Chapter Four
Giorno woke the next morning, disoriented again, until he recalled where he was and why. He sighed heavily, pushing himself up and rubbing his head. His hair was a disaster, loose, curls limply falling into his eyes. He'd have to deal with that in a second though. First, he had to find something to wear besides these old pajamas. He'd been too out of it yesterday to even bother.
He went over to his tiny closet, hoping that maybe his bag from school had made it here, but it didn't seem like that was the case. He was forced to choose a pair of pants that stopped several inches above his ankle and a too-tight shirt. He'd filled out a bit since he left, due to three consistent meals a day and so nothing would fit right. Maybe, if he could find any of his money left, or start making some, he could buy some new clothes.
Though, he would rather just go back to school and get his own things.
He picked up his bowl from the night before and carried it down to the kitchen where he saw that nothing had been cleaned up. The sink was full of dishes and the remains of the soup still sat in the pot on the stove. The kitchen was actually disgusting, Giorno realized. He must have been too tired to notice the night before, but now he was actually wishing he hadn't cooked in it at all last night.
He quickly washed his own bowl and dumped the leftover soup, sure no one would eat it. He listened, but it seemed like no one was even around. Maybe he would be lucky and both his mother and stepfather would be out all day.
However, when he heard the front door open, he realized that wouldn't be the case. His stepfather's heavy footsteps shuffled across the floor drunkenly. Giorno's stomach sank as he made to retreat back upstairs, not wanting a confrontation now, but Giovanna, of course, had to head to the kitchen first.
"What do you want, you little brat?" the man grunted as he caught sight of Giorno halfway to the door before heading over to a cupboard where he bent to grab yet another bottle of wine he definitely didn't need.
"Nothing," Giorno murmured, trying to escape again, but the man caught his arm in a vicelike grip.
"Nothing? You never want nothing. If it's food you want, you can have it after you make yourself useful. So, get to cleaning this damn place up."
Giorno glanced back over at the sink full of old dishes and pressed his lips together. He pulled out of the man's grasp and started working on them, wincing as old sink water splashed up his arms while the dishes clattered loudly.
"Dammit! Are you doing that on purpose?" his stepfather demanded, holding his head. "Keep it down!"
Your head wouldn't hurt so much if you didn't go out drinking all night, Giorno replied silently, continuing to work, trying to keep the rattling to a minimum.
Giovanna grumbled and shuffled out of the kitchen, giving Giorno some sense of relief, if only for the moment.
He continued cleaning the kitchen, mostly because he had nothing better to do, and though there wasn't much he could do about the years-old grime, the dishes were at least clean enough to eat off of now.
He was getting hungry though, so he stopped and ate some more of the extremely dry bread, wondering if anyone ever did any shopping around here.
His mother came back at some point and he could hear her speaking with his stepfather, sounding excited. Giorno peeked around the corner as he started back upstairs, and saw her holding lots of bags.
"I said you need to go easy with it, woman!" Giovanna snapped. "You can't just drop that much money all of a sudden."
"Oh, shut up, you never buy me anything nice anymore," Giorno's mother shot back. "Besides, this is the dress I've been wanting for a long time."
Giorno frowned, again wondering where they had suddenly gotten so much money. His head was starting to hurt though and he kind of wanted to lie down, but he also wanted to ask when he could go back to school. It was better to get that over with sooner rather than later. He certainly didn't want to stay here longer than he had to.
He steeled himself and headed out into the hallway where his mother was busy twirling around in a fancy new dress that must have been expensive. She glanced up and actually smiled at Giorno.
"Giorno, how do you like my new dress?"
He didn't know what to reply to that so he just shrugged and said, "It's nice."
Her face fell sourly, and she grabbed her bags. "I wouldn't expect you to appreciate it, but you could at least try."
Giorno stopped her before she could retreat upstairs. "Mother…when can I go back to school? It will be starting again in a couple weeks and I don't have to stay here, I can stay in the dorm. All of my stuff is still there. My clothes and books."
"You ungrateful brat!" Giovanna suddenly snapped. "We're the ones who came to get you because you were sick."
"And we've also decided that you won't be going back to school this year," his mother added.
Giorno blinked, shaking his head. "But…why?"
"Why?" his stepfather demanded. "Because you're a good-for-nothing runt that no one needs to waste their time and money on. You need to be here helping us out."
"You were the one who wanted me out of here to begin with," Giorno let slip before he could stop himself. He pressed his lips together instantly, having forgotten, in his time away, that it was always, always, better to just stay silent.
