns thorns on his shoulder. “You…I’ve accepted you, of course. You’ve been accepted here, but—” Ah, there it is, “I don’t fully,” she quiets, just the tiniest bit, “fully consider you family. Not yet at least. Sometime.”

Yes; there is something to family besides blood. Giorno is sure of it now—it’s more complicated than provider and provided for. That’s one of his questions answered. He still feels lost; a sailor lost in the forest. This has never been his scene—he’s more comfortable in ballrooms and offices.

(That’s somewhat misleading, though. Haruno has never felt comfortable in those big fancy places. Still, they’re better than this.)

Then again, ballrooms don’t really feel like his place–even if they should…Has he ever had a place at all?

Giorno does his very utmost best to ignore this thought. It doesn’t matter; it’s useless. He has more important things to focus on.

“I see,” he eventually manages. He doesn’t know his own tone.

Lisa Lisa looks at him, unreadable. Giorno stares back. Eventually: “Are you disappointed?”

Is he disappointed? He doesn’t think so. Definitely not. “No,” he shakes his head. He tries not to stumble over his words, but he does anyway. “No, it makes sense, I. It’s a relief, I mean. It makes perfect sense.”

And Lisa Lisa is still looking at him. He doesn’t know the expression on her face. It’s something fond and something wary and incredibly strange. The stars glitter through Giorno’s gold-turned-silver hair. The woman starts to speak, stops, looks at him strangely, speaks.

“Can I give you a hug?”

The wind blows, Giorno’s eyes are wide, glittering in the moonlight. Oh, he thinks. “Oh,” he says. And no matter how much Giorno’s eyes pry her face for humor, she isn’t joking. “Uh,” he manages. The wind chills his skin. His fingers numb cold and shaky by his side. Frost blows against his neck and through his shirt. It’s cold out. It wouldn’t be bad, necessarily.

…But Lisa Lisa is large and strange and new and Giorno has never liked hugs.

“No,” Giorno says, “Thank you, though,” he adds, unsure.

The woman hums. “That’s alright. Don’t worry about it.”

Giorno stares, unsure. He doesn’t regret his decision. He’s not disappointed. That’d be ridiculous. But there’s a let-down, sinking feeling in his chest—it’s heavy. “But,” he starts, breathless, unsure of what he’s saying, “maybe sometime. Not now. Maybe sometime.”

Lisa Lisa looks at him, silent. Her eyes twinkle. “Sometime.” And it sounds like a promise. The wind bites his skin; Giorno already feels phantom warmth cocooning him.

“Yes,” he agrees, “sometime.” She’s smiling, so is Giorno. He doesn’t know if he does it out of genuine emotion, or simply to match her expression. He tries not to think about it.

The wind doesn’t seem so chilly anymore. It still blows, of course. It seems to have been picking up, actually. Nothing much, of course, not hurricane level—but a storm seems to be blowing in. Over the wind, Giorno can’t tell if the small scampering noise is from the bushes or the house. It only lasts a moment before it fades off. Giorno easily archives the noise to critters.

Despite the warmth in his chest, Giorno shivers. It’s still cold. The movement isn’t lost on Lisa Lisa.

“We should head in,” she tells him, “I wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.”

Giorno nods, “Yeah. I wonder if there’s still any cleaning to do in there. Holly kept saying I couldn’t help.”

Lisa Lisa laughs. “That sounds just like her! She’s a bleeding heart to her core.”

The blonde nods, smiling, “She’s very nice.”

Just as they are about to return inside; Lisa Lisa startles. Her hand freezes, she turns towards him. “There’s something I should probably tell you, before I forget again.”

Giorno sends her a questioning look. Something she had forgotten…? She seems very serious about it, which indicates that the matter is of importance. He hopes he hasn’t done anything wrong. “Yes…?”

“You…really don’t need to keep attempting to break into Air Supplena island. Please, a no is a no. Defeating your foot soldiers is getting bothersome.”

Giorno chokes. Recovering from his surprise, he gasps for breath, eyes flying wildly to Lisa Lisa’s deadpan. It makes so much sense now. The reason why her name had rung bells when he first heard it, why she was so fluent in Italian. He has been too distracted to properly connect the dots. “You are that troublesome and mysterious owner of Air Supplena Island!?”

She smiles, “Yes. I assure you, I’m not hiding drugs on my property.”

“You didn’t have to injure all my soldatos!” Giorno cries. “They were out for weeks!”

“And you could have simply accepted my letter that, no, I was not harboring drugs,” Lisa Lisa responds, humorous.

“Cazzate,” Giorno swears. “There’s no way I could do something as utterly stupid as to leave a large, privately owned, island a mere thirty minutes away from Venice completely unchecked! We tried to do a background check, you know! It came up with nothing; ‘Lisa Lisa’ doesn’t exist! Of course we were suspicious!”

It’s uncharacteristic of him, really. But Air Supplena Island has been a thorn in his side since the very moment he took over Passione. He’s been trying to drug check the island for months. Had he not been so busy he would have gone there himself. As it stands, he had been planning to personally check if it went on much longer. Damn his other responsibilities. Fugo’s entire division has been working themselves dry over the issue.

“I don’t like people on my private property,” Lisa Lisa says.

The blonde tries to collect himself. “Fine.” It sounds like a complaint. It sounds like a child finally conceding to the word of a parent. Giorno doesn’t like his tone, but he can’t bring himself to care. “I’ll stop trying to drug check the island. Pay my soldato’s hospital bills.”

Lisa Lisa looks at him, raising an eyebrow. “You’re the mafia. You don’t have enough money to pay for those? Don’t be a cheapskate.”

Giorno feels like hissing. He doesn’t, of course. But Goddamn. “Don’t lecture me.”

She chuckles, “I’d hardly call this a lecture.”

“You can’t lecture me in any case,” Giorno says, furrowing his brows. He isn’t pouting.

“Oh?” Responds Lisa Lisa, raising an eyebrow, “Bold. You’d get your ear pulled if your grandmother was anyone else.”

He startles. “You aren’t my grandmother.” And then; “I don’t have a grandmother.”

“Not yet.”

Giorno wants to protest, he really does. He wants to say: ‘that doesn’t make any sense!’ But, alas, they enter the common room and suddenly it’s loud and warm and there isn’t time to argue about that.

Trish is calling him over, he joins them easy. It’s another of Mista’s strange topics. ‘So, Dolphins eat fish, yeah? But, like. Dolphins are fish too, right? So like, is it like, semi-cannibalism?’ Trish is extremely exasperated. ‘It’s stupid,’ she says, ‘going by that logic a bear eating a deer is cannibalism!’ Giorno doesn’t really know what to say, luckily, he doesn’t have to say anything. Jolyne, in all her ten-year-old smugness, comes over and self-assuredly tells them that: ‘actually, Dolphins are mammals. Not fish. Dad told me. And dad knows more than any of you.’

This causes a bit of commotion, firstly: Jolyne shouldn’t be able to understand them. However it’s quickly revealed that Shizuka had been translating for her. Secondly: Mista doesn’t know what Jolyne had said—and, for god-knows-what reason, assumes that she has challenged him to some kind of contest. Thirdly: ten-year-old smugness. It’s all rather confusing.

When, eventually, the matter is resolved, Giorno remembers he really needs to leave. His mind is in Italy. He can imagine the poor members of his intelligence and logistics team still desperately trying to figure out how to deal with the issue of Air Supplena Island. “One moment,” he says to Trish and Mista and Jolyne. “I’ll be back in a second, I need to make a phone call.”

Jolyne looks confused at their words. Giorno simplifies it into English for her.

“Ew,” Jolyne immediately says, “a phone call.”

Similarly, Trish furrows her brows. A frown twists on her lips. Mista, too, jumps to alert. His eyes are inky black and watchful. After a moment, he carefully asks; “Why?”

“I need to tell Fugo something,” Giorno vaguely answers.

Sex Pistols stick out from beneath Mista’s hat. His expression is calm. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Giorno says, quickly, then; “not like that, I mean. I just need to tell Fugo something.”

Trish groans. “Come on, we’re on vacation! Passione can take a day without your management.”

Giorno frowns. “It’ll only take a few minutes, ten at most.”

“Is it something really important?” It’s a somewhat accusatory tone. Giorno shifts uncomfortably. It’s not like he’s doing something wrong. Passione always has and always will come first. Trish is too stubborn.

“It’s save a lot of time and trouble for everyone,” he answers, measured.

Trish groans, again. It’s loud. “Fine,” she gives. Then she holds out three fingers. “Three minutes, only speak for three minutes. You can’t need more time than that. Work out the details when you aren’t in the middle of your super special reunion.”

Giorno does not like this, but Trish has always been stubborn. He doubts she’ll budge anymore. “Fine,” he murmurs, “I’ll be back in a few minutes then.”

Just as he’s leaving, Jolyne, looking somewhat letdown, says; “Jeez, I don’t get why you adults like phone calls so much. They’re boring.”

Giorno thinks about ignoring it, he probably should. Instead, he leans down. “Don’t worry, I won’t be out long. Alright?”

“I wasn’t worried! I’m not a kid anymore.”

Giorno nods, and lightly brushes his hand against her hair, and steps out of the room. He doesn’t go outside, this time. It’s cold and he’s already spent so much time outside already. He probably wouldn’t be able to hear Fugo over the wind anyway. Instead, he slides open a door to some other unknown part of the house. He opens into a hallway—it’s unlit. He slides the door shut behind him. The sounds muffle.

When his eyes finally adjust t the light, he moves away. The air is heavy. There are pictures on the wall. A messy crayon drawing of a dolphin. Giorno didn’t come here for this, but he keeps looking. There are a lot of things like this. Jotaro when he’s five, baby Jolyne, the star blazing wide and noticeable on her shoulder. A wedding photo; Holly looks younger. Two high school graduation photos. Josuke posing with his father.

Giorno feels like he’s intruding. This isn’t his place, these aren’t his memories. Even Josuke is here. He looks away from the dark, half-shadowed pictures. They’re looking at him, he hates it. He knows what they’re implying is true. He shouldn’t be here.

Giorno tries not to think about it. He’s far enough away for the noise not to interfere with his call. A few clicks and his flip phone is ringing. Fugo picks up in a heartbeat.

“Is something wrong?” His voice is static and sounding strained over the thin connection.

Unknowingly, Giorno’s face has already molded into something far more plastic. (Don-like.) “No,” he says, soothingly. “Don’t worry.”

“Okay, yeah, that’s good. Are you sure? I thought something had gone terribly wrong,” the connection falters, “Hello? Oh, it’s back. So no fights have happened? Why’d you call me?”

It’s not uncommon for Fugo to ramble like this. He’s just worried. “Nothing has happened,” Giorno says. “But if you insist, it’s been well. I feel fine. They aren’t…threats.” His own words surprise him. Somehow he hadn’t registered it yet. They aren’t threats. And somewhere, more vaguely, in the back of Giorno’s mind: There’s no reason to worry.

“Oh, oh, that’s good.” There’s some shuffling on the other end, it sounds like papers. The noise is painfully static. “So, um, reason for calling? Sorry.”

“Right, of course,” Giorno says, “Don’t worry about Air Supplena island. I’ve mostly settled the matter.” The blonde takes a second to decide if he should elaborate. He should. Just as he starts speaking—

“What!?” Fugo screeches, the phone producing a searing sound by Giorno’s ears. Hnn. Some clattering on the other end. “Excuse me, how?”

“I don’t have time for details,” Giorno says. “I’ll tell you more when I come back. A lot of things are happening, I hope you can understand. Just know that I ended up finding the hidden identity of Lisa Lisa. It’s fine. I’m sure there are no drugs on Air Supplena Island.”

“You met them!?” the phone is loud, again. The pitch is a pain in Giorno’s ears. “How do we know they aren’t just…lying? Or? Was it not spoken account?”

“Spoken account,” The blonde says, and then hesitates. He hears muffled laughter from the other room. “It’s alright…I trust their word.” A pause, static, the connection falters. Somewhat quieter: “I trust them.”

“Oh,” responds Fugo, still sounding a little unsure. “O…kay. I trust you. If you trust them I trust them.”

Somewhere down the hall, a door slams open. Jolyne’s silhouette comes into view. “C’mon Giorno! Trish says to: ‘sbrigati! Vieni qui! Il tempo è scaduto!’”

Immediately, Giorno flushes. He hopes Fugo hadn’t been able to make out what exactly Jolyne had repeated. He probably hadn’t. After all, Jolyne’s English accent is thick and she had thoroughly mangled the words. Hurry up! Get over here! Time is up!

“What?” Fugo’s static voice comes, sounding confused. “Italian? Who was that?”

Giorno is immediately relieved by the fact that Fugo hadn’t seemed to have understood. “That was Jolyne, Jotaro Kujo’s daughter? We went over her on the family tree.” A pause, static over the phone, what sounds like: ’Oh, I remember.’ “Anyhow,” Giorno hastily continues, “I need to go now, don’t worry so much, Fugo.”

Click. The phone hangs up.

“I’m coming!” Giorno calls as he walks down the hall.

