Giorno doesn't regret his decision not to protest—of course he doesn't, he isn't stupid—but that doesn't change the fact that he hates this so much.
Whitebeard's ship—it—it has so many people. More people than Giorno has ever been around in either of his lives. Speeches are one thing—with the masses below him and his voices carrying high. Where he can wear his skin like a mask and make people see a statue of gold and marble. And this...this is another. There are so many people trying to talk to him and there are so many things to try to balance and—Giorno hasn't slept for fifty six hours and there's lead beneath his skin and rocks tied to his heels.
The guest room is a mercy, if small. They at least seem to have the decency to stay out of here.
Giorno sucks in a breath—it smells like sawdust and salt and, Giorno notes with some surprise, it's without the edge of blood pirate ships never seem to be able to scrub out. Then again, this is one of the inner rooms on an Emperor's ship. It might never have seen a fight.
Small mercies, Giorno thinks, and starts himself on revising a new North Blue kingdom's constitution.
It's a distraction, if not completely adequate.
His fingers hurt, strained, begging to stretch. His vision is going a little blurry. Exhaustion tugs at him, pulls like the weight of gravity. Vaguely, Giorno thinks that Fugo would have a heart attack if he saw him like this.
A knock at the door. Light but demanding, a courtesy more than anything else. It almost reminds him of Trish.
Lightly, he sets down his pen and uproots himself from the chair. His back aches.
"Come in," he says, voice steady, and the door creaks open.
It's the woman—man—man, right. Wearing a kimono and makeup of a geisha. His sandals tap heavy against the wood. Izo—sixteenth division commander, if Giorno remembers right. Giorno glances to the gun slung at Izo's waist. Looks back, meets the man's gaze.
"Yes..?" He says, after a moment.
"Dinner's ready, you're invited," Izo tells him, brisk, pauses, lips thinning, gaze appraising. Giorno's skin pricks.
"Thank you for telling me," Giorno says, and it's almost genuine. Because for as much as he's starving—hasn't eaten anything since yesterday's breakfast—the thought of spending a meal in the mess hall with hundreds of Whitebeard pirates makes his skin crawl.
They...they're not terrible but Giorno hates the causal affection between them, hates the attempts at conversation, hates the entire atmosphere more than he can describe. There's an expectation there, a base of something Giorno doesn't understand. Giorno hates not understanding things.
Izo shifts ever-so-slightly
"I'll come in a minute—I just need to finish up this draft." He gestures to the papers on the desk. Izo follows the gesture and—and there's an expression Giorno can't quite place. "...Is that an issue?"
The Commander shakes his head. "No." A pause. Giorno's skin pricks. Ants on his skin—beneath his makeup—crawling.
Giorno smiles like plastic. "Thank you, I appreciate the leniency. Forgive my inquiry, but is there something else you'd like to add?"
Izo blinks. Mutters something under his breath about diplomacy. "Yes, actually," the man says, "you look like shit."
"Um," Giorno says, before he can help himself. Glances at a mirror hanging on a wall and—oh. Oh. Of course. His makeup is fading, edging on messy, and exhaustion shines through the cracks. He's too pale, maybe too thin, dark circles blooming like rotten plum beneath his eyes. "Oh," he says, because he doesn't know what else to say. "I'll—fix this."
Then he freezes because—because—oh. He doesn't actually have his makeup kit. If he had any less control he'd curse.
Izo looks at him with an expression that Giorno vaguely pins an incredulity. "Fix it?"
Giorno nods, only vaguely there. "Yes." he pauses, eyes Izo. "...Forgive me for the presumption but perhaps I could borrow yours? Makeup, I mean. I can shoulder the cost of any supplies, of course."
Izo kind of just looks at him, eyes narrowing, face formed into some kind of expression. "When was the last time you slept?"
Which is...not a bad question actually. When Giorno really tries to think about it he isn't too sure. How do timezone here even work? It's terribly complicated. So many different islands running on different times. The World Government tries to enforce universal time but it honestly doesn't work very well. In the blues, maybe, but not so much in the Grand Line. And not very well at all in the new World. Huh.
Face screwed in concentration, Giorno says, "Ah, Fifty...nine hours ago? Maybe sixty. I'm not actually sure. What time is it, if you don't mind my inquiry?"
Izo looks at him for a very, very long moment. Just looks. Looks like he's going to say something, snaps his mouth shut. Opens it again, looks faintly like he's turn on what to say, finally decides on, "Sleep time. You're going to sleep."
Giorno frowns at him. "What? No, no that sounds like a terrible idea. I have work, see? And besides, haven't I been summoned to the mess hall? Rejecting a summon from Whitebeard seems like a terrible idea."
"I—wow. You're worse than Marco," Izo says, sounding faintly nauseated. Or maybe impressed. it's probably be easier to tell if Giorno could read his face properly, but with the makeup and the blur it's getting kind of hard.
