The final chapter! Thanks to everyone who read this! I hope you enjoy the ending ^_^
Chapter Twelve
Giorno mostly slept for the next couple days as he recovered. The others made sure he was never alone, which was a huge comfort to him since he was having nightmares pretty much all the time and would often wake up not knowing where he was. The sickness, despite being just a bad cold, had made him extremely weak, but after a few days of rest, he finally felt well enough to move from his room to go down to the living room where everyone gathered around.
It was finally time to talk about everything.
Fugo made tea and Giorno sat on the couch between Mista and Trish, wearing his oversized hoodie as he clutched the warm mug in his hands.
"When did it start?" Bucciarati asked him gently. "That's the thing we've been trying to figure out."
Giorno took a deep breath to steady himself, thinking back—it seemed a lifetime ago now.
"It was that day I went out to run errands with Mista and Fugo," he said, closing his eyes briefly. "I…should have known better than to go anywhere near that part of town, but…I didn't even think about it. I was actually feeling really good that day. Then I bumped into them on the street."
"Wait, you saw them when we were with you?" Mista demanded, horror on his face.
"We got separated on the street for a couple minutes," Giorno said. "My…mother recognized me. I told them that I…that I wanted nothing to do with them anymore. Mista called me and I hurried along with the others."
"They didn't threaten you then?" Abbacchio asked.
Giorno shook his head. "I think they were just as surprised to see me. But my mother noticed my nice suit instantly. They must have found out after that about my position as Don." He closed his eyes briefly. "I thought that would be the end of it, but…then a couple days later I got the letter."
His hand shook as he raised the tea to his lips to wet his throat. Trish wound her arm through one of his, squeezing.
"What did the letter say?" Bucciarati asked.
"It was my mother, asking for money," Giorno said bitterly. "She said they were going to lose the house—undoubtedly lies—and gave me a place and time to meet."
"That's where you went that day," Fugo commented.
"Yes," Giorno replied quietly.
"But why did you even go in the first place?" Narancia asked. "I mean, if they were that bad, why did you care?"
"I didn't really," Giorno admitted. "I never wanted to see them again. I just thought that if I did this that they would leave me alone. I knew they would keep bothering me if I refused. And it's not that I don't have enough money, that was the least of my issues."
Everyone looked sober at that admission and Giorno turned to look at his tea, swallowing hard.
"So…I went, and…all I remember after that is giving them a check and then I suppose that was when the Stand attack happened…" He hunched over and Trish pressed closer as Mista gently settled a hand on the back of his neck, giving a reassuring squeeze. Giorno took a shuddering breath.
"It's okay, Giorno, we can take a break whenever you need," Bucciarati said softly.
"I'm okay," Giorno replied.
"It's our turn to fill in some blanks anyway," Fugo said, shifting uncomfortably. "When you didn't come home that night..."
"We were really worried," Narancia added, leaning forward to see around Mista.
Giorno felt sick, hating that he had been the cause of worry. "I'm sorry," he said.
"Stop apologizing, kid, it's not your fault," Abbacchio said.
"We went out looking for you the next day," Mista told him.
"What did you think had happened when you woke up there?" Bucciarati asked, brows pinched.
Giorno took another deep breath. "I didn't know. I couldn't remember anything. My mother said that I had gotten sick at school and was sent home but everything was fuzzy—I guess because it wasn't real. I should have questioned it, but, for some reason I didn't. Even though I never got a call from the school or they never sent my clothes or anything."
"That may have been part of the Stand attack," Fugo mused.
Giorno shifted slightly. "I had been staying at the dorm for the last couple years through the summer so I hadn't gone back to…that place."
"That's good," Trish said, squeezing his arm.
Giorno nodded then suddenly remembered… "The letter…my mother made me write a letter to the school."
"We got it," Bucciarati said. "After we came back. I thought it was a bit strange but, at the time… we were just so glad to hear from you, to get some explanation." He looked broken, sending a pang through Giorno's chest. "God, Giorno, if I had known…I beat myself up every day for putting the search for you aside for even a second."
"You had to keep things running," Giorno told him. "And you had no idea where I was."
"It's no excuse," Bucciarati replied softly.