The girl easily cuts the distance between them. “Good! You were being suuuuperrrr slooowwww!” Jolyne complains, taking his hand and pulling him back into the common room.

It’s warm again, bright again—different from the cold dark hall. He feels a little more comfortable. He vaguely wonders when he started to feel more comfortable in company than out of it. But it’s warm, and there are jobs to help with, so Giorno doesn’t linger on the thought.

Again, Holly insists he shouldn’t be helping. But this time he says; ‘Am I not to help in the household I stay?’ and he doesn’t mean for it to seem so…accepting? He doesn’t live here. He’s only staying here for tonight. He might be leaving late tonight, actually. But it sounds like he he’s said ‘I’m staying,’ in a more complete, final way. But Holly’s eyes twinkle and her face lights up and Giorno can’t bring himself to take back his words.

There’s much to do. Desert is only half done. (They had apparently prepped it before Giorno arrived; now all it needs is baking.) Apples pies, frozen yogurts, smoothies, brownies—apparently Jolyne had requested blueberry-caramel-chocolate chip-peach pancakes. The house is full of the scent of frying dough and baking peaches. (Peach cobbler! Giorno cannot wait.) He wonders if they have gelato in the freezer. He knows they have ice cream—but it’s not quite the same. He’ll have to show Josuke and Jolyne Pistachio gelato someday. If he ever sees them again, he means.

There are dishes to be washed, and deserts to be made, and the table must be re-set. Giorno sets to work. Lisa Lisa and Holly are in the kitchen, washing dishes and finishing desert. It’s him, Josuke, Jolyne, and Shizuka that are on duty to help them. Their duties include cleaning up the common room, re-setting the common room for desert, and doing any other assortment of odd jobs. It’s actually not half bad.

Giorno has never really had this opportunity before. Obviously his mother and step father had ordered him to do things—bring another bottle, clean this up; You’ll bring me the hummus, won’t you, Haruno?—but this is different. He would almost call it fun. Still, nothing tonight seems to be without stumbles, no matter how minor, and this isn’t an exception.

The first happens when he asks Shizuka to give him a dirty dish that’s lying on the floor by her feet. He hadn’t meant for authority to slip into his voice. But he supposes it must have. Because the girl stares, then giggles. Too loudly for his liking, she says: ‘I’m not a mafia guy! Only mama tells me to do stuff!’

It’s not much, but Giorno doesn’t like it. He, of course, by this point, understands that no one really cares that he’s the Don Passione. But it still isn’t a good look. For a brief second, Giorno worries. Then Suzie laughs and says: ‘Come on, Shizuka! Don’t bother your new family.’ It’s a little bit humorous, a little bit genuine. The incident ends easily. Shizuka sulks, and looks a little displeased but it’s nothing much.

The second incident happens when Giorno is entering the common room from the kitchen—clean, washed, plates in hand. He sees Shizuka by their bags and she’s holding something that she really shouldn’t be. The blonde immediately sets down the stack of plates—perhaps a bit too hard; they come down with a clatter—and rushes over. He had left that over there..? He need to be more careful. The teen needs to restrain himself from snatching the photo straight out of her hands.

“Please put that down,” he tells her.

“Oh,” the toddler says, wide eyed. She gives the wallet to him. Giorno tucks it safely into his back pocket. “Who’s that?”

“My father,” says Giorno, carefully. “His name is Dio.”

Shizuka looks at him, blinks. Then she looks a little upset. “Dio? But Dio’s that guy! The vampire! Dad always tells me he’s very very very bad!” And for a second there’s the shadow of a glare on her face. Giorno is sure he’s imagined it.

“Well, yes,” he ends up saying.

Shizuka looks dully shocked. The blonde really wishes it to end there, but soon enough Mista joins in with; 'Hold up, VAMPIRE!? Then, wait, I knew Dio was shitty ‘n all, but, vampire? Wait, then, are you half-vampire!?’ In response, Jolyne shrieks. It escalates from there. Not necessarily in a bad way, not in an accusatory way. But in a way that makes Giorno feel incredibly uncomfortable. It only ends when Jotaro shuts them all up. The man states that, ‘No, children born of vampires do NOT appear to inherit very many, if any, vampiric traits. Cap it. Jolyne wasn’t supposed to hear any of this.’

The awful trend continues from there. When Giorno is pilings deserts onto the table Shizuka places her dish exactly where he was about to place his. Initially, he dismisses this as coincidence, then it happens again, and again. Not in quite the same way—not really. When Giorno tries to move a chair, Shizuka moves it first, when Giorno tries to assist Holly, Shizuka gets to her first.

Giorno hesitates. He’s high strung; he’s probably reading into it too much. But..?

The blonde has his chance when Shizuka is struggling. She’s trying to get some cups from the cabinet. As they are far out of her reach, and the other adults have left the kitchen, Shizuka is attempting to scale the counter to reach her goal. Gently, Giorno puts her back down and retrieves the cups himself. He puts them where she can reach.

The toddler looks up at him. “Uh,” her chocolate brown eyes flit away, “Thanks.”

“No problem,” says Giorno. A pause. Would this not be the perfect time to bring it up? He needs to ask, it’s been bothering him far too much. “Hey…” He begins, quietly, “Do you not like me..?”

The toddler blinks. She furrows her, pauses, vigorously shakes her head. “It’s…not like that.”

Giorno blinks. It wasn’t nothing. He had been right. Perhaps not bullseye, but he was right. He wonders if he’s done something wrong. Unease crawls beneath his skin. Then again, he hadn’t done anything wrong concerning Jolyne. Perhaps he’s just high strung.

(Haruno stills.)

“Then,” he asks, “what is it?”

The girl looks incredibly troubled, or upset. She glances away, glances black. It’s brown on blue. “It’s not like I don’t like you,” she mumbles, “you’re nice. But…” Guilt clings to her frame, frustration burdens her voice—a dangerous, explosive edge—“if you’re family then that means I’m not!”

With lack of anything else to say, Giorno, startled, asks; “What?”

She shifts uncomfortably and restless on her feet. Her head perks. “This… don’t wanna talk about it here. The others are coming.” The severity in her voice and the burden on her shoulders is in such stark contrast to the way she lisps her ‘R’s (sounding more like ‘w’ than ‘r’) is enough of a shock to remind Giorno that yes, he’s still speaking to a toddler. A serious toddler, but a toddler nonetheless. “Come on,” she says, taking his hand in her small, small one, “follow me.”

He lets her guide him down the engawa and into some other dark part of the house. They’re far away, voices little more than distant chatter. They go farther still. It’s almost like a maze, she leads him up some stairs and down a hallway and into a closet, and then kneels down. Shizuka looks at him, looking suspicious. “You have to keep this a secret, okay?” She looks a little worried. “I haven’t even showed Jolyne. I’m only showing you cause I was mean and we gotta hide. So they can’t find us. Okay? Don’t’ tell.”

“…I won’t tell,” Giorno says, still a little confused about what exactly he’s not supposed to talk about.

And then Shizuka opens up the wall. In the dim light Giorno hadn’t seen it, but now he notices that the wall had a small door built into it.

“It’s the knee-wall,” Shizuka explains, “No one ever goes here, I think everyone forgot it. So now it’s my hide out. Come in!” Her little body easily slips through the tiny door.

“Uhm,” Says Giorno, unsure of everything. He has a million questions; the one he asks is: “Are you sure I’ll fit?” Giorno is not a large person, but he’s not a dwarf.

Shizuka’s head pops out. “You will! I know it. Come on! It’s actually like, really cool in here.”

“…Okay.” So he comes. It’s a tight fit. The door is only the beginning. When he actually manages to squeeze himself inside, the knee-wall is little over three feet tall. He needs to sit down and hunch his back to fit at all. His head still hits against the ceiling. It’s dark, so dark it’s black.

“I’m turning on the light,” Shizuka whispers, and he hears a shuffle, then a click.

It’s dim light, but enough. She’s lit a little lamp that shines yellow warmth onto everything it touches. In the glow, Giorno can see a whole nest of blankets and pillows and an assortment of oddities. There are pretty rocks in a pile, a dried four-leafed-clover, a photo of a small two-year old Shizuka with her parents. Family drawings. Stars. So, so many stars. There are half-peeling star stickers stuck to the ceiling and the walls, star blankets. Drawings of stars. There’s even a star plush.

The star on Giorno’s shoulder aches.

“We put a lot of stuff here.” Shizuka points behind him. “See?”

The blonde turns around best he can. Indeed, there are tons of boxes, wrapped paintings, little trinkets that look special. Keepsakes, he thinks. Giorno uncomfortably bites his lip. He shouldn’t be here.

“Yeah…” he trails off.

“Uhhuh! But this part of the knee-wall wasn’t filled. So now it’s my hide-out!”

“It’s nice,” he says. “So you uh…really like stars, huh?”

She nods. “I love them I love Mama and Dad and everyone and they all…” she trails off. “Stars are really pretty. Have you ever looked at a lot of stars in the sky? I have. They’re pretty. I saw a shooting star once, have you?”

Giorno nods, “Yeah, I have.” It was when he was younger, when he had black hair and black bruises. It had been a cold night—probably midnight. He was bleeding on his back and didn’t want to risk anything else until his stepfather was asleep.

“What’d you wish for?” the girl asks. He doesn’t remember what he had wished for. Perhaps he didn’t ask for anything at all. But before he can answer, she continues with: “I wished for a star. You know? And blue eyes. Did you know that sometimes people’s eye color changes? But my eyes never even look blue at all.”

“Oh…” Giorno says, awkwardly. “You mean…A star like this?” Giorno tilts his head, best he can in the cramped space. He tugs down the color of his shirt, fully revealing the star on his shoulder.

Shizuka stares, then her lip trembles. “Yeah, like that. Mama told me it’s a birthmark. You have to be made with it. But I wasn’t.”

It’s a little startling. She sounds so sad. Giorno feels awkward. “Uh-huh…”

The girl glares at him, glares at the star on his shoulder. “That’s the reason you’re here right? Cause you have a star. And stars are special. You can be here cause you have a star.”

The blonde feels a bit nauseous. He hopes this isn’t going where he thinks it is. He isn’t prepared. “Yes…” He says, slowly. “The reason I’m here is because,” he contemplates saying 'because I’m related by blood,' but she’s only four and he doubts she’ll understand—“I have a star.”

She bites her lip, squeezes her eyes shut, opens them. They look watery. “See! I knew it! But you see?” She tugs down her shirt. Her shoulder is pale and white and completely bare; devoid of stars or otherwise. “I don’t have one!”

Oh, Giorno thinks. He isn’t prepared for this. Not at all.

“If you’re family cause you have a star, then I’m the one who shouldn’t be here! Dad always talks about it to Josuke and Jolyne and everyone, how they gotta do stuff cause they have stars and stars are special. And you see? Stars are special and I don’t have one!”

The girl glares at the star on his shoulder with deep chocolate eyes. Giorno can’t deal with this. He isn’t prepared. He doesn’t have a script. He’s never been good with these kinds of things. Would she even understand if he tried to explain? Could he even explain?

The star on his shoulder aches and he looks at the photo of a small Shizuka and her parents and he thinks: ‘No, no I can’t explain. How can I explain something I don’t understand myself?’ It would be comparable to an art major giving a lecture on quantum mechanics.

Giorno tries to take the easy way out. “Don’t worry,” he says, attempting to be soothing, “you’ll understand when you’re older.”

There’s a moment of silence. Giorno holds his breath. He hopes it works... Then—“No!” The girl erupts. “Don’t! Mama and Dad say that all the time. But When I’m older will be in a long long time. I need to know now!”

“Uh,” says Giorno, girl doesn’t slow.

“Just cause I’m really small doesn’t make me not smart! I don’t know very many words or stuff but I’m not, like. You get what I mean right?” She asks. “I get a lot of stuff. Dad always talks about ‘duty’ and ‘lini’…” she trails off. “Lini…”

“Lineage?” Giorno offers. The girl nods vigorously.

“That! Lini…anyway. I don’t really get what that means but I know it’s about stars.” She pauses, looks at the stars on the wall, “It’s about the family. Dad always tells me stories about us and Great Grandpa Jonathan and how everyone's real name is Joestar. Cause we have stars. But,” she hesitates. Biting her lip, she continues; tears well up in her eyes, again. Giorno wonders how long they’ve been there.

“It’s alright,” Giorno whispers, gently. He’s not very good at comforting people. “You’re okay. You’re their family even if you don’t have a star.” He thinks.

Shizuka looks upset at his words. “I already told you though! Family means stars! And the right eyes! No one really talks about it but everyone has either blue or green eyes too. You have like, both? I think. What color are your eyes? My favorite color is blue. Dad has blue eyes, so does Josuke. I have brown ones.” She chokes, her eyes are wet. “I hate them. I heard from Jolyne that there’s this thing you put in your eye to make them change color. I want it.”