Giorno sighs lightly. "It's nothing to be—" well, actually, Giorno isn't entirely sure what Izo is, just something, "—concerned about. I've hid worse with a little bit of makeup. I don't need anything expensive either."
"Okay," Izo says, breathes deep, and grabs Giorno's wrist, tugging him light but firm towards the bed. He stumbles, because there's someone's hand on his wrist and—and—and there isn't a bloom of pain. And the last person to touch Giorno like this was Trish and that was over sixteen years ago.
Vaguely, Giorno registers the give of a mattress below him, the texture of soft blankets.
"I'll tell Pops you can't come," Izo says, lips thin, "he'll get it. He's not—no one's making you come to the mess hall. Thatch'll bring you breakfast in the morning."
Pops—Whitebeard. Giorno hates that word. It's synonymous with father, with purple bruises and jagged red cuts. With a man too-tall and fists that bite. Giorno killed his first father with a kick that broke through his ribs and punctured a lung. He killed his second father with a gun. He exiled his first mother from Italy and killed his second with a poisoned chocolate.
To Giorno, Pops means that man and a family that never existed. To the Whitebeards, from the way they say it, it means—means something, he isn't quite sure.
"Uh—"
"Perfect!" Izo grins, it's something sharp and hard and warm all the same. And for a moment—in the low light, with the shadows flicking all shades of pink on Izo's kimono—for a moment it looks like Trish. "I hope to see you no time before noon tomorrow goodnight."
And—and the illusions over. It's Izo with ink-black hair and eyes like charcoal. And he isn't Trish but—but he's something that's almost close and it hurts. Like glass in his palms and splinters in his heart.
It's still enough to make him do no more than murmur a small protest.
Giorno wakes up to the sound of his door creaking open and his first instinct is to throw a knife. There's a terribly high-pitched sounding squeak and someone stumbles into his room with all the grace of a headless chicken. Not very much. It's almost enough to make Giorno relax.
Giorno smoothly pulls himself into sitting position, eyeing the intruder warily. They have brown hair pulled into a pompadour, dressed in chef's clothes—Thatch, he thinks, Fourth Division Commander.
"Good morning," he greets, plastic smile, "I apologize about the knife, you startled me."
Thatch chuckles nervously. Cautiously slides what looks like an entire pizza onto Giorno's desk. "No problem man, uh, sorry for waking you up. Although it's good afternoon now."
Giorno blinks. Tilts his head. Distinctly notices the lack of pain blooming from his chest—the lack of an ache so bad it makes him want to rip out his eyes. "...Afternoon?"
"I—yes," Thatch says, nodding, "good afternoon. Very good afternoon. Do you need makeup remover?"
"Probably," Giorno says, and doesn't even want to think about if his makeup looks as bad as it feels. Probably does. "I—yes, thank you. There's money on the desk."
Thatch is shaking his head before Giorno's even finished the sentence. "Nonono, I already agreed not to be blackmailed into letting you pay. Absolutely not. Do you even know how scary Izo can be? Very scary. Oh yeah don't worry about missing breakfast and dinner Izo already explained."
Giorno's skin pricks. "Right...thank you. You're Thatch, correct? I don't' believe I've formally met you before this point. Please call me Giorno. I appreciate the meal."
Thatch blinks. "Oh my god you're more polite than Ace."
Which is...something. Because Thatch says it like Fire Fist is normally polite but, well, Fire Fist. You don't get an epithet like that for being polite. And maybe Giorno is holding a grudge but Ace burnt down his island.
"I see," he says simply, even though he really, really doesn't.
Thatch grins. "You'll see eventually—Ace's kinda prickly at first but he's really a fountain of warm melt-y puppy-loving goo under it all!"
"...Right."
Thatch honestly giggles. "I'll go raid Izo's closet, 'be back in just a minute."
Giorno eyes him somewhat warily as he leaves. Slides his gaze to the pizza on his desk. He hasn't had pizza in...a while, actually. Pizza is a finger-food and Giorno eats while working, it's usually just too inconvenient to eat. And—and also kind of hurts in a deep, aching way. Because pizza here is Italy-but-not, it's pizza in that it's vegetables and sauce on bread but when you look at the details it's all different and that hurts.
This pizza is no different, it's crust is too thick—different grains—a kind of cheese that didn't even exist in Giorno's world, what looks looks like pieces of fruit, different preparation methods but—
—but it smells like garlic and basil and vaguely like home.
On the second day of the three day voyage Giorno wakes to the sound of frantic clatter and cannonballs. An attack, he assumes. And if it's making the Moby rock then it's probably a big attack, by another Emperor, an Admiral, or some cluster of super rookies.
It would, he decides, be a good show of faith if he fought for Whitebeard here. So Giorno slides out of bed, plucks up a gun and a belt of knives, and rushes to the deck. He's right, it's another Emperor—Kaido.
