Giorno wasn't entirely sure how he came to be standing in the middle of this room.
He wasn't easily distractible like Narancia. He knew better than to break away from his partner- a fiercely unhappy Abbacchio, in this case- without at least notifying him. He was aware of the potential dangers lurking in the depths of this rotting apartment complex; he read firsthand the account of unusual activity being brought to their team's attention. While it screamed 'rogue Stand user', it didn't contain enough information for them to have a decent idea of what the Stand's ability was besides the common theme- a blinding sense of fear. Any who were more affected than that were presumably the ones who didn't escape with their lives, accounting for the confirmed six deaths in the last three weeks alone- all of different, but gruesome, causes. The killings were indiscriminate, a mixture of civilian and mafia alike.
For now the only thing they knew for certain was that this thing was a threat that needed to be dealt with.
Normally missions like this were parsed out to teams of two or three of them, chosen at Bucciarati's discretion, but due to the high-risk nature of the situation and the massive building that needed to be searched, this was one of the rarer occasions where the entirety of the squad was present, paired up and sent to different floors. Giorno, with all of his so-called luck, was paired up with the person who liked him the least, sent to investigate the least pleasant floor- the basement.
Giorno had been dutifully examining a strange scratch pattern in the brickwork of the wall nearest him, absently keeping track of Abbacchio's slow steps off to his right as the older man ducked his head into vacant room after vacant room. These look like they came from human hands, he'd been thinking, something twisting uncomfortably in his gut as he ran his fingers tentatively along them. That doesn't bode well.
The basement corridor was dark, dingy, abandoned even by the less favorable tenants and passers-by. Water pooled in abyss-like puddles along the south wall, and every so often Abbacchio's clunky boots would splash in them when he got distracted and forgot to watch his step. Giorno's gaze kept getting drawn to the walls, hence his disturbing discovery; the dark brick was starting to look more and more ominous and he was, quietly unnerved, about to call his partner's attention to those scratches.
And then suddenly the boy was here, in a room he didn't recognize. With a startled noise Giorno immediately hunkered down, making himself a smaller target as Gold Experience hummed under his skin, ready to defend. The walls were far away on all sides, and even when he squinted against the pervading blackness, he couldn't see any items that could clue him in to where he was or how he got there. He could barely make out the outline of a door, dim light streaming in from underneath.
Am I missing time? Was I teleported? Is this an illusion?
Something cold was being carried on the air, slowly wrapping itself around him and making him shudder. It didn't feel like a stray breeze, too heavy and crackling with malintent, and he opened his mouth to call upon his Stand-
Only for everything to go pitch black. His heart froze in his chest and he found that he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. The longer he sat there, the more he felt the beginnings of panic clawing up his legs.
What's happening?
One hand had moved up to his face without his knowledge or intention; he was biting his nails. With a jolt of surprise he forced himself to lower it, where it settled on a ladybug brooch and squeezed tightly. Calm down. He took a breath that shook only a little. Think. Figure it out. Everything is a clue.
Oh, how he hated the dark.
"Okāsan, onegai-"
No.
Try as he might, the panic was at his stomach, gripping it tightly enough to make him nauseous. A cold sweat had broken out on his brow, making his three curls stick to his skin uncomfortably. Please don't lose control please focus-
"Sa-samui-"
I need to get out of here.
His feet wouldn't move. His breaths were speeding up.
Call out.
"A-Abbacchio! Can you hear me?" His voice was much too desperate, with none of his typical composure, and he didn't care in the slightest. "Abbacchio!"
And suddenly, miraculously, there was light. His knees almost buckled at the sight of the door opening, the only thing keeping him upright being his pride, stoked back to life upon seeing his gloomy partner who may or may not have been regretting his choice to come look for him.
"The fuck're you doing in here?"
Giorno shakily stood to his full height and tried not to seem like he'd been about to lose his mind. "I'm not sure. I don't remember."
It took all of his power not to sprint as he made his way to the door.
Abbacchio furrowed his brows, not moving away as his least favorite teammate approached like he normally would have. "Do you think it's the Stand user?" he asked with a small scowl, eyes darting around the room Giorno was eager to leave behind.
"It's quite possible," Giorno replied, reaching the doorway and basking in the light of the exposed bulb hanging from the ceiling. He turned sideways, studying the blank walls and concrete floor in the darkness, and felt goosebumps spread along his arms anew. Something was very off about this place. "I'm not prone to fugue states."
"Gee, good to know," the man replied mockingly, but his attention was no longer on the conversation. Giorno could sense how tense his companion had become, growing as moments ticked by in analytical silence.
"I think we should let the others know. If this is its power then we could both be overtaken next."
"I didn't ask for your fucking input."
"You seemed hesitant on what action to take."
Abbacchio met his eyes to deliver the full force of his glare. Black lips gave way to bare his teeth disdainfully. "Fuck off, Goldilocks. If you're gonna keep up that high horse shit I'm gonna throw you back in there with the boogeyman."
Giorno withheld a frown and said nothing, turning his gaze back to the room in question. I don't know what Bucciarati thinks will happen every time he pairs us up, he groused to himself, because it really never ends well.
Nothing had changed in the crypt of a room. He wondered if Abbacchio even believed him or if the man was two seconds away from blowing all of it off. Did he not feel the sheer malice that was floating out of there? Staring into the dark depths, immersed in the sea of that supernatural aura, Giorno found that his hand was automatically going back to his mouth- a concerning development, as he'd been sure that he'd buried that nervous habit years ago. He grit his teeth and forced it back down.
Only…
There was something on his wrist.
Something that hadn't been there before.
Pausing, he turned to face the light in the hallway more and brought his wrist up to examine it.
He froze completely.
There was a ziptie there- cinched so tightly that it was bound to leave a mark.
Something was hanging from it.
The rest of the world fell away as he slowly flipped his wrist over to examine the little piece of crinkled paper. Horror surged through him at the familiar scrawl: 私は迷っていません.
I am not lost.
Three-year-old Haruno Shiobana liked to wander around outside of their apartment complex for hours a day, relishing in having bug friends to keep him company when he was lonely. The neighborhood was a dangerous one, one not suitable for small children to be left unattended for so long, but as long as he was out of her hair, his mother didn't care what he did.
Bystanders and neighbors took notice of him quite often, and while he didn't speak to any of them when they concernedly asked him where his mother was, was he lost, did he need help?, he was happy to lead them to his door and point to it, proving that he was perfectly safe and close to home. This resulted in lots of admonishing notes being left under their door, ones that made Mama fume and shake and yell, and then one night she'd had enough. She drunkenly wrote a little note on a scrap of paper from the trash and then zip tied it to his wrist as he cowered away.
He'd felt like even more of a burden than before. He'd felt like a dog.
The shackle didn't stay for long, as she eventually thought better of how that looked, but it had been on him on the day-
NO.
Giorno couldn't move again. His heart was stuttering in his chest. There were so many questions racing through his mind, dancing around the fragmented memories being dragged to the forefront at the sight of it. He couldn't let this break his focus. He couldn't let this keep him from completing the job. He was sixteen. The figure towering over him didn't like him, but would never do this.
Abbacchio's voice filtered into the cacophony, right over his shoulder.