She pauses, looks at the stars on the ceiling. “And a tat-something can give me a star. Did you know that?” She’s growing more upset by the second. Giorno can only watch. He can’t even correct her. She’s wrong, he’s sure she’s wrong. He doesn’t know why. Giorno has never trusted feelings that aren’t attached to something tangible. “But it’s gonna be fake.” Her voice is too high, it’s a sour note. “Not the same as the star Jolyne has. Jolyne’s real. You’re real even though no one even gets you.”

And she’s crying. Giorno should never have come. He shouldn’t have come to the reunion. Even if the star on his shoulder is real, he’s fake. He’s not like the rest of them. He’s here because it was, according to Lisa Lisa, their duty to pick him up. He gets that reasoning. It’s sound. But he didn’t grow up walking these halls. He doesn’t have a single shared photo with them. Shizuka has that; it’s leaning on the wall just beside them. It wouldn’t be right for her not to belong.

(Haruno doesn’t belong. He’s sure someone will call him out on it.)

There’s more to family than blood, Giorno thinks.

“Don’t worry,” he says, softly. “You belong. I’m sure of it.”

She sniffles. “Sorry...I don’t actually cry very much,” the girl tries very hard not to let out a sob, she fails, “I’m, I-I’m , I usually don’t cry...”

“It’s okay,” the blonde tries to reassure. She’s a child. Children cry. It’s not fine for him to cry, since he’s Giorno Giovanna, but Shizuka is only four years old. She’s sad and troubled and feels different. Giorno also feels different. Feeling different is a terrible feeling. “It’s okay for you to cry.”

It’s cramped, but and there isn’t much distance between them. Shizuka leans forward and falls into Giorno’s lap. Her tears stain the fabric. He can feel salt on his skin. He moves his arm, is clunks against the wall. It’s awkward, how his arm fits around her quivering frame. But this is what he’s supposed to do, isn’t it?

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Shizuka manages. “You’re really nice. I was being a bully. I actually tried to trip you, even though it didn’t work. Sorry.” She pauses, looking up at him, eyes red and guilty. “I also purposely mentioned the mafia stuff. I don’t really get what mafia is but I know it’s something bad. I didn’t want anyone to like you, even though you’re nice. But if they got you out it’d mean that I don’t need a star to stay so I did all that. But you’re really nice.”

Oh. Giorno winces. That had caused him a lot of strife. But he isn’t petty enough to hold grudges against a four year old. At least he now knows his observations were right. “I...don’t mind,” he manages.

She looks away. “I was also listening to you and Grandma talk. I don’t really get what you guys were talking about but she said you’re family cause you have a star.”

He freezes. “No…” Giorno mumbles. “Not really. She said more than that.”

“Like?” Shizuka asks eyes teary and red.

He pauses. “It’s more complicated than just stars.” Perhaps he doesn’t really…understand himself. But he can repeat what he’s heard, can’t he? It’ll be easy. He can do that. “Here…just…listen to me for a bit. You don’t have to worry. Just listen to me.”

“Okay,” the girl sniffles, “I can do that.” She moves away, sitting up and composing herself best she can.

Now he has to speak. “Well…” Giorno starts, feeling awkward. This time, he’s not completely able to mask the unsure-ness in his voice. “Me having a star only means that I’m…connected, in a way, to you guys. And the connection means they have a responsibility to take care of me. But having a star doesn’t really make me family.”

“Connection?” Shizuka asks, looking completely confused, “Responsibility? But they all said you’re family!” She’s looking upset, again. “I don’t get it!”

“Um,” says Giorno, and he’s stumbling blind. “Connection…it’s like. Something that binds. Like a thread. You’ll understand more in a bit, alright?”

She still looks unsatisfied, but nods. “Okay…”

Giorno nods. “And um. Responsibility is like…something you should do. Like putting your clothes away. Get it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And…” The words are coming unnaturally to Giorno. He’s always been good with words; eloquent and precise. Language is an easy front to map. Now they feel thick and clunky and confused on his tongue. “Having a star just means I’m here. I’m connected. You see? But I’m not family in the same way your mom and dad are.”

“Oh,” Says Shizuka She pauses, her brow furrows, she nods. She still looks a little confused, “Yeah. You’re not. That makes a bit more sense. Kind of. But Mama and Dad are family. That’s what everyone calls them.” She’s looking antsy—glancing to the stars on the wall and the photos on the floor. Then back to him. “Then what are you? Everyone calls you family. But you’re not like Mama and Dad. I still don’t get it!”

Giorno feels the star on his shoulder ache. He’s never liked being bound. But it’s not quite a binding. He can cut the threads if he tries hard enough. “There are different kinds of family,” he says, more out of a vague notion than complete rationality.

“Uh,” Shizuka says, sounding confused.

He holds up a hand. “Wait, I’ll explain.” Explain what, exactly? He shouldn’t have tried to even touch the subject. “There’s…There’s the family between you and Jolyne and your mom and dad, and there’s the other kind.” He pauses. “The kind I am…a…connection. You know when your shirt gets a loose thread?”

The girl nods. “Yeah, Mama tells me to watch when she sews it back in.”

“Yeah,” Giorno says, “all loose threads need to be dealt with. Sometimes you cut it off, sometimes you sew it in. Whichever way you choose, it must be dealt with.” He is beginning to understand it more now. Paraphrasing Lisa Lisa—putting it in his own words—he’s getting it more. He can’t put it into words, really. The concepts slip from his grasp like sand—it’s terribly frustrating—but they’re there. Perhaps that’s what really counts. “If I had been a bad person, they would have cut me off. But since I’m a good person—”

“Oh!” Shizuka interrupts. “We’re gonna sew you in! And when you’re sewn in you become family family! Like Jolyne.”

The blonde blinks, nods. “Yeah. I don’t think I’ll ever become family family, though.” Family family—it’s far from eloquent and far from precise but it feels like the word—(term?)—Giorno has been looking for. The unnamed element: the aspect that makes ‘family’ more than blood. He still doesn’t understand the specifics, though. He’s never really had family family before.

“Oh.” Shizuka looks disappointed. “Why? You’re nice!”

“Well,” says Giorno, ‘I don’t think I can,’ “I don’t know if I want to.” And they’re both true.

(Haruno hesitates at the door of his fifth house.)

“Oh…” She stares at him. “Why? Family family is really nice!”

But Giorno isn’t even completely sure what family family is. “I’ve never had it before,” he pauses, “so I don’t know.”

Shizuka looks at him with wide eyes. “You’ve never had anyone that loves you? Cause family family is the people that love you, right? And you love them. And stuff. You know? Hugs.”

Oh, Giorno thinks, it’s that kind of thing. “It is?” Giorno asks, weakly; as lough he’s running out of breath.

“Isn’t it?” Asks Shizuka. “Isn’t that what you’re talking about?”

Love. Giorno doesn’t really think he understands it. But he thinks he understands reliability and warmth and hugs—and he thinks; Trish, Mista. “Oh.” And suddenly family seems so much less of a faraway concept; less of a star in the sky, and more of a low hanging cloud. “I guess,” he stumbles over his words, “I guess I know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about?” The poor toddler looks completely confused. “I thought you were talking about it?”

“I was?” he pauses. Of course. “I was.”

“Huh?”

“I think you’re teaching me,” Giorno blurts, not really thinking. “I, um, I only repeated what Lisa Lisa said, I mean.”

“Oh,” the girl says a little less confused. “I thought adults know everything…”

“I should have known,” Giorno is saying too much. “I didn’t really. I think I get it more now. Thank you.”

She grins, looking very pleased with herself. “You’re welcome!” She giggles, “I can tell Dad that I knew more than an adult.”

The blonde freezes. “Don’t…don’t do that.” He doesn’t want Joseph—or anybody else for that matter—to know how confused he had been (still is, to some degree,) on the matter. He doesn’t want to look foolish.

Shizuka pauses, looks at him with wide eyes. “Then...it’s a secret? Okay. I’m really good with secrets. Since you’re gonna keep my secret hiding place a secret I’ll not say your secret too!”

Giorno nods in relief, “Yeah, definitely.”

“Hehe,” Shizuka grins. “So now that you get it, you can become family, right?”

“Uh,” Giorno responds. No, not at all, he thinks.

Trish and Mista are different. Tucking himself in beside them isn’t easy—but it’s easier than trying to meld himself into a proper familial setting. The Joestars are more…complicated. Too complicated. He wonders if all families are so complicated. There are so many different threads and things to keep track of. It’s too foreign and too difficult. Sometimes Giorno feels the urge to curl in on himself when Mista is too touchy. It’s so much worse with the Joestars. He wouldn’t be able to stand it.

(Haruno trembles, always trembles. Giorno tries not to.)

Giorno fits into the Joestars like a badly sized puzzle piece. Despite this, he still answers: “I’ll...think about it.”

The toddler looks delighted at his answer—Giorno doesn’t have to heart to take it back. “Okay!” She says, “Make sure you decide to! I really like you. You’re nice. Did’ja know that? I think it’d be super nice if you stay.”

“Oh…” Giorno says, feeling lightheaded and sounding weak. “Thank you.”

“Uh-huh!” The girl nods. Then looks at the wall, then looks at the photo. She frowns.

“What’s wrong?” Giorno asks, vaguely worried.

“Um…” Shizuka looks back at him. “I get what you said. Um. I get it.” She hesitates. “but what if Dad doesn’t?”

Giorno blinks. He thought he—they—had handled this. He isn’t suited for this type of thing. Still, this is easier than it was before. He knows the answer to this one. It had only been a little over an hour since he had talked to Joseph, after all. “Just ask him,” Giorno says. It can’t go wrong.

“Ask!?” Shizuka squeaks.

Giorno nods. “Ask.”

She glances away, looks at the stars on the wall. “What if…what if Dad says no?”

“Then you simply explain what you’ve just learned, isn’t that right?” He answers confident. He’s back into a position where he does have a plan and does know the answers.

“O…kay...” she nods, still looking unsure.

Giorno smiles, feeling fond. He stretches out a hand—“Let’s go.” And as he lifts himself, he hears a loud clung and feels pain blossoming on his head. Oh. Right. How stupid of him. They’re still in a cramped little knee-wall, with star stickers on the walls and blankets on the floor. A blush burns across Giorno’s face, but Shizuka laughs, loud and delighted, and Giorno can’t bring himself to think it’s all bad.

They crawl out of the knee-wall and walk out of the closet, and make their way down the halls. Giorno can feel Shizuka’s nervousness. Down the stairs, out onto the engawa—the toddler stops just short of the common room.

“Don’t worry,” Giorno whispers.

“Hnn…” Whimpers Shizuka. She shifts on her feet.

The blonde hesitates, looks at her small, unsure figure. Awkwardly, with a clunky kind of movement, he slips his hand into hers. It’s so much smaller than his. He squeezes her hand—he’s never been very good at comforting people. “Hey, Shizuka,” he whispers, not really thinking, “thank you.” A pause, the wind blows, it’s chilly outside. “You’ll catch a cold if we stay out here.”

“…” Shizuka shifts on her feet. “Follow me. Don’t tell anyone I’m here.” And the toddler shimmers out of sight. Giorno can still feel her hand in his. “Open the door,” her voice whispers, “I don’t wanna do a big thing like Jolyne.”

Giorno nods, he feels her hand slip from his. The door slides open. He’s greeted by Holly almost the moment he closes the door behind him. “There you are!” the woman exclaims. She looks worried “Have you seen Shizuka? She loves hiding, but desert is out. Shizuka loves desert… Nobody knows where she is. Joseph said that if she’s missing for another few minute he’ll go and look for her himself…”

“Oh…” Giorno says, feeling guilty. “I’m…um...I’m sure she’ll turn up.”

Holly nods. “Right…Find yourself a seat…I’m sure desert will be properly served soon.. I don’t want you to worry about anything.”

Giorno wants to break his promise of secrecy right here and now. But he’s never been one to back on his word. Instead, he holds out on the hope that Shizuka would reveal herself soon. “Of course…” He says, leaving as quickly as possible.

As before, the blonde settles himself under the kotatsu. He doesn’t need prodding this time. This time, he hardly even thinks about it. Amidst everything, Giorno keeps a special eye on Joseph’s rocking chair. The man seems to be increasingly worried. Suzie holds his hand, Lisa Lisa holds his other, and Jotaro grunts that it’s impossible to keep track of an invisible kid anyway. Giorno watches, warmth in his fingertips, and thinks; ‘Ah, that’s what I’ve been trying to name.’

As Giorno suspects, Shizuka is not long to appear. She shimmers in right beside Joseph, turning the whole scene into a jumble. The girl doesn’t wait for anything to calm down.

“Hey Dad,” she starts, voice faltering, “am I your family?”

Joseph chokes; Giorno wonders how she can possibly put it so bluntly. He could never—he would dance around the subject; get his answer without ever asking the question. That’s what he did when he was talking to Lisa Lisa.

“What?” Joseph manages, sounding startled. “What do you mean? Where have you been? Desert is out.”

Giorno can see Shizuka steel herself, she bites her lip. “I mean. I was thinking. You always talk about stars, but I don’t have one. So am I family? I think so but do you think so?”