"You did find me, though," Giorno said.
Bruno took an unsteady breath and gave him a small sad smile.
"I guess they took my cards and checkbook…I was wondering at the time how they had gotten so much money for all the house renovations."
"Don't worry, I terminated those accounts as soon as we realized what was going on," Fugo told him. "There's…not a lot left in your personal account, but no one is going to get any more of it."
Giorno nodded, but frankly, the money was the least he cared about.
"How did you find me anyway?" Giorno asked after a deep breath.
"We eventually found the Stand user they hired," Abbacchio told him. "And we tortured him until he gave up the information we needed."
"Oh," Giorno said.
"He had the ability to make people forget things," Fugo added. "Even suppressing Stand abilities."
Giorno nodded, swallowing hard as he shuddered slightly at the thought.
"For a while…" he started and then stopped, swallowing another lump in his throat. "I think the hardest part was not knowing I had anyone out there to go to, or to get me out of there."
"Oh, Giorno," Trish said, tears in her eyes as she wrapped her arms around him fully, gentle with his still healing injuries.
Giorno leaned into her, closing his eyes and reminding himself that everything was okay again.
"As for the rest," Bucciarati said, "I think you know all that."
"And that bastard who hurt you is dead," Mista added, settling a hand on top of Giorno's head. "I for one, am glad."
"Me too," Giorno whispered.
"And your mother…" Bucciarati began, raising an eyebrow at Giorno as if unsure where to go from there.
"She'll be fine," Giorno said bitterly. "She'll find another rich bastard to marry who I'm sure will be just as awful." He shook his head. "And if she for some reason decides to come crawling back here, I'll refuse to give her anything."
"Good," Narancia said firmly.
"That's enough for now," Bucciarati said, standing up, Giorno feeling a little relief that they were done. He walked over to the couch and gently touched Giorno's cheek before leaning over to kiss the top of his head. "You're officially off duty for the next couple of weeks."
Giorno couldn't even find it in himself to be annoyed. He was just tired.
As the other members dispersed to their duties, Trish squeezed Giorno's shoulder. "How about a haircut?"
Soon Giorno was sitting in the bathroom as Trish rifled through a hair cutting kit, pulling out a comb and sheers.
"I'm not going to cut more off, I'm just going to layer it a little and even it up," she promised. "It will lay better then."
Giorno sat with his hands in his lap, draped in a towel, but the instant the cold metal touched his neck, he froze, breath catching with terror.
"Giorno?" Trish asked, stopping.
"Sorry…it…it's okay."
"We don't have to do this," Trish said.
"No, please, I want you to, just…can you talk to me so I can hear your voice?" Giorno asked, embarrassed.
"Oh. Of course!" Trish said. "After all, a hairdresser is supposed to make conversation."
She babbled on about nothing really in particular, but it calmed Giorno as she carefully snipped at his hair, creating a friendly, comfortable environment. Giorno actually managed to relax, and by the end of it, Trish fluffed his hair as he turned to look at the mirror.
"What do you think? Better?" she asked as she leaned over his shoulder.
Giorno glanced briefly up, not overly happy looking at mirrors anymore because every time he saw his hair and the healing bruises on his face, it brought back bad memories, but his hair actually looked a lot different now. Trish had made it lay flatter at the sides, and his curls were growing in over his forehead again and curling at the back of his neck.
"Yes, it does look better, thanks," Giorno replied with a small smile.
"Good!" Trish exclaimed, putting the stuff away. "It probably still isn't entirely presentable for a Don, but if you have to be seen by anyone else, a little hair gel would fix it up nicely. At least it doesn't look like it got hacked with a knife anymore."
Giorno froze and Trish suddenly realized she had said something wrong.
"Oh…oh Giorno, I'm sorry, I didn't…"
"No, it's okay," Giorno told her. "I can't let what happened bother me forever. Ignoring it isn't going to do me any good."
Trish still looked stricken. "I know, I just…god, every time I think of what you must have gone through. I mean, yeah, my dad tried to kill me, but at least I could kind of understand his reasoning behind it. And I never knew him. I just…" she stopped, biting her lip. "Can I give you a hug?"