"What is that?"
But before Giorno could even think of answering, Abbacchio was gone.
Well, actually, the boy was pretty sure he was the one that had vanished. He wasn't in the same place he had been. He was in the dark all over again.
Maybe it was shock at this point, from being back in the dark and wearing that awful bracelet, but he wasn't even startled this time. He fell to his knees and clutched his wrist to his chest. Gold Experience sprang forth and hovered over him protectively, but with no way to see the enemy, all he could do was wait and tremble.
Seconds passed- years, maybe. Was he dead already? The atmosphere was thick with tension, a subtle kind of terror settling deep in his bones, burrowing deeper, stealing away his grip on reality.
"Muda?" Gold questioned after god knew how long. Giorno winced- "Mudadesu, Haruno!"- and willed him not to speak anymore.
Clomp.
A single footstep, barely a few inches in front of him. For some reason that he could not explain, Giorno was not alarmed by this.
A single exhalation, blowing cold air right onto his face. He didn't shy away.
A woman's voice, clear and steady, oddly soothing, cut through the silence that before had only held Giorno's struggling breaths.
"What an interesting story you've shown me."
His left shoe was slipped off, followed by his sock, exposing his foot to the chill.
"Heartbreaking, really."
Then his right.
"None of the others' near-deaths were when they were that young."
His hairtie was removed and shockingly cold hands brushed the back of his neck as fingers carded through the braid, unravelling it. He shivered but was pliant.
"I can't make you physically younger," the voice lamented, circling back to his front, "so it won't be as close to the real deal. But we'll make it work."
One by one his hairpins were plucked from their places, holding his curls together, and he wondered dazedly how she could see where they were. The curls came undone and hung in ringlets over his face, which she took the time to comb through and separate. Hands cupped his jaw, then traced over his shoulders and down his arms, and his jacket suddenly fit differently, much longer and baggier than before. The hands moved to his hips and traced downwards, and suddenly his legs were more exposed.
"This is the big show, so everything has to be realistic. I've got quite the attention to detail."
She delicately traced over his fingertips and they were immediately set ablaze and dripping with hot blood. An intangible blade stabbed into his left shoulder. A gentle touch and instantly his stomach clenched with agonizing hunger. His mouth and throat became dry. Intense heat began to rise throughout his entire body, bringing with it an ache and weakness that left him barely able to stay upright. His head swam. His chest grew tight.
Her hands carded through his hair one more time and then rested on his cheeks, pulling him forward a bit. He could tell they were nearly nose to nose.
"Showtime, lovie," she crooned.
Abbacchio didn't know how to describe it besides this: one moment Giorno was beside him, the next moment he wasn't. He hadn't made a break for it, hadn't been grabbed and dragged away- he just wasn't there anymore.
"Fuck!" Abbacchio shouted, turning on his heel to look back into that room. "Giovanna!"
No one was there.
Where the hell did it take him?
He summoned Moody Blues, gave his instructions, and watched the playback- it was exactly as he remembered, but he did pause it to try and read the script on the note that Giorno had been staring at. It was in some foreign language. The footage continued up until the point the boy disappeared- and then it just stopped completely. Frustrated, he let his Stand fade.
He listened for Giorno to start calling for him again, maybe waiting behind one of the twenty or so other closed doors they had yet to search. The kid had only been gone a few seconds before he found him the first time, and he clung to a pitiful kind of hope that this would just be a repeat. The enemy Stand's powers were still largely unknown, which had him hesitate, torn between rushing after the youngest team member with reckless abandon and waiting for backup.
His fists clenched at his side as he decided, Fuck it. Time was of the essence and he still wasn't hearing from Giovanna.
Sprinting to the nearest door, he flung it open violently while bringing his phone to his ear.
The room was empty.
"Bucciarati."
"It got the kid."
A sharp inhale. Bucciarati barked orders to Mista and the sound of rushing footsteps could be heard.
The next room was empty as well.
"Did he lose an arm again?"
Fair question, as the kid was like a rabbit when caught in a trap- fully ready to part with some limbs.
"No- it took him. The little fucker got caught once and then it came back for more. He was right next to me and just vanished. I'm checking rooms now."
"Be careful, Leone. Don't rush into anything until we get there."
He bit back a retort about not wanting to wait that long because it would sound dangerously close to worry. He wasn't worried, really. Mostly pissed that the idiot golden child had let his guard down again.
"How long?"
"We're almost at the stairwell. Fugo and Narancia will get to you first."
Abbacchio grunted his acknowledgment and hung up, moving on to the next door.
"Giovanna! Answer me, dammit! Giovanna!"
The more seconds that passed without hearing his teammate call for him, the more his unease grew.
I lost one of his kids. Bruno's gonna kill me.
Even though Giorno's sixteen and should have been able to handle it himself…
His bitter thoughts only served as a mask, though, for his true concern: The kid is capable. How did he get overpowered so easily?
He couldn't breathe.
Haruno leaned against the closet door with all of his weight, trying not to pass out, and continued scratching desperately at the wood. His fingers had started to bleed, he could feel it, but the pain was nothing compared to his terror.
"Mamaaa!" he wailed. "Let me out! I'll be good!"
Muda. He knew calling to her was useless; his very voice seemed to annoy her, and when he got emotional it only made things worse. He knew she could hear him from her room down the hall, was probably frowning to herself in that way that meant he'd done something really wrong, with her bottom teeth jutting out just a bit. Usually he was quiet, so his hope was that, if he continued crying for her, she would eventually have to give in, even just to come yell at him. Just seeing her angry face would be better than this.
The gold light flickered around him again, making him moan fearfully. It kept getting brighter each time it showed up! Was he going to catch on fire?
Then it disappeared and left him in the suffocating darkness once more. His initial terror faded, burst of energy leaving as quickly as it came, and he was once again at the complete mercy of the painful sickness. Whimpering, he curled into a ball, trying to focus on breathing even though it felt like a huge rubber band was pulled tight around his chest. He wondered if the rising heat in his body was punishment for being such a burden on his mother.
Hot blood dripped down to his wrist before falling to the floor.
He'd been feeling awful for the past three weeks, sicker than he'd ever felt in his entire young life, and it was so much scarier when he had to face it alone: the unbearable heat that sometimes made him feel unbearably cold inside and out, the throbbing headaches and broken lungs, all getting worse with each passing day. There was even a stabbing kind of pain on his star- or, where he knew his star to be, anyway. Sometimes Mama would trace it with one sharp nail when she wasn't acting like herself, going on and on about his father who had one too. He wondered if his father ever had pain from his star.
In the past few days Haruno had found himself suddenly on the floor several times, muscles all twitchy and brain coming out of a weird, scary fog, the heat wrapping itself around his insides and/em burning. emIt felt like something was boiling up inside of him, trying to burn him alive so it could break free of whatever husk was left, like a cicada bursting out of its old shell.
Today he'd thrown up and then collapsed when Mama was home- that finally seemed to convince her that there was something wrong with him, and into the closet he went. He was sick, she explained, and he needed to be quarantined so he didn't get her sick. If he wanted to continue living under her roof, she needed to be well enough to work.