He doesn’t know how she does it. She’s so young and small and her hand had trembled in Giorno’s hold. This would be impossible for him. She’s putting herself into the open and laying her fears out for all to see.

“Oh,” Joseph says, wide eyed, “Oh…Shizuka. Of course you are. Of course I think so.”

The girl’s lip trembles and her eyes well up and she hugs her father. Giorno thinks; ‘God, she’s so brave.’

Ah, but she’s crying. That can’t be brave. He can’t be saying that a four-year-old is braver than he is, in ways. That can’t be right. It can’t be right. Crying is a weakness and vulnerability is a chink in otherwise pristine armor.

(Haruno tries to stay in the dark; hidden.)

Haruno is weak. Haruno is vulnerable. Giorno is perfect, and Giorno isn’t vulnerable. Shizuka is brave and Shizuka is vulnerable. If Shizuka is being brave then Giorno hasn't been. Giorno hates not understanding things.

He tries to ignore it. Desert is finally being served. Shizuka is grinning. Holly no longer looks worried—Giorno no longer needs to feel guilty. Everything is finally good. He doubts there will be any more incidents tonight. He hopes there won’t be any more.

Peach cobbler is sweet to the tongue. The thought that he might be wrong is sour on his mind. Jotaro’s words still bother him, Shizuka is brave, Giorno doesn’t know what to think. Giorno has always hated not understanding things.

Giorno thinks of the star on his shoulder and the warmth in his fingertips and the vulnerability in it all. He can’t ignore it.

Chapter Text

Dessert drags out a sluggish pace, movements dulled by warmth and full stomachs. Heat cranking, sweet desserts, the sound of a mounting storm whipping outside is drowned by chatter. Everything has slowed—but that's not to say that talking has slowed, just that progression of events has. No threats, initial fears faded into obscurity, the family is at ease, and that same ease is reflected into the form of Giorno's very own bodyguard.

Still, Giorno doesn't let his senses dull. Knives sharp, if not needed. He thinks.

Giorno can hardly hear the surrounding clamor above the blood behind his ears and the tide of his thoughts. All scattered and miscellaneous and fleeting in a way he hates.

At some point someone breaks out a monopoly board and he takes to it like a fish to water. He helps set up the board, everything but Shizuka's abandoned cookie bowl moved—that kept because Shizuka's too full and now it's free hand-outs. Giorno plays monopoly. And it's not even entirely to get out of his own head. He actually likes monopoly.

Mista is not hesitant to prod this fact as he sulks in his bankruptcy. "Y'know monopoly was like, actually made to be boring. To simulate to painful slog of capitalism—Fugo said so."

Giorno chuckles lightly. He gathers up his two five-hundred bills and hands them to Jolyne, who had insisted on being banker. "Jolyne, a hotel, please." Then he shifts his gaze to Mista and allows a little smirk. "Mista, it reflects badly to act a sore loser."

The man in question whines. "Monopoly's boring anyway. And for boring old capitalists." He gives the remaining players—Jotaro, Joseph, Lisa Lisa, Shizuka—and especially Giorno, a stink eye. "Ew."

The blonde reaches across the coffee table to take the piece—contemplates taking a cookie on his way back, decides against it. Lightly pushes the companion hotel onto Parkway. "Mista, it's not my fault you bankrupted before the fifteen minute mark of a monopoly game."

"You put a hotel on Boardwalk in the first fifteen minutes!" Mista looks absolutely indignant. Shizuka giggles from across the coffee-table. "Who even does that?"

Giorno shrugs smugly. Passes the dice to Jotaro. Watches in utter delight as he lands on Pennsylvania Avenue and has to pay a total $1400. High risk, high reward, after all. Giorno decided that's how he'd play the game, so that's how he does. He'd initially teetered on the edge of bankruptcy, but now he's swimming in wealth.

It takes a minute or two for Jotaro to figure out the mortgaging, but he eventually forks the money up and hands it over with an almost-frown. Giorno distributes it into his stash and smiles—but Jotaro's still looking at him. Almost frowning. Giorno's skin pricks. He feels the shift of air and the scald of scrutiny. He checks over his expression, it doesn't feel wrong.

'Yes?' hangs on the tip of his tongue. He bites it back. Instead: "It's Joseph's turn."

"Yeah," responds Jotaro, and passes along the dice. A beat. Then, too Giorno, and he gestures to the cookie bowl, "You can take those."

He blinks, tilts his head a little. Skin pricks. "Excuse me?"

Shizuka's cookie bowl. In theory: free, in practice: no one else has taken any so. Well, Giorno isn't going to be the one to do so. Even though his sweet tooth is a bit strong, and he's finished his cobbler.

(He's Haruno and his mother is telling saying no, not yours you fucking brat.)

"You can have some," says Jotaro, tone steady and almost reassuring.

Giorno knows that. He doesn't need help knowing that. His skin crawls, bristles. He can take what he wants, he is capable—but there is no ill-intent seeping through Jotaro's frame. There is no ill-intent, even if there are undertones of babying. Giorno doesn't need that, but it's positively useless dwell.

"Of course," Giorno smiles, but it's practiced and forced.

...How had Jotaro noticed anyhow? Had Giorno been sending out signs? Did it show in his face, a twitch of his fingers? He hadn't noticed anything. Perhaps Jotaro is just perceptive? Nononono—that's not the issue. He shouldn't been sending any signals—

"C'mon," says Jolyne, and she's talking to him, "It's your turn."

Giorno blinks. "Of course," he smiles. Takes the dice, rolls, collects his two hundred, passes them on.

Just now, he had blinked out, drifted off, stopped paying attention, He's paid so dearly for his time, fought so viciously for his security, measured his faces and played his cards and he can't compromise that with blink-and-you'll-lose-it. He needs to seize these moments; grip them until he's melded them into his shape, played them into his palm. Giorno Giovanna can't be anything less than perfect, everywhere, but especially here.

He's lost his grip so many times already tonight, slipped into something lesser. It can't happen again.

(Haruno always, always let time drag on around him. Let himself sink in useless misery. And he can't do that, not here, not now—)

So he doesn't.

Shizuka is next to bankrupt, then Jotaro, then Lisa Lisa, until it's just him and Joseph. Figures, since the old man is one of the most successful real-estate investors in the whole of Northeast America. There is...an unexpected delight to winning against him. Something that tugs Giorno's face into its first real smile since the cookie-bowl-comment. This smile has sharp, gleaming edges.

Joseph loses in good faith, proclaims he was only playing half-strength, but there's no heat in it. And, Giorno notices (how could he not?)—He's looking at him. Strange expression, something nostalgic and faraway.

Giorno's skin pricks needles and knives.

(Haruno tries so hard to make himself invisible.)

There are locusts beneath his skin, wasps in his veins, leeches nesting worries into Giorno's mind. Think, rationalize, study. It can't be anything too bad. But then again, Giorno's smile had edges, sharp and pointed. He never knew Dio, but he imagines the creature's smile might not have been too much different. And Giorno thinks that this family doesn't mind too much, but there's still the possibility and he just wants to know what Joseph's thinking-—

"You look like Jonathan," Joseph finally says, and Giorno feels the thrum quiet, only to rebound twice the volume.

"Oh," he says because he doesn't know what else to say.

Jonathan. The Englishman, Dio's nemesis, his...technically one of Giorno's biological fathers. Giorno has read a few scant sentences on him from the file given by the SPW foundation. Close friends with Robert E. O. Speedwagon, married to Erina Joestar...killed and body stolen by Dio Brando. Little more.

You look like Jonathan.

Jonathan died far before Joseph was born. Joseph shouldn't know his appearance. Meaning...there is at least one picture somewhere, he's sure of it. Something clenches in Giorno's chest—aches. Aches like years of speculation and hope and building a glass bridge of expectations that ends in the reveal of a bloody curtain and the shattering of every glass brick.

So, he's a little curious. Naturally, it's not as if he's...fixated on Jonathan, exactly. It is not a big deal. The man means nothing to him, he's never even seen a picture. But he's curious, if nothing else. Curious in a burning, all-consuming way that thunders through his consciousness like dry-wood flames.

They have a picture? They have a picture. They have a picture—

"Have you seen him?" His tone is steady.

"We have pictures," Joseph nods.

Pictures. Multiple. Even better.

He wants to see them, oh, he wants to see them. He doesn't need to but he wants to. Would it be presumptuous to ask? He isn't sure if they'd understand. They probably consider Dio his father—not that Giorno considers Jonathan his father. He has no father. But he is so curious and he has to bite back: 'May I see?' Because they could respond: 'Why?' And he'd have to to say, 'I don't know.'

Giorno hums.

Joseph holds his haze for a moment. Eyes blue and deep and contemplative. A beat. Then, "Would you like me to show you?"

Yes, he thinks. "I wouldn't mind," Giorno says.

"Great," Joseph says, eyes crinkling. The elder begins lifting himself out of his seat, with obvious effort, and Giorno finds himself getting up and wanting to extend a hand.

"Would you..." He doesn't finish the sentence. Is he being offensive? Giorno would hate being in the same position. His clothes suddenly feel too constricting.

But Joseph grins—immediately slumping back and saying, "Oh absolutely!"

So Giorno shoulder most of Joseph's weight, and Joseph directs them out into the hall. Giorno slides the rice paper door closed behind them, the clamor dulls to a loud buzz. Joseph flicks a light switch—a ceiling light bulb briefly flickers before shining the whole hall in a cozy yellow tone.

"Hmm," hums the elder, "We might get a blackout soon."

Giorno nods. If he listens beyond the common room's buzz, he can hear the blow of wind against the wooden walls, the tap of raindrops against rice paper, distant thunder. He wonders if it will impact his communication back to Italy. (Oh he hopes not, he cannot let this trip interfere with his most pressing affairs. The shame of anything going wrong while he was out for personal matters would make him claw the skin from his palms.)

"This way," Joseph says, moving down the hallway.

In the better lighting, Giorno can see that the entire wall is covered in photos and drawings. All framed. Josuke by the seaside, a backpack-wearing child recognizable as Jolyne, a painting of a vibrantly red coral reef signed in neat letters, Kujo Jotaro. But there is no Jonathan Joestar.

The air heavy, it presses down on Giorno's shoulders, it's thick in his lungs; rich in a way that makes it hard to breathe. From every side, there is a memory, a capsule of experience, a moment that ages with time and takes on new significance. The farther they traverse the hall, the older the photo's become—Jotaro's high school graduation, Holly's wedding—and now they're progressing into territory Giorno hardly recognizes. Yellowed pictures, black and white—Joseph Joestar and Erina Joestar 1950, Joseph Joestar 1938—strangely, this is a funeral photo—Lisa Lisa 1910.

Until, finally, there are only a few frames left.

The tap of Giorno's footsteps abruptly top at the final frames. They're black and white and worn with age but clearly recognizable. The air is heavy, gravity thick and legacy cloying. He can feel it; humming through the air, layering quilts of history over every step, shining bright and palpable under the burnt light.

Two photos, framed in ornate gold.

Erina Joestar and Jonathan Joestar 1888. They are back-dropped by a church, every corner is lined in roses, and in the center, there's them. She's wearing a beautiful wedding gown, a bouquet in one arm—the other wrapped around her new husband—Jonathan Joestar.

Jonathan Joestar is a giant of a man, easily Jotaro's height, but with more bulk. Still, he's far from brutish. He's wearing a sleek suit, and looks...not threatening. Giorno has stared into the rot of humanity, the bloody, the vicious, the violent and he finds none of it reflected in Jonathan's kind face. Instead, he sees a soft, joyful smile, Jonathan's features are defined, but not sharp, and his eyes are all crinkled up and looking slightly teary.

Giorno's stare lingers a moment, before he moves on to the next.

The Joestar Family 1880. There are three people, standing together in front of an old Victorian mansion. In the back, an elderly man, the Lord Joestar, Giorno presumes. In front, and Giorno's true focus: two boys. On the left, a small looking boy, his noble clothes somewhat ruffed, tie a little out of place, face mid-laughter. On the left, a wiry looking boy, hair white with glare, standing straight and almost managing to look fit for his noble clothes, his expression is stiff. Jonathan Joestar and Dio Brando.

And suddenly, all at once, Giorno can neither hear nor breathe. There is blood in his ears, buzzing and rushing and ringing—air catches in his lungs clots in his throat. Those are his fathers, the reason he's here, that any of them are here. And it is so much.

"—Grannie told me about him, Jonathan, she said he was the most charming, kind person she'd ever met," Joseph says, and Giorno immediately snaps himself back.

"Oh," he says, placidly, "...a nice person, then."

Joseph smiles, it looks far-away. "From what I've heard. He was straight laced as could be, prided himself on being a gentleman. Apparently he still cared for Dio, after everything he did. Grannie always told me Jonathan would be absolutely scandalized by everything I did."

"Huh," Giorno says, and wonders what the man would think of him. Jonathan Joestar a gentle giant, gentleman, lover of the underserving. (Because Dio is underserving, he knows that much.) Maybe that kindness would extend to Giorno, too. Or maybe not.