His stepfather's eyes flashed darkly and he lashed out, backhanding Giorno across the face. Giorno's head whipped to the side and he felt the man's hands grip the front of his shirt, shoving him hard against the wall.
"Don't give me lip; have I not taught you well enough?" Giovanna asked coldly. "You're going to stay here and help with what needs to be done, end of story. And if you even think of protesting again, you know what I'll do to you."
Giorno felt the scars on his back twitch and he forced himself to swallow before he nodded.
Giovanna shoved him against the wall again. "What was that?"
"Yes, sir," Giorno said quietly, looking over his stepfather's shoulder, knowing how much he hated eye contact.
The man finally released him and his mother beckoned him forward. "You should probably write a letter… to the school." She glanced at her husband and he nodded.
Giorno didn't want to. He wanted them to ask why he wasn't coming back, but his mother grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the kitchen table where she put paper and pen in front of him.
"Tell them you can't return this fall because you need to help your family," she said.
Giorno held the pen, staring at the paper for a long moment. His stepfather was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, watching. Giorno realized he didn't really have a choice in the matter. He wrote out a short note and his mother instantly whisked it away.
"I'll send that right away," she said, sounding almost relieved.
Giorno wondered if the school would at least send his stuff back, wishing he could have written that in before his mother stole the letter. That would at least keep him from having to buy new clothes.
His stepfather was still standing there, eyes boring into him. Giorno didn't turn to him, simply getting up to grab a glass of water.
"You had better behave, you little shitstain," Giovanna said in a low voice. "Because it's not going to go well for you if you don't.
Giorno didn't reply. There was no point. He knew it didn't matter if he did or not. He had learned that a long time ago. He swallowed the water convulsively and wished, not for the first time in the last couple days, that he had never gotten sick in the first place.
Especially when he couldn't even remember anything about it.
Giorno still hadn't appeared by the next morning when everyone gathered for breakfast, with a heavy somberness clouding them. Abbacchio watched the kids go through the motions even though no one really seemed to be hungry. Bucciarati had already started calling informants again at the crack of dawn after they had stayed up all night just waiting for Giorno to come back.
Damn that kid. Abbacchio was going to wring his neck if he came waltzing back through that door acting like nothing happened.
Even though, at the same time, he was praying for that to happen.
"I should have questioned him further," Fugo said quietly to Abbacchio as he made a cup of tea.
"It's not your fault, Fugo, it's no one's fault," Abbacchio sighed, pouring more coffee—he had lost count of how many he'd had in the last twelve hours. He should probably stop.
"And we're gonna find him," Mista said determinedly. "We're all going to go out looking for him today, right?"
"Correct," Bucciarati said as he came into the kitchen to refill his own coffee. Between the dark circles under his eyes and the fact that he was still wearing yesterday's rumpled suit, he wasn't fooling anyone, but no one was going to call him out for it either. Even Abbacchio wouldn't today.
"We're going to try to track him using Moody Blues and if that doesn't work, then we'll simply start scouring the city," Bucciarati told the others.
"When can we get started?" Narancia asked anxiously.
"Right now," Abbacchio said, putting his cup down. "Fugo, when exactly did Giorno leave yesterday?"
"It was around noon," Fugo said.
Abbacchio nodded and went to the office, calling out his Stand and rewinding the time to noon the day before. Moody Blues took on Giorno's form, sitting at the desk, miming going through papers while seeming to constantly check the clock.
"See, he looked like he was waiting for something," Fugo said.
Abbacchio continued to watch, seeing Giorno's exchange with Fugo before he walked out of the office and out of the door.
They all followed the replay down the street, watching as Giorno made his way toward the station.
Abbacchio's heart sank as they got to the boarding area and Moody Blues stopped and transformed back into his normal form, beeping apologetically.
"What's wrong?" Narancia demanded.
"I can't trace him any further," Abbacchio grunted. "Not without knowing another location."
Bucciarati groaned and buried his face in his hands.
"We can at least find out which train he took," Fugo said. "What was the exact time he boarded?"
"12:15," Abbacchio said.
Fugo hurried toward the office and began to speak to the employee there.
Bruno rubbed a hand across his mouth. "If we found the stop he got off on, could you pick up his trail again?" he asked.
Abbacchio sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "With the exact location and time, maybe. But sifting through all the people there…at that point it would be easier just to go looking for him by knocking on doors."
"And, even more, the train Giorno took had twelve different stops," Fugo replied grimly, coming back. "We do know he was going south, though."
"All right, let's go," Bucciarati said, clapping his hands. "We'll go in pairs and we'll start at the first three stops. Trish, you're with me we'll go to the first one, Narancia, go with Abbacchio on the second stop, and Mista and Fugo take the third."