Giorno nodded and Trish wrapped her arms around him, squeezing gently.
Giorno rested his head against her shoulder. He was getting way too used to hugs. Maybe that wasn't a bad thing.
Everything felt like an adjustment. Giorno had gone from being kicked out of bed early and doing housework or cooking, to essentially sitting in bed as long as he liked, venturing only to the living room or the kitchen when he needed a change of scene. Sometimes he would sit in the office with Fugo to get briefed on what was going on so he wouldn't have so much to catch up on later before Bucciarati chased him out, insisting he was still on leave from work. Otherwise, he read a lot of books, watched movies with Narancia and Trish, and tried to recover as quickly as possible so he could start to get his life back together.
But he couldn't forget the new scars on his body. He'd tried to heal them with Gold but, while the pain had receded and the flesh had been repaired, there were still scars—maybe because he and Gold were still so weak. It felt like he had gone through a destruction of his soul instead of just his physical body. He just couldn't understand why it seemed so hard to shake when he knew—for certain this time—that he would never have to go through that again.
He started to find recovery tedious though, wanting to get his mind back onto, well, anything that could occupy it.
He was currently sitting and watching Mista and Narancia prep for dinner. He realized then, that his unknown ability to cook had been a product of what he had learned here mostly from Mista, but some from Bucciarati and Trish too.
"Do you…need any help?" Giorno asked them finally, feeling restless and like he needed something to do.
Mista turned around with a grin. "Sure, if you want. Can you measure stuff out for the marinade? The recipe is over on the counter."
Giorno nodded and got up, crossing the kitchen to glance at the piece of paper. He gathered the ingredients and started mixing the marinade up in a glass bowl. He saw Mista prepping lambchops with salt and hesitated slightly. He had brief flashes of his mother's dinner party fiasco, but he swallowed hard, pushing those thoughts away. Mista and Narancia's constant banter kept him grounded and he concentrated on making sure he had the right measurements, pouring everything into the bowl.
"You done with that, GioGio?" Mista asked as he washed his hands.
Giorno glanced over the recipe again and nodded. "Yes."
"Great! Let's get those chops in it then."
Giorno picked up the bowl and started to cross the kitchen to Mista who had turned to see what Narancia was doing.
"Hey! Stop eating everything before we even start cooking!"
Narancia turned around. "I'm hungry!" he complained through a full mouth.
"Then cook instead of eating, stronzo; it will be done sooner," Mista said, taking the dish towel he had tucked into his apron and twisted it before he whipped it at Narancia's backside.
Narancia shrieked in protest, jumping out of the way.
He slammed into Giorno just as he was crossing behind Narancia. The bowl was knocked out of Giorno's hands, splashing across the floor and breaking into several pieces.
Giorno froze, breath catching in his throat.
"Oh, shit, sorry Giorno," Narancia said, sounding muted past the blood pounding in Giorno's ears.
"No, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I—I'll clean it up," Giorno murmured, already grabbing a towel and making to kneel down to start cleaning.
"Giorno, don't!" Mista suddenly snapped, grabbing him and pulling him back as Giorno froze in sudden terror, cowering. "Geez, you're gonna cut your knees up, look at all this glass. Narancia, get a broom."
"I'm sorry, I'll—I'll do it," Giorno babbled, still frozen in Mista's grip.
"Hey…" Mista suddenly turned him around and softened his grip on Giorno's shoulders. "Giorno, look at me."
Giorno fought against his subconscious instinct to keep staring at the floor and looked up at Mista, his shaking hands latched into the hem of his shirt, worrying it between them.
"It's okay," Mista told him softly, rubbing his shoulder. "It's just a bowl, and we can make another marinade. No harm done."
Giorno pressed his lips together to keep them from trembling and Mista surprised him by simply pulling him into a warm hug.
"No one's gonna hurt you for breaking a bowl. Not here," he said firmly, squeezing him tighter.
Giorno pressed his face into Mista's sweater, trying to ground himself as he heard Narancia return.
"Gio, I'm so sorry; it was my fault," the boy said and Giorno glanced up to see that his eyes were wide with apology.
"It's okay," Giorno said, trying to keep his voice from shaking, taking a deep breath. "Like I told Abbacchio, sometimes I…just react without meaning to."