He looks at the photos, a little closer. Jonathan Joestar died young, he thinks. Too young. It is those young deaths that Giorno works so hard to prevent—with blood and knives and underhanded tricks, if it's needed. (And it is.) Giorno's features are sharp, frame small, hands forever bloodied.

And he wonders.

"It's your eyes," says Joseph, eventually.

"What is?"

"They're like Jonathan's...Grannie once described them to me—my eyes are too light. You...your eyes look exactly how Erina described."

Giorno blinks, tries to recall the exact shade of his irises. Almost reaches up to touch his face, doesn't. Briefly ponders if Jonathan would see himself in Giorno. Maybe. Or maybe not.

And he wonders.

"I see," he says, but he doesn't, not really. "There were never any colored portraits, huh."

Joseph chuckles, it isn't cheerful, but it isn't bitter, either. "Nah, once were. But they burned with the rest of the Joestar Mansion."

"Oh," Giorno says, again. Can he really not find anything better to say? "I would've liked to see them." Because yeah, he really would've.

He would've liked to meet Jonathan Joestar. He seems like he would've been easy to read. Giorno would've scanned his expression and come to a conclusion of their standings. There would be no uncertainty, no wondering, no...

Do you think he would've liked me? Hovers on the tip of his tongue, and he viciously bites it back. He would sooner cut off his tongue than ask something so pathetic.

He doesn't need the approval of some century-dead nobleman. He doesn't need that. He doesn't need reassurance, or approval, or the security that provides. He's built his own security. Gold lined halls, goose-feather cushions—he's burned himself down and built something better and entirely new from the ashes; his own security, with his own approval, and he doesn't need anything else.

(Mom?

'Fucking hate you brat.

Haruno never asked again.)

Giorno doesn't ask his question, and Joseph doesn't answer.

It doesn't feel like a victory.

It's fine, really—good, even. It would've been a pathetically needy question to ask, Joseph didn't need to hear it, and Giorno doesn't need an answer. And any want for one is mere curiosity.

They walk back down the hall and separate when they reach the common room. Giorno lingers, just a moment. Looks back. With the lighting turned off, he can't see much past the sparse light shining from the common room. The air is too heavy in this hallway—pressing on his shoulders, clotting in his lungs. History is something almost palpable.

Not his legacy, Giorno reminds himself, and slides the rice paper door shut behind him.

Immediately, he is hit by the noise. Chatter, loud and energetic and warm. A little nerve wracking, but warm. Josuke shuffles himself next to Giorno easily.

"Giorno," he says, but it's heavy with Japanese accent—which would be natural, of course, if that accent had been present in such quantities earlier, "Trish says karaoke."

The blonde looks at Josuke a bit harder, the teen is a bit droopy, a little unsteady, with a slight pink flush on his jawbones. Giorno blinks. Huh. Josuke is...not drunk, bit tipsy, an easy kind of tipsy. The kind that probably means he had just downed a glass or two and the rush is hitting him all at once—it'll wear off in a couple of minutes.

Giorno chuckles a little and raises an eyebrow at the teen. "What happened?"

Josuke catches his meaning instantly, groans a little. "Your friends! You didn't," and he slurs a little into Japanese, "they don't," a pause, "they don't get drunk. It isn't fair!"

"Josuke, they're Italian," he narrows his eyes a little, "you probably only started in high school. It's no wonder you can't hold anything to them."

"Actually," says Josuke, looking a little offended, and a tiny bit more steady, "I tried in eighth grade, thank you very much."

Giorno snorts and it's surprisingly genuine. "Any self-respected Italian drinks by half that." Granted, Giorno didn't really drink by then, but he's an exception.

Josuke giggles a little, then slings his weight onto Giorno's shoulder. There's a little beat where Giorno doesn't register what happened, then he feels the press and the weight and smells the scent of alcohol and promptly freezes over. Muscles to stones, edges harden, stilled, and suddenly he feels too small and too thin and there's someone touching him and—

(And it's Haruno's father and he's saying 'brat' and Haruno's curling into himself.)

—and it's also Josuke.

Josuke, and his breath smells like alcohol, but it's a fragrance like pomegranate and honey. A touch, but it's warm and not pressing and not sharp and Josuke. And Giorno's seen Josuke been weak, and he's felt Josuke's anxieties, and he's...not a threat. His touch is heavy but not suffocating, warm but not burning and Giorno isn't relaxed but he's also not manifesting Gold Experience.

A beat, and Josuke is off of him—wide eyed, a little surprised, a bit guilty. "Crap crap crap," he says, looks at Giorno with some concern, "I didn't mean to do that? You have that personal space thing right? Jotaro told me—I didn't mean—"

Giorno blinks. His shoulder is cold. He kinda...liked that, almost. He doesn't say nonono, you can come back, but he thinks it. Another blink. Josuke's words finally catch up—sinking their claws into whatever else he was thinking, and promptly bleeding those thoughts into oblivion. Because Josuke just said something kind of significant and he has to kick his lungs back into working if he wants to speak at all.

"Jotaro....what exactly did Jotaro say?"

The teen shrugs, makes a vague motion. "That you, y'know? I get it." He pauses. "I haven't got what you've got but I've got stuff." He crinkles his brows a little, gathers his thoughts, smiles reassuringly. "Some of my friends have kinda similar issues."

Issues, Giorno wants to snarl, I don't have issues.

Sure, he doesn't really like too much physical contact but it isn't an issue. He can touch people if he wants. He just doesn't want to, and it'd be weird anyway. It is just a general dislike—he doesn't have some issue. He is over issues, they don't' bog him down, they've been left in the dust. Out with the rot. Giorno Giovanna doesn't have issues and he isn't afraid and he doesn't need pity over a misunderstanding.

(Haruno flinches.)

Instead, he says: "Ah, I see." A pleasant smile, he hopes. "Don't worry, I don't really mind. Jotaro must've misunderstood."

Josuke looks at him for a moment, a long, long moment. Giorno's skin crawls, itchy, clothing too tight, burning into itself. The teen breaks gaze, another beat— "Alright," Josuke says, "that's fine."

And he doesn't bring it up again.

Giorno watches him a moment longer. Almost says: you don't believe me—but there is no point in the statement. It is useless useless useless and Giorno long ago pledged against being such. Josuke trusts Jotaro's observations and—wait—wait, Jotaro's observations.

Somehow, Jotaro had sensed his aversion and that really isn't alright. Because first and foremost, he must be Giorno Giovanna, and it is unacceptable for Giorno to exhibit a weakness. He doesn't have an inability. He doesn't need pity—he can't have it. It would be disastrous if any gang member or politician sensed some kind of vulnerability in him and he just can't.

Instead, Giorno lightly waves goodbye and moves into the thick. Listens, observes, tries to process four different conversations. Then he hears Hamon, and his attention tunnels in. Towards the center-side, by the kotatsu, there is Trish and Lisa Lisa. The elder is sitting down comfortably, face unmoving steel when she says, "No."

Then there is Trish, sitting across the kotatsu with blatant frustration. Her body language practically screams it, all tensed up and hunched over but in a way that communicates less a cornered animal and more a crouching predator. Her hands are clenched, determined. "I can pay."

"No."

Giorno watches with tense interest. He is sure whatever disagreement this is can't be over something stupid—neither of them are fools. Hamon. The sunlight power.

"Then what can I offer?" Trish's lips are tight, skin flushed, fists clenched tight.

Lisa Lisa pauses. Giorno subtly shifts closer. A beat. "Why," starts the woman, low and textured but not aggressive, "should I teach you?" A moment, Trish says nothing, Lisa Lisa continues. "I have no want of money, I can protect myself, I am perfectly content. You are Giorno's family but that's no obligation of mine to offer such teachings."

Ah, so it's about teaching Hamon. Giorno hadn't known Trish would feel so strongly about learning something like that.

Trish is staring, brows furrowed, shoulders tense, and eyes burning. They are emeralds reflecting bright yellow and gold in sunlight, gleaming; intent. "You don't," Trish concedes. "I know it's a selfish desire, but I need it for more than just some anti-aging glamour—I need a larger skill set."

Lisa Lisa doesn't really change but she quirks a small smile and says, "Oh?"

Trish poises herself, panther in preparation. She is large, purposeful, eyes burning, and Giorno admires Trish so much sometimes. Like this, she is something to see—the plane to Sardinia, the coliseum, she radiates some kind of blinding vibrancy and Giorno sometimes looks at that and is blinded. It is so purposeful and fearless and strong, and sometimes Giorno looks at that and sees what he needs to fully and completely embody.

"Yeah," says Trish, grin quirking her lips, "I'm fucking terrified."

Giorno pauses at this, blinks, and tries to gather his thoughts.

"Hm," says Lisa Lisa, looking vaguely intrigued. There's a beat, but she doesn't say no.

Trish unclenches her fist, re-clenches, and back again—forced relaxation. "It's officially a secret but it isn't terribly hard, with a little digging, to uncover my Passione ties, and it's going to happen eventually." She pauses a moment. "Especially with me being a star debut singer, people will dig, and when it happens I won't be ready. My stand is flexible and powerful but it just isn't applicable for combat in the way many gang stands are." Something twists in her expression. "It's terrifying. I need something like Hamon."

Vaguely, Giorno wants to protest that he would protect her, but he can hardly hear those thoughts over the storm of Trish and, afraid. Because it just doesn't suit her, fear used to cling to her, before she met Diavolo, he had seen it in her defensive gestures and hunched back. But that had...disappeared. She had cast it off on the plane to Sardinia, emerged from it like spring from winter.

"There's more," Lisa Lisa states, "you aren't going to offer half your reasons, are you?"

Trish laughs easily. "Ah. Should've known I couldn't fool the century old—scusi—sunlight superpower user." But her expression isn't tense, and she isn't defensive. "Yeah, there's more, I wasn't really trying to hide it but," she side-eyes Giorno, "well. Didn't want bomb it on them," she jerks a figure at Giorno, and Mista watching a little dumbly from the couch, "but." She shrugs. "I'm like, really insecure—with them, since we're from totally different worlds, and still are and..."

The pinkette trails off. Giorno's mind reels, something like shock and something like guilt and something like I should've noticed. But also. Trish—insecure, even though he'd seen her cast that out—

"...I suppose Hamon seems like a cushion, or a bridge, something that would bring me to a level that I could doubtlessly stand beside them. Or something."

"Trish..." says Lisa Lisa, stern and old and wise, but also so terribly gentle, "power isn't a solution for that."

The girl laughs a little, waves her hand. "Don't worry don't worry, I know that, at least. Doesn't mean I don't feel it though." She grins. "Don't worry, soon as my positions a little more stable I'm jumping on those therapists."

Lisa Lisa hums. "So..." and it still isn't no.

Trish grins, but when Giorno looks at little closer, it's a nervous, jittery grin. "So...will you teach me Hamon? Because I'm terrified and want to stand out of the mafia's shadow, and am yeah a little insecure?"

Giorno looks blankly at the pair, and feels cockroaches beneath his skin. Because Trish is terrified which is wrong—(normally it wouldn't bother him so much, but he saw what he needs to be in Trish, and he admired that, and he wanted to be that. She can't...) And Trish is asking such a blatant and open and vulnerable question and Giorno hears that and it sounds like his question in the hallway. Which he didn't ask. Which still, and now more than ever, feels like a defeat. And he still doesn't know why—

(Jonathan is a founder and the starter of this legacy, and Haruno's so achingly used to rejection.)

—he should celebrate it, he had maintained Giorno Giovanna. Kept up his expressions, not asked something so stupid.

"Alright," says Lisa Lisa, "but I do have a price." A moment, but only a moment, the woman doesn't drag it further. "...You said you were a rising star, right?" She smiles warmly. "I do love music."

Trish's expression is broken by a grin that splits her face and brightens her eyes, pure and undiluted delight. "Oh hell yeah—" she raises her voice a bit, demands the attention of the whole room, "hey guys, free concert! Requests?"

"Pretty Woman!" Mista says hardly a beat later.

Trish makes a face. "Every time—alright, choice song from its soundtrack as third song—something else?"

"Queen?" Lisa Lisa suggests, slight smile.

Trish grins, "Your concert." And immediately starts herself on a note-warmup. Somehow, she is smiling the whole time.

Her expression is so happily genuine that it kind of hurts to see. Like looking at the sun. Giorno's face itches.

Trish's voice begins to roll over the room, deep and steady. Like the ocean, or liquid gold. Quietly, Giorno slinks towards the door to the engawa, slides the door open just a crack, and slips out into the night. It is loud outside, the air is humming with wind and scalding with rain. Still, when he leans against the thin wood and focuses behind him, he can still hear her voice. She's starting on Don't stop me now.

It is, perhaps, too much noise. The air hums with movement, too much, like a cup on the brink of spilling over. Or maybe that's him. Because his thoughts just won't stop. They brim and broil and bubble with apprehension. Because inside there's Josuke who looks just ask awkwardly placed as Giorno feels, and there's Shizuka and Jolyne who had both been crying this evening, and there's Trish who...

They are so open and so vulnerable and so weak.