Haruno tried to keep himself under control, to keep quiet and still like she wanted, but he hated the dark and the closet was so small and he felt like he was dying-
"Mama!" he whimpered. "P-please! 's cold! Mamaaa!"
'I don't wanna die in the dark!'
Her footsteps approached from down the hall, making his heart soar with hope, only to stop while still far away. She didn't open the door.
"Shut your mouth, Haruno! Behave!"
And then her footsteps retreated back to her room.
His words got caught in his throat. It really was as useless as always- his cries had never been able to sway her before.
His arms came to wrap around his legs of their own accord, mindful of his fingers that shot pain straight up his arms anytime he bent them. His body trembled fiercely; tears had bubbled up in his eyes but he refused to let them fall.
And so he sat in the darkness, trying to think of anything else, to take his mind somewhere that wasn't a cramped closet in a rundown apartment full of cobwebs and dirt and mustiness. He tried to imagine that his body wasn't falling apart from the inside-out. His hair fell into his face, long and unruly because she hadn't bothered to cut it in a long time, and he clung to the memory of that one time she'd been trimming it and her hand had brushed his cheek gently, as close to lovingly as he'd ever known, even if she'd pulled away immediately after as though his skin was poisonous. That had been a nice moment, he thought around the fog in his brain. Maybe when she finally let him out she would let him hug her leg? He hoped so. When she did decide to touch him- or, really, to let him touch her- it was the most comforting feeling ever.
Chills wracked his tiny form, the temperature around him seeming to drop. He was trying to keep thinking about nice things, but his brain was too hazy and pain throbbed behind his eyes.
He barely noticed when his grip on his legs became too weak to sustain his balance, and he didn't flinch when he fell, limp, to the floor.
The teams were divided as such: Giorno and Abbacchio were to search the maze-like basement. Fugo and Narancia had the first and second floors. Bucciarati and Mista had the third and fourth. As such, when Mista sent one of the Pistols to find Fugo and Narancia, the two had more of a headstart to the basement and arrived there first.
"Dude, this place stinks," Narancia exclaimed as soon as they reached Abbacchio, plugging his nose. "Did something die down here?"
Fugo elbowed the shorter boy in the ribs. "Giorno fucking disappeared down here, idiot! Don't talk like that!"
"Shit, really?" Narancia's eyes got really wide and within moments Aerosmith's visor was over his face. His lips pursed, as if unhappy with what he saw. "Lots of rats. Not seeing too many humans... there's the three of us…"
The boy went quiet for a few seconds, fully concentrated on something on the screen, and Abbacchio quickly felt his patience draining away.
"What is it?" he snapped.
"There's this one that's different from the rats, but it's really faint. It's coming from over there," Narancia said, pointing to a door three down from where they stood.
Abbacchio stormed over to it, a man on a mission, and jerked the handle so hard it hurt his palm. Unlike all the rest, it was steadfastly locked; there was no give in its frame whatsoever, making him think it might've been reinforced with boards on the other side. He growled deep in his throat and summoned Moody Blues again, ready to barrage the metal with a flurry of punches- Moody wasn't all that powerful, but could get the job done.
Only one hit landed, however, before Narancia was grabbing his arm and tugging insistently.
"Dude, stop! There's someone on the other side!"
"Yeah, and we need to get to them."
"No, I mean, like, right inside the door. Leaning on it. You could hurt them!"
Fan-fucking-tastic. If it's the enemy then what would it matter?
Although, the odds of it being their teammate weren't zero… With a mighty scowl, Abbacchio pounded his own fist against the door and shouted, "You in there, Giovanna?"
At first he wasn't sure he'd heard it. The voice was so faint, so weak, so muffled. He furrowed his brows, leaning in closer, and caught the tail end: "...kāsan…"
"Is it him?"
"I can't tell."
"... okāsan… one… gai…"
Someone was wriggling against his side and Abbacchio shot them a glare. Fugo continued worming past him and crouched near the door.
"Daijōbudesuka?" he called, tripping a bit over the foreign syllables.
"What language is that?" Narancia demanded.
"Japanese. I've studied it a bit. They're calling for their mother."
Shit.
Not Giorno, then. But someone clearly in danger. Another victim?
"Onegai…" Breathless panting, followed by an even more pitiful, "S-samui…"
"Ki- uh, kikimasuka?" Fugo called, louder this time.
"Okaaaasaaan!" the voice abruptly wailed, but when Fugo started to reply with a quick "Daijōbudesu!" the other person made a frightened noise and went quiet.
"Moshimoshi? Kikimasuka? Shit!" Fugo beat a fist against the door in frustration when he stopped getting responses. He peered up at Abbacchio. "Knock it down."
Narancia leapt in front of them, holding his arms up guardingly.
"No! Didn't you hear me? They're still right by the door!"
Abbacchio shoved him aside, knelt down to be closer to the person's level, and boomed, "Get out of the way!"
There was no response.
Looking worried, Fugo turned to the other boy.
"... Nara, are-"
Narancia shook his head, interrupting him, tapping the visor.
"Still breathing. Not much, though."
"We need Sticky Fingers."
As if he could hear the summons, the door at the far end of the hall burst open and then hope was on its way, sprinting and breathless, in the form of Bruno Bucciarati. Mista darted along behind him, eyes roving around the cavernous hallway and scanning for threats.
"Did you find him?"
"What happened?"
Narancia met them halfway, eyes wild. "There's someone trapped in there! We can't get in! They're dying!"
And really, bleeding heart boss man didn't need any more than that- Bucciarati was at the door in moments, shouting "Sticky Fingers!" before any of them could provide any more information. The Stand materialized and created a zipper along the lower half of the door, slowing down a bit as he unzipped it in case a trap was triggered. Nothing adverse happened, and through the new opening Abbacchio could now see their mystery person in the form of a thin figure curled up on their side, face hidden from view by a curtain of tangled black hair.
They were barely breathing.
We're probably too late.
Sticky Fingers maneuvered around the person- a teen, at most- and levered his hands under one arm, dragging them out into the hallway. The kid didn't react to being jostled around besides curling up where they lay, unaware of the group hovering over them or the fact that Mista's gun was pointed right at their skull.
"Hello?" Bucciarati called tentatively. "Can you hear me?"
Receiving no answer, he had no qualms about ruining his pristine white pants as he knelt beside the kid, carefully reaching out in order to move their hair out of the way. His movements were calm and fluid, cautious, but Abbacchio could tell he was holding his breath anxiously, worried about what horrors could be awaiting him on that young face.
There was movement in his periphery, and Abbacchio spared a glance towards Narancia, who was pointing at a collection of red spots staining the kid's dirty white shirt, which was about five sizes too large for their lithe frame and made them seem downright puny.
"Is that blood?" the boy asked anxiously.
"Looks like it," Mista confirmed.
"Looks like it came from their fingers."
Abbacchio's gaze, studying the spots for a moment, travelled over the kid's shoulder and down the arm splayed in front of them- and froze.
There was a ziptie around their wrist with a little note attached.
And, feeling cold, he knew exactly who Bucciarati was going to find under that hair.
The kid's face wasn't a bloody mess or horrifically disfigured like they'd all been secretly wary of, but it was flushed a concerning scarlet and pulled in an expression of strain, even in unconsciousness.