"All right, Bucciarati," Mista said as he and Fugo went to get tickets for everyone.
They all boarded the next train going the same rout Giorno had and started out on their search.
Abbacchio and Narancia asked around when they got off. Abbacchio attempted to search for Giorno with Moody Blues but the Stand couldn't pick him up.
"I don't think he got off here," he said finally.
"Should we ask around anyway? Narancia asked, his wide eyes betraying his worry and desperation.
Abbacchio sighed, but nodded. "Yeah, it wouldn't hurt."
They continued on, asking at the shops and telling them to be on the lookout if they did see Giorno.
"Abba," Narancia said quietly as they made their way back to the station after their resources were all exhausted. "What if we don't find him?"
Abbacchio furrowed his brow. "We will find him, Narancia."
"I know, but…I don't know, I was just thinking about it. What if he doesn't want to be found? What if he left on purpose?"
Abbacchio glanced over at him. He actually hadn't entertained that thought. What if Giorno had needed some time to himself? The job to someone so young had to be rough, and he had seen how it weighed on the kid's shoulders sometimes, but he'd never expected Giorno to be the type to run away from his problems. Still, maybe he had just needed a moment.
And yet, he could have just said that. Of course, Abbaccio also realized who he was talking about. Like he'd told Bruno the night before, the kid was stubborn and independent. He would probably think it would be less mortifying to come back and be scolded for something than to have to explain why he wanted to leave in the first place.
"You think he did?" Narancia asked, and Abbacchio realized the kid was still staring at him.
He inhaled slowly. "Honestly, I don't know. Something about this just seems off to me."
"Me too," Narancia said quietly. "But…I don't know, sometimes I think about it. You know, going back to see what my dad is doing. But I don't ever go through with it because whenever I think about it, I realize that there's no reason to. He was never there for me, but you are, and Bucciarati is." He shrugged. "Maybe Giorno just hasn't realized that yet."
Abbacchio stared at him thoughtfully. The kid did have a point. It certainly would be a comfort to think that Giorno's disappearance had only led him home, wherever home was for him. But there was something deep in Abbacchio's gut that was telling him that wasn't the case.
They were able to check three more of the stops of the train's rout that day without any more luck than they had on the first three. Abbacchio was feeling his suspicions darken further, and could tell the others were feeling much the same, grim expressions all around. Bucciarati had a desperate, harried look that Abbacchio knew did not bode well, especially since it was now approaching thirty hours since he had slept. Evening was quickly setting in as well…
"Bruno," he said quietly, out of earshot of the others. "I think we need to call off the search for today and start again tomorrow."
Bucciarati spun around with a look of accusation but then glanced toward the others, pressing his lips together. "You should take them home, I'll keep looking."
Abbacchio pressed his fingers against his eyes. "At this rate you'll probably pass out somewhere and leave us to have to find you too. Neither of us have slept for thirty hours so I know you're feeling it. You're running on pure adrenaline now, but that's not gonna last forever. Let's at least go back home and get something to eat, and a couple hours sleep."
"He's right," Fugo said, as the others all watched Bucciarati with concern. "Running yourself into the ground isn't going to do Giorno any good."
"Please, Bucciarati," Trish said softly. "Maybe one of the informants found something and left a message."
"Or maybe Giorno's even come back and is wondering where we are," Mista shrugged.
They were empty words, they all knew it, but Bucciarati's shoulders slumped slightly and Abbacchio watched the exhaustion physically crash into him.
"You're right. I apologize—we missed lunch. Let's all go have something to eat."
"It's okay, we want to find him too," Trish said and slipped her hand into Bucciarati's as they made their way back to the train platform, waiting for the next one that would bring them back home.
They were silent on the way back, sitting stiffly and discouraged on the bench in the train. Narancia leaned against Abbacchio, dozing off part way through the trip and Abbacchio briefly glanced over to see if Bruno had hopefully done the same. But no, he was sitting stiffly between Trish and Mista, staring blankly ahead. Abbacchio pressed his lips together and looked up at the ceiling, hoping there would be some kind of news when they got back.
There was no Giorno when they got back, and though none of them had really expected him to be there, there had still been a small amount of hope that maybe…
"Narancia and I will work on dinner," Mista said, nodding to the younger boy before they disappeared into the kitchen, Trish following, probably wanting to have something to do.
Bucciarati turned to Abbacchio, a grim set in his eyes. "I'm going to start calling hospitals," he said. "If something happened, he might have been admitted as a John Doe."