(Haruno is cowering, again, because everything he is makes him weak.)

Except Trish isn't weak. He knows she isn't. There is something so intrinsically wrong with the notion that it's impossible to write off or brush aside. She isn't, and that is a fact. That he can be sure of. More so than with Jolyne or Shizuka or Josuke, he knows Trish. And Trish isn't weak. He thinks.

Because the fact still stands, Trish is insecure and terrified and weak—but she isn't. But Haruno was. Haruno Shiobana was insecure and terrified, dependent and weak, and Haruno was miserable. Giorno decided he would be none of that. He would take every aspect that made Haruno and become its inverse.

Giorno Giovanna would be steady and brave, independent and strong.

The wind howls, rain blows onto the engawa, begins soaking into his shoes, pelts his hair. He chews the inside of his cheek, shifts a little. Like a parasite, a memory crawls. Joseph saying Josuke is brave, that fear is the definition of bravery and it doesn't make sense. Giorno hates not understanding things.

Giorno shouldn't worry in the first place, shouldn't be obsessing over something like this. Giorno Giovanna is the embodiment of strength, he functions independently, he wears dreams like clothes, he functions as a pillar and statue. He is steady, unshakable, fear-less, and brave.

Giorno Giovanna cannot be anxious, hesitant, afraid, weak.

He nearly fiddles with the hem of his clothes, doesn't. Blinks a little. Focuses on Trish's voice, bleeding through the thin walls, it's deep and steady, thrumming against the back of his skull. Chews the inside of his cheek, molars grinding against the lines of scar tissue.

(Haruno chews his nails.)

So, Giorno isn't afraid and isn't nervous and isn't anxious, he can't be. He feels like he's drowning, lungs malfunctioning, the air is too thick, too humid, he can't breathe—and it's so stupid, because there isn't even a threat. No gun, no Diavolo, no—so why is he so—

(Haruno curls up and drowns in his own fears.)

—but he isn't. He said he wouldn't. Said he can't, not anymore, Giorno is past that.

He closes his eyes, opens them. His eyelashes are wet with rain. The sky is churning with dark blues and swirling blacks, the moon is full and half-behind the clouds. The wind is too loud in his ears. He straightens a little. Chews his cheek. Leans back, just a bit. Trish's voice seeps through the thin wood, deep and steady.

"Tonight I'm gonna have myself a real good time,"

Giorno is concerned, a little uneasy, measuring possibilities—consequences, drawing scenarios and weighing them. He has that. He thinks. He can't be anything else, perhaps...before. Before he was Don Passione, maybe he could curl into himself and allow a little worry but that had been alright because he hadn't completely been Giorno Giovanna yet. He was an awkward in-between. Taking measured actions, but not significant ones, working towards his dream, but slowly. Yes, he had been Giorno, but...

He had needed—still does—to be Giorno, for himself, and for others, but also because Haruno means misery. But then...

(When he is fifteen, his hair turns gold, and he grasps the abilities to finally begin his way up the ladder of crime. Flowers curl open and bloom beneath his fingertips. Power shines gold and metallic behind him; wraps its arms around his shoulders. He offers an opportunity, and Buccellati takes it. He kills Diavolo. He makes his first actions as Don Passione.

Giorno Giovanna crystallizes. Solid, gold, and palpable. He takes his dream, holds it, and lets it burn him away into something better. He is reborn. Haruno Shiobana is out with April. Spring cleaning; his responsibility—it lays thick like too much silk on his shoulders. A little heavy, but that is expected.)

See, he must be Giorno now, it is expected of him, it is a responsibility he chose. If he starts to falter here—which he won't and can't, because he is Giorno now—then his gold-silk web will come shattering down around him. Like Illuso's mirror world, if it could break.

Before, he was a bud, now Giorno is the bloom. Before, he was gold, now Giorno is ingot. He cannot be afraid or anxious, cannot be weak—

(Haruno trembles.)

—but Trish isn't weak.

The wind is too loud, shrieking in his ears, pelting rain, sky swirling. It must be the beginnings of some ridiculously huge storm. Japan isn't unfamiliar with storms, but this must be one of the biggest in years. Churning, twisting, inky and black—his fingers are numbing. Cold. He chews on his cheek. Focuses on Trish's voice seeping through the thin wood—deep and steady.

"I feel alive, and the world—I'll turn it inside out yeah,"

Trish isn't two people—that was Trish, saying she was afraid. Giorno knows her. That was Trish, just as much as everything else is Trish. She is strong, but afraid, and they're both the same girl that he saw on the plane to Sardinia. Who stood up to Diavolo in Rome, who took the mafia in...maybe not stride, but she didn't break under the strain. She stretched,and gave, and bounced back. And now she's rebounding again, she's deciding to learn Hamon.

...And that's the thing isn't it? This happened back in Italy, too. Pushed into a corner, shoved against a wall, and she bounced back. Before Spice Girl, threw them through the sky, she had crawled into a corner—she's always been afraid. She was anxious when she stepped onto San Giorgio Maggiore, she was afraid when she walked on Sardinia, she was terrified when she stood in Rome.

She continued the crusade anyway. Went along just like everyone else—everyone but Fugo.

Something shifts. Rumbles in the sky, brief flashes of white against the dark, and Giorno tastes iron. Clenches his half-numb hand, unclenches it. Listens to Trish's voice seeping through the wood—deep and steady.

"And floating around in ecstasy,"

Trish's fear propelled her; she turned it into a trampoline. Fugo's fear held him; he was bound by it.

Then, with all the clunking precision of clockwork, gears turn in Giorno's head. It's slow, at first, with the memory of how he hadn't asked that fucking question. And then how he hadn't asked his other questions, and how he never truly stepped into this house of his own full willing. That had been Trish, had been Holly. He has...is... Then, his memories cascade into a flood; crashing, thrashing, and unstoppable.

A clink, a chink, the twist of a gear. And, he realizes, with just a hint of horror, that he has been lorded by his fear.

(Uselessuselsssuseless he is useless—)

Which has been exactly what he's been trying to avoid, for so long. Before, it had been obvious; Haruno had dwelled in it and nearly drowned in the misery of it all. Now...well, there is a reason that Giorno has ripped the cover off Italy's rot. Rot underneath the rug is still rot. Swept beneath the carpet it festers.

So, he's been weak and simply been ignoring it. Which is unacceptable. He hasn't been taking action and he hasn't been asking his questions and he's been fucking cowering and—he—Giorno can't—what would they—and all of a sudden, he can't breathe.

(Haruno slinks away from confrontation and bows his head and cowers.)

He is so fucking afraid. And he didn't even know it—he can't eradicate a problem that he refuses to even acknowledge.

Air catches in his lungs, thick, stifling, and heavy. Too humid. There isn't enough to breathe. He can't breathe—he goes, abruptly, stock-still. Closes his eyes, opens them. Takes a deep, ragged breath.

Trish and Mista have never said fear is bad, he thinks. And, like an creeping ivory, Joseph's words crawl up through his mind.

That fear is bravery and anxiety is strength and....it is his dream to be strong.

Rain soaks through Giorno's pants, seeps into his socks, soggy. His hand is cold and shaky. When he cuts red crescents into his palm, he can hardly feel it over the cold and the numb. He unclenches his fists. Takes a long, shaky breath. Listens to Trish's voice seeping through the wood—deep and steady.

"So don't stop me now, don't stop me,"

Trish, he reminds himself, is not two people. She is strong and afraid and has never criticized herself for it. He pauses a moment, blinks. Oh.

Back on the plane to Sardinia, he has always thought of it as Trish having cast off her fear, her weakness. Like a monarch from a cocoon. Strong, powerful, and entirely new. But that's not entirely true, is it? She hadn't so much...burned away her fear, as bounced off it. A trampoline, right.

Fear, Giorno thinks, is not terrible in on itself.

If it rules...if it governs...then...yeah. Bad. But that isn't what Trish has done, that isn't what Josuke has done. Because right, Josuke too. Josuke is also...the same with Jolyne and Shizuka. They had all...built on it, like a foundation. He thinks.

He...has a dream.

(Haruno Shiobana will burn, and from the ashes would emerge Giorno Giovanna; strong, happy, and entirely new. There would be a small period between Haruno and Giorno, a bud, of sorts. Where he would build his plans and build his dream and make the scaffolding for his security. Giorno would be the bloom.)

But that's the thing isn't it? It is impossible. Giorno Giovanna, he realizes, is a wish. Not a dream.

If Giorno is the bloom, than fear, he thinks, must be the leaves, or the roots; a system of support.

Giorno, to be strong, to be complete, to be right—needs those weaknesses. He thinks. Giorno cannot be without Haruno.

(Giorno leads, Haruno supports. It can be co-dependency.)

But perhaps that isn't quite right, either. Because it's not that Giorno cannot be without Haruno, it's that Giorno cannot be without himself. Isn't that right?

No, he wants to scream, no, you said you wouldn't. No, you said never again. You know it's miserable like that; you don't want to be that misery. You don't, you know you don't.

But Giorno is a realist.

Objectively, misery is just an emotion. In his case, it was caused by the fear and stress and neglect of his childhood. And then...

He hesitates a little. Chews his cheek. Tastes the blood. This wouldn't be his first time doing a psychological analysis. He does it all the time. Even more so since taking the crown of Don Passione—he had snatched up a book on psychological trauma the instant Mista started having mental breakdowns. He has never put himself under such scrutiny.

But Giorno hates not understanding things.

And so...He supposes that he associated most everything from his childhood with that bone-deep misery. His name, hair, Japanese blood, situation—his every emotion.

And he isn't entirely selfish, but he isn't selfless, either. He never wanted and never wants that misery again.

Giorno blinks, shifts, feels ice on his skin. Tastes blood on his tongue. Hear the wind, too loud, too much. Curls his fists, uncurls them. Leans back a little. Hears Trish's voice seeping through the wind. Falls into it—deep and steady.

"'cause I'm having a good time,"

Alright, he thinks, taking a deep breath, okay. He can deal with that. He can figure that out. Yeah. Okay he's got some psychological issues. Maybe. That's...something.

Giorno bites down on the flesh of his cheek, hard. The blood is nauseatingly thick with iron. He clenches his fists, unclenches them. Fingers hurt from the cold. A little numb. He's shivering. The wind whips too loud and it's too humid and the rain is ice on his skin. Trish's voice seeps through the wall, deep and steady.

He stays there a bit.

Eventually, her voice fades to nothing, and there's a round of clapping. A chatter of compliments cascades like butterfly clouds and Giorno can practically touch the sincerity in holly's voice when she says it was beautiful. And all of a sudden, like a kick to his lungs, like someone trying to claw through his chest from the inside out—Giorno wants so much and so deeply to be there.

Not here, with the cold and the rain and the wind—in there, with the warmth and the food and the people—

Giorno straightens a bit.

So he turns around and faces the door and pulls on a face. Because Giorno doesn't think he can take anything less than a mask right now. He's too brittle and too frail and it's terrible but it's also how he feels. And he'll accept that, even if it's a bitter pill. He'll be honest to himself, if no one else. He needs to mask, at least right now, he thinks.

Giorno goes back in with a blank face because he doesn't know anything else. And he will be vulnerable for himself, but no one else.

The common room is warm. Loud, rowdy, and Giorno can't decide if he loves it or hates it but it's something. After a small moment, Mista jostles himself over, weird kind of look, watching. Giorno feels his skin crawl—already rubbed and raw and he isn't sure if he can really handle scrutiny tonight.

"Hey Giorno..."Mista finally says, "You alright?"

The blonde raises an eyebrow. "Of course. Why do you ask?"

The man shrugs. "'Been out for a bit...Jesus you're soaked."

Giorno laughs lightly. "Yes, Fugo said there'd be a storm...I don't think he thought it'd be like that though."

Mista pauses a moment, strange kind of expression. The face shakes in a moment, though, and Mista gives him a grin. "Well," he shrugs, "what can ya do? Nothin 'bout that but anyway we gotta have your take on something..."

It kind of amazes Giorno how Mista seems to be able to just...put things aside like that, not ignore them, not pretend they don't exist... Just put them away and take them out again later, at a better time.

"Hmm," he hums, "with what?"

Mista grins, large and prideful. "I'm tryna tell'em," and he points to Josuke and Polnareff by the table. "That my," and he makes a loose gesture to his hat, "my hair is best."

Giorno blinks.

"I..." he looks at Mista a moment longer, "what?"

"They said it didn't even count," whines Mista. And seriously, what?

"You..." And Giorno proceeds, very, very carefully. "Are saying that your...hat, is the best hair."

Mista smiles brightly. "See, 'knew you'd get it!"

"Uh," says Giorno, and he thinks of saying what, but decides on: "What language is this."

"Italian," Mista easily replies, and then jerks his head towards the coffee table and proudly proclaims, "See guys! Giorno agrees!"

Giorno coughs a little. Josuke fucking chokes.

"He did not."

"Nono," Mista says, gesturing to Giorno, "he gets it, like, my hat's basically my hair so it counts."

"What," says Giorno, at the same time that Polnareff says, "No."