It was also very familiar.
"G-Giorno?!"
"Giorno!"
"Fuck!"
"What?! It's him?"
Bucciarati immediately lifted the kid's head into his lap and patted at his cheek while Mista, face drawn and worried, lifted his aim and took up guard over them.
"Giorno! Can you hear me?"
The kid's chest was rising and falling, so he wasn't dead, but damn if he didn't look close to it- he was deathly ill, with each breath a huge, struggling production that barely moved any air at all. His face was coated in sweat, cheeks flushed with fever. His mouth hung open for each breath, bringing attention to the odd, dark tinge to his lips- in better lighting Abbacchio was sure they would be faintly blue.
One glassy eye fluttered open, drifting sideways to look up at Bruno but never focusing on his face.
"-kā...san…"
"That again- he keeps calling for his mother," Fugo informed, stone-faced. He shuffled closer. "GioGio, dou shita? What happened?"
Giorno's legs shifted just a little, like he was trying to find purchase on the concrete floor, but they were shaking so badly that they quickly fell limp again. Abbacchio blanched as he realized they too were covered in crimson stains- and, looking at his fingers, it was easy to see why: his nails had been completely torn up and bloodied, as if he'd been scratching desperately at something.
Like a door.
What the hell happened to you, kid?
"That's not what he was wearing," he informed the others, feeling dumb immediately after. Obviously. "And he was healthy five minutes ago."
"And why's his hair black?" Narancia chipped in.
"Gomen...nasai…" Giorno croaked, one hand fisting weakly in Bucciarati's pant leg, smearing it with red. Bucciarati's hand had migrated to his back, running over it in steady circles- to comfort or check for injury, Leone wasn't sure. Probably both.
They all looked to Fugo for translation.
"'I'm sorry,'" he supplied.
Abbacchio and Bucciarati shared a look.
Giorno's blind eye drifted shut and he shivered harder, and Abbacchio pressed the back of his hand to the kid's forehead, then balked, immediately pulling it away.
"That's the highest fever I've ever seen," he said. And then, as if it wasn't obvious already: "He needs the hospital. Now."
"There's no time," Bucciarati interjected, meeting his eyes solemnly. "He'll die if we don't stop the Stand user soon. At this rate he's got minutes, possibly." At their alarmed looks, he continued, "I'm still unsure of what exactly this Stand's powers are, but we need to hunt them down right now if he's going to survive."
As if to emphasize his point, Giorno sucked in a shaking breath and exhaled a pained whine, and it was the most pitiful fucking thing Abbacchio had ever heard- he hated it. Not only did the little asshole not have the right to look so small and fragile, but he also had no right to sound so miserable- he was the golden child, the one they could always count on to be infuriatingly put together, composed, polite. From his carefully-pinned curls to his graceful movements to his controlled demeanor, he was the epitome of stuck-up perfection that grated on every one of Abbacchio's nerves.
This wasn't Giorno Giovanna. It couldn't be. The kid that was often compared to an angel now looked like the lowly creature an angel would watch over, perhaps with amusement, and wonder at the fleetingness of.
Giorno weakly coughed, and when he said something in a broken, scared whisper between harsh pants, nobody could make it out.
Nobody except Fugo, who looked ready to punch a wall.
"What'd he say?"
He grit his teeth. "He said, 'I don't want to die'."
Abbacchio watched Bucciarati's face as that sunk in. The man stayed composed as always, but he was unusually pale and chewing the inside of his cheek and it was hard for Leone to miss how stricken he looked, even if he was trying his damnedest to keep a poker face.
It was no secret how much he cared for the kids on their team- hell, Narancia called him 'Mom' on a fairly regular basis, something that had once flustered Bruno but that he had now come to accept. And honestly? It was fitting, even in Abbacchio's opinion; even with his cold, dead soul he could still see the warmth and affection in those dark blue eyes whenever they were around, the desperation in the sometimes irrational decisions Bucciarati made when they were in danger and his priority had obviously but unspokenly changed from 'complete the job at all costs' to 'bring them home safe'.
(The man liked to insist that Abbacchio, deep in his heart of hearts, was the same. He was not, but no amount of argument seemed to convince Bruno otherwise. He usually walked away from those debates calling Abbacchio 'Dad' just to piss him off.)
Bruno was absolutely a mother hen, and now one of his youngest chicks was dying in his arms and whispering his fears that had probably never seen the light of day before, and they had to go and track down the person that had done this to him before it was too late to save his life, but Leone could see it in the younger man's eyes- the fear of his own: What if he dies anyway? What if I walk away now and never see him alive again?
He wanted to tell his friend to stay behind, but he was too powerful of a fighter to leave when they were walking into a battle with unknown factors. Bucciarati had to go and they all knew it.
"I'll stay," Abbacchio volunteered gruffly. He was already kneeling beside Bucciarati, ready to take his place, the scowl on his lips making it clear that not a word was to be said about it.
But the look Bucciarati gave him absolutely made it worth it; like some of the weight had been lifted from his already overburdened shoulders. It wasn't ideal, but at least someone would be there to take care of him- someone who wouldn't be as traumatized if the kid didn't make it, like the younger ones might.
Bucciarati nodded gratefully and, with great care, helped shift Giorno to lay with his head on Abbacchio's lap, still curled on his side. The teen knit his brows together just a bit, but besides that he was still and quiet and it wasn't a good sign.
At this point nothing was a good sign.
With a sad sigh, Bucciarati tucked a lock of black hair behind Giorno's ear before rising to his feet. Giorno gasped for breath.
"Let's go."
It was obvious Narancia and Mista were hesitant to leave, but at the same time they shared Bucciarati's look of determination as they began their search.
"Hang in there, Gio!"
"We'll kill the sonuvabitch for you!"
It wasn't more than a few moments before they were off; Narancia picked up another human on his radar and led the way, taking them far down the hallway. They ducked into another one of the rooms and vanished from sight.
Abbacchio turned to the figure still beside him, raising a brow in silent question.
Fugo's face was difficult to read, but there was a storm brewing behind his dark eyes.
"I'm staying."
Not a surprise, as the boy hated using his Stand, but Abbacchio still rolled his eyes with as much conviction as he could muster- which wasn't much- before focusing on his charge, who was going oddly still, now that he thought about it. His fevered trembles were slowing.
Giorno looked so much worse up close, not to mention the inferno under his skin that was eagerly spreading its heat to the older man, lapping at his legs through his dark pants. Abbacchio hadn't been exaggerating the severity of this fever- just touching Giorno for a few seconds had been unpleasant, and prolonged exposure, even through clothing, was worse.
With a pained groan the boy suddenly started glowing a faint gold, and Abbacchio thought maybe Gold Experience was making his appearance, finally, to do something about this goddamn shitshow and save his user's life, but then the light was gone again and the Stand was still nowhere to be seen. There was no glimmer of healing, not even to try and mend those ghastly fingers.
He's too weak.
"The fuck was that?" Fugo asked, staring as though he was wondering if he'd imagined it.
"Doesn't matter," Abbacchio dismissed, then gestured to the gory mess of Giorno's hands. "Take care of that."
Should they be bleeding that much?