That fact makes fighting easy—not that it ever wasn't. Giorno moves like water, moves with the crush of broken bones and the bang of bullets. And it's good because Giorno's never been a battle maniac but he can lose himself in this, can feel blood on his skin and know it's for a good cause, can feel cuts in his skin and focus on the pain, and he thinks that maybe Trish would hate this. Would tell him it's stupid and there are better ways, but she isn't here, can't tell him that, so he lets his cloths bleed with blood from all sources.
It's only after that he realizes he kind of looks like a mess, with the blood and his hair down and his makeup smudged.
There also isn't really time to think about it because they pulled back and they pulled back for a reason. Because Thatch's been poisoned and a Commander down is reason to retreat. Because it's Thatch and Giorno's seen how much he's adored in that causal, tight-knit way.
Now, with his face pale, and his side bleeding sluggishly, Giorno can only watch as the life trickles out. It's slow and sudden and really, as a Whiteboard Commander, Thatch isn't any of his business, but for a moment he sees Narancia, sees Buccellati, sees Abbacchio.
They weren't like Trish and Mista and Fugo—they weren't family and he doesn't think he loved them. (Then again, what would he know? Trish is his sister because she said so. She walked up to him one day and she said you're loved and you have a family why can't you see, and her tone broke no argument. He asked Mista about it and he laughed and said Trish is like that and she isn't wrong. He asked Fugo and he'd dropped his mug and stepped through the shattered glass to kiss him.) Buccellati—Narancia—Abbacchio, they weren't like that. They were something, though, like autumn and crushed flowers.
The weren't family, and he didn't love them, but he liked them, he thinks. But they died and with them whatever they could've been.
Giorno looks at Thatch, who smells like garlic and basil and now of blood, and sees something that could be lost.
"Excuse me," he says, weaving his way through the crowd, "the poison's the issue, yes? I have an extensive network for poisons and antidotes, may I see?"
"Haruta couldn't identify it," Fire Fist snarls, but moves anyway, and there's something terribly, heartbreakingly desperate in his words.
"I have experience with poisons," Giorno says, instead of a proper answer. Leans closer to study Thatch in a better light. See's the sheen of purple coursing through his veins, the way his skin is too-pale and his would still bleeds and his breath catches. "Where's the blade?" and it's halfway and order.
Someone passes him a dagger, straight edge, not serrated, and at least that's a blessing. The blade is doused half in blood but on the edge there's a sheen of something greenish-purple and that almost confirms it. Giorno runs his fingertip along the poison and brings it to his mouth and—yep, yep that's Eastern Lily.
"You're lucky," Giorno tells them, straight faced even as they look at the blade to his fingertip, "I'll be able to get an antidote for this, and Eastern Lily is fast to act but it's also fast to dispel."
A small green-clad figure darts in front of him. "How the fuck did you identify that? I looked through my entire poisons catalog!"
Haruta, Giorno thinks, Twelfth Division Commander, intelligence.
"It's not surprising you couldn't find it," Giorno says, calmly, "Eastern Lily only emerged in the last four months, previously it's been completely unique to a single East Blue island. It's still folded into the underbelly of the greater underworld. People don't usually think to check East Blue for poisons, and by the time they've run through the Grand line and checked in with Sabaody experts the victim's dead and the poison's dissolved."
Haruta thins her lips, looks like she's going to say something but—
"Can you cure him?" Whitebeard asks, and it sounds heavy.
Giorno nods, smiling lightly. "I can, I know this one. May I use a den-den mushi?"
Someone—Fire Fist, he thinks—shoves a snail into Giorno's hand and it's only a few rings later that the snail picks up with a click. Giorno orders for his Sabaody contact who puts him through to someone else and by the time Giorno finally hangs up he's gone through ten people and three seas.
"Don't shoot down any birds," Giorno says, slipping the snail back to Fire Fist, "it should be coming in an hour or two."
Haruta sputters. "An hour or two!?"
He nods. "I make it a point to have a fast system. We stole a nest of Maine-breed seagulls a few years back. And this only needs one vial."
Haruta hums and Giorno can practically see the gears turning in her head. Intelligence officers—she almost reminds him of Fugo. "But," and her lips press thin, "that still doesn't explain how you knew that poison so easy."
Giorno sighs because intelligence officers, always too curious. "I have a poison expert from each blue, just in case."
"So do I."
"Fine," Giorno says, and almost freezes because that's probably the most causal thing he's said in sixteen years, "about three months ago someone stabbed my side with that. I recognized it because my inner circle—" or as much of one as he has here—because here he's got a ring of upper officers, all loyal, but he hasn't got an inner circle, not like he used to, "—made sure to extensively study and track that poison afterwards."
"Huh," says Whitebeard, and he looks thoughtful in a way Giorno can't read. "How long have you been getting assassination attempts?"