"Bucciarati!"
Abbacchio and Bruno whipped their heads around to see Fugo hurrying over with the stack of that day's mail, waving one envelope at them.
"What is it?" Bruno demanded.
"This has no postage or address so it must have been delivered by messenger," he said a little breathlessly, handing it over.
Bucciarati took it, hand trembling slightly as he tore open the envelope before Abbacchio could advise caution.
"What is it?" Narancia asked as he, Mista and Trish came out of the kitchen at the sound of excitement.
Bruno pulled open the paper inside the envelope and his breath caught. Everyone leaned in, Abbacchio glancing over his shoulder, instantly recognizing Giorno's slightly cramped handwriting.
"Is it from Giorno?" Trish cried, trying to lean closer.
"What's it say?" Narancia demanded.
"It—It's just a note," Bucciarati said, almost with a little disbelief.
Abbacchio snatched the letter and frowned at the words.
"I regret to say that I will not be able to return for a while as my family needs my help right now. I will send an update later when my current position changes.
Sincerely, Giorno Giovanna"
Narancia snatched it from him then and quickly read the words. "What the hell is this?" he demanded. "Come on, Bucciarati, you can't really think Giorno wrote this."
"It's in his handwriting," Fugo said musingly as he also studied the letter. "And like I said before, he did tell me he was leaving to deal with family matters."
"But what if someone forced him to write this?" Trish demanded.
"And there's no return address," Mista said. "We still have no way to get in contact with him."
"Yeah, see? Suspicious!" Narancia added.
"Or, it might just be what it is," Abbacchio said, causing all the others, Bucciarati included to turn and look at him with accusatory eyes. He glared back at them, shrugging helplessly as he grabbed the note. "What more do you expect? Giorno wouldn't get personal. This doesn't seem out of character. Of course he doesn't want to tell us where he is. And family's family. Maybe Giorno's just trying to help them now that he has the opportunity to do so."
"Just because you never liked Giorno as much as the rest of us doesn't mean you can just write him off, Abbacchio!" Narancia snapped.
Abbacchio felt anger flare up in him, jabbing a finger into Narancia's chest. "That's not true, idiota! You should know better than that!"
"Enough," Bucciarati said, voice tired, but firm, cutting through the others. He retrieved the letter from Abbacchio, looking it over again before tucking it into his coat, reaching up to run a hand over his face wearily. "I don't like this at all, and I wish Giorno had said something else or been more up front, but…Abbacchio is right. And we did get a letter, in Giorno's handwriting. There…there really isn't anything else we can do right now."
"Bucciarati!" Narancia protested, but Bruno held his hand up to stop him.
"Let's give Giorno a few days. Perhaps there was an unexpected death or illness in the family. He never imparted any information about them to any of us, and that's all right; he never had to."
"And Giorno is capable of taking care of himself," Fugo said. "He has a Requiem Stand after all."
Trish snorted at Fugo and turned her back on him. "You know that doesn't mean anything."
Narancia turned back toward the kitchen, looking upset. Abbacchio would have to talk to him later probably. No one looked particularly happy with what Bruno had to say, but Abbacchio knew he was only saying those things to offer some small amount of reassurance. He could tell that their Capo was lying through his teeth.
"Go finish making dinner," he said dismissively.
Mista pressed his lips together but nodded and motioned for Trish to follow him.
Fugo sighed and cast one final look at Bucciarati before heading toward the office with the rest of the mail.
The instant the others were gone, Bucciarati's shoulders slumped and Abbacchio folded his arms over his chest, turning to him.
"Did you believe any of that bullshit you just spouted?" he demanded.
Bruno turned away. "It wasn't entirely bullshit. Of course I'm still worried. Something about this doesn't sit right, but at the same time…" he groaned in annoyance. "We have only known Giorno for six months. This isn't out of character for what we know, and…he did send us word."
"You don't think it could be faked?"
"I don't know what to think, dammit!" Bruno snapped. "All I know is that I have no clue where a sixteen-year-old kid who I feed and share my home with is and it's not sitting well with me right now! But I also know that doesn't instantly mean foul play is involved. Fugo used to run off all the time when he first joined."
Abbacchio gave him a sympathetic look, but didn't really know what to say. Bruno ran a hand over his face.
"Don't worry about saving food for me. I'm just going to go lie down."
Abbacchio exhaled slowly. At least Bruno was taking steps to get rest even though he wasn't stupid enough to think the other man was planning on sleeping. He was sure that he would find Bruno passed out in a chair or at his desk later. If he was particularly ambitious about getting rest, it would be the desk in his bedroom and not the one in the office.