The blond nodded resolutely, tearing a strip from his jacket before crawling around to Giorno's front. With movements more gentle than Abbacchio would have expected, the teen took one pale hand in his own and pressed the cloth onto the worst of the carnage.
There were shouts down the hall, but no screams of pain. They stayed put.
It was hard, but Leone focused his attention back on Giorno's flushed face, noting his gasps for breath didn't have the same energy they'd once had, when he was terrified and fighting to keep himself alive. It seemed like that self-preservative instinct was fading fast.
Had he gotten paler?
Come on, brat. Hang in there.
He realized belatedly that his hands were hovering uselessly over the boy, and upon further review found that he had no idea what to do with them. Bruno had been going for comforting touches, but that really wasn't his forte.
(What went unacknowledged was his childish need to avoid touching that burning flesh, avoid making this real.)
Giorno's eyes drifted open just a crack and he was staring blankly again; Abbacchio felt his stomach drop when he recognized, with startling clarity, the fog that was starting to overtake those vibrant irises.
He's just about outta here.
He checked his pulse and found it to be dangerously weak. Barely there.
To his slight shock, his own heart stuttered slightly at this hopeless realization; if the low growl he let out sounded shakier than usual, Fugo didn't comment. His jaw was clenched, teeth starting to ache from the pressure.
Dammit! He's just- he's just a kid.
That was the confused extent of his guilty conscience, but it was more than enough to have his hand come to rest on the boy's head, even if there was too much tension in his fingers that he couldn't get rid of. He felt the scorching heat of that fevered brow and no longer cared.
Aggravating little shit though he was, Giorno Giovanna did not deserve to die alone.
Even if he was too far gone to notice the gesture.
"He's not gonna make it," Fugo said, and there was no doubt in his tone. His voice was distant, numb, like if he didn't distance himself from this there would be hell to pay- likely in the form of Purple Haze. His hands were still cradling Giorno's, blood coating his palms and the sleeves of his coat. They were shaking.
Abbacchio had no response.
Shrinking into himself just a bit, Giorno let out another pained groan and then the golden glow was back, and even though he didn't dare to, Abbacchio still felt that terrible stab of hope at the sight of it. It was foolish. He knew there was no way Gold Experience could stop this- last he checked, the Stand couldn't fix illness. But still he hoped his foolish hope, clutched the boy's shirt in his free hand, watched with bated breath as though at any moment the kid would spring up and declare them to be thoroughly pranked.
The glow sustained itself longer than last time, but as the seconds passed in agonizing silence, there was no change. Finally Abbacchio had to release his held breath and admit defeat. Gold Experience would not be their savior today.
Ironic, that such a useful Stand can be so useless-
Giorno's eyes were glowing that same color, he realized as he tilted his head and got a different angle. Abbacchio had never seen Stand manifestation change the user's appearance like that, and he gently turned the boy's head so he could see both sides of his face. He leaned closer and studied the strange phenomenon as it continued, wondering if maybe, just maybe, there was some ace still up Giorno's sleeve, before he noticed that the kid's pupils had shrunk down- to slits.
What the hell…
And then the glow faded away, still with nothing to show for it, and hazy emerald greens were staring up at him with no indication that they saw him at all. Giorno pulled in a breath- a proper one, but one that rattled just a bit, and whispered through lips that were much too blue, "Shini...taku...nai..."
A watery film built up over his eyes as they crinkled at the edges and Abbacchio realized that, if he weren't so far gone, the teen would be crying.
Abbacchio was a cold man by his own design. He could handle a lot of shit and keep a straight face.
But for some reason that one whisper- which he knew, without translation, to be another emotional declaration that Giorno Giovanna did not want to die- hit him differently. A pain shot deep through his chest and he had to look away.
Just a kid.
His hands were cupping both sides of the boy's face, and he roved his thumbs gently over his cheekbones as though it would be of any comfort.
Giorno sighed and Leone could have sworn the boy leaned, just the faintest bit, into the touch.
Bucciarati was almost afraid to go back down that hallway.
Finding the Stand user had been much easier than he'd worried; once Narancia got a lock on her, there was no escape, and almost immediately they were up in arms, backing her into a darkened corner with no intention of mercy. The woman was a middle-aged civilian in a gaudy dress, her Stand a hovering cloud of black smoke that instantly dropped the room's temperature the moment it appeared.
She was, as Narancia put it, fucking insane. Sometimes it was easy to forget that a person could be so terribly sadistic without having some kind of mafia tie- but alas, civilians could be just as demented as the worst hitmen out there. She was explicitly upset that they were keeping her from her "show" down the hall.
With how much energy she was remotely pouring into Giorno, the woman had little fight left- that didn't stop her from putting up a struggle, though, and it was only when phantom bullet holes started appearing all over Mista's body and he seemed to lose track of reality, mumbling things that rang with an eerie sense of deja vu, that Bucciarati was able to make a guess to her ability: her Stand could reenact a moment when a person came close to dying.
And she relished the terror it elicited.
In the end it was Narancia who finished her off, spraying her ruthlessly with bullets until it seemed like there wasn't an inch of her left that wasn't mottled like a honeycomb.
The moment the threat was confirmed to be neutralized, all thoughts were back on their fallen teammate. Mista, regaining his balance because he'd refused to go down even with blood pouring from his torso, put his pistol into his waistband, injuries fading away before their eyes. His eyes were clear and hard, and he hardly seemed to care about the trauma he'd just relived.
"C'mon, we can't have been too late!"
Finally able to take a break from his first and foremost priority of guarding the group, Mista wore his worry on his sleeve. Narancia drew Aerosmith back to himself and quickly followed the gunman's lead, sprinting out the door without another thought to the steaming corpse they were leaving behind.
Bruno, who was equally- if not more- worried, was quick to turn on his heel and leave as well, but it took a great amount of willpower to keep moving as he approached the group huddled just down the hall. The boys had reached them already, and Narancia wasn't screaming, so he tried to stay optimistic as he rushed to join them, but doubt was a bitter mistress indeed and he worried that maybe they were just in shock, maybe the screams would start when he got there and shook them out of it, maybe maybe maybe...
He desperately wanted to see Giorno, alive and well and back to normal, but if he wasn't…
He'd force himself to look anyway.
There! The first thing he saw, through the crowd of bodies hovering over the boy's body, was a flash of pastel- an achingly familiar pink. Giorno's clothes were back to normal, although it seemed his feet were still bare.
Upon reaching the group, Bucciarati wormed his way between Narancia and Fugo to get as close as he could, trying to keep from shoving them aside in his haste. His heart was pounding fast and loud in his ears and even though he tried to fight off the dread, it was consuming him like a relentless predator.
"He's alive, Mom, don't worry," Narancia said with a watery giggle, just as Bruno could finally, finally take stock of Giorno's condition with his own eyes.
The boy laid on his back, head still pillowed in Abbacchio's lap, and although his expression had flattened out, lips bright pink and slightly open, he was so very still. Hair that had been black and straight was now a mess of golden curls once more, framing a face no longer scarlet, but its usual pale complexion. The wounds and blood on his fingers had vanished.
His stillness unnerved Bucciarati until he saw definitively that he was breathing. Normally.