Giorno forces a shrug. "Consistently? As long as I've been in the public eye, three years, or so."
"Huh," Whiteboard says, again, but this time he's frowning. "How old are you are you?"
Giorno pauses. Wonders the benefits of lying. Because he's kept up his lies for years, never confirmed his age but played himself sixteen when he emerged and nineteen now. But this is an Emperor and Giorno has a feeling that lying wouldn't be the best.
"Sixteen," he says, after a long moment.
Giorno has taken the mafia twice, ruled the underworld through gold-leaf words and bloodied knives, seen the world crumble around him and fell into the sky—and he isn't a child. He's sixteen and twenty five and forty one all together but in front of Whitebeard who's four times his height and double his age he feels like one.
Fire Fist apologies, after—when Thatch has woke up and the ship's begun preparing to celebrate. He comes right up and does a ninety degree bow.
"I'm sorry!" And Giorno can only blink. Fire Fist straightens up, there's something like a blush on his face. "I uh, I think I was kinda wrong about you. Sorry about the island...and everything else."
"It's alright," Giorno says, and his voice sounds strange. "I don't hold it against you. Grudges are terribly inconvenient things to harbor."
Fire Fist blinks. "Uh, yeah, yep, I agree. Thanks."
"You're welcome, it is no trouble."
The boy grins, makes a waving gesture. "No need to be so formal jeez. Thatch was right—hey! Speaking of, want a drink? Kitchen's making this half-cider alcohol thing and it's great."
Giorno blinks. "I don't drink, but I appreciate the offer, Fire Fist."
"...Oh," the boy's expression kind of falls. Giorno almost feels guilty. Thinks absently of patting the boys' back. But...that was Mista's thing. Not—not his. "Okay. Just call me Ace by the way, fire Fist is..." he grimaces, "weird. Only marines or idiot-rookies call me that."
Giorno nods. "Understood. Please call me Giorno, then."
Ace flushes. "Uhhhh. Right. Giorno," and the pronunciation is butchered. Which makes sense, of course, because the language of this world is closer to Asian languages than European, and Giorno has yet to find a single dialect that can even vaguely mimic the way Italian rolls. "How do you say that again?"
He smiles, half-genuine. "It's alright, I've yet to meet a single person that can pronounce my name."
In all honesty, Giorno probably should've chosen something else—given himself a new name for a new world. A name where people don't have to flatten the R to an L, don't have to try and dip their voice and roll it over. But—but he couldn't. Giorno has given up so much already, left so much behind, he can't lose his name.
Ace blinks. "Oh. Wow that sounds like it sucks. So only your family can say it right?"
Giorno laughs lightly. "I named myself. I doubt either of my parents would have be able to pronounce it."
A beat.
"You named yourself!?"
There's something angry twisting through the incredulity on Ace's face. Giorno can read the expression, can see the emotion, but can't find the reason. His name has always been well and truly his, in both worlds. First, when his mother threw an Italian dictionary at him and told him to pick. Second, when his parents were dead and with them the name they gave.
"...Yes?" he finally responds, maybe a beat too late. "Do you wish to say something?"
"I—" Ace flounders. "never mind. The kitchen also just has normal cider, I'll get us two cups, fine?"
there's something terribly awkward in this, Giorno thinks. This is all something between formal and casual and so entirely out of Giorno's comfort zone that it's hard to function. Giorno has never has a causal conversation outside his inner circle of his last world. Even when Mista would drag him to clubs it would never be him carrying the conversation. It would be Mista, with this or that, giving him opportunities to speak and talk and it wasn't easy but it wasn't like this.
It wasn't this: the ocean below him, the sky above him, Ace beside him and silence between them, so thick Giorno can hardly breathe. No one to coach him into speech—numb creeping into his fingertips and the air full of salt.
"Yeah," he says, because no one else will, "sure. Thank you."
"Y'know," Marco the Phoenix says, sliding himself beside Giorno on the railing, "I don't think Pops doubts you at all."
Giorno hums—the pirate probably thinks he's being subtle. It'd be a little amusing if Giorno didn't absolutely despise the way this conversation is looking to go. "I would hope so," he says, after a long moment.
The Phoenix nods. "The rest of the crew is also starting to like you."
He shifts, feels cold numb his fingertips, wind in his hair, sees the ocean churning inky black and glittering silver beneath the moon, hears the too-loud buzz of pirates in celebration. "Ah, is that so? How nice. It's an honor to have made a good impression on a crew like this."
The pirate makes a low noise of frustration, does a somewhat swishing motion with his arms. "I mean we wouldn't object to having you."
Giorno plasters a smile. "A shame, such an offer is wasted on me. I have no interest in being a pirate."
It's...not as subtle as it could be. But it's better than snapping a rejection.
The Phoenix doesn't quite seem to get it though. Or maybe he does, and simply isn't taking Giorno's roundabout answer. "Being a pirate isn't bad, y'know."