There's a moment, and they look at each other, and...It feels nice. And comfortable. Light a warm bath. But it's also novel and new and different. It makes him nervous, he thinks, in a way, but it's also thrilling. And it could be the warmth or the thrill or the clench in his chest but Giorno ends up quirking a small, cat-that-ate-the-canary smile, and saying: "If we are discussing hair rankings, surely we'd agree mine rules the competition?"

He thinks Mista is going to protest, and Josuke is definitely going to argue, but then, from the armchair, Jotaro leans up.

"You know," says Jotaro, face perfectly straight, "I have hair and hat, as a unit."

"No," says Polnareff, "You can't do that."

"Yes," measures Jotaro, "I can."

Really, Giorno doesn't know what it is but there's something about that Jotaro in that voice talking about that subject, that makes something click and loosen and swing out of lock. Because Giorno isn't sure exactly when it happens but all of a sudden he registers that his shoulders are shaking and his stomach is beginning to hurt and there's this terribly loud kind of laugh spilling out of him.

"A unit," he echoes, as soon as he can speak again.

Jotaro nods, very seriously, "They come as one."

"Okay," Giorno agrees, "alright."

Polnareff glares, it has no bite. "I hate you all."

"You know," Josuke says, "I think I second that."

Giorno, in that moment, feels that he could really just melt onto the ground. In a—good way. Like a piece of chocolate. Because it is so warm and so comfortable and it feels like, after everything, he's being held together by this and only this.

And then his phone rings.

It beeps insistently in his pocket. There are not many people who have his number. His inner circle only. In Italy.

Far away, in Italy. It is a dawning horror in the back of his throat, and a rising nausea, and Giorno thinks that shit, there might be trouble back in his country while he's all the way in Japan for personal matters.

But it rings and rings and problems don't go away by ignoring them.

Very, very carefully, Giorno picks the cell from his pocket. Mista starts to say something, the blonde silences it with a look. He raises a finger to his lips. Outside is far too loud, so Giorno settles on the corner of the room. When he leans up against the wall—storm rumbling behind it—he has the attention of all the room. It is terribly quiet when he hits to receive the call.

The line picks up with static, a few bits of broken sounds, and then, "Boss?"

"I can hear you," Giorno answers, sounding much more calm than he feels.

"Oh thank—"more static, a few curses, "I'm sorry I—I didn't want to have to call you. I know you're..."

"Fugo," Giorno cuts, very sharply, "what's happening?" Or happened, Giorno doesn't really want to think about that.

Fugo sighs. "Politicia switched her alliances." Stress is obvious and straining in Fugo's tone. It's immeasurably frustrating that Giorno can't read anything more than that through the chips of thick static.

Giorno grits his teeth, chews on his cheek. "And then...?"

Politicians switch alliances all the time. Yes, they have sunk a stupid high amount of money into ensuring Politicia, but normally it wouldn't be nearly enough of an issue to alert the Don of, especially at a time like this.

"Ah..." An audible sigh, a break of static. The connection is worse than a normal international call. Because of the storm, probably. "You remember that branch of Passione that broke off a few months ago?" Fugo pauses. "They've joined together...they're..."

A pause, a large break of static, the sound of rain taptaptapping on the roof.

"Yes?" Very, very slowly.

For a moment, there's static, and then, "They..." Fugo pauses beat, "They kind of captured Venice."

There is a beat of silence. Rain taptaptapping on the roof, wind howling outside, static on the storm-torn connection. A silent room. The rush of blood behind his ears, the throb of a headache pressing against his skull. For a moment, he cannot think. And then, "What?"

"I know," Fugo starts, words blurring into each other, tone strained, "I know—I thought too, the Venice team was fucking useless. They aren't very combat oriented they tried their best but Venice is well—they, a lot of their strength came from connections in Rome and you know what happened with Rome and all and well—the traitors had a Stand with water. It was high tide and flooding and there wasn't...still isn't anywhere without water. Going is suicide, they—"

"Fugo," cuts Giorno, voice sharp, and the room is very, very quiet, "What are their demands?"

Across the line there's a long, shaky breath. "Your presence, they want a meeting with you. 'Said they nothing but this worked so now you have to meet them. They want in-person by tomorrow afternoon."

Giorno takes a moment to—think. Or feel, maybe. Because there's a beat and a hit and suddenly it occurs to Giorno that this feels wrong. Not because this situation is entirely new or unprecedented because he's been dealing with gang matters for the last however-long. But. It feels wrong now. It feels wrong because he isn't in Italy and he hasn't been the Don tonight and there is just something so...

It feels wrong because he is in Japan in Holly's home with warmth in his fingertips and he hasn't been the Don since he left Italy nearly a day ago. It is wrong because there's cold dread festering in his blood and gang issues cutting through his thoughts and there is a time for that and place for that but it doesn't feel like here and it doesn't feel like now.

He feels the Joestars' stares on his skin—it is a burn and a balm.

There is cold in his veins and something terribly heavy sinking in his chest. Disappointment, he thinks. Giorno takes a deep, deep breath, "Alright. I'll...leave in few hours then."

There's a beat of silence—and then more, and in that stretch of time Giorno feels unease bloom in his veins like poison ivy. Creeping, crawling, and needy.

"Ah," Fugo says, eventually, and there's a moment of static. "About that."

"...Yes?"

The storm-torn line breaks moment. "Ah, um, well." Fugo pauses. "The storm will make take-off impossible in...probably about an hour. No flight possible until morning."

From Japan to Italy is seventeen hours.

"Ah," says Giorno, "I see."

But he doesn't, not really. Because the words are just barely sinking in. An hour. No leaving after everyone's asleep and breaking off with quiet goodbyes. No tucking Jolyne and Shizuka to sleep. No finishing dessert. No game of Go Fish. Nothing. All of this—gone. Because to takeoff within an hour he needs to leave in maybe ten minutes. There will be time to hastily scoop up their stuff and hurry themselves out of the house.

Giorno glances up.

They are all there—Jotaro and Holly and Joseph and Josuke—and—they are looking at him. It burns on his skin—it's a balm. There is Lisa Lisa at the kotatsu, he remembers the warmth in his veins and the feeling in his chest and the sensation that he could melt at any moment.

He clears his throat, 'let's go' hovers on his tongue.

But there's Jolyne, staring at him, frame tense, looking worried. And there's Shizuka, big brown eyes. And Josuke. And—and everyone. There's something very, very delicate in the air, in the moment—in the taptaptap of rain on the roof, and the storm rumbling outside. There is something very breakable in this. Something here and now.

There is an opportunity here, Giorno realizes, with something akin to wonder. There is an opportunity here, burning, glaring, and bright. A seed—and it would be so terribly easy not to nurture it. It would be easy, to slink back to Italy and leave this behind. It would be routine. He has responsibility elsewhere.

He thinks about Lisa Lisa saying he doesn't have a grandmother yet, of Josuke and that feeling of I understand, of Jolyne and her sobbing because Jotaro is never there. And he isn't family yet but he could be.

There is an opportunity here; a seed that Giorno can grow. And Giorno doesn't know if he wants to grow that seed, but he knows that he doesn't—doesn't not want to.

Giorno looks at them all close and warm and the thought of leaving now is a kick in the teeth and a stab in the gut. It is cutting off his fingers and breaking his ribs. It is dread in his blood and ice in his chest.

"Alright," Giorno says, tongue thick, throat dry, "tell them," and he closes his eyes, "that the Don will see them the day after tomorrow, and that every civilian harmed is a broken bone, and every scratch to a cultural landmark is a torn-out tooth."

There's a beat of silence and a break of static and, "Oh," it sounds a little lost, "you aren't—you're trusting me with—alright." A beat, and Fugo is a little louder this time, with a bit more of a foundation to his voice, a little stronger, "I will. We'll handle it. I'll make sure to inform them all of your trust. I...won't let you down."

Giorno smiles faintly. "Thank you, Fugo." And hangs up.

Jolyne is there the instant he snaps his cell closed and slips it back into his pocket. The girl runs up to him with a tight, worried face. She looks at him for a moment, eyes shiny, like sea glass.

Then, something breaks, and in loud, garbled English, "Shizuka said you were say'in 'bout going! You aren't gonna go, right? Please?"

Giorno blinks. Pauses a moment. "Oh..." he says, and feels kind of breathless. Because Jolyne's so worried and so sad about him leaving. They aren't—they don't, they aren't family and yeah they've talked a little so it'd make sense for Jolyne to like him. Be a little attached. But Jolyne looks like she's going to cry at the prospect of him leaving. And somehow he just hadn't...hadn't expected that.

"You aren't, right? Right?"

Giorno leans down, almost hugs her but doesn't. "Of course not Jolyne. Not tonight."

"Really?" But she's already looking better.

The blonde nods. "Really."

"Oh," Jolyne says, "thank fucking god."

"Hey," says Josuke, coming up from behind her, "Jotaro said not to say that."

Jolyne puffs a little, sticks out her tongue. "Well that fucker says it all the goddamn time so I don't give a shit."

Giorno blinks a little. That is...something.

"Ugh," Josuke groans. It sounds resigned. "Go tell your Dad that."

"Oh I will," Jolyne giggles with suspicious delight, "And I'll tell him you said to say it!"

"Wai—" but Jolyne's already off. Josuke sighs, rubs his temple. There's nothing bitter in the movement. It's...a little exasperated, maybe, and a bit amused, Giorno thinks.

Giorno chuckles lightly. Mostly because Josuke's obviously here to talk to him, and he wants to get on with it. But also because he's a little amused, maybe.

"Ah," says Josuke, "right." The teen is looking at him, a little concerned.

The blonde hums. "Yes?"

"Just...I couldn't really hear everything but that seemed kinda serious..." Josuke trials off, looking a bit lost. A little embarrassed. "Is everything alright?"

"Hmm," Giorno hums a bit. How should he phrase this? Actually, he isn't sure if he should touch on the subject at all. He could just dodge the question entirely. It would be easy. But Josuke is there, sincere, and honest, and Giorno can't actually think of a reason to hide it. "Domestic issues. Venice has been captured by broken-off Passione unit."

Josuke blinks.

"Uh," he says, "isn't that kind of serious?"

Giorno nods sagely. "Very much."

"Has been....like...it still is," Josuke says, very slowly. "The situation isn't resolved."

"Not in the slightest," the blonde confirms.

"Oh," and the teen looks kind of faint, "Do you need to be there?"

"Well," says Giorno, and pauses. Has to bite back a stab of guilt because yes, he should be. "I've...given the situation tone of my inner circle, for now."

Josuke nods, looking relieved. "Must be...a lot huh. I'm glad."

Giorno blinks. "Glad?"

"Oh! Um," and Josuke looks kind of embarrassed again. "That you have someone that can help you with all that, I mean. Y'know? Seems kind impossible to manage alone."

No, Giorno wants to says, no, I've been doing fine. But doesn't.

"Fugo is capable," the blonde eventually says.

And yes, Fugo is capable, but that's still a whole lot of responsibility to give someone who isn't himself. He is worried about it; he does feel bad about it. But.

But Josuke is smiling lopsidedly, and saying something that registers vaguely as 'I'm glad you could stay,' and Jolyne isn't crying, neither is Shizuka. Holly's still smiling, and Trish and Mista have gone back to fooling around. Jotaro is looking relaxed, conversing quietly with Joseph and Suzie.

Giorno feels warmth in his fingertips, and feathers in his chest, and he can't quite bring himself to regret his decision.

There's something here, he knows it. An opportunity, a door, a seed, and Giorno doesn't know if he wants to grow that seed but—

—but that isn't quite true, is it?

He's lying again.

If he hadn't wanted to nurture that seed then he wouldn't be here, he'd be outside in the wind and the rain, rushing to reach Italy. He does want to grow it. He wants to place it carefully into a pot of soil, water it, and watch it grow into a rosebush. He wants to hold its petals in his hands and drink in the fragrance, he wants this. He wants the warmth in his fingertips and the feathers in his chest, he wants this.

He's—afraid, again, he thinks. Of the possibility that he tries to nurture it and it withers in his hands. Of the chance that he lets it grow and it forms itself into thorny brambles. That he'll try to touch it and will bleed in consequence.

"Giorno?" He jolts. Josuke is looking at him, concerned, waving a hand in front of his face. There's such genuine emotion on the teen's face that it's kind of hard to look at. Because it's for him.

"Ah," he says, "nothing."

Josuke blinks. "You...sure?"

Giorno looks around the room and it's all so genuine. Sincere. No smoke-and-mirrors. Something warm and orange and glowing; an opportunity, a door, a seed. And yes it could become a thorn bush but it could also not. And he wants this so, so badly.

"No," says Giorno, before he can think better, and before he can bite off his goddamn tongue, "not at all. Can I, can you, help me for a moment?"

Josuke immediately flares in alarm. Giorno can't really blame him. That was really, really out-of-character. The teen nods. "Yeah!" there's a kind of awkward beat. "With what? Anything."

"Uh," says Giorno, because he really hadn't meant to say that. "With getting everyone's attention, if you don't mind?"