Had he not been kneeling already, Bruno was sure his legs would've given out.
He's alive. Oh thank god. He's alive!
Despite all of those good signs and the tidal wave of relief that crashed over him, Bucciarati found that his anxiety would not be fully quelled until he could speak with their youngest member, hear from Giorno himself that he was okay. He inched closer and took one cold hand in both of his own, giving it a squeeze and trying not to imagine the horrific state it had been in just minutes ago.
"How close-" don't ask that, you don't want to know the answer-
I need to know-
Abbacchio heard the rest of the question anyway, and when he answered he wouldn't meet anyone's eye.
"Seconds," he informed them grimly. "He'd just stopped breathing."
Oh my god. That was terrifying.
So it would have killed him; it didn't just reenact, it would make the person actually die of it.
Even without the verbal answer, Bucciarati would have been able to tell it wasn't good just from how lackluster Abbacchio's abrasive facade was- Abbacchio wasn't easily shaken up, and yet here he was, almost subdued.
He just watched one of the kids essentially die in his arms, he scolded himself. Of course he's not okay.
There was the sound of shuffling feet as Narancia launched himself forward, wrapping his arms around Giorno. Abbacchio's words had rattled him, if his expression was anything to go by, and it was hardly subtle how the boy's ear had come to rest on the younger's chest.
"C'mon, Gio, wake up! We beat her ass just for you, so now you owe us!"
"Let him rest, he'll be alright," Bucciarati said, gently prying the smaller boy away. He rose to his feet, bringing Narancia up with him. Summoning his best Leader Voice, he declared, "Let's get out of here."
The others were just as eager to leave that godforsaken basement behind, and Mista was quick to volunteer to carry Giorno to the car. Bucciarati and Fugo helped him get the boy onto his back, looping his arms under his legs and situating limp arms around his neck, and then the trek up began.
Bruno didn't notice at first, but Abbacchio, at the very back of the group, was lost in thought; it was only when the man let out a quiet curse that he caught his attention, and Bucciarati slowed his pace to match his friend's.
"Are you injured?"
Leone shook his head, rubbing carefully at his eyes to avoid smudging his makeup. The man truly was a mess, even if he was holding it together well.
"What was that Stand's ability?" the older man asked, sounding worn beyond his years. With a concerned gaze fixed on his friend, Bucciarati explained his theory to the best of his ability, watching as something akin to anger bubbled under the surface of his calm exterior.
Abbacchio seemed rattled, but hid it well.
"... So all of that actually happened to him," he concluded once Bruno went quiet.
"To at least some extent, yes."
Abbacchio let out a quiet litany of curses, running his hands through unkempt silver hair. His voice was strained as he said, "He was terrified. Right until the end."
"I'm sure," Bucciarati replied, heart hurting. The boy who had worked so hard to keep his past under lock and key had unwittingly showed them an agonizing glimpse of it. Had been forced to relive it.
Suddenly he wasn't so eager for Giorno to wake up- at least in sleep he seemed to be at peace.
Bucciarati had a sinking feeling that that peace wouldn't last.
"Dude, hurry up."
"I'm trying."
"Try harder. He's getting heavy."
Narancia scoffed. "Since when?"
"How 'bout since I've been carrying him for a while and my arms are getting tired?" Mista shot back, adjusting his hold on Giorno again, wincing a little. On his shoulder, Giorno exhaled a heavy breath but didn't stir. "And his brooches are digging into my back, so if you could please hurry up, Fugo-"
"I can't find them, okay?" Fugo snapped, eye twitching as he patted down his pockets again, stuffed his hands into each one again, checked his shirt pocket again, but ultimately came up empty handed.
"Do your pockets have holes in them too?" Mista demanded.
"Fuck you!"
"Calm down," Bucciarati interjected, coming between them with the keys in hand. He unlocked the car and Fugo immediately climbed into the backseat without another word. They'd already come to an agreement on the way out, so Narancia slid into the middle seat as planned, then turned to help get Giorno in, and as he pulled the youngest member into his arms he whispered something in his ear as the boy's head lolled.
Mista raised a brow. Narancia grinned innocently.
"Just telling him what we're doing!"
"That's very kind of you, Narancia," Bucciarati praised as he climbed into the driver's seat, and if the action seemed wearier than usual they didn't mention it.
"What about me?" Mista protested dramatically, rubbing at his back where there might actually have been a round indentation, but he wasn't completely sure. He got settled on Giorno's other side and shut the door. "I did all the work! And those ladybugs are painful."
Narancia gasped, scandalized, and clutched Giorno's limp form to his chest. "Blaffiny! Don't disrespect the ladybug brooches! You're practically made out of them by now!"
As he vehemently spoke, he wrapped his arms around Giorno's waist and partially buried his face in his hair, acting on an impulse Mista was sure most of them currently had. The physical contact as he'd carried him had really helped remind him that Giorno was okay now, that he wasn't suffering and dying anymore, and it seemed like Narancia really needed that reassurance too.
Behind him, Fugo groaned and corrected, "Blasphemy."
Undeterred, Narancia continued passionately, "He coulda used my skirt to make body parts- you're lucky you don't have my ass sweat stuck on you forever!"
"Don't shout in his ear!" Fugo snapped.
"I wasn't!"
"You still are!"
"So are you!"
Abbacchio turned in his seat and fixed them with a glare. "If you don't shut your fucking traps right now I will fucking end you."
"See? He's talking to you too, Fugo!"
Mista sighed to himself as an argument broke out all over again, running a hand over his hat to rustle the hair underneath. His curls were stuck to his scalp with sweat- being back on that street, riddled with bullet holes, had been… unnerving. It wasn't as bad as he was sure the lady had been hoping, considering getting shot was basically a weekly occurrence for him, but to have his life in danger yet again, to be in that situation again, was enough to shake him up a bit.
And now he didn't even have the marks to show for that experience, and he wasn't sure if he was glad or if it made him feel a little insane.
Sex Pistols was clamoring to materialize, humming energetically under his skin, and he knew what they wanted to do- they were worried sick about Giorno just as much as the rest of them. His Stand adored Giorno, especially Five.
He held them back; they would be too chaotic right now.
"We're supposed to be quiet so we don't overwhelm-"
"But we should act normal-"
"That's not-"
Ugh, those two. Normally Mista was all for diving headfirst into the bullshit Narancia and Fugo stirred up, but this time it was starting to give him a headache. He settled with his back to the door, his leg resting against Giorno's as though that would secure him at all, and closed his eyes, taking comfort in the subtle vibration of the car's frame as it rolled into motion.
Except it only lasted for a few seconds, before two things happened at once: Giorno shifted against his leg with a displeased sound and Fugo squawked in surprise. Mista's eyes shot open to a scene virtually the same as before, save for some key differences- namely that Giorno's face was twisted in discomfort and that Gold Experience was leaning over the back of the seat, crowding Fugo with his very solid form.
"Oh, hi, Gold," Mista greeted, relief rushing over him in a wave. If his Stand was appearing so strongly, it meant Giorno was at least close to consciousness.
He waited for the cheerful "Muda!" he'd usually get in return, but Gold was silent. The Stand's insectile eyes were focused intently on his user, the forlorn expression on his face making those markings on his cheeks look a helluva lot like tear tracks.