"Excuse me," says Giorno, "let me rephrase that. I will not join your crew, I have no interest in joining your crew, and I would appreciate it if the subject was never brought up again."
"That's what I said too," Ace laughs, joining them on the railing, slight flush, a tankard of alcohol. Giorno leans away, ever-so-slight.
"I'm not in the habit of changing my mind so easily."
Ace shrugs. "'Get what you mean, get what you mean—took me a hundreds days straight of murder attempts."
The Phoenix nods. "It's not like joining the crew is a replacement of any previous family or anything. Ace's still got his little brother and Izo—"
Beneath Giorno's fingertips the railing splinters with the sound of snapping bone. "I think you misunderstand. My siblings are gone and I killed my father twelve years ago. I do not need and I do not want your crew as seconds."
(Because the Whitebeards are a family—they say they're a family, and Giorno has to take their word for it because Trish isn't here to say whether they're right or wrong. And if this crew is found-family like he used to have in his world then Giorno wants nothing to do with it. He does not need replacements for the siblings he lost, and he has never wanted another father. Not when both are dead by his hand.)
Purotto approaches with the smell of smoke and the sound of laughter. Giorno's island is a half-burnt paradise, and notably absent of slaves.
This is a blessing, of course, because any lingering caution regarding him is thrown to the wind and goes out with the tide.
This is a curse, also, because now the crew—Whitebeard himself—are much, much more blatant with their recruitment efforts.
They're on the beach, Giorno perched lightly on a mossy boulder. The air is cold and his fingers almost numb. Sunset reflects red and orange on the waves, turning the horizon into a sea of flames. Smoke from their bonfire carries heavy through the air and with it the sound of laughter and celebration.
And then—
"So, Son," says Whitebeard, standing tall, and the beach goes silent, "how about joining my crew?"
And the thing about emperors is that they don't take no for an answer. It's a good trait for a pirate, to take what you want, and it's expected that the greatest pirates are the ones that take and take and take. And Giorno can appreciate that, sometimes, can see the way that pirates chase their wants and almost be envious. This is not one of those times.
"I'm not your son," Giorno says, and wishes dearly that he weren't talking to an emperor.
The crack of the fire, the crash of a wave, and Giorno sees amusement on the crew's face. Which is—reasonable, because plenty of people have probably said the same and joined anyway. But Giorno isn't most people and irritation licks at his palms.
Whitebeard shifts, Giorno meets his eyes easily. A beat—"Why?"
Which is...honestly better than Giorno expected. "Will you forgive me if I'm blunt?"
The Emperor laughs at that, which is—reasonable. Pirates are nothing if not blunt. Whitebeard waves dismissively. "Of course."
"Well," says Giorno, and wonders if he should phrase this different. But—but Giorno plays ever conversation like a puzzle, approaches every interaction like a timed bomb. And he's speaking to pirates so half-truth dressed in harsh honesty will have to do. "Excuse my frankness, but I hate your crew. Not as individuals, and not what you do, but I don't think I could stand it if I stayed. Besides that, I don't think I would stand well under anyone's authority—I do not..." he purses his lips, "take orders well."
He doesn't mention that seeing the White beards interact like a family feels like stepping on glass. Doesn't say how every attempt at a casual conversation feels like drowning. Doesn't explain that authority means bruises and loss of control and a childhood of nightmares. Doesn't say any of it, but that's the point.
Whitebeard looks at him, eyes narrow, doesn't shift, doesn't falter, and Giorno hates it. "Son—"
"I'm not," Giorno snaps, feels the stone beneath his fingertips give way, closes his eyes, opens them, "I'm not your son, and I'm not a child."
The ocean is a sea of flames, crashing gold and gray onto the sand. Beneath him, the boulder stings cold and leeches feeling from his fingertips. Beside him is a bonfire surrounded by pirates, lighting the sand amber with light and black with shadow. The wind whistles and the fire cracks and—
"Boss!"
Giorno startles, whips his head around to the foliage. A figure stumbles out, looking breathless.
"Yes?"
"I—" the underling bites his lip, glances at the pirates. Giorno nods his head to continue. "There's...a problem back home. In North. It's Germa."
Breath catches in Giorno's lungs. "...What are they doing, exactly?"
The underling jolts, looking jittery, and when he speaks the words shake. "They're making a big show of engaging us on Warse Island! I—I don't know the specifics or anything but we just got a call and—"
Giorno holds up a hand, curses lowly under his breath. Germa hasn't really been subtle in their aggression towards his creeping reign over North Blue, but they haven't gone this far before. An open battle between his forces and Germa could take days and would be devastating and Giorno is in the New World.
"What's our quickest arrival time if we pay no mind to territories, cost, or danger?"
The underling stutters, "U-uhh—three days? Maybe?"