Narancia bit his lip, propping the broom against the counter. "Can I hug you too?"
Giorno nodded and Mista released him into Narancia's embrace, which was bonier than Mista's but Narancia was always warm and, frankly, Giorno appreciated any hug he got. Despite the lack of them he'd had as a child, he seemed to be making up for that rather well since he had gotten back.
"Is everything all right in here?" Bucciarati asked, poking his head in, frowning as he saw the broken bowl and Narancia and Mista comforting Giorno, obviously putting two and two together.
"Just a little accident," Mista said with a wave of his hand. "We're good."
"Giorno?" Bruno asked gently, taking another step closer.
Giorno finally pulled away from Narancia if not reluctantly. "I'm fine. Really."
It wasn't totally a lie, he was fine now that he had grounded himself again, but…he just couldn't help but wonder how long this was going to go on. If, maybe, he was a little too insistent that he was fine all the time.
Bucciarati gave him a look as if he was seeing through him, but he thankfully dropped the topic for the moment. "All right, well, let me know if you need anything."
He left as Narancia snagged the broom again and started to clean up the glass.
Mista turned back to Giorno. "You don't have to help if you don't want to, Gio. I'll understand."
Giorno glanced at the broken bowl again but turned back to Mista, shaking his head. "No, I really do want to help, I…I need something to do. Besides," he added, shrugging. "I was wondering if you could show me how you make the lambchops. I…tried once but it didn't turn out so great."
Mista instantly grinned. "Sure thing, kiddo! You see, the secret is in the sauce, but also, you gotta make sure you don't cook them too long so they're moist and tender."
Cooking with other people was a completely different experience than slaving away by himself. Giorno actually enjoyed cooking with Mista and Narancia, he hadn't had a lot of time to do it before…well, everything, due to his work load. It was kind of nice to get back to it.
He almost didn't realize he had been consistently eating out of the pan until Mista frowned at him.
"You're almost as bad as Narancia," he teased. "Glad to know you're getting your appetite back, though."
Giorno glanced down at the spoon he had been eating risotto out of, instantly flushing with embarrassment as he put it down. "Sorry that's…a habit I formed."
Narancia frowned. "What? You telling me that those bastards didn't even let you eat?" he demanded.
Giorno looked down at his hands. "My stepfather would only leave me a small serving but it was never enough. It was just another way they controlled me. So, I started eating while I was cooking."
"You're serious?" Narancia demanded, eyes wide, lips curling.
Mista shook his head, eyes dark. "I really wish I'd gotten a chance to beat that son of a bitch myself."
"Hell yeah," Narancia fumed, yanking plates out of the cupboard. "I know what it's like to not have anything to eat. The fact that there was food for you to eat but they wouldn't let you eat it really pisses me off!"
Giorno didn't know how to respond to that, still embarrassed from acting on his accrued instincts. Mista seemed to notice and squeezed his shoulder.
"Sorry, Giorno, it just seems like every day we learn about more shit you had to go through. We're just mad because we wish you'd never had to go through it."
Giorno gave a small, halfhearted smile. "Me too," he murmured almost too quietly for them to hear.
"Just remember that you can have as much as you want to eat," Mista told him. "And if there's not enough, I'll make you more."
Giorno nodded, grateful, but hating all the attention too. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything. It seemed like whenever he opened his mouth to explain why he couldn't act like a normal person anymore because of his trauma, it just made everyone feel worse.
"I'll go set the table," he said quickly, needing a moment away, slipping into the dining room.
His hands shook as he folded napkins, trying to set the silverware out neatly.
He tried to throw all his concentration into it, so he didn't notice when Fugo came into the room.
"You shouldn't feel bad," he said, startling Giorno, who glanced up at him questioningly.
"What do you mean?" he asked quietly.
Fugo took some of the silverware and started placing it on the other side of the table. "I mean, I get what you're feeling. You think that telling us everything is just a burden, but that's not true. Yeah, of course it makes us all mad to know what you went through, but we want to know so we can help you."
Giorno swallowed hard and folded and refolded a napkin. "It's hard to admit sometimes," he said quietly.