In the front, Abbacchio was watching them intently. He patted Bucciarati's arm.
"Oh, that's a good sign!" Bucciarati exclaimed, eyes crinkling warmly in the mirror. "Hello, Gold. Can you please move to the side so I can see out the back window?"
Gold Experience didn't spend a lot of time out and about when they weren't in battle or a healing session, and when he did it was when Giorno was awake. The Stand always stayed very close to his user and rarely acted in a way that could be construed as his own, so it was difficult for them to gauge how sentient he was. How much of his expressiveness was just an outlet for what Giorno felt, and how much was independent of those feelings? It was a bit of an unspoken mystery.
Even so, they treated him like they would Sex Pistols, just in case. Giorno never corrected them.
Giorno's face was still screwed up in discomfort- fear?- and a thin sheen of sweat had broken out on his brow, making his bangs stick to it. God, he looked so much younger like this; being meticulously styled and contained made it deceptive as to just how much hair he had- there was a lot of it, spilling down his shoulders and over his face in delicate ringlets. It softened the harsh lines of his countenance, spoke of a kind of innocence that he didn't actually have.
Narancia's arms were still wrapped around the younger boy, and he moved them up to rest his hands on his chest- was that considered groping?- and lowered his head to the boy's shoulder, pressing their cheeks together. "His heart's going really fast. Hey, Gio, it's okay!"
Giorno's eyes cracked open enough for Mista to see a flash of green and pupils blown way too wide. His next inhale was more of a gasping sound and then he was jerking backwards into Narancia, winding the smaller boy.
"K-koko wa-"
Narancia's grip around him tightened despite the assault on his lungs. "It's okay, dude, you're safe!"
Far from helping things, this seemed to make Giorno more afraid. A whine escaped his mouth and his eyes darted about crazily. He'd gone stock still, his entire body taut like a bowstring.
His gaze finally locked onto the person directly across from him.
"Mista?"
"Right here," Mista replied instantly, pointing to himself with a grin.
After experiencing the enemy Stand's effects firsthand, he wasn't at all surprised that Giorno was in distress. It was to be expected, honestly, even if that didn't at all prepare him for how painful of a sight it was. The kid had all but died, almost finishing what that illness had failed to do who knew how long ago. He hadn't been around for most of it, but the dark-haired teen could guess that whatever memory his friend had been trapped in, it had been very traumatic.
There were some things you just had to put behind you before they ate you whole.
And whatever his thing was, Giorno had just been thrown right back into its gaping mouth.
"Do you know where you are, Giorno?" Bucciarati asked gently.
"I- I-"
Giorno was lost for words for quite possibly the first time Mista had ever seen. The combination of terror and uncertainty all over the younger boy's face just made it worse.
Bucciarati's lips pursed. "That's okay," he quickly reassured, likely seeing how close he was getting to hyperventilating.
When Fugo leaned past Gold Experience, who was still staring at Giorno intently, and asked something in Japanese, all remaining color promptly left Giorno's cheeks; his head tilted down, gravity pulling his hair forward to hide much of his face. Mista craned his neck and could make out shiny, unblinking eyes staring at the floor. He had shut down.
Mista and Narancia shared a panicked glance, ignoring Fugo's guilty words- "I just asked if he remembers anything!"- and then looked to Bucciarati and Abbacchio, the former looking outright worried while the latter seemed apathetic besides the slight crease in his brow.
"It's okay, Gio," Narancia was murmuring, hand rubbing up and down Giorno's chest in an attempt to soothe. "You gotta breathe, man. I'm here- I'm Narancia, if you can't remember- and Mista's right there, Fugo's off to the left, and Bucciarati and Abbacchio are to the right. We're in the car. We're going home. Trish is visiting! She'll be happy to see you're okay. It's okay, Gio. It's okay…" The smaller boy seemed close to tears but didn't stop giving quiet reassurances.
While his words seemed to have a positive effect on how fast Giorno was breathing, it was clear by the latter's expression that not much was changing in his head. He still seemed to be in shock- or maybe just not there at all. His face was blank except for his staring eyes.
"H-he's shaking," Narancia told them, biting his lip. "Really hard."
"God, Gio…"
And then Gold Experience, who hadn't moved at all up until then, reached out one hand, parting that curtain of golden silk to cradle the side of Giorno's face that wasn't mashed against Narancia's. His lips opened, ready to speak, only to close again with a look that was much too sad. There was something independent in the action; he was worried about Giorno.
Definitely sentient, Mista decided, hoping he never worried his Stand that much. You want to help him, huh?
Gold caressed his user's face, brushed his fingers through his bangs, brought the hand down to rest over his heart, brought it back up to his face. They all watched in silence, having never seen anything quite like it- Gold tended to be touchy with Giorno, but something about this time was different.
The touches didn't seem to have much effect at first, but then Gold cupped his face again and hummed, and while it was technically Giorno's own voice it wasn't quite the same, slightly ethereal, and the affectionate sound was what seemed to break the barrier. Sleep, he seemed to say, low and soothing. You're safe.
They watched in awe as the tension slowly leaked from Giorno's trembling frame; first his legs relaxed, then his hands released their death-grip on the seat, then his shoulders slowly slumped. His eyelids began to flutter and then drifted closed, and then, with a quiet exhale, he was unconscious once more.
The seconds ticked by in silence. No one spoke, as though any sounds besides the dull roar of the road passing under their wheels would undo whatever magic Gold Experience had just cast.
Finally, Narancia broke the silence with a whisper, popping whatever bubble had encapsulated them.
"Y'know, you used to creep me out a bit, Gold- not gonna lie. But," he hastily continued upon receiving three glares, "that was really fuckin' cute!"
Mista supposed that was one word for it. What was really cute, though, was the shy smile that quirked the Stand's lips just the slightest bit at the corners. That was more reminiscent of Giorno, who didn't really know how to handle praise.
Gold Experience still didn't speak. Instead he simply dipped his head and disappeared.
"Okaaaasan!"
Abbacchio's thoughts were haunted by that voice. That voice that sounded much too young, much too pained, much too terrified to belong to the annoyance that was Giorno fucking Giovanna. How did a person that composed even come up with a sound like that?
"Okaaaasan!"
"Shini...taku...nai..."
God, it hurt him. Like, actually hurt him- there was a pain in his chest that panged each time that godawful sound rang out in his mind. There were so many questions, so many conclusions he didn't want to draw, because if it meant he'd been so ridiculously wrong-
How old had he been? When he felt Death itself coming for him so clearly?
That desperate voice, that single-minded need for his mother, that childish inflection...
Young.
Was he calling for a mother who couldn't, or wouldn't hear his pleas?
Had he been all alone? How had he survived? He hadn't been in a hospital- if those filthy, ragged clothes were recreations of what he'd been wearing at the time, then he likely hadn't even been in a bed.
The harsh sound of Giorno's gasping breaths played on a loop in his brain as though Moody Blues had picked up the recording and wanted to torture him with it. What did asphyxiation feel like?, he wondered. At what point did you stop feeling it? Or did you feel it all the way to the end, that agonizing lack of oxygen that would make your lungs scream?