Which—sounds about right. But is also kind of ridiculous because that's way too long.
Giorno thins his lips and—
"Hey," says Ace, "not to interrupt but I could probably get there in half that with Striker."
"Y'know," Ace says, when they're stopped for the night, "I really am sorry about the island thing. You'd...probably be in North if not for all this."
Giorno shifts, sand in his clothes, fabric stiff with salt. "Already forgiven. As I said, it was a reasonable decision, and it was natural that your division followed you."
Ace blinks. "...My...division?"
Giorno kind of just looks at him. "You're the second division commander," pauses—Ace looks startled, had he been wrong about that? But Giorno never makes a mistake that large in his observations. "...aren't you?"
A steady blush seems to be rising on Ace's face. "Uh," he says, "no. No, Pops offered—I—it hasn't been made official. I don't want it. I can't—" he cuts off.
"Can't?" Giorno asks, gently prodding. "Forgive my presumptions, but I see no issue with you taking the position."
"No, you don't get it—they—they don't know—" Ace cuts off again, eyes blown wide. Fear, Giorno thinks, or something like it.
"Know?" Giorno asks, and Ace remains stubbornly silent. Giorno forces a small, amused smile. "Terrible secret, then? Dating a marine? Kill a crew member?"
"What!" Ace jolts shakes his head frantically. No—no! Of course not! I would never."
Giorno snorts softly. "I head the mafia, Ace, not much is going to phase me. Not to mention from a good kid like you."
"I," Ace sputters in indignation. "You're younger than me!"
He hums. "So I am."
Giorno lets the silence stretch. he's comfortable in it, mostly, since he's orchestrated it. But he knows that most people can't stand a silence that stretches too long—knows something will give, and it won't be him. And maybe digging for secrets like this is terrible, but Giorno's decided he wants to know so he will—and besides, this is obviously keeping Ace back and—well. Ace isn't Trish, isn't Mista, but he got Giorno a drink and tried to talk and offered his help and Giorno will do a lot of things but he won't ignore his debts.
Ace gives.
"Look," he says, "I...know—know this...person. And a while ago he was at odds with Pops. And I dunno what they'll think if they find out okay?"
Giorno hums—it's a half-answer, but an answer nonetheless. And if Giorno digs a little, pulls out the hidden meaning and frames it into Ace—because there are only so many people that could warrant that kind of cautious hiding. The other Emperors are out—Ace would never associate with Kaido or Big Mom and Shanks is openly friendly with Whitebeard. A marine then? But Whitebeard doesn't have any major marine rivals that have retired—not to mention Ace knowing any of them—then—
Giorno leans forward, looks at Ace, really looks at him. At his gray eyes and his rugged hair and the shape of his face—and breath catches in his lungs.
"Oh," he says, very softly, "I see."
"See?" Asks, Ace, spiking in alarm.
"Rodger...right?" The way Ace startles back is answer enough. Flames start to flick at Ace's dance along his skin—Giorno holds up his hands. An offering. "It's alright," he says, mild, "I don't mind."
"What?" The flames are gone, but tension still coils tightly along Ace's frame. "What do you mean you don't mind!? You're lying—stop lying! You—"
"—Ace," Giorno cuts, and his voice is hard. "I don't care. You're your own person—my sister's father was a monster, I killed him myself, and neither my brother nor my lover held any of his crimes against her."
"Yeah but—"Ace cuts of, blinks, "what?"
"I'm saying that your father doesn't reflect on you, and Whitebeard is a lot of things but he isn't a fool and he'll recognize that, at least."
"I—" Ace falters, "what would you know?"
Giorno smiles, just a bit. "I know enough, I told you, didn't I? I killed my father, and I killed my sister's father—because he killed my brother's family and my friends. We didn't hate her for it." He pauses. "I think," he says, a little more gently, "I know enough."
"I..." Ace falters. "Alright. Okay. Fine. Fine, I'll tell Whitebeard and if he doesn't kick me out I'll take the position."
Giorno smiles, almost, kind of, it's weird because it's genuine. "He won't."
Ace huffs. Tends their campfire. Shoves him a roasted fish. "You've got siblings? And a lover?"
Giorno hesitates, falters. "Not anymore," he finally says, tone utterly dismissive—pretends it doesn't break him every morning.
Ace casts him a look, doesn't say anything more, but Giorno has a creeping suspicion that he didn't mask it well enough.
Sometimes, while fighting, in this world, Giorno feels like Gold Experience. Haki—will; soul, almost a stand—wraps around his bones and seeps into his flesh and with that strength his can snap bone and shatter rock. He does—he feels bones crunch beneath his fingertips, feels ribs break beneath his feet. And for a moment he is Gold Experience, is anger made manifest, made violent.