By that he kind of means, be here and, hold my hand. But it's not like he can just say that. It's kind of embarrassing to watch Josuke call up everyone's attention. Giorno could do that. He's an expert at commanding attention. It's part of his job description.

Josuke does it anyway. Maybe it's a relief, to have less things to do. Maybe.

It takes a minute but eventually he has their attention. Eyes from the chairs and the couches and the floor and Giorno knows what he's going to say, mostly. He's used to making speeches but not—not like this, with them, about this.

"I have a request," he finally says, and it's a small relief that his voice only trembles a little.

Holly nods in unconditional understanding. "Anything."

Anything.

Can he really...?

There's a moment where air catches in his lungs and words hitch in his throat. "It's...a lot," Giorno finally says, carefully as he can manage.

Jotaro shrugs from his armchair. Which is the closest thing to 'whatever, ask anyway, can't be that bad,' that'll come from the man.

"...It's selfish," Giorno tries, again.

Jolyne just looks at him. "Welcome to the world."

"...You're going to regret this," he finally says.

"Kid," says Lisa Lisa, from the kotatsu, "say it."

Giorno wants to say 'I'm not a kid, don't call me that' wants to say 'you don't understand' wants to say anything but what he needs to say. But he knows a diversion when he sees it and he—he doesn't want to say it, but he's also never wanted to say anything more in his life. There's electricity beneath his skin, wasps in his veins, and he wants very distinctly to bite off his tongue.

"Alright," he says, but it's quiet and more to himself than anyone else. He looks at them all and it's like looking at the stars. Bright, brilliant, warm, and outside his reach. He molds his face into gold and irons his edges and says, with all the confidence he doesn't feel, "Let me take everything."

There's a little bit of tension in Jotaro's frame, something hard and sharp. The air is too thick, too warm. There's an opportunity here, a door, a seed. And Giorno's so afraid that it'll wither between his fingers, bloom into brambles, but he's even more afraid that it'll slip through his fingers.

Giorno bows, just a little—places his fingers over his breast. Lifts his eyes. "Let me take your home, and take your warmth. Let me claim the security here as my own, give me truths and sincerities and let me take everything."

Breath hitches in his lungs, and it takes all his effort not to break eye contact. Not to start trembling on the spot. There's something terribly heavy in his stomach and it feels like it's trying to rip him apart. His skin is static and his veins are electricity. He wants to bite off his tongue, doesn't.

"And," he says, and there's a terrible lump in his throat, "don't expect the same from me. Expect me to try—to try to match your giving and your light and your sincerity, but not succeed Don't expect me to—" and his voice falters terribly, "to give back, in the same way." He pauses, and the confession comes out terribly quiet. "I can't. Not yet."

There's agitation running knives through Giorno's skin, pressure curving around his head and gravity pressing him down, anxiety bubbling in his veins. Tension runs tight-strung strings through the air.

A beat of silence. Giorno doesn't break eye contact, but he also doesn't read their expressions.

Then—with the effect of broken glass or scissors through string— "Good grief," Jotaro says, and adjusts his hat, "you already have that, kid."

Giorno blinks. Something clicks, slides into place. His legs are numb, shaky, and they crumble beneath him. There's warmth in his fingertips and feathers in his chest and he tries to maintain eye contact, he does, but he can't. There are blobs of orange and yellow and stars behind the blur. He can't—can't see. Giorno shakily touches a finger to his eyes. It comes away wet.

Giorno blinks but the world is still blurry.

Oh, he thinks, and with something akin to awe, realizes that his first tears in over a decade are happy ones.

Giorno never wanted to cry again, never thought he could, never even touched the possibility that he could because of something like this. The room is a blur, blobs of orange and yellow. But there's warmth in his fingertips and feathers in his chest and he wants more.

"Lisa Lisa," and his voice comes out a little watery, "it's a little soon, but does your offer still stand?"

He hadn't taken it outside, he hadn't known how, hadn't known if it was alright, and hadn't wanted to accept that he might've wanted it. Hugs had been unacceptable to him.

Lisa Lisa's blob shifts, he wonders of she's smiling. "Never too early," she says, and then she's in front of him, and offering a hand. And he's taking it, and she's pulling him into her chest and there are bands of warmth wrapped around his back and Lisa Lisa is shouldering most of his weight.

It's kind of weird, in a warm, fuzzy way. He hasn't had a hug in—in—ever, actually. He's given a few, to Mista, after Diavolo. But those were—were one way. Not like this. Very, very hesitantly, Giorno wraps his arms around Lisa Lisa. Feels warmth beneath his fingertips, and, before he knows it, he's clinging to it.

"Thank you," Giorno manages, kind of breathless. "You," he turns his head to the side, facing all of them; "you didn't have to."

"Honey," says Holly, voice terribly full of affection, "you deserve it."

Giorno doesn't really have a response for that, so he doesn't try. Just closes his eyes, relishes in the warmth in his fingertips and the feathers in his chest. At some point someone claps so Giorno lifts his head again. Joseph is grinning wide, a proud, jolly expression.

"It looks," and the elder's voice is light, "like it's about time for photos."

Holly returns to expression with even more sunshine. "Aaa! How could I have forgotten? Jotaro, honey, can you get the camera from storage?" She waves her hands a little. "I'll set everything in order."

Jotaro nods, rising from his armchair. Looks ready to leave, pauses a moment. "Jolyne," the man says, very slowly, "do you know how to work a tripod?"

Jolyne tilts her head a little, looking suspicious. "What's that?"

"Camera," answers Jotaro, "I'm getting it, from upstairs."

And he doesn't say 'come with me,' but he also doesn't leave until Jolyne's bounced her way to his side. Giorno remembers, vaguely, that a few hours ago he couldn't read Jotaro at all. It isn't easy, now, but it's easier.

Eventually, Giorno breaks away, faces Holly. "Can I help? With setting up, I mean."

"You don't have to."

"I know."

She smiles at him, hums a little. "Just clear the area a little, bits of trash and food."

It feels startlingly natural. He and Josuke go about clearing things up, Holly and Lisa Lisa move around the furniture, clearing an entire wall. Jotaro and Jolyne eventually scamper back hauling a large box. Giorno waits, leaning on the wall, as they set up the camera.

Beside him, Josuke shifts. "They weren't like this before, y'know."

Giorno hums a little. "Jolyne and Jotaro?"

"Yeah."

"That's good," Giorno absently replies, before freezing because wow did that come out wrong. "Wait—not, I didn't—I mean it's good they're better now."

Josuke laughs, it's a full sound. "I know bro don't worry I—wow." And Josuke's looking at him, strange kind of expression.

Self-consciousness faintly creeps into Giorno's cheeks. "What?"

"Um," Josuke says, looking startled. "Nothing, just. You stumbled your words—it was a bit unexpected I guess."

Giorno nods sympathetically. "Yes, I'll do better."

Josuke groans. "Not like that. I do that all the time, more, all my friends do."

Now it's Giorno giving him a strange look. "Are we friends?"

The teen blinks. "I think so. Unless you uh, don't wanna be?"

"Um," Giorno pauses, blinks, feels something curl and bloom in his chest, "no. We are friends. Thank you."

"Uh," says Josuke, looking away, "don't thank me."

The blonde tilts his head, just a bit. "Why? You're doing me a favor."

"A...favor," Josuke echoes, voice sounding strange.

"Yes."

Josuke looks like he's going to say something, and he almost does, but then a little head a green hair bounces her way between them. "C'mon guys!" Jolyne grins, "Picture time!"

"Ah."

People quickly begin sticking to the empty wall. Holly shuffles them all around. Against the wall, Lisa Lisa is placed beside Joseph and Suzie. Next to Suzie, Holly stands beside Jotaro. In front of Joseph is Josuke, and beside Josuke is Giorno. Jolyne and Shizuka grin proudly in front of all of them. Polnareff is cradled tightly in Jolyne's grip.

"I'll take the photo," Mista readily offers. He and Trish never made a motion to join them.

Holly frowns. "Nonsense," she makes a gesture, "come over here!"

Mista blinks. "Eh? M-Ma'am?"

"We have stands for that, Jotaro," she glances at her son, Star Platinum manifests easily. "So, join over!"

"I wouldn't want to intrude," says Mista, at the same time that Trish chips, "Okay!"

Holly sighs. "Your Giorno's family, so come over."

"Oh," Mista says, letting himself be pulled over by Trish, at the same time that Giorno says, "Oh," but significantly more breathless.

Because yeah, they are his family, aren't they? Trish settles in right beside him, pressing easily against his side. Mista is soon to follow. Giorno blinks a little. Yeah, he decides, they are.

"Polnareff too," Giorno says, very quietly. "Can I hold him?"

Polnareff makes a very, very startled kind of sound. A little choked.

"Oh," Holly says, voice full of something, "Of course, Jolyne, give Giorno your uncle, will you?"

"Aw," she says, frowning a bit, but then she looks at him and grins, "'Kay!"

"Kid," says Polnareff, sounding faint, "you don't have to."

"I don't," Giorno says, taking the turtle into his arms, "I don't have to do any of this, either. I want to. Are you..." he hesitates a moment, perhaps he was wrong, maybe—but he's made his decision, "Do you disagree?"

Polnareff looks at him, wide-eyed and startled. "Not—not at all! Kid I..." he trails off, "Thanks. I...me too." And it sounds a little choked.

Trish sticks out her tongue. "'Long as you don't start expecting us to call you Dad, we're cool."

"Dammit," Polnareff replies, mock-despair, "how'd you know?"

"She always knows," Mista says, very seriously.

And Giorno really just—just can't help it. His shoulders start shaking and there's warmth in his fingertips, feathers in his chest—and he's laughing with the click of a camera.

"Second shot's the funny one," Holly tells them, and gestures to Star Platinum behind the tripod.

It doesn't even take half a second for Trish to be making bunny ears behind his head. "What," Giorno groans, "are you doing?"

"Gotta be silly for you if you won't do it yourself," Trish tells him, straight faced, "Mista, double bunny him."

"You know," and Josuke turns to Giorno in wonder, "your family's brilliant. Holly get Jotaro."

Holly giggles. "Already on it!"

"Jolyne," Jotaro says, voice flat, "when you grow older, keep your dignity."

The girl laughs in his face. "Fuck no."

The camera clicks, the moment is captured—embarrassing bunny ears and all.

It could be worse.

"Alright," Holly waves them all away. "Cleanup and then bedtime. It's getting late."

"Ugh," Jolyne says, "it's early."

"It's almost midnight," Holly corrects.

"Early."

Giorno agrees with her, but he has a vague suspicion that Holly wouldn't really appreciate him saying that. He quietly resigns himself to sleeping early. Inconvenient but—

It could be much worse.

He watches passively on the sidelines as furniture is dragged back into place. Studies how Jotaro carefully laminates each photo. Observes how Holly delicately tucks the pictures into Maplewood frames. Sees them disappear quietly into the hall, presumably to hang the pictures up with the rest.

"Glad you came?" Polnareff asks, almost gently, and Giorno's dragged from his observations.

Giorno looks down, grips the turtle a bit tighter. "Ugh," he says, in very pointed agreement.

"Aww," Polnareff coos, "no problem! Thanks for the words of appreciation."

Trish bounces over. "Did I smell Giorno-directed sarcasm? I did! I agree. Giorno I'm so glad you finally know you should always do what I say."

"I hate you," Giorno says, but there's no bite, "so, so much. Even more when you're right."

Trish pauses, looks at him, wide-eyed, "You just said I'm right."

"Don't make me repeat myself," says Giorno, and before she can respond he's shoved Polnareff into her arms and made a dash for the hallway.

This time, when he slides shut the door behind him and steps into the hallway, it doesn't feel as terrible as last time. The light is on already, dim and flickering but doing its job. The air is still heavy with history, and thick with legacy, but it's a bit easier to breathe.

The hallway is empty bar him and the photos. Giorno can vaguely hear Holly and Jotaro chattering up the stairs—probably to get nails, or string. Giorno's footsteps are loud against the silence. The pictures stare down on him and it still feels like he's an intruder, like he shouldn't be here, like this isn't his.

He stops, finally, at Jonathan's photos.

"Hey," he finally whispers, "I wonder, if you were alive, if you'd accept me into this." He gestures to the wall. "I was afraid, to ask, earlier. I didn't."

Because that's a lot of what he'd really meant. This family is Jonathan's legacy and Giorno wanted so badly to get accepted from the root. There is no blood in this family, but there is legacy, it was started by Jonathan. Even if Jonathan is long dead, and it is an impossible question.

He sighs a little. "This is useless, I know. I just," he pauses a moment, "Thank you. For starting this."

Giorno doesn't know if he's ever not going to feel like an intruder here. But he looks down the hall and sees his framed photos waiting idly to be strung up, and he can breathe a little easier. Giorno closes his eyes a moment, feels the weight of history and the press of legacy and hears the bubbling noise of his family-to-be and knows he wants this.

(There's opportunity in the air, a door, a seed. Giorno cradles it with care and lets it bloom into possibilities.)