Nails, normally well-cared-for and shiny, now blue-tinged and torn and falling off, blood coating his slender fingers, blood everywhere-
No, he'd been trapped somewhere. Somewhere dirty and dark and cold.
"Onegai… s-samui…"
Why waste your breath, kid? Save your oxygen.
Was that a terrified child's attempt to fill the soundless abyss with his own voice?
Or a terrified child's attempt to convince his mother to come to his aid?
No matter which way he looked at it, no matter how he examined the various pieces of evidence before him, something deep down- his Cop's Intuition, Bruno would call it- told him that that boy hadn't been calling for someone who couldn't hear him; who couldn't have done something, had she so chosen. Those weren't the cries of a child who was separated from his mother and wanted her back; those were the cries of a child who was trying to convince her to come back.
How often were you in that position?
Was your own mother the one who made you this way?
"Okaaaasan!"
The sheer desperation as still, plagued lungs were suddenly opened and the boy sucked in a massive breath, suddenly looking like himself again, as though nothing had happened, as though everything was fine...
There were so many things he wanted to turn to Bruno and say, to let out into the open air so they could stop clogging up his head and keeping him from thinking straight, because Bruno was a really good listener and maybe telling him would get the information to someone who could actually do something about it, someone more useful than a corrupt cop, someone more trustworthy than the person who'd been cruel to the neglected child for the past six months. Bruno would know how to fix this- he'd know how to help. And then Abbacchio could stop feeling this confusing tsunami of emotion that he could barely make sense of.
Maybe then he'd stop hearing Giorno's cries.
Maybe then he'd stop hearing his dying breaths, stop seeing that glint of tears over hollow emerald irises-
But he couldn't tell Bruno- not right now, at least. Because that would mean spilling all of this emotional sludge on everyone in the car with them. It wasn't their job to deal with his mess, nor was it their job to worry about this.
Why am I so fucked up about it? The kid's alive.
He'll be fine.
… Why was that so hard to believe?
He wanted to say something, but he couldn't say anything, and so he settled for resting his head against the window and listening distantly to the quietly intense debate going on in the backseat about whether Giorno's usual hair tufts would be classified as cat ears or tiny wings- anything to serve as a distraction. A glance in the rearview showed Fugo keeping to himself in the very back, staring down at his hands; the bloodstains were long gone, but Abbacchio knew it wasn't that easy to truly be rid of them.
He didn't even notice they'd reached the house until the car jolted into park and everyone began unbuckling their seatbelts- well, those of them that had bothered with them in the first place, anyway. On days like today, when things went sideways and everyone was shaken up, it was easier for the kids to bypass Bucciarati's sixth sense and get away with stuff like that.
Click, click. Bucciarati, Fugo. Abbacchio tiredly unlatched his own seatbelt and arched his back, trying to hide his inner upheaval by going through the motions.
"Should I... try wakin' 'im?"
"No, leave him be. Poor bastard's spent."
"Well what do we do with him, then?"
Bucciarati turned in his seat to face all of them, blue eyes deceptively light. One of his barrettes was coming loose but he didn't seem to notice.
"We're going to let him sleep as long as he needs to. Narancia, ask Trish to help you get the living room couch set up for him; Fugo, get the word out that the job was a success; Mista, track down a change of clothes for Giorno."
Each boy nodded his understanding as he was addressed.
"'kay, is it my turn to carry him?" Narancia piped up, turning to the other two.
"Don't worry about that," Bucciarati cut in, earning a surprised look from everyone else. His eyes canted left, to Abbacchio. "We'll take care of it. Now, go get things ready- and as soon as we walk through that door, the Quiet Game begins. Anything louder than casual conversational tone is an immediate ban from the TV."
"Okay, okay, Mom," Mista agreed, waving a hand dismissively as he climbed out, followed by Fugo, and made his way into the house. Narancia had to wait until Bucciarati had taken Giorno's weight from him before he could leave, and then it was just the three of them- Bucciarati holding Giorno upright in the backseat and Abbacchio standing right behind him, leaning down to peer in.
As soon as the door slammed behind the smallest gangster, signifying that they were finally away from prying eyes, Bruno's posture slumped just the littlest bit and he let out a sigh.
"I think I was in shock at first," he admitted, "but I couldn't stop thinking about it all during the drive. And how scared he just was… The more I think about it, the angrier I get."
Well, maybe there wasn't anything for Abbacchio to tell him after all- without asking, he knew his friend had pieced things together and come to similar conclusions.
"... okāsan… one… gai…"
He didn't reply aloud, but he agreed with Bucciarati's sentiment entirely. Anger was absolutely part of the raging sea in his head. A huge part of it.
Bucciarati was getting worked up, talking faster and faster. "I mean, how- how dare they? I know they're not who attacked him today, whoever locked him away when he was dying, but that witch got what was coming to her and whoever caused this might still be out there, walking free- it could be his mother and she could still be- it-" he grit his teeth. "It boils my blood."
He looped one arm around Giorno and brought his fingers to the boy's throat, in one movement pulling him closer and checking his pulse. He seemed pleased with whatever he found, as though he'd been expecting something bad; the harsh shadows on his face, the embers of his anger and the constant state of his anxious nature, lightened a bit in the wake of his relief. With another sigh he pulled the sleeping teen into a hug, letting Giorno's face rest in the crook of his neck.
"I know it's rather pathetic, but just give me a minute, Leone," he requested, ducking his head and holding the boy tighter. "We'll go in in just a minute."
Abbacchio swallowed down his reflexive response and instead just nodded, except Bucciarati couldn't see it so he mumbled, "Sure."
"He's always hurting," Bruno continued sadly once he'd calmed down, once his hand didn't shake against the back of Giorno's head. "At least a little. He hides it well, but I see it. He's always so distant, though; I want to help, but he won't talk to me. I'm worried he'll do it this time too," he said honestly.
So maybe Bucciarati doesn't actually know how to fix this…
That… was not reassuring.
Then again, maybe it was for the best that they didn't meddle. It was the kid's problem to deal with, and if he closed himself off, what were they supposed to do? Why would he even want the help of a person who hated him? Of people he couldn't bring himself to fully trust? What business was it of theirs?
There was a problem, but maybe... it wasn't one to be addressed.
"Gomen...nasai…"
His fists clenched.
There's nothing I can do.
Just like before.
There's never something I can do.
Giorno made a soft sound under his breath and started to stir; immediately Bucciarati's hand started petting his hair as the man whispered nonsensical reassurances. Abbacchio could just barely see the upturn of his friend's lips, the way he easily stepped into that distinctive role of his that was hilariously parental and knew immediately what to do.
And maybe that was what mattered- maybe Bucciarati didn't know how to fix this, but he knew what to do in order to move forward. He'd always had that kind of instinct for as long as Abbacchio could remember: the instinct to care for others, to figure out what they needed when even they themselves didn't know. He didn't always have the answers right away, but he always got them in the end- as reliable as the sun rising in the east.
Maybe, with enough time and patience, that would prove to be enough.
It always came down to the same thing in the end: Trust in Bucciarati.
Easy enough.
"He'll be fine," Abbacchio said, and it wasn't as hard to believe this time.