(Because he's always been like this. Feigning calm, mimicking selflessness—beneath that masquerade he is angry. Angry at the world, angry at humanity, and it frightens him, sometimes, to think what he could've been if he never grew to love. If some gangster hadn't shown him a kind hand, hadn't given him faith.)
In Giorno's world, his rage was made...calm—perhaps, by his found-family. It was pointed; directed not only to destroy, but to protect. To shield Mista, to work in tandem with Sex Pistols. Gold Experience still kicked, still snapped bones and broke ribs, but he did it alongside somebody.
Giorno hasn't fought alongside anybody in a long time.
Fire licks at his side, warm and burning and molten. Haki protects him—turns burn to a blanket of warmth. Ace tosses him a soldier, Giorno smashes the body against a wall, careful not to let his knives dig into Ace's side.
It's not Mista but it's something. A rhythm, a dance, a partner in tandem. Haki is will made manifest, anger in solid form—and when a blade catches on Ace's leg, Haki surges. Burns across his skin, rushes through his veins, and it's a kind of anger he hasn't felt in a long, long time.
When they're almost back, just an island away from Whitebeard, Giorno tells Ace to drop him off.
Ace frowns, brows furrowing, something like confusion. "I don't get it..." but regardless, Striker starts veering towards the coast.
Giorno tilts his head, ever so slight. Striker lodges into the sand with a thud. Carefully, he steps off, seawater soaks further into his soggy socks. "Get what?"
The boy shifts, discomfort palpable. "Just..." he trails off. "Why do you hate our crew so much? It's not like we've done something, I think—right?"
Giorno shifts, salt on his skin, sand in his clothes, numb creeping through his fingers. Doesn't grit his teeth, but wants to, because he doesn't hate the Whitebeards. But every moment with them is chewing on glass, is a reminder of what he had. And Whitebeard himself is—is in equal parts terrifying and confusing.
He snorts softly. "Besides burning down my island, you mean?"
"Wha—you!" Ace sputters. "But—hey wait! You're just deflecting! Stop avoiding the subject!"
Giorno hums.
Ace crosses his arms, scowls. "Answer me!" A beat. "...Please? My crew isn't bad y'know."
He pauses, hesitates, softly murmurs, "I know."
The effect is immediate, Ace brightens, face lighting up. "See! So..." he trails off, and it's a tone of uncertainty that Giorno hates. Hates to hear reflected in himself, hates to see in what he might tentatively call a friendly acquaintance.
Giorno steps forward, pauses, steps back. Waves lick at his ankles. Closes his eyes, opens them, takes a breath. Salt, a constant, inescapable in this world of water.
"Giorno..?" Ace says, uncertain. And it's wrongwrongwrong, sounds flattened, roll hardly there, dips in all the wrong places. Different because he's in the wrong world with the wrong people and he'll give up a lot of things but he won't give up his name and—"Giorno!"
"I'm fine," he snaps, more bite than intended.
Ace thins his lips. "No," he says, "no you're not."
And Giorno—well. Giorno hasn't heard that for sixteen years, never expected to hear it again. And it's an echo, a shell, a shadow—old and new and different and it reminds Giorno, achingly, of his found-family. Gone, now, but not forgotten, and never replaced. And—and he wants that, covets it, aches for it.
He looks at Ace, looks at the sea, takes a deep breath. Salt.
He has always, always taken what he wants. Has worked tirelessly towards his goals. He's hated his time with the Whitebeards because it's chewing glass and stepping on needles, it's being surrounded by what he lost and knowing he'll never have it again. But—
—but he could. He could have it again, perhaps. Never the same, not like before, not a replacement—but it could be like his name. He will never give up his name, but he can take another. He can let the sounds flatten and dip in all the wrong places—and it'll new and different but it won't be something lost.
But that still leaves the Emperor. Whitebeard, who's in equal parts terrifying and confusing. Who's authority and violence and kindness all wrapped together. Who wants Giorno to be his son, who promises safety, who speaks of family—and Giorno, he can't—can't believe that.
(But he could test it.)
(He could test it.)
And this will probably be the stupidest idea of his life, and he hasn't taken a risk like this in—in—in ever, actually. But—but he wants this, he thinks, probably.
"Alright," Giorno says, maybe a little breathy. "I'll come with you, to the Moby."
This is definitely going to be the stupidest (and possibly last) thing he'll ever do.
But as he steps onto the deck of the Moby, heels clicking sharply against the hard wood, Giorno can't quite bring himself to reconsider. He has always taken mad gambles. This one is just...a little stupider, probably. But necessary. Because Giorno swore years ago he would never live under someone's hand, would never live in fear, and he'll sooner cut off his fingers than join with a crew who's captain he cannot put faith in.
Slowly, he comes to a halt before the giant. Whitebeard towers him, stands four times his height and double his age. Sunlight reflects silver on Whitebeard's bisento—they're in a summer climate. The fabric of Giorno's clothing sticks uncomfortably to his skin.