"I know," Fugo replied. "I was a mess when Bucciarati found me too. But it was easier after I told him what was really bothering me." He shook his head and he continued more quietly. "He was a mess when we brought you back because he hadn't known about your family situation, not because he was mad he had to be burdened with the knowledge. Bucciarati holds onto all of our traumas and because of that he has the ability to put us all back together. I had never had anyone who made me feel as calm, as validated, as he did."
Giorno took a shuddering breath, feeling grateful to Fugo. It might not fix everything about how he thought about his current strange situation in limbo with himself, but it did help a little.
"Thank you, Fugo," he said gratefully, meeting the other boy's eyes.
"We're all here for you, Giorno," Fugo replied. "I know it's hard sometimes, but just try to remember that."
Giorno nodded, offering a small smile. "I'll try to."
Dinner was done soon and everyone gathered to eat. Mista's lambchops were delicious, and, as promised, the older boy made sure Giorno got a second helping, so that by the time dinner was done, his stomach was more full than it had been for a long time.
He was exhausted though, his body still getting back to normal, and Bucciarati sent him to bed early.
Giorno curled up in his bed, hugging the stuffed frog Narancia had given him, but found he was having a hard time sleeping. He just wondered how long this limbo was going to last, when he would be able to fully reclaim his life without being reminded of trauma constantly throughout the day.
Last time, he'd done it by building walls and not letting anyone see beyond them, carefully crafting a character who was likable, confident, and independent. Not the scared child he had always been.
The problem was that back then he hadn't had people who cared about him so it had been easy to keep everyone out, no one looking too close at the cracks in his foundation. Now he had a family who had somehow gotten past those walls, making them weak and difficult to rebuild. He didn't know how to deal with this vulnerability.
He startled slightly when his door opened, but saw a messy-haired silhouette creeping into his room and relaxed. A couple seconds later, Narancia crawled into his bed and curled up back to back with Giorno.
Giorno relaxed slightly, trying to match his breathing to Narancia's, which eventually helped him calm down enough to sleep.
Maybe losing the walls wasn't the worst thing. Maybe he would just have to learn to build them around not only himself, but his family as well.
But it was hard. Giorno's physical injuries healed, but mental wounds were always so much harder to repair.
Craving fresh air, Giorno went out to the gardens the next morning. The plants needed some care and weeding. He'd brought all the plants from his room back inside the other day and Gold had given them a little boost, but he had yet to move too far out into the garden since he had been back.
The sun was warm and pleasant and there was still dew on the grass, making his knees damp as he knelt by one of the beds with his tools, trimming and weeding as he went.
It had been a long time since he had worked in the gardens and it showed. Everything was growing in nicely, but wild, some of the plants overtaking others. He would have his work cut out for him, but that was a good thing. Giorno needed something to do.
As he worked, he thought. He thought about what he was going to do from now on, and how he was going to continue in his position as Don while trying to get his life together.
"It's a beautiful morning."
Giorno glanced around to see Bucciarati standing behind him, face turned to the sky. Giorno was slightly surprised to see him dressed casually in black jeans and a long-sleeved shirt.
"I thought it would be nice to get some fresh air," Giorno said.
Bucciarati moved to kneel beside Giorno, picking up an extra trowel to help him with the weeding.
"It's gotten a bit overgrown," he commented.
Giorno nodded. "Yes, I thought I would take the time to take care of it while I'm not doing anything else."
Bucciarati smiled slightly. "It's not the worst thing in the world to have some time off, Giorno."
Giorno sighed. "I know, I just…feel like I'm not contributing anything."
"Perhaps you feel that way now, but you'll be back to work soon," Bruno gave him a compassionate look. "How are you doing, Giorno?" he asked quietly.
Giorno opened his mouth but Bruno cut him off. "And I want to know the truth."
Giorno slumped in defeat, scraping carefully around one of the rose bushes, loosening the ground and getting rid of any weeds. "I'm tired," he admitted. "And…I don't know what to do."
"What do you mean?" Bucciarati asked, cocking his head to one side.