Abbacchio wanted to cuss Giorno out for causing all this trouble and worry to all of them, but…there was still a part of him that felt uneasy about this whole situation. He knew for a fact that even if Bruno managed to convince the others, he hadn't convinced himself. He would still be looking for Giorno every day until he showed up again.
And Abbacchio probably would too.
Giorno spent the rest of the day cleaning and finally turned back to the kitchen to make dinner that night. At least his mother had picked up a few things when she went out earlier so there was food to cook with. Giorno took some chicken and made a simple pasta dish. It…actually tasted pretty good, he thought. He didn't know he could cook that well, but somehow, he seemed to know just what to do.
"Is that done yet?" his stepfather grunted.
"Yes, almost," Giorno replied.
"Yes or almost?" the man snapped.
"Five minutes," Giorno amended.
The man reached for a bottle of wine, giving Giorno a sharp look. "I just don't see why you always test me, boy. It's like you want me to get mad."
Giorno ignored him, trying to keep from shaking. Of course he didn't want to make his stepfather mad. It just seemed impossible not to.
His mother came in just as he was turning off the stove and grabbed a plate, heading toward the pan.
"You won't believe the beautiful things I saw today, Ferro. Can we please go to the decorating store tomorrow?"
Giorno furrowed his brow, stepping aside as his stepfather pushed past him to get to the food.
"I told you to take it easy," he grunted.
"Yeah, but…they have the exact living room set I want. If I don't get it now it might be gone. And you're the one who said it would be okay to start redecorating."
Giorno finally picked up his plate as they went to sit at the table, again wondering where they had suddenly gotten so much money. He reached for the serving spoon, only to realize that all that was left in the pan was a meager amount of pasta. He glanced over and saw that his stepfather had taken two portions of the chicken and hadn't apparently had the decency to leave Giorno even a proper meal.
Anger rose inside of him, and he started to get a headache. He pushed it down, though, knowing it would only cause more trouble, and scraped the rest of the pasta out of the pan onto his plate.
He sat down gingerly at the table, his mother still talking about all the things she wanted to buy to redo the living room.
"Paint too. Carla said she knew a really good painter. A fresh paint job would make this place look so much better."
Giorno tried to pace himself, but he had been working all day and hadn't had more than bread for lunch. He was starving and after a few mouthfuls it was gone. His stomach growled in dissatisfaction and he thought he saw his stepfather sneer in his direction, but Giorno couldn't seem to get his eyes off of the food on the man's plate.
"What do you want, you little rat?" he demanded sharply and Giorno jumped, instantly looking away as his stepfather took a sloppy drink of wine. "I left you plenty, you ungrateful little prick. So don't go drooling over my food."
Giorno swallowed down a retort and simply got up, even as his stomach growled again, loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Oh Ferro, just give the kid a little more so he doesn't mope all over for the rest of the night," Giorno's mother said.
"Fine," Giovanna picked up his plate, and beckoned to Giorno. "You want some more food?"
Giorno didn't say anything, simply clutched his plate in his hands, knuckles white. He knew this was a trap, he knew it…
His stepfather's face turned to a cruel, satisfied smirk as he tilted the plate and dumped part of the food on the ground with a splat at Giorno's feet.
Giorno stared at it, hands clenching so hard he thought he might break the plate. There was a stirring in his chest, almost like something was about to burst out of him, but he took a breath and simply reached for his napkin, bending down to clean up the mess.
"It's okay. I'm not hungry," he mumbled, and beat a hasty retreat over to the sink to start cleaning up as his stepfather cursed behind him.
"Damn waste of food."
If this was how it was going to be, Giorno supposed he would just have to save aside some food for himself every time he made something. He certainly wasn't in the mood to starve to death.
A deep heaviness settled over Giorno as he scrubbed the pans and plates. He wished he was back in his tiny school dorm room. It hadn't been much, but it had been his. And even though he hadn't really had any good friends or confidants, the other students were nice to him. Giorno thought briefly about the mafioso who had helped him out so many years ago now. He hadn't seen him around for a while, he wondered if the man was even still alive, or if someone had finally taken him out.
Thinking about that only made Giorno feel more alone, and he retreated to his room as soon as he was done with the dishes. He curled up on his mattress, trying to quiet his protesting stomach and lull himself to sleep. But sleep didn't want to come, and when it did, he was just confused by a bunch of blank faces populating his dreams again. Faces he thought he should know, and yet seemed to be nowhere within his memories.
Giorno's bad time continues.
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