"Whitebeard," Giorno says, dips his head, just a little. Because maybe Giorno cannot trust the Emperor, but he can respect him. Giorno's pair of seastone knives weigh heavy on his hip. He glances around. The crew is relaxed. There aren't an abundance of commanders, and the ones who present aren't battle ready—as much as that applies to Whitebeard Commanders. It would take them maybe six seconds to jump in, but that's all Giorno needs.
The Emperor grins, and when he speaks it's a deep rumble, "Welcome back. North went well?"
Giorno nods. Breathes deep, salt and wood and wildflowers. Feels the weight of seastone on his hip, the itch of salt on his skin, the touch sun on his face—too strong, almost a burn. "Yes," he hums, "North went well. I appreciated Ace's help, and do hope you will forgive me for this."
He's moving before he's completed the words. Pressing his heel against the deck, Giorno springs towards the Emperor. He doesn't hesitate to unsheathe his knives, to move with everything he has, because Whitebeard is a threat. In Giorno's world, there was no one like Whitebeard. In Giorno's world, there was never anyone that could well and truly and completely eclipse his power. This is not his world.
Giorno expects to last four seconds, maybe.
One. Giorno launches at the Emperor. Whitebeard is visibly startled—understandable, but not practical. Giorno's knife lightly nicks on the pirate's skin, drawing blood. Killing intent is easy to summon—easy to imagine Whitebeard as Diavolo—as that man—as a threat. Too easy.
Two. Whitebeard's swipe comes full-force and Giorno swings to the side, pulling back his blow. Their Conqueror's Haki clash with the sound of split rocks and splintering wood. Whitebeard meets his eyes, if only for a moment.
Three. Haki curls around Giorno's leg, hardens his skin. He takes initiative—the Emperor meets his blow easily, Haki of his own. Before Giorno's armor can crack he sling himself over the opposing blow, straight towards the giant's throat.
Four. Whitebeard twists, knee coming up and around for a high kick—it's an impressive display of flexibility. Giorno expected nothing less. He slam his own heel down on the incoming blow, bushes down on it. Focuses his will, hones it to a sharp edge.
Five. Giorno bends himself under the blow, aims to slip behind Whitebeard's back and—
—and meets the dull edge of Whitebeard's bisento. He ducks—straight into an incoming kick. It's a pincer attack.
Six. Giorno slams against the deck, air knocking from his lungs—a weight on his chest. He's pinned beneath Whitebeard's boot. The weight is heavy on his chest, but not painful—almost hesitant—but not quite. Gentle, perhaps. Gentle. Without force, without threat, not even enough to bruise.
Giorno's killing intent sinks away—swept like dust in the wind. Sunlight kisses warmly on his skin, breeze brushes lightly through his hair. He breathes deep; salt and wood and wildflower.
Whitebeard steps back, steps away, any light pressure disappears.
"Son," the Emperor says, and it isn't a warning, isn't a danger, isn't a threat. It's a question, almost, something gentle. Whitebeard extends a hand, an offer.
Giorno blinks sunlight from his eyes, looks at the hand carefully, almost cautiously, but not quite. Smiles, then grins, then laughs. It hurts, almost, in an unfamiliar way—twists his stomach into knots and leaves him breathless. He hasn't laughed in sixteen years. He takes the hand, it's warm around his.
"Excuse that," he says, half sitting up, and it's an apology that he means. "I needed to make sure."
"Make sure?" Whitebeard asks, and it's light.
Giorno smiles, almost grins. The muscles hurt already—lack-of-use. "I do not..." he pauses, "trust easily. Especially of people like you, of what you offered."
Whitebeard nods, pulls Giorno to his feet. Giorno tucks his hand back. "Then that was a test?"
Giorno nods, shifts. "Again, apologies, that was crude—but I found it necessary. I killed my father when I was four and he aimed a gun at me. I—I suppose I needed to see if your supposed safety was false."
A beat.
Whitebeard smiles, almost a grin. Something gentle. Something unfamiliar. The Emperor stands four times Giorno's height and double his age—before him, Giorno feels like a child. And perhaps—just maybe—that isn't terrible.
"Then you'll be my son?"
Giorno swallows down his instinctual rejection. Because he wants this, and Whitebeard proved his fears false. "Yes," Giorno says, and he's grinning. "I—will. I won't join your crew though, that would unfortunately be terribly incomparable with my position at the head of North." He pauses. "But I'll ally—would like to ally, if that's alright with you?"
Whitebeard laughs. "Of course! No worries. You'll be family regardless."
Breath catches in Giorno's lungs—something light, something heavy, something he hasn't had for sixteen years. Something wonderful.
"Yeah," he says, and it's breathless. "Yeah. I'll..." he glances to the side, to Ace and Marco, Thatch and Izo. "I look forward to having brothers. I'm in your care."
Updates next week. Reviews are appreciated.