Giorno reached out to touch one of the roses, watching the dew drops slip off onto his finger. "I don't know…how to be okay again. When I…when I first got away and went to stay at school, I thought that I would never have to go back and face my past. I worked to get as much money as possible, I was determined to get through school and then make my own life afterward. But I didn't…I never accounted for the fact that I might have to go back there and, if I did, that it would be just as bad as it always had been."
Bucciarati's face was pinched in sympathy. "It's hard being confronted by our pasts."
Giorno set his tools aside, wrapping his arms around himself. "I spent so long carefully building walls to protect myself. But I don't…I just can't seem to figure out how to do that again. Because they were built on a foundation of being certain I would never have to go through that again, and…it turns out that there was never a guarantee of that after all. I just…I don't remember how I did it the first time."
Bruno reached out and settled a hand gently on his shoulder. "Giorno, when I met you, I saw a confident young man brimming with resolve and determination. That was how I knew you were going to be perfect for my team."
"And that was a carefully created persona to keep myself from crumbling," Giorno spat bitterly.
"I don't believe that," Bucciarati said. "Perhaps at first it was, but I think that was all just you at your full potential. I've watched you in the heat of battle, where you cannot hide your true self. I have no doubt that you can find that inside of you again, Giorno."
Giorno curled into himself, feeling small. "And what if I can't?" he whispered. "I just feel so…vulnerable. How am I supposed to be a leader when I can't even stand to face myself?"
Bucciarati's hands came up to cup the sides of his face, pulling Giorno's chin upward to meet his eyes. "Giorno. Take a little advice from me. Strength comes from within, yes, but it also comes from those around you, the people you choose to let behind those walls. I think you'll realize that letting people in doesn't make you weaker, it helps build better defenses. It gives you someone to lean on when you're feeling weak. There's no shame in that, in asking for help. I know it's hard, but life is not meant to be lived alone, even when you're the Don of Passione. Part of Diavolo's downfall was because he had no one; he didn't trust anyone enough to let them in. You, on the other hand, have all of us, and we're here for you, caro. We're all here to get you back on your feet and to help you face your past that this time, I promise you, you'll never have to go back to again."
Giorno thought of the comfort he had been given the last week, rarely alone. The thoughtful gifts, the soft, comfortable contact of his family, the kind words of encouragement and comfort, and he realized, that, maybe he had been rebuilding his walls all along. They just had names now—Bucciarati, Mista, Narancia, Abbacchio, Trish, Fugo—enclosing him into the safety of knowing that they would always be there when he needed them.
The morning sun shone down on him as warmth started to bloom in his chest and he looked back up at Bucciarati.
"I think…I am starting to understand," he said with a small smile. "And I think you're right. I just don't want to be a burden…"
"You are no burden, Giorno," Bucciarati said firmly. "Everyone here has their demons and pasts they would rather forget. None of those things have defeated us, and I don't think they will defeat you either. I have no doubt that you will grow into a very capable leader that we will all look up to."
Giorno ducked his head again, slightly embarrassed. "I just…is it wrong to want to lean on all of you for a little longer?"
"Of course not, Giorno," Bucciarati said warmly. "You're only sixteen. You're allowed to ask for help, caro. This is a learning experience. No one is going to expect the most from you all the time, Don or not."
"Then…" Giorno swallowed hard, looking down at the grass. "Can I just have a hug, please?"
"Oh Giorno, of course," Bucciarati replied with a kind smile and scooted closer in order to wrap Giorno into his arms, safe and warm.
Giorno buried his face against Bucciarati's shoulder, settling more firmly against him as the older man rocked him gently.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For everything."
Bruno's lips pressed briefly to the side of his head as he squeezed him tighter. "I'm sorry I can't fix everything, but I can at least try to make up for some of the things you never had."
"You have," Giorno told him. "You all have."
And he realized then that it didn't matter how long it took him to rebuild his walls, because he had people protecting his back in the meantime. He knew that with his family he could get back to his former self, and perhaps better.
Maybe he would actually be that person this time, instead of using his outer appearance to fool everyone around him, with his new family, he realized he wouldn't have to put on a show anymore. Their support could bolster him to his full potential.
As he felt Bucciarati's arms holding him tightly, he was certain he could do anything with his family surrounding